A Tomboy In Skirts

As a girl, with a mother who believed a girl should look like a girl, I had a serious problem. There were so many maple branches to swing from, trees to climb, hollow stumps to play in and fern fields for building forts. There were also field mice to catch, creeks to explore, bike rides to take, mountains to climb and chickens to chase.

With my skirt tied between my legs was not how my mother envisioned her only daughter; nor were dresses ripped and hemlines hanging. Her words, ‘young ladies don’t swing from maple branches or climb trees’, fell on my deaf ears. Being a ‘young lady’ was not my idea of fun.

Her additional dilemma was the fact that I was the only girl in a neighborhood of boys. She tried, with determination and effort, to make a girly-girl out of me but I strongly rebelled against bows, ruffles and lace. How could a girl become a member of a boys’ group wearing bows and ruffles? A skirt may be overlooked, as long as I could keep up with the boys, but ruffles would have guaranteed my banishment from this elite group forever.

Although I was the only girl in the gang, I was accepted because I could ride a bike as well and as far as any of them did, could keep up when they hiked and I caught as many field mice as the best of them. Admittedly I did have a little trouble trying to put a worm on my hook. The rule was if I wanted to go fishing with them, I had to bait my own line. Shaking slimy creatures that looked as if they had escaped from an alien world onto the ground while trying to stick the hook into them without touching their wiggling bodies was more difficult than I could have imagined and invariably they would fall off into the quick running current of the creek. Losing a worm like that was considered unforgivable, especially when the boys remembered the fact that I had not helped dig the wiggling and squirming creatures from the mud beneath the rocks. After a few lost worms, one of the softer hearted of the boys finally agreed to bait my hook when he saw the hint of tears glistening in my eyes. The catch of my first little trout was an exciting moment and even the boys were impressed. ‘I wasn’t bad for a girl’, they all reluctantly agreed.

From my adult perspective, I feel fortunate that I was allowed to be part of this group of boys and was probably privy to more adventures than the average little girl has before the hormones of the teenage years change the perspective on what is fun and considered worthwhile to be doing.

However, before that gradual change took place we hung out by the river with its deadly currents and whirlpools, where we were not allowed to go; raided corn fields, which would have given our parents heart attacks had they known; climbed the tower on top of the hill which gave us a heavenly view of the valley below, after having climbed over a barbed-wire fence; and had corn roasts with flames leaping high into the late summer skies. We played in the cold creek in the summer when none of us could swim, skated on the frozen lake in the winters sometimes hearing the ice crack behind us as the weather became warmer; and explored the countryside for miles around from morning until night. We climbed our local mountain following animal trails into the dense bush and trees and investigated deserted miners’ shacks and mining equipment. We walked up the logging road, which was forbidden by our parents as well as by the logging company, dodging massive logging trucks as they hurtled down the mountainside weighted down by newly logged trees. We had few rules and fewer that we followed. I had more freedom than I no doubt would have had if I had not been in the company of my brothers and the other boys. My parents considered I was well protected. While it was true that they looked after me, there was none who looked after them as we pursued one crazy idea after another.

As we grew older and the years passed cars took the place of bicycles. We were now able to travel further afield and could drive into the big city exploring unknown territory. During this time I vaguely became aware that a change had begun to take place in how the boys treated me. Most of them, with the exception of my brothers, began not to mind if I had trouble keeping up to them; they patiently waited for me. They didn’t expect me to go on corn raids anymore but I was always invited to the corn roasts and my hook was each and every time baited for me. They never swore in front of me and if someone forgot and did, they were properly chastised by the other members of the group. They began to be quieter and calmer around me, self-consciously doing little favors for me. They began to care what I thought. I was now a different entity. I was no longer quite one of them.

We later began to go to drive-in movies and eventually to house parties when cars became our regular mode of transportation. Around this time, I was also beginning to realize that it was no longer as much fun to be a tomboy and I didn’t want to be ‘one of the boys’ anymore. My brothers were beginning to openly resent my inclusion in activities with ‘their’ friends.

It wasn’t long before I began to be invited on my own, on a ‘date’; it was no longer always the whole group and most often my brothers were not included. They were not impressed with this new status quo.

Make-up, curls and shoes with heels suddenly became very attractive; gone was the ponytail, sneakers and my brothers’ jeans. I now made an effort to cover my freckles. What had I been thinking, I wondered? I could no longer imagine not wanting to look like a girl. Walking in a lady-like fashion took the place of running, fishing lost its appeal, sitting in a tree was a thing of the past and corn roasts were for kids.

‘What happened to her?’ I heard my parents whisper.

I spent hours locked in the bathroom standing before the mirror curling my hair, plucking my eyebrows, worrying about zits or just looking at this girl even I hardly knew. It wasn’t only my parents who wondered where she had come from.

My brothers no longer treated me as they had previously done. “What’s taking you so long?’ they would yell from the other side of the bathroom door. When I’d finally emerge, they’d glare and grumble, “It took you that long to look like this? You wasted your time.”

My brothers and parents no longer seemed to be as pleasant as they once had been; they criticized and complained; their intolerance grew and their patience wore thin. It was a time of disquiet in the household. I couldn’t understand how they could all have changed so drastically.
My hormones had kicked in and my metamorphosis as a girl had begun. My parents now yearned for their tomboy and my brothers wished for another brother; anyone other than someone who spent so much time in the bathroom.