I have a younger sister to whom I am eight years her senior. While I stumble my way into adulthood, I simultaneously get to watch as she discovers the mysterious—and sometimes terrible—world of teeny-boppers. She wears sparkly t-shirts with black high-top Converse, she thinks she’ll play in the WNBA when she gets a little taller, and she insists that she can do absolutely everything that any little boy can do (and probably better). I don’t doubt her one bit.
When I was her age, people made fun of me for being too smart, too skinny, and too loud. My hair was too puffy. I was too tall. I was too me. I didn’t meet the standards of what a little girl should be. The same weight of judgement I now carry on a daily basis was then stuffed into the pockets of a Lisa Frank lunch box as I walked into my first day of elementary school.
Typically we think of sexism in terms of wage gaps, rape culture, and domestic abuse. The term draws up images of slow-passing cars spewing with derogatory slurs, women on billboards photo-shopped into unrealistic sizes and curves, congress sessions with exponentially more suits than pant suits. By traditional definitions of sexism, we recognize gender discrimination, we notice oppression, and hopefully we are empowered to take a stand for what is fair and just and right. We feel compelled to join hands in solidarity with our fellow women.
But who is there to stand with the little ones who look up to us with hopeful eyes? Who is left to teach our younger sisters, our daughters, our young comrades-in-arms how to raise their fists against the patriarchy?
New York University sparked mild outrage last year when two “fun” little onesies were spotted next to each other in their campus store. On the right was a quirky little superman suit meant to catch the eyes of parents of little boys, while on the left was a jumper meant specifically for little girls. Needless to say, the onesies didn’t go over well with parents, or, really, anyone at all.
Almost directly out of the womb, we are teaching our sons and brothers that they can do anything. They can run faster than a speeding bullet! They are more powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! Yes, they are supermen!
And at the same time, we want to make sure little girls are aware that their body is something to be ashamed of, that their natural selves are not “beautiful,” but something that should be looked at with the deepest of contempt. We are telling our little sisters to hate themselves before they even have a chance to sneak a peek at their own wonderful worth.
Boys who pull hair on the playground are excused, while their victims are told that “he probably just has a crush on you!” The girl who unexpectedly gets her period during the sixth grade Christmas play will be teased until graduation. Young female athletes will be told there’s no girl’s football team, and if they want to run track they’ll have the standards lowered for them anyway, since their male counterparts are inherently more gifted.
They’ll read history books about all the great and terrible things that influential white men have done for our country, and they’ll be confused about why women earning the right to vote, or suffrage, has to be so closely associated with suffering. They’ll fight over boys they don’t really like anyway because it’s weird that they’re fifteen and haven’t gotten their first kiss yet. They’ll ask their mothers or fathers if they can start wearing makeup because they’re made fun of for their acne, and they’ll be told that it’s inappropriate for a girl so young to start painting themselves up. All while the boys point and laugh, and the other girls giggle because they’ve found the odd one out.
There is no gradual introduction to the harsh reality of life as a girl, as a woman. There is no orientation period on how the world works. We, as women, are thrown into a war zone from day one. We are programmed to judge ourselves, to compare ourselves to others. We are taught that, for us, the standards must be lowered. We are taught that we are pretty smart, pretty funny, pretty fast, pretty strong, pretty cool… for a girl. We are taught to change ourselves to meet a definition of little girlhood—one that eventually harshens up, eliminates grey areas, and evolves into full-on womanhood. There are no child protection laws when it comes to sexism. We are taught to hate our thighs.
Women and men alike may come up with excuses day-in and day-out about why the battle against sexism was finished long ago. “Oh, it’s not that bad.” “Maybe she was just asking for it.” “Boys will be boys.” “It’s just the way the world is.”
But how can we pass up the chance to make a change, to see the world for what it really is, once we recognize how it’s affecting not only us, but those to whom we are supposed to serve as role models? Do we want to let our little sisters watch us force ourselves into a mold of “womanhood,” even if it means that they see our rough edges shaved away? Our individuality melted away? Our selves cut and hammered into a different, unidentifiable, and generic blank slate?
The feminist fight is not merely a battle for a better now, but for a better tomorrow. Our work as women of today will make the sun shine a little brighter on the young ones that come later. Standing up against oppression, discrimination, and cultures of Boy-versus-Girl is not just a cause for ourselves, but a fight for them.
I struggle every day in a sexist world. I listen to the voices that tell me I must change, that I am lesser-than, that I am of the secondary sex, that I am a variation on a theme, and I try to empower myself to fight back. I try to empower myself to enact change, not so much for myself but for the little girl who sleeps one bedroom over.
I’ve grown up girl and I know what it’s like to think you’ll never make it to the top. But, one day, my little sister will be playing in the WNBA. And I’ll be sitting courtside thinking, “I knew she could.”