‘I was a bit of a tomboy when I was 10,” some girls say, tossing their hair with an eye on the bathroom mirror to check make-up.
Tomboy: ”A vernacular term applied to a girl whose developmental differentiation of gender-identity/role (G-I/R) as stereotypically defined is in variable degree discordant with the evidence of her genital morphology. See also sissy boy.” — Webster Dictionary, 1913.
It is a long time ago. And the early 1980s in South Africa were also a very long time ago if you consider what was — not just socially, but legally — due to women. Even in white privileged culture, rape within marriage was only criminalised in 1993. Black women were eternal children before the law — passed from father to husband. And in many subtle ways that have melted away, we were told that the boys had the power, and women were the flowers, waiting to be plucked if we were good enough, after the boys were finished with their important games.
And if we didn’t like that? Well, for a while it was okay. We’d ”grow out of it”.
”What a tomboy,” our mothers would tsk indulgently. Our fathers would point us out: ”She would have made a good boy.” Being a rough and tumble, no-maintenance little girl was even encouraged, up to a point.
But that point, the cut-off point, was when we reached 10 or 11. Then suddenly, all the kids began dress rehearsals for life as a woman or a man, depending entirely on what we had between our legs, limp and hairless though it was. Like Shakespearean actors in the old days, we struck a pose — a ridiculous and obtuse pose that could be read, from near or far, clearer than the signs on most toilet doors.
”I’m a little man now,” said the guys, and stopped letting the girls play with them.
In response, most girls giggled and said, ”I’m just a little girl. Sugar and spice and all things nice.” You can only catch a man when you’re sweet and sticky. Tee hee hee!
Next came bouts of writing paper swopping, high-pitched skipping games, Little Annie make-up trials, Hello Kitty lunch boxes, pencil cases, shirts, just about anything bar Hello Kitty dildos (though those are also for sale). We were attacked by a barrage of pink flowery things and innocent, cluttery little collectables that in cheap, sinister ways matched the pointless porcelain animals, fruit or shepherds that husbands bought their tracksuited, sensible wives after doing god knows what ”late at work”.
And some of us looked at Hello Kitty and thought: ”Hello Kitty? No! Fuck off, Kitty.”
Because just a few months ago, we’d been competing one on one with boys, even when it came to a bit of cheerful playground violence. We were in stone fights, we played stingers, we swore and we swam in our underpants. Overnight, everything changed. And a few girls like me were convinced things weren’t changing for the better.
So we rebelled. We became just like the boys, only more like the boys than the real boys were. In an extreme attempt at rebranding, I cut my hair army short, only answered to the name ”John” and refused to wear skirts.
That’s when the tomboy stopped being cute and became ”That girl who just won’t grow up”. Other kids’ parents, teachers, children and teenagers alike took bizarre pleasure in taunting me. Boys beat me up, shouting, ”Who do you think you are?”
They had a point. Identity is a much prized possession — ask any brand manager. And we tomboys were saying the unthinkable. To the men: your dicks don’t make you men. To the women: you’re just not good enough.
I kept it up for a year, but reality won, of course. Eventually, I grew breasts. I knew I’d soon have my period. I changed my name to Jean and wore a skirt. Because you can’t carry on pissing everyone off forever. Or can you?
I firmly believe the tomboys from those days grew up to be tomboys, only much better disguised. Dressing as a man? Forget it! We’ll toss our hair if we want to. Lipgloss is fun! We’ll even cry if we need to cry. And showing tenderness doesn’t cost us the earth.
There’s a lot to learn from womanhood. Hey, it’s even cool having those breasts that forced me to concede. When I don’t have to work, I do lie at home and play with them all day.
But I’ve slept with whomever I chose, I’ve taken stupid risks and done dangerous things, because I’d rather be James Bond than his piece of arse. And at parties, you’re more likely to find me outside braaiing the meat and arguing politics than in the kitchen, dressing the salad.