My daughter is growing up. In exactly a year and a half, I'll have a teenager on my hands. The hormones, the attitude, the tests of independence...it's all starting. Now and then, I see little flashes of myself. Here she comes, the self-assured feminist mixed with the insecure ingenue. It’s a tumultuous time, and it can be annoying, but man, that's the devil I know. I'm somewhat relieved that she's getting older. Our conversations will deepen. I understand the teenage girl brain, whereas I sometimes struggle with these in-between years. Problem is, she's so damn beautiful. She doesn't quite understand the power this holds, and I am secretly glad for that. I watch with peeking eyes as she studies herself in mirrors that distort and tell ugly lies and reflect back fears and capture only the parts of herself that people will try to take. But I don't tell her that. There is so much I want to say, but for now, I don't.
I don't tell her how boys will line up to hold her hand only to let it go just as quickly. That they'll break up with her over cowardly texts or instant messages and use pre-written scripts to dismiss her as if she wasn't ever anything to them. I don't tell her that somewhere between the ages of 25 and 35, she'll have a great love who thinks she's stupidly beautiful and brilliant to her core, but also a wildcard not worth the trouble. He’ll let her go. And he'll be right to do so because she can't make up her own damn mind. I don't tell her that she'll spend so much wasted time looking for signs that she's special in someone else's eyes.
I don't tell her that being loved for all your tender broken pieces is a rarity. That most boys won't have the patience to wait for her uncut edges to soften. I don't tell her how they'll try to take her further from herself. Or how she'll be expected to act deferential in moments where she feels like rising. To acquiesce when she feels like speaking up. I don't tell her that this will happen to her her whole damn life, in every room she enters. I don't tell her that when she finally uses her voice to speak her truth she will be labelled as difficult, unkind, and even unlikable.
I don't tell her how she'll be encouraged to use her body as a commodity, or that she will forever be measured by the male gaze. That her outsides will be scrutinized, poked, and prodded by a culture that makes arbitrary choices about what passes for beauty. That one day, she will take over for her critics and readily chastise herself for all that she thinks she is not, and all she feels she must be. That she will be asked to hand over her name, her womb space, and her freedoms to another. All in the name of love, and at the expense of herself. Though she may do so because these are the choices that come along with love, she will likely lose some of herself in this process. She will to fight to pick up where she left off, and may one day see a stranger in that mirror I so often see her look upon. I don't tell her we're just performing roles, and that most of the time she'll have to choose between being pretty, smart or well-liked, but rarely will she get to be all three.
Instead...
I tell her that her body's work is to house her soul.
I tell her it's not her job to please other people.
I tell her that boys who treat her badly aren't trying to impress her or doing it because they like her. They're just treating her like shit.
I tell her that she is not something to be owned. That she governs herself.
I tell her that her body, mind, and choices are her own. The only thing she must do is radically accept herself in the face of each and every decision she makes, even if it feels more natural to sink into shame.
I tell her that she is safe.
And then I wait for them to come.
But I don't tell her that.