Choices: Story of a Tomboy

Running down the concrete hill from the crowded school bus to home, I would fly down the street feeling free to finally follow my tomboy ways. It was the discoveries awaiting me in the woods behind our house that propelled me through the air with such excited fervor. After quickly changing out of my school uniform and grabbing my fishing pole, I’d head down to the lake. It was my haven of peace. My own, private playground. As I made my way through the woods, I wondered if I would hook that big bass I had spotted slowly gliding under the water’s edge the day before. Maybe I’d catch a frog or some bluegill to fry up in a pan of butter for an after-school snack. You never knew what you were going to get down by the lake. That was the thrill.

How many little girls do you know who take their brother’s boy scout equipment out into the woods alone pretending they’re frontiersmen, living off the land? Or cook soup over an open fire they built themselves, shoot BB guns, or actually WANT to catch and hold frogs? Girls don’t like being alone. They don’t like getting dirty. Right? Well I did. It wasn’t that I didn’t like playing with dolls or giggling with my friends, I just had other interests as well. By all anatomical appearances I was a girl, but my interests and behavior said all-boy.

The little women in my neighborhood didn’t enjoy foraging in the woods, swinging from vines, fishing, or going on imaginary hunting expeditions. Boys played too rough, took more risks than I was comfortable with, and liked killing things. So I spent a lot of time alone in my childhood, even though I lived on a street brimming with children.

I wasn’t lonely sitting by that lake. I actually didn’t want anyone else around. Girls seemed to bore quickly in the quietness and boys made too much noise, scaring the wildlife away. I enjoyed being there by myself, sitting still for hours, watching the sounds and sights of nature move around me in its business of being. I’d watch the geese land skidding onto the lake or be mesmerized by my bobber as it lay on the water. I’d try to imagine what world lived under the mirrored liquid.

One day as I was making my lure hop and dance over the wet muddy bank, a big Ole bullfrog dove for and latched itself onto my hook. I felt the exhilaration of connection. As I held his slick body in my hand I realized he had swallowed the hook. After several attempts to dislodge it, panic set in. One singular, but powerful thought consumed me. This frog may die, but he will NOT suffer because of me. My mind whirled as I tried to think of the quickest, least painful way to end his life.

Fish die quickly with one sure blow to the forehead. For some reason that seemed too brutal for this animal. This creature hopped, made sounds, could look at you and had soft fleshy skin. Somehow that made him different from fish. He was too much like me.

I ran back up to the house. My eyes darted over the garage shelves looking for anything toxic. As I sprayed this helpless creature with every imaginable household cleaner and spray paint I could find, my face was red and wet from tears of anguish. It wasn’t working. He was still alive, but now bright orange from the spray paint. I finally relented and took away his misery with multiple blows of a shovel. With my eyes squeezed tightly shut, I struck at him, wanting to squeeze out my own suffering as well as his.

Upon reflection I can see the outrageousness and perhaps even the humor in the frantic actions of a child who wanted to do the right thing. One who didn’t know toxic doesn’t mean immediate death. When I think back to that day, I remember the feelings of a desperate child and feel compassion for both the little girl and her dilemma.

As I ventured into my teen years, my awareness of the differences in thought, word and deed between myself and other women, heightened. My un-feminine ways continued. I played sports, and worse yet, I was good at them. Being six feet tall attracted the interest of many coaches with dreams of transforming my young, gangly frame and awkwardness into a coordinated winning machine. With this special attention and added practice, I started my sports career and became known as a jock.

I enjoyed nothing better than playing a game of one-on-one basketball with the boys on the weekend, but something about that didn't feel right. I was suppose to be dating these guys, not trying to block their jump shots. I remember the body contact held a certain unique, tingly sensation that was fun. Maybe I partially enjoyed those games because they gave us a reason to be groping each other.

My masculine and feminine qualities were often at odds. I was competitive, but wouldn’t risk relationships to win. I liked my fully-developed, female body, but resented men for their muscles and strength which put me at a competitive disadvantage. I taught myself to accept losing, but felt less worthy afterwards. Without that “win at any price,” competitive drive, I didn’t go on to be a college-star athlete. Not being fully female, I wasn’t the picture perfect beauty queen of gentility, charm and grace, either. I didn’t fit a stereotype. Many times I wish I had. Teenage years are confusing enough without having to go through a gender crisis. I struggled with accepting my oddities, while society told me I wasn’t behaving “normally” for a woman. I was sure there was something wrong with me.