As a Girl

Wendy Moore

Childhood 

My mouth is stained with shades of red and blue. A dollar-store case of patriotic-themed popsicles are the culprit. My hair reeks from the chlorine of a poorly-maintained swimming pool. My beach towel is pink and has a stock photo of a sunset plastered across its surface. 

After we begrudgingly dry off, my cousin and I gather around Grandma’s bedside mirror; its rim is gold and engraved with a floral pattern. Wisterias, poinsettias, daisies — they are the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen. I do not pay any mind to the fingerprint-stained glass that they frame. 

Teen 

A body is less of a tool than it is a machine to poke and prod at until it finally does its minimum function. The media portrays teenage girls to be like the Eiffel Tower — effortlessly feminine, covered in people climbing and begging to take a picture, shimmering. The only thing that shimmers is the coat of anxiety-induced sweat that’s taken residency over my body. 

Me and my friends like to go to Panera and gossip. We talk about people we hate, and people we love; most people, including ourselves, fit into both categories. We share inside jokes and we laugh until our bellies ache. We pride ourselves by using every demeaning label under the sun — I’m such a cunt, I’m a girlfailure, I’m going to be a teenage girl far into my future, even after I hit 20. 

United in Defense 

I have my location shared with three of my close friends, and I text them individually every hour or so, under the guise of safety, but also for fun. I tell them that we’re going back to his place. I tell them that he’s making me a drink; but wait, don’t worry, I watched him make it. I tell them what kind of car he drives, and how we sorta have similar music tastes. I hope he likes me. 

“Woman” 

Grandma tells me that beauty and comfort are a careful balance. She is the portrait of a woman. When she was diagnosed with cancer for the third time, I didn’t see her cry. When she bought a wig, she picked out her natural hair color, at its usual length and texture. My hair has been every shade under the sun, besides blue, because it wouldn’t match my outfits. 

After my dad dies, Grandma tells me to stay strong for my mother. I realize that becoming a woman — reaching any idealization I have of being “put together” — will bring me no sense of comfort, security, or peace. We will always be brick walls for people to throw things at. And I only have an urge to be weak. 

My experience as a girl has not been incredibly unique or particularly challenging. But isolation and fear are a part of girlhood; just like cherry chapstick, cutting your off-brand American Girl Doll’s hair, crouching over a mirror to get ready for prom, and hiding your giggles behind the veiled pages of a hymnal.

Edited by Teagan Chandler & Elisabeth Kay