“Good Girls” and the Shaming Voice

My upbringing was filled with the rules and rites of being a “good girl”. I never questioned that I wanted to be a Good Girl and I knew, without a doubt, that being a Bad Girl was the worst thing I could be. I was terrified of being bad, and so I paid attention when Grandmother would launch into one of her good girl monologues.

My story is not all that unusual, sadly. Many of us were raised with the shame of needing to be a Good Girl but discovering that many of the rules were beyond our ability to enforce. “Be a good girl” was a phrase that caused me intense shame, for so many years.

I learned that I needed manners, because that was certainly part of being a Good Girl. My sisters and I were so polite that strangers made comments to Mother about it, “What beautiful manners for such beautiful girls!” “Good Girls say please” I was told, as I watched Nick (my uncle and older by 2 years) grab the cookie I was denied for my lack of manners. Grandma swatted at him with her baking spoon and missed, causing them both to share a giggle. He still got a cookie. The time spent writing thank you notes, wistfully listening to Nick and his friends romping outside. The time spent in a corner or being scolded for helping myself, not saying thank you or daring to be anything but smiling and pleasant, while watching Nick do all the things I was told were not Good.

“Good Girls don't yell” Grandma scolded, when she had giggled just yesterday when Nick slammed his fist on the counter, yelling that he was angry (because he called it horny instead of angry, ahahaha, so cute he was)! Mother yelled all the time and I dared to wonder out loud if that meant she was a Bad Girl, to which Grandmother came unglued.

Good Girls print neatly, though goodness knows I never could. I spent hours trying to print with the flowery neatness of what Good Girls should be able to do, and realized I was not really good at being Good. Good Girl's never lie, they don't argue or say anything 'untoward'. They smile sweetly and are calm, able to cook, clean and be 'pretty'.

As a young girl I would solemnly study my reflection, wondering if I was pretty enough to be a Good Girl, or if my nose was too big, my mouth too small. I did not say mean things to friends, and when they hurt me I would walk away, silent. I did not tease, name call or prank. I did not play, really, either.

Good Girls stay clean, unless they are told to go romp with their uncle and his friends. Scoldings for grass stained socks, then sent outside to play guns with the boys. The boys who barked at me, then joyfully teased me and bullied me into playing rough, taking dares and so it goes.

I was terrified of boys, who I told were rough and mean because they liked me. Bjorn, he must have liked me a lot, as he held me face down in the snow, throwing my book bag up in the tree, while I cried softly, hoping he would let me go before I died. Grandmother and Mother both assured me that throwing the bat at me, tackling me in gym (we were playing mash, not football) and the snow smothering were all just because he liked me. I stopped telling them about boys and their demonstrations of love.

That Bjorn, he never stopped. He showed me he liked me every day. He must have loved me as he gripped his hands around my neck, leaving a ring of blue. Funny, but when Mother took me to the doctor and he asked about the bruises and I told him, he didn't think it was my fault. He didn't tell me that Bjorn, who happened to be his son, liked me. He did yell at my parents, which scared me greatly though. After that Bjorn never touched me again. That was grade four.

I tried so hard to be a Good Girl. I said please, helped Mother and looked after my sisters. I tried to stay neat and to not let anyone see me as anything but sweetly smiling. I let mother do my hair and held my sisters close when the parents would fight.

Good Girls don't have secrets from their Mother. When I told Mother that Nick was always playing games that included naked privates and touching and that I didn't like those stupid games she told Grandmother. Grandmother had her call me to the phone where I was told to apologize to Nick. I did, because Good Girls apologize.

To be fair, mother made some small efforts to not let me alone with Nick after that, for a few months. The next summer though, I was back at Grandmother's cabin for a new round of Good Girl talks and trying to deal with Nick and his grabby friends. My grade 5 summer was spent trying to navigate the world of mean boys during the day and listening to Grandmother tell us about boys and their urges and how Good Girls don't let them touch, and Good Girls stop them from making bad choices.

When Mother moved us away I was told that Good Girls help their mothers. I tried. I worked to help buy food and babysit the sisters in the evening. I cleaned house and even rolled mother cigarettes. When Mother brought men home I was a Good Girl and figured out how to make the meal feed them too. When those men would eye up me and my sisters I would do what I could to make sure the girls were hidden away.

Good Girls protect their sisters.

No one told me what Good Girls could do when men 'dropped' quarters on the floor so they could look down my sisters shirt when she bent down to pick them up. No one told me what Good Girls do when Mother's men friends would shove their hand down my pants, clamp a hand over my mouth and whisper awful things to me. No one told me what Good Girls do when the date Mother arranged tried to have sex with me, or what to do when Mother 'gave me' to a guy as a 'companion' for his delivery trip up north. That was grade 10.

Now I know. My Daddy has taught me what a good girl really is. A good girl doesn't hide the truth to save your feelings. She is not responsible for anyone's actions but her own. Good girls can get as dirty and sweaty as they want, they can scream orgasms through a mist of tears (and he even encourages them to!) Good Girl's don't have to sit silent and frozen, accepting abuse. Nor do they need to feel shame for their feelings, their thoughts or their natural body.

In fact, my Daddy tells me that Good Girls are the same as Good People, with all the same rights and responsibilities, qualities and faults.

I am a Good Girl, because I am a good person. I don't smile and pretend I agree with you, but I don't say things to you just to hurt you. I don't give a flying fuck if you think I am pretty, or sweet, or demure and I own my sexuality, my successes and my mistakes.