Justine Champine

“Even though I felt like I was experiencing girlhood on one side of a wall, peeking over from time to time to see what everyone else was doing, sometimes trying and failing to hoist myself over the ledge, I still knew we were all stuck on the outside of something else. A taller, more imposing wall. Unscalable. None of us were getting to the other side where the boys were, where anger and mischief and bold, unabashed confidence were permissible. Encouraged, really. And if their anger ever went too far, everybody fell over their own feet trying to make excuses and apologies for it. When boys fought, even to the point of bloodying each other, it seemed they were only yanked apart and given a clap on the back. When they shouted and screamed, the shushing they got from adults seemed to have a hint of amusement in it, a streak of approval beneath the admonishment.
I had a lot of anger. I was angry at the way people always told me to relax, to be less sensitive, to grow a thicker skin. If I complained about the way the overhead lights made my brain feel like it was getting squeezed in a vise, I was too sensitive. If I sat there, silently enduring it, I was criticized for having a sour look on my face. I was angry about being told to smile more. I was angry about being told my smile wasn't quite right when I did smile. I was angry at the feeling of the seam in my socks rubbing against my toes, and then at myself for being bothered by a thing like that, for being as sensitive as people accused me of being. At my male teachers frowning when I raised my hand, but beaming at the slightest level of participation from the boys who played sports. At being made to feel like I had too many questions, the wrong kinds of questions, but then getting notes on my report cards that I'd grown much too quiet in class and needed to speak up more. I was angry at how different everything was for girls. And how even more different everything seemed to be for me, and never knowing why.”
― Justine Champine, Needle Lake