The War Starts When You're Eight
At eight years old, I understood the gap between boys and girls.
The war starts when you're eight, and it will catch you unprepared dirtied shoes, lunchbox, and pigtails a landmine upon the sandbox trail "This is the place of a girl," they'll say, "Right by the second spot, if not by the tail" so you'll call it for what it is, you'll call it unfair! but as you're told, you're a proper messy girl, a soldier at wartime in this sandbox that's a landmine, "if you're a girl, then you're undermined" so maybe you crawl a little deeper, run a little faster, kick a little higher, bruised fists swing punches harder in your mind, maybe I'll be a little better— Perhaps they'll deem me worthier? Hear me a little sounder? If I'm just a little bit bolder, tougher, a little unkind, If I'm just like the boys or the voices in my mind—
The war started when I was eight, I'm thirty now If you ask me how it ends, maybe I'll tell you in time
se.
My female rage began when I won my first ever recognition in the arts in third grade.
I say it like it’s something of a big deal, but it wasn’t; it was a small poster design competition in school for Earth Day, one of those things that they keep in place for something exciting, hoping that the student body hasn’t lost all their spark just yet. It was, nonetheless, a real big deal to me. That day, I heard my name be called for the first time. It wasn’t because I was in trouble or came in late and I needed to call my parents in too, no. It was because something I did by doing something I love had won first place, which never happened before. While I don’t quite remember standing up to receive my award on the stage, I do remember walking back to my seat and being awakened to a female rage that has always brewed inside me.
As the truth goes, there are a lot of expectations for a girl as she comes into the world. This always felt like a trick statement to me because while it does ring true, there is also a condition to it. Conditions like having to be exceptional in very specific things like being pretty, first and foremost. If you fail that, no need to fret! As there are many other specific things you need to be exceptional at, such as: being graceful in the midst of a playful race, being polite and courteous while your boy classmates run amok, dressing and smelling good even after a whole afternoon of playing tag, wearing pink, wearing bows, wearing dresses—and a lot more things that I failed gloriously by the time I was eight. Sometimes, I wonder if the tomboy in me was a true personality of mine or just a manifestation of the lack of choices I had to be in order to be called a good child. I couldn’t be a proper good girl, so I thought leaning into things I could be good at would help compensate for that, even if it meant being the opposite of what I was expected to be.
That afternoon, I walked back to my seat after being given a small medal. It wasn’t even a competition I voluntarily joined in. It was one of those school projects that are counted as entries by default—I was simply doing something I liked for class. But as I slowly made my way to my seat, my stomach turned upside down, like I had done something wrong. Before I could even grasp the idea that I had won something, I was greeted by side glances and classmates whispering amongst themselves—something that I would brush off and pay no mind to—but I quickly learned that it wasn’t something small. They were angry with me. They were angry that a quiet girl like me had won first place.
“You can’t win first place, you’re a girl!” They had crafted some kind of intervention as they formed a circular cage around me. It was boys and girls alike, rallying for the cause of one popular boy—their idea was that I had unfairly taken the award from him, and that he is the rightful kind to win because “he’s a boy”, and that boys are always better than girls, especially quiet girls like me who they emphasised does not deserve to be seen, and even moreso win anything. They then petitioned the teachers that I be rid of my award under the reason that I cheated and had my parents do my work for me. The teachers believed them.
As I sat in the principal’s office, I remember thinking how much easier things would’ve been if I had just played it small.
If I had just focused on what I was supposed to do as a girl—be pretty, wear pink, wear bows, be small, be quiet, be humble, strive for excellence but just enough to be in second or last—things wouldn’t have escalated as they did. Playing it small and staying in line wouldn’t have brought me to the principal’s office, wouldn’t have made my mother explain how ridiculous it all was, wouldn’t anger so many peers, and wouldn’t strip me of anything. But so does being a boy. I felt the cold shame in my small body simmer and slowly turn into a fiery anger. Why do I have to be small?! Why must I lose the chance to be good just because I’m not able to be good at the things girls should be and because I’m not a boy? I realised that perhaps being a boy would be the ultimate privilege, or at least the key to being good. If I were a boy, I wouldn’t need to be pretty to be seen. I wouldn’t need to be exceptional at keeping my grace and composure. I could be wild and free, and my skin could reek of sunshine, and it would be okay; I would still be good. I wouldn’t need to wear pink and bows. I could be intelligent, quick-witted, artistic, and it would matter. I could strive for excellence beyond the superficial things, and I wouldn’t be stripped of my well-earned wins.
But I am a girl.
At eight years old, I understood the gap between boys and girls.
I understood what it meant for me. I understood as an eight-year-old that I only had two choices: to be content in being small or to strive for excellence and work twice as hard for it to be valid. I understood that to be successful in being a girl only meant that I had to be pretty, obedient, and all-forgiving, and that if I would to let the boldness of my spirit lead and want something beyond it, I would have to make sure that I can achieve thrice of what my male counterpart could before it could even be accepted. Before it could matter. Even then, I knew I would need to prepare my skin because, at eight years old, I understood that a woman winning second place meant she could’ve done better, but if she won first place, she must've cheated. Not enough or a trickster—I understood that there is no winning and being fairly celebrated. If you lost, too bad; if you win, it’s suspicious. I understood that it is almost like we weren’t even meant to be in the arena in the first place.
I’m trying to look at this now that I’m thirty. If things have changed and if times have evolved into being more inclusive to girls and women. Honestly, between all the unlearning of the incessant voice in my head that is imposter syndrome and the re-learning of the bold old ways of my inner eight-year-old self, I could not tell you. However, the little girl in me is quite happy that we’re in a time where allyship and awareness are much more welcomed with understanding, and women can tune their voices louder. As for the patriarchy, I’ll let you know when I figure it out, too. For now, I’m just happy that girls are encouraged more to be themselves, both in society and in the media, and that there are boys out there who are helping to bridge that gap, so that some eight-year-old girl out there doesn’t need to understand and see it as her reality like I did. And somehow, that’s enough.
Your words inspire me ❤️🪐