Express Yourself! :) - Crumpled Skirts

“Miria, get down from there and sit with me.” Everything, from the monkey bars to the swing sets, was off limits. I groaned, jumping off the jungle gym and stomping towards my patient mother. The other mothers who gathered in trios to gossip, their own spruced up daughters sitting close by sharing imaginary tea out of pastel colored plastic tea cups, threw me wild eyed looks as if I were some snarling terrier let off my leash. I growled animatedly, as lively as the heated summer sun that beckoned my family out to the park in the first place. “Why can’t I play?” It came out snottier than I expected, but I felt some sort of entitlement to be a brat. “It’s because you’re wearing a skirt. And are you wearing your brother’s Superman underwear?” She scolded under her breath, smoldering embers in her tone that threatened to spark if I had said anything back. I pouted, turning toward the ground. What was so wrong about wearing by brother’s underwear? I had usually dressed myself and I was all out of my own. There was no difference between my underwear and his; I believed that underwear was just underwear. “Why don’t you go play tea party with them?” My mother urged me. I sneered at the group of gaggling girls she pointed out, each with their own feathery scarf, bouncy tutu, or large sunhat. Scoffing angrily, I and slouched on the bench beside my mother before turning away from her, pretending I didn’t hear her silly suggestion as I angrily balled up my fists, crumpling the skirt I now loathed.584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZI3vBMBg5J

I was never the type of daughter who squealed at the thought of trying out make-up, or spent days in the sun playing with rainbow ponies, and I always knew this frustrated my mother. When I would tell her “Barbie’s aren’t my thing,” her forced smile and curt answers hissed through her clenched teeth just somehow oozed hurt dissatisfaction. Frilly dresses and pink dream houses still managed to crowd my room, though, while my younger brother was gifted with bikes and game consoles. I wasn’t allowed to touch any of them because, frankly put, “Miria is a girl, and girls have cooties.” It made no sense to me at the time. I get pint sized cleaning supplies and a play kitchen while my brother gets a virtual world to explore all because we were different genders? I couldn’t believe that we weren’t being treated as equals, and I let my parents know whenever I had the chance, which wasn’t too often. When they weren’t working, my mother was busy in her life-sized kitchen, frying and scrubbing fanatically to make everything presentable to a husband whose morals were equal to that of a broad-browed caveman. His vocabulary never seemed to reach far past “I want food.” “I need T.V. remote.” “I want clean cave.” A few other grunts and groans could be made out as he banged his large fists on the dinner table, but nothing past three syllables. Every day, I would watch the exact same scene play out before me from the entrance of the kitchen, and I defied ever stepping onto that cold, tiled floor. I knew, eventually, they would pass down to me the lead role—a role I was expected to play. “You girl. You help mom in kitchen,” my father would grumble. I furrowed my brows as I watched my mother stumble madly around the gray kitchen. Pressing my lips into a hard, fine line, I shook my head and walked away, deciding that my future would not be as easily determined by my gender as my play things seemed to be.

“Miria, could you help me with my homework?” My brother, his single sheet of preschool paper in hand, asked as I settled down to start my own work. I would cringe on the inside, but I made a good habit of hiding my displeasure. Sitting my brother next to me, we would go over his ABC’s and 123’s, and then he would be off to play Spyro or Crash, crying childishly whenever I would ask to play. “You no play. You girl.” At my father’s disapproving grunt, I would roll my teary eyes and never ask again. Being the older sibling meant I had to give everything and expect nothing in return. As an older sister, I could never play with his toys, and never roughhouse with my roughhousing brother, but instead should nurture his brutish behavior. I should always act prim and proper and would be harshly scolded when I behaved out of line. If my brother were to commit the same crime, he would be punished with an unconcerned shrug and a ‘boys-will-be-boys’ attitude. When I pointed this out in protest—and I often did—my parents would aggressive shake their heads, convinced with the belief that they were treating their darling children equally. They were equally convinced that I was a stingy whiner.

I grew up with the same hurt dissatisfaction in society that my mother had in me when I was young. Everywhere I went, no matter how much time has passed, my brother and I were treated with the same disillusioned prejudice that our parents had already grown used to. And, like the mothers who gossiped at the park, the general public threw me wild eyes when I bluntly stated that “woman work” would never be my thing.

Now, I realize that what is expected of me would vastly differ from what is expected of my brother. Now, I choose to ignore and defy the path society laid out for me based on my gender. Now, I promised myself I would never let a measly skirt stop me from reaching my full potential ever again, and that I could wear superhero undies whenever I pleased.

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