Just One Of The Guys

“You’re cool and conventionally attractive, but if you could do a kick flip...” -- Guy at a party, summer 2021

This was it. The thesis I’d been subconsciously working on my entire life was being proven. The secret to winning a boys heart was not a presentation of femininity but engaging with the activities they enjoyed, and assuming the characteristics that they themselves possessed. Why was it so important for me to impress boys? Why did I feel the need to be taken in as one of their own? Did I really want to learn to skateboard, or just fuck the people who did? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

I’ve always been a pretty “girlie” person in a western societal view kind of way. I like wearing dresses, pink, talking about boys. Not really one for sports or getting dirty. Around third grade though, I became enamoured with the idea of being a “tomboy”.

The archetype so commonly written in to the romantic films I enjoyed watching, you know the type. She may take form as the best friend character of our opposite sex protagonist, raised by her dad, working at the family’s ol’ bait and tackle shop after school. A little rough around the edges, though that hasn’t dissuaded our hero’s secret feelings for her which finally come out when he sees her descend the staircase in her prom dress for the first time, self-consciously asking “Do I look like an idiot?” while giving him a playful punch on the arm. They finally kiss in the middle of the street in the rain saying “It’s always been you.” Blah, blah, I swear I just described the plot of every PG-13 movie ever created.

Though yes it is expected for women to be pretty, sexy, quiet, accommodating, I was simultaneously getting the message that to subscribe to typical “feminine” behaviours was to be unoriginal, superficial, and ultimately undesirable. It felt like this idea of what “femininity” meant was thrust upon us, and as soon as we adapted to it it was thrown back in our faces like last springs outdated couture trends.

Be pretty. Soft. Feminine. But don’t look like you’re trying to, or actually care about being pretty, soft, feminine.

I had a guy compliment my nails a while back and when he asked if I’d done them myself or gone to a salon, I almost embarrassedly admitted that I’d had them done which I quickly followed up with “but I’m not one of those girls!” I was ashamed of possibly being interpreted as somebody who might care about the way they look, enough to even invest in it. I wanted to maintain the illusion that I had simply materialized fully formed like this without any care. Later I became ashamed that I felt the need to differentiate myself, not just to this guy but for my own self image’s sake, from a group of fictional lesser, more self-obsessed women I saw myself detached from.

The need to prove I “wasn’t like other girls” started young. Mary-Kate became my favourite Olsen twin because she always played the boyish characters. I started exclusively wearing my dad’s old hockey jersey to school. Had my mom give me edgy Avril Lavigne-esque pink streaks in my hair.

I had a coworker explain an interesting theory to me that in fact all men were gay, the women they attained were merely accessories used to gain the respect of the other men they truly lusted after.

By attempting to enter their world, was I taking this theory one step farther? Oh you like other boys? Well baby imma be the prettiest damn boy you ever did see.

I’ve loved boys for as long as I can remember. Maybe not the boys themselves, cause let’s be real growing up boys are kind of gross, but the idea of having one. I wanted to collect them like the Pokémon cards they traded until I had a full set and was the envy of my entire classroom. To this day sometimes I can’t tell if what I want is the men or the envy of the girls who want them. Perhaps we’re all lesbians here too.

I’ve been surrounded by strong women my entire life, the majority of my friends and prominent family members growing up were all female. Though these were the people showing me love, there was always this underlying sense of competition. While figuring out my place in the world I became aware of this silent hierarchy at play, cognizant of my standing within it. I constantly felt the need to prove myself, and fight for opportunities or social connections. I felt very threatened by other women so I learned to mistrust them. Felt like there weren’t enough seats at the table so I sought to make a separate reservation. The majority of these feelings can probably be chalked up to early day internalized misogyny and deep seated mommy issues.

By high school I became fascinated with various circles of boys who seemed to feel at home in their friend groups and personal styles, unlike myself. I’d be drawn to the way they dressed, the slang they used, the sense of community they shared, and these became things I wished to emulate.

By mimicking their wardrobe, the way in which they spoke, I thought I might be taken in as one of their own, infiltrate their cliques like a spy undercover. I’d observe them, learn their routines, dissuade them from pursuing rival agents. Then, like the final scene in “She’s the man” (that has not aged well and would never be made in 2022), I’d rip off my shirt and shock them with the fact that I was actually not a boy, and they would inevitably fall in love with me. It was a pretty solid plan I thought.

It felt like to present more like a man would lead to me gaining respect like men, and later (hopefully) their affections.

Sure I had “masculine” traits but not the desirable ones. I was loud, short-tempered, and bossy. I was not laid back, confident, and after sitting through many, many playings of 2K it was safe to say I sucked at video games. I began putting so much thought and energy in to every detail of a fabricated version of myself, I hoped was coming off as natural. I don’t know why I felt so compelled to get in with the boys, but I suppose it felt like if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere. I couldn’t say if this need was about power or sex because the two are too entangled, but I knew that I felt like I was lacking both. Felt like if I acquired one the other would follow suit.

I would prioritize plans with guy friends over others because they seemed fleeting, and if I were to say no I feared the opportunities wouldn’t present themselves again. While women’s love felt sturdy and vast, men’s felt feeble and finite. It wasn’t men’s affection that kept me chasing, but the possibility of it. Validation from men was scarce and in my eyes thus seemed more valuable. I thought if I invested low I might make a hefty return, gambling what I had for what I thought I might gain.

When reassured or complimented by women it felt like they were lying or trying to manipulate me, where the same words from a man would strike like gospel.

I liked the way I felt walking in to a party with a bunch of guys.

I’d catch myself in moments speaking ill of other girls in attempts to raise myself up.

Being with guys I felt a freedom from having to compare myself because we were fundamentally different.

Did stepping in to a world of masculinity make me feel more powerful, or did surrounding myself with men simply make me feel more like the idealistic woman I sought to be in contrast?

Maybe the boys I hung out with didn’t even want to be my friend. Maybe they just wanted to fuck me. Maybe I liked the idea of that too. Maybe they had no interest in fucking me, after all can’t guys and girls just be friends? And maybe that idea horrified me the most, made me want to change their minds, at least giving me the power to finally reject them on my terms. In a world where women have been commodified, the idea of my body not being wanted left me feeling like I had nothing else to offer.

Speaking with my Yia Yia, a small yet mighty greek woman who has faced her fair share of adversity in her day, on the phone the other night about the subject I planned to write about this week, she told me how she had always gravitated more towards men in terms of friends. She didn’t have patience for women’s quarrels over boys, and frivolous preoccupations with their own exteriors, yuck! Hearing one of the strongest and most well read people I know (a woman) attack other women for being childish and vain was twisted, but it wasn’t the first time I’d heard her express equally concerning sentiments.

At the dinner table this past thanksgiving my Yia Yia told a story of this time when she was a young woman walking home from a friends place on a summer evening in Montreal, when a group a boys attacked and attempted to gang rape her. Pretty scary stuff, right? The kind of stuff we girls are warned about growing up, the images evoked when friends say “text me when you get home” when heading back to our apartments late at night. My Yia Yia doesn’t look back at this incident with fear or rage however, no her tone while telling the story was light and reminiscent, and she introduced the tale as the time she made some of the best friends she ever had. In the moment, she tells, she’d stood her ground and snapped back asking how they’d like it if someone were to treat their own sisters or mothers the way in which they were treating her, and her words caused them to release her. She describes these boys as becoming her “guardian angels” thereafter for the rest of her time in Montreal. They got to know her, were impressed by her exceptional knife throwing skills, a sport in which she apparently partook (and was very good at, she specifies). They always stood up for her, protecting her from any and all harm that may have come her way, the end.

We were all stunned.

The story made me sad. It made me sad because the feelings of being so indebted to men, to the point of excusing the most heinous behaviour, was generational.

It made me sad because despite my awareness of my grandmother’s backwards logic, I still thought she was kind of a baller.

It made me sad because I could hear the words I’ve spoken to other women, and heard in return, echoing in my head:

“I’m so sorry you had a bad experience with him, you just caught him on a bad day, I swear he’s actually a really great guy!”

It made me sad because I could mentally see myself at parties trying to impress boys by showing them how I could fit my whole fist in my mouth...albeit a less badass party trick, but the aims were the same!

“What’s sad is that women aren’t given the confidence to stand up for themselves. They’re taught to be feminine and quiet, and that’s what’s messed up.” My Yia Yia lectures me during our phone call last week when I brought this story up.

Though I understood where she was coming from I also heard this underlying idea being enforced; that if bad things happen to you as a woman it’s your fault. You have to meet fire with fire. Violence with violence. Masculinity with masculinity. And if you fail to do so, if you remain sweet and soft like you’ve been told to be your whole life, then that’s on you.

There’s no doubt in my mind that the kind of people who perpetuate violence like this are repeating these behaviours with others. What happened to my Yia Yia was not an isolated incident, no matter how hard her ego likes to push back and say she somehow “changed them for the better”. I imagine one of these boys saying “Hey man, maybe we shouldn’t assault this one, she actually seems pretty chill, not like those other girls.” But that’s the thing about male validation, you don’t care about other people getting it. In fact it feels more special if others don’t.

It’s a dog eat dog world. You can’t wait for men to come to you, it’s called leaning in, it’s called girl boss-ery. Perhaps this was actually the most feminist shit, knocking down the door to the gentlemans club, beating them at their own game. That’s how it can feel. Until you realize that your inclusion is reliant on the exclusion of others. The butterflies I got from feeling special amongst men, like I alone based off of my overall coolness and skateboarding knowledge had been allowed to cross the threshold, were there because other girls weren’t. If the velvet curtains were fully drawn and it was open admittance I would begin to feel lost in the crowd. A mere face among many begging “Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!” afraid nobody ever would. My own insecurities were perpetuating systems designed to hold me back, and any denial or justification of such structures were based in delusion.

Feels like I’m making a bigger deal about something minute here.

Feels like I’m just overreacting, I can’t even remember where this conversation began.

Feels like I’m trying to make sense of thoughts and feelings that are just obsessive and creepy.

Feels like something a woman would do.