Tomboy or girly
This is a decision I struggle to make every day. Do I want to go out dressed as a boy, with my fez cap and Nike shoes or would I rather wear a frilly pink dress with matching shoes and bows on my hair? Now, it is not rocket science but you will be amazed how long I spend making this decision every blessed morning of my life.
Making this decision is officially the hardest part of my day. As soon as I open my big brown eyes, the day’s mood is immediately concluded. This makes me unpredictable and slightly annoying. Some days, I wake up feeling like a billion dollar cheque. Some days, I feel like going back to bed and sleeping till the following year. These moods determine if I would be playing dress up or if I want to go out looking like a biker chic. My attitude for that day depends on this assessment. To me, being and feeling comfortable is the absolute goal and whichever fits into that idea that day is fine by me.
All my life, I have constantly broken girl-codes
When I was younger, my mother claimed that I would rather climb the orange tree with the boys in the community than play wife in the children’s games. As a teenager, I was all skinned knees and broken bones as I would virtually get in fights about anything and everything. It made the boys call me a man and because of that, they treated me like one of them. My mother also claimed that as a child, I found joy in displaying my physical strength. I would lift heavy objects across the room and boast to everybody about the feat. As I grew up, I carried everything that needed to be carried in the house, sometimes even the objects the boys could not lift.
I preferred running after abandoned tires in the compound than sitting down to braid my hair. My mother never failed to remind me of all these stories even as I became an adult. Finally on my own, I would still continue to do things and partake in activities that were typical to a man.
This affected my own perception of myself growing up because I was never fit into any of the boxes. I could neither boast of being the woman nature had made me or the man society claimed I wanted to be.
My mother had asked me countless times if I wanted to be a boy upon realizing that the inhibitions I had were not a phase. I guess she really is scared to ask me what is really on her mind but the truth is, I’m none of the things her worst nightmare might have conjured. I am just a girl who loves to be comfortable in her own skin and does not care who cares.
My last attempt at socialization was affected by my controversial philosophy to life. I keep a very low crew cut, makes me look like a boy but it is absolutely practical at this point in my life because of the weather and the stress I have to go through daily for being a student. You will never be able to understand the sense of relief and pleasure I feel when I am able to return home after a crazy day and feel cold water move lazily on my head. It is the best feeling ever. Some days, when the weather is nice and warm, I put on one of my many wigs to wherever I have to be at that particular time.
This fateful day, i woke up on the right side of the bed. I was feeling so free and ecstatic. We all have days like that, do we not? It was like the weather aligned to my mood as it was a cross between a warm and cold day. It was a middle ground and I loved it. I even decided to put on makeup and a cute little dress I had never worn. After applying the layers and layers of chemically enhanced beauty, I felt like I could do more. I then opted for one of my curly wigs and pink shoes. I looked perfect and as I walked out, I felt it.
As usual, I got a lot of catcalls that day but there was one that particularly drew my interest. His was not a catcalls just a slow appraisal of my physique from afar. He did it so quietly and respectfully that I would not have noticed if I had not been paying attention since the moment I saw him. When I thought the walk would last forever, he started walking towards me and my heart sang for joy. I purposely acted oblivious to this new development as I looked away and suddenly became more interested in my nails than on the fine specimen walking towards me.
“Hey beautiful”
A nice start, I concluded. From there, our conversation went seamlessly like we had known each other for ages. Mark, he said he was called, was an absolute charmer and in no time, he had my number and a date fixed for the next day. Lucky me! I could not keep calm after our encounter, so I spent the rest of that day thinking of what I would wear, what we would talk about and if he would prefer a traditional marriage to a court marriage. .
I got all dressed up the next day ready to have a swell time with my new catch. I do not mean to boast, but I looked drop dead gorgeous. With my curly wig, skin tight red dress with fiery red lipstick, I had not come to play.
When I met him up at the nice classy restaurant he had picked, he looked star- struck and dumbfounded. Mission accomplished.
We talked and talked far into the night and I must admit that Mark could hold a conversation. The night ended so well, he asked for a repeat the next day and who was I to say no? I was ecstatic. Maybe Mark would be the one to save me from the dungeon of singlehood that I had been plunged into.
When the next day came, I discovered that I was no longer feeling up to it. You see, some days are like that. I almost called him to cancel but I decided against it. Time for him to see the other side of the coin. I could not summon the strength I needed to amaze him once again, so instead I went for a more comfortable and relaxed look. I decided to let go of the wig and let my crew cut shine. I opted for Jean trousers and a comfy top with my favorite sneakers. If you asked me, I would say I made a mighty load of effort. I decided to dial down the makeup a little. Let’s see what Mark was really into. A pretty face or an interesting woman. I would find out soon enough though as Mark did not recognize me on getting there.
He blatantly told me that the seat opposite him was reserved for his Queen and I should get up. After revealing that I was the Queen he was waiting for, a flash of recognition went across his face and as soon as it happened, he bolted.
I guess it was too bitter a pill for him to swallow.
Though I never heard from Mark again, it is an experience I would never forget.
It made me question myself. Basically, a tomboy is a girl who exhibits characteristics that are considered to be typical of a boy. Common characteristics include wearing male clothes or engaging in activities that are considered ‘manly’. Now, this is where I have a problem. What exactly defines a ‘manly’ behaviour? Sometimes I might want to put on a dress and still play soccer or carry a heavy object across the street. Does that make me less of a woman?
The other day, on my way back to school to start the new semester, a ‘supposed’ gentleman saw me lugging my bags to my hostel and thought it would be absolutely appropriate to relieve me of stress. Mind you, I was very comfortable carrying my bags myself. When I refused, he looked at me like I had gone crazy. Like any girl would jump at the offer he had just presented to me on a platter of gold. A lady behind me who had absolutely no right to comment on the situation made it a point of duty to tell me how rude I was.
Rude?
But for the fact that I would rather be on my bed watching cockroaches dance than engage in a battle of the sexes with a stranger, I held my peace.
Gradually, I have come to loathe the term ‘tomboy’ because of what it implies to me. To me, it implies that as a female, once you fail to adhere strictly to the codes established for girl-behaviour, you are no longer feminine. You are no longer female because you have broken the laws and now you have been sentenced to life imprisonment in tom-boyhood.
All this categorization does is to tell girls that there is a right way to be a girl and there is a wrong way to be a girl.
It also tells the boys that there is a right way to be a boy and there is a wrong way to be a boy. Then it goes further to say, when you are being a ‘wrong’ girl, you are becoming a man and when you are being a ‘wrong’ boy, you are becoming a girl.
There are no boy things or girl things. There are MY things.
As Ariana Grande would say, “I want it, I gat it.’
As a female, I should not be scared of loving a good ride on a motorcycle in the dead of the night as opposed to sitting pretty in a Lexus waiting for someone to get my door. I should be able to want to wear a white frilly dress in the morning and not be scared to lift a 25-litre pail of water or run after a thief who thinks he can snatch my purse and get away with it.
Sometimes, I want to be a girly girl. I want to get dressed in real feminine clothes that hug my every curve and makes me the cynosure of all eyes. Some days, I want to wear heels and crop tops or smile sweetly at a stranger as he opens the door for me. Sometimes, all I want to do is talk about my nails, my skin care routine, periods and which male celebrity I wanted to have kids with.
Trust me, some days I want that but other days, I just want to walk around town in my baggy shorts, extra-large tee shirt that billows in the wind with my hair tied back and held in place with a baseball cap. Some days, I just want to chill with my guys and talk about football and the pitfalls of wooing a girl who doesn’t like you. Sometimes when I’m provoked, I want to be able to give the offender a knockout punch and then later on, listen to sermons about how peace is the best way to resolve conflicts. Some days, I want to defend myself and not wait for a male presence to back me up before I speak my mind.
Some days, I just want to be me. Doing MY THINGS and not worrying if society approves or not.
Some days, I just want to be Ada and not a puppet. After all, what is the point of being human if I cannot make my own decisions?
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