✈️️ Fly high ✈️️

I was seven the first time a boy lifted my knee-length uniform skirt but my shriek was only met with laughter because boys will be boys and why can’t you take it more lightly as the joke it is and the joke you are, don’t you know it’s no fun to show even the slightest drop of resentment against the apparently righteous hands stripping you of the intimacy they decided you didn’t deserve? ultimately, cool girls laugh at it, while waving the shame away and locking it beneath a layer of thickening skin.

I was thirteen the first time an unfamiliar hand grabbed my body in places I never dared to let anyone touch, let alone claim their own and my arms still bear the burning reminder  of my futile attempt to resist even though the purple galaxies faded a long time ago for lack of someone to view them as something more than just child’s play. Boys will be boys so in the end I should have been thankful one of them rendered my body worthy enough of their careless profanity because it doesn’t matter if you wear turtlenecks and two layers of clothes to hide the early signs of puberty society already labelled as shameful, it doesn’t matter if you’re still playing with dolls or believing in princes from faraway lands, if you still blush at the thought of a kiss or wait for Santa each and every winter, there might be age limits on intriguing movies and mind-numbing drinks but there’s none when it comes to the ease with which you’ll learn you’re only an object on display.

I am nineteen and I still remember to call my friends when I get home so they would know I’m safe and I still choose the well-lit alley and walk with my head down past the menacing shadows of strangers and I still hear the distant voice of my mother telling me boys will be boys so if you insist on going out in that scandalous shirt, that shows your pale shoulders and maybe a colourful glimpse of your laced bra, you have no right to complain about wandering hands or staring eyes and witty remarks.

and baby, don’t you recognise a compliment when you feel it piercing through your skin? you know, honey, all I recognise is a hint of aggression in an attempt to own what was never yours so maybe instead of teaching our daughters to hide and cringe and fear, we should be teaching them that they’re not frail beings, but powerful thunderstorms, that they are not a vapid object on the rusty shelf of a convenience store but walking pieces of art and “do not touch” signs should be taken seriously, so maybe instead of teaching our daughters to conceal we should be teaching our sons to respect because something as careless and immature as boys will be boys will never suffice to justify anything.