The 'Boys Will Be Boys' Bullshit

I’m stepping away from books today to talk about something a little more personal, and something that I believe very strongly. 

I saw a quote the other day that got me thinking: ‘be who you needed when you were younger’, and looking back at my school days there are lots of things I wish I’d had the confidence to protest against. I wish someone had been there to tell me that my feelings that something was wrong were valid.

I used to think feminism was a dirty word. I used to think if I didn’t wear makeup I was somehow ‘better’ than the girls that did. As someone white and privileged who grew up in a small, mostly white country town I was very ignorant and I had a lot of internalised misogyny, but there were a lot of things I also fought against vehemently (and thankfully, I've learned a lot since then). Firstly, I hated the idea that because I was a girl I had to set an example in which it was kind to ‘let the boys win’. I wasn’t interested in that. I was a bright child - I knew I was a bright child - so when boys in school tried to tell me their way of incorrectly spelling something was right I wouldn’t back down. I’d even be that annoying child that went to the teacher for confirmation just to prove my point.

I’m still a stickler for spelling now.

I also refused to let boys at my school get away with making fun of the girls as we went through puberty. I developed early; at twelve years old I’d already started my period and begun to develop breasts, while many girls around me remained very slim. I envied their breastless chests. I couldn’t run without someone, sometimes several years my senior, making some sort of comment about my body and I didn’t know how to respond. I was twelve.

Us girls couldn’t win. My classmates who had yet to develop were teased for being ‘flat-chested’, and when I told the boys to sod off I was teased for having breasts. It’s no exaggeration: teenage girls can’t win.

What sticks in my mind most about these boys, however, is how they thought they had the right to touch me without my permission. When I turned fourteen it didn’t stop at teasing or inappropriate comments; I can vividly remember boys in my classes - particularly in classes such as Art and Design & Technology in which we weren’t sitting at desks where our teachers could see us - grabbing my breasts and then running off, giggling all the while. Boys would stroke my legs or pinch my bum, but for the most part it was my chest that fascinated them. I could almost pity them, in hindsight.

Telling them to leave me alone did nothing. If anything they seemed to take more enjoyment in touching me when they knew I didn’t like to be touched. The worst thing is most of these boys have probably grown into young men who either don’t remember touching girls without their permission, or feel no remorse about it if they do. I look back at that time and I wish I could go back and tell my teachers or even my parents. I don’t know what my teachers would have done - it’s no secret that young girls are encouraged not to wear short skirts or shorts for fear of 'distracting the boys', when in reality it’s the boys, and even the grown men, who should learn to stop sexualising girls’ thighs. The sad thing is that mentality doesn’t go away as we get older; the international SlutWalk was bred from a police officer’s statement that if young women don't want to be raped they shouldn't dress 'like sluts'.

In any case they didn’t have that pathetic excuse with me. Like many of my friends I wore trousers to school and I liked to wear shapeless sweaters; the fact that I had breasts made me uncomfortable because they were so often stared at. Basically, our clothes have nothing to do with it.

This idea that it’s our fault is poisonous. I didn’t tell any teachers or my parents about what boys at school did to me because it was happening to everyone; as girls we’re raised to expect this kind of behaviour, and to rise above it by ignoring it. And remember: never encourage it! I never saw any boy punished at school for his behaviour towards any of the girls, so it never occurred to me that he could be punished for it and, hopefully, learn from it.

I wish someone back then had told me that my feelings mattered. That I wasn’t a prude because I didn’t like it, but that my feeling that there had been an injustice - that someone had touched me without my permission and gotten away with it - wasn’t melodramatic or silly. I wish someone had told me my feelings were justified.

Worse things have happened, and are happening, to women all around the world. In the grand scheme of things I’ve been fairly lucky. I wish I could say these instances  didn’t affect me in the slightest, but I’m done with being the bigger person and staying quiet. What they did, whether they meant it maliciously or not, was not okay. It wasn’t okay when it happened to me, and it wasn’t okay when it happened to any of the other girls in my school. It’s not okay when it happens to any girl in any school.

So this is my letter to any young girls out there, whether someone’s touched you without your permission for the first time or the hundredth time: It’s not okay, and your feelings that it’s not okay are valid. Please tell your teacher, talk to your parents or your siblings or anyone you trust. Talk to your friends. Talk to your male friends who might not even realise there’s anything wrong. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself and others. Your body is yours, and you are the only person who gets to dictate who touches it.