That Time I Punched a Boy

These last few weeks have seen a resurgence of focus on women and the crap we have to deal with. Between the #metoo trend that caught on and the news from Harvey Weinstein's garbage pail, we have once again (remember #yesallwomen?) had to re-illuminate the obvious for ourselves and for our male counterparts. I don't mean that cynically, an obvious truth has a tendency to become background noise. Like the sound of the refrigerator running. When I got hearing aids that were advanced enough for me to hear it- I was furious that it made that sound all freaking day. Then I got over it because it was all freaking day. And if something is all day- you have to adapt so you don't go insane. The belittling and dehumanization and just straight up assault that women endure becomes background noise. For survival. 

Now, to be honest, I didn't really get involved in the hashtag movement, because I don't like to be trendy, and it feels like a slippery slope to me. If I change my profile to the France flag, then for everything I have to hashtag and change my filter. This is why my profile picture has remained unchanged for years. I'm just too lazy to keep up, and I don't want to be guilty of missing some awareness or hashtag or movement on social media. So I miss them all. In my head, this makes perfect sense.

But, I did see a video recently that made me think of something. It was that video that's been going around for a while about the ER nurse mom who was called away from work to address her daughter's behavior- punching a boy (which she did after a boy relentlessly snapped her bra to the point that it unlatched). I have no idea if this thing actually happened, and I hate melodramatic preachy videos, but I also have no problem believing that this thing happened (or has happened many times). It's almost like a parable in its universal relatability. (My spell check says that isn't a word. It should be- or maybe I am saying it wrong.) 

One reason why I think the story is totally believable is because it brought back memories of several times this sort of thing happened to me or my friends growing up. But like background noise, I had really forgotten it. 

But one story I have not forgotten, because it is my Wonder Woman story and one that my family told with pride. This story, the story of That Time I Punched a Boy, is one that I don't even know if I actually remember, or if my memory is my imagination from playing it in my mind every time I heard the story. In fact, I even start to question if the story is true, because it has risen to legend level. I do believe it is true, but perhaps some of the details have been altered for entertainment. So for yours, I will tell the story, with all the fun details.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl (it's me guys) who was about 3 or 4 years old. She was tall for her age, with an unruly mane of blonde curly hair (loose curls then). Her knees were often skinned and her fingernails filled with dirt. She was happy, healthy, and loved. 

One day, she was standing in line with her father (to this day I don't remember why we were standing in line). Behind her was a Boy with his father. The Boy decided that today he would poke the little girl over and over and over again. For fun. Somehow (I found a gap in the story here) the Boy's father either didn't notice or care. The little girl politely asked the Boy to please STOP. The Boy did not give a shit and kept poking her back. The little girl once again asked, but more firmly this time for the Boy to STOP. Once again, when she turned to face forward, the Boy poked. 

Then the little girl turned back, and punched the Boy in the face.

The Boy, startled, fell back onto his bum and looked to his father in protest. The father, suddenly realizing that there was something happening, told the little girl's father "Serves him right!" The little girl's father looked at his little girl, and though his words said "Don't punch," his face was lit up with pride and a smile. The little girl felt satisfaction and love and affirmation. And powerful.

The Boy never poked the little girl again. The little girl never felt like punching a Boy in the face was bad after she had repeatedly asked him to stop harassing her. The little girl (remember, it's me) was taught that day in a beautifully powerful way, that it was OK not to take shit from boys.

The End.

But of course that wasn't the end, right? I mean, boys continued to do stupid shit. But that story, the living of it and the hearing of it, reminded me throughout childhood that I was strong and if I needed to, I could punch a boy in the face. Of course there were times when I was told the cliche sexist thing, but this foundational memory, this moment, was special. I won't put so much pressure on this one event to say that it is why I was able to question all those stupid expectations of women, or why I was unwilling to mold myself to please men under the guise of submission, or why I somehow managed to date men who were not intimidated by my independence and punch-ability. There's also luck, a shit-ton of love and security from my parents, and more stupid luck.

But my God I love that story. And when I tell it, the nonviolent pacifist in me is not ashamed. Maybe that Boy tells the same story of the day he learned how to treat females? Let's hope so.