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.
