Girlhood Scars, ages 7-12

A Triptych

Ages 7 - 12

1. When I was seven I called Daniel, the most popular boy in my grade, and asked him out. He was already “dating” one of the most popular girls, Samantha. My friend Heather dared me to do it. My small voice beamed through the phone, “Is Daniel there?” A timid “…hello?” came through the phone. “Hey, it’s Lachrista. Do you want to go out?” My entire body alight with fire. “Um… no.” I hung up—embarrassed and afraid. The following day, a Saturday afternoon, my friend Heather and I walked down to the school playground. Within five minutes of being there, three boys rode up to us on their bikes. I recognized them all: Ryan, Andrew, and Daniel. They started circling Heather and I. Daniel began interrogating me: “Why did you call me?,” “Why did you ask me out?,” “What’s wrong with you?” I felt dizzy from the questioning and from the circle they kept riding in. Daniel was no longer timid. I shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Sorry.” The truth is, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what dating was. I didn’t know why I had such audacity to call the most popular boy in my grade. It seemed harmless. Daniel’s reaction taught me the social order of things, though. I had already known the difference between the popular kids and the rest of us. He just solidified it for me. I was not allowed to go outside of my social class. Measly little me asking out the most popular boy in my grade was an embarrassment to him. It was an embarrassment to all the popular kids. It was a transgression. I felt bad for causing him such anguish. I said sorry and meant it. How dare I do such a thing? What did I think would happen? I just wanted to date, which at the time, really just meant you sat next to the person at lunch and hung out with them at recess. I learned I was an embarrassment. I learned the popular kids saw me as a threat to their image and the micro society of second grade.

   

2. In third grade, I was diagnosed with two learning disabilities. My parents pushed for me to be tested, because they saw what little confidence I had in school—both learning and socially. I consistently felt bad about myself. I consistently wondered what was wrong with me. The testing I endured was arduous. I was interrogated for days in a small room. The Special Ed teacher administering the test had a face stuck in deep concern. She questioned if I was “really” born in 1985. She asked, “Are you sure? I think you were born in ‘86.” I knew that I knew my fucking birth year, but this adult made me think that maybe I didn’t. It became apparent very quickly that my answers to everything were being judged. I felt like I was in trouble. I felt like if I breathed too loudly or moved even an inch that it would be judged. I was already unpopular. I was already somewhat ignored. Ironically, I was getting attention from adults, but I knew it wasn’t a “good” kind of attention. I could see it their eyes—their looks of pity. After the testing showed I had two learning disabilities (Dyscalculia and Language-Processing Disorder), I was placed in the Special Ed program. Special Ed students weren’t integrated at this time, so I would have to get up and leave my traditional class to go to my Special Ed class. Once a teacher asked me in front of everyone, “Where do you think YOU’RE going?” I was frozen—rooted, solid. I prayed to be taken from that place somehow in that moment. I finally said the name of the Special Ed teacher. “Oh. Okay,” responded my teacher. The damage was done. A kid sitting next to me said: “You don’t look like you have a disability.” Again, I felt inadequate; embarrassed, ashamed.

   

3. I got my first period when I was 10, the same age my mother was when she got hers. My body developed, but I didn’t notice. Truthfully, I had been divorced from my body after the age of four—after my parent’s divorce. It also didn’t help that I only saw my body as a site of pain due to near chronic urinary tract infections. So I broke up with her; this body of mine. I decided to live in my head. By the time I got my period, by the time I hit puberty—I didn’t notice my changing body. My breasts grew, but were never exceptional. They just appeared one day and I had to start wearing a bra. I felt a bit more perceivable, if only because none of my friends at the time were wearing bras. Mostly it was fine, except for one day in gym class. Our class was instructed to run from one end of the gym to the other. I hated gym class, but was a rule follower and perpetually terrified of being/getting in trouble. I started running with the rest of the class until I heard boys start chanting in unison: “Lachrista’s wearing a bra, Lachrista’s wearing a bra.” Then laughter. I had on a tank top and they saw my bra under my armpits since my top was too big for me. Immediately tears swelled, but I bit my lip to keep them from spilling out. A year or two later when more girls were wearing bras, I would overhear boys talk about how “hot” it was to see a girl’s bra straps. I was privy to a lot of conversations like these, because I was, plainly, not seen—especially by boys. I remember thinking: why was it embarrassing when I wore one? Why was it not considered “hot” when I did it? The only way I could understand this was that I was not wanted. I was not the right kind of girl. I was an embarrassment to my peers and to myself. I was undesirable.