When Herself was a tiny young thing, she enjoyed the rare occasions when she could watch her father shave. It was a mysterious adult ritual, shaving: the shaving cream, like Santa's beard; the shiny razor and the noise of it tapping underwater to rinse in the sink; the emergence of her father's familiar, kind face, stroke by stroke, until only thin lines of shaving cream remained on his face. Fascinating.
Herself's brother would also watch. Once in a while, he would get to mimic their father, scraping a bit of shaving cream off of his tender chin with a spare razor that had been carefully emptied of its blade. Herself was envious. She was not allowed to do so. Girls don't shave their faces.
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Herself's family had a back yard that seemed enormous. There was the play house that had real shingles on its roof but no paneling on its sides, so they could easily climb up top and sit the few feet off of the ground. There was the big sandbox that occasionally contained cat poop. There was a long, long driveway, good for drawing with chalk or riding Big Wheels. They were not allowed to play in the patch of rocks between the side of the house and the driveway; those pebbles were always so tempting, so smooth and gently colored.
There was a small, alluring grove of trees in the corner of the yard. Herself does not remember why The Rules forbade playing in the grove; perhaps there was too much danger of poking themselves with a stick? Was it ever explained? She cannot recall. Sometimes she or her siblings would sneak into the grove and sit halfway up the trunk of a leaning, rough-barked tree for a short while. They would then slink out guiltily, hoping they had not been caught by an eagle eye peering out of the kitchen window, and breathing a sigh of relief when it appeared that they had avoided detection.
There was a garden patch surrounded by a short white picket fence. A nearby fruit tree stood guardian over the strawberries and tomatoes. From the kitchen window, they could watch the birds flutter. The insects hovered over the strawberry blossoms and tomato flowers. The house had two porches; under the porches were dark wooden caves. The front porch area was off-limits because of risk of contact with the nails holding the boards together, and the back porch area was dark and stinky and contained wet leaves that had blown underneath months ago and began to molder. There were slugs, and bugs.
The swingset, off to one side in the yard, had a slide and a climbing portion and three swings. Herself would sit at the very top of the swingset and kick her feet until her beloved cowboy boots flew off; she would then climb down, retrieve the boots, stuff them back on her feet, and begin again. In the fall, sometimes she and her siblings were allowed to rake a pile of leaves nearby, and they would swing and swing and then jump into the pile. There was a giant area of grass in the yard, shaded at the edges by a few large trees. There was a slight incline to the yard; sometimes they would roll down it -- in a giant cardboard box if they were fortunate enough to have one available -- until they were dizzy and their noses bled.
When Herself's brother became a teenager, he occasionally mowed the lawn. It looked so satisfying: the hum of the lawnmower and the production of neat lines of cut grass. Herself, a mere 14 months younger, thought that when she became a teenager, perhaps she would be allowed to take care of the lawn as well. But when she expressed a desire to mow, she was not allowed to do so. Girls don't mow the lawn.
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Herself grew up with the burgeoning feminism of the 70s and early 80s, when
Girls Can Do Anything They Set Their Minds To was the standard mantra. Girls were just as good at math and science as boys. Girls could be scientists, doctors, lawyers, professionals. Astronauts. President. No goal too high. To reinforce the point, her parents gave her a T-shirt especially emblazoned with the words SUPER GIRL across it; it was her favorite shirt for years in early grade school.
Despite the Girl Power movement of the day, though, it seems that there remained a gender-based division, both for pretend tasks such as shaving, and real chores such as mowing. That was strange to Herself, for many poorly-defined reasons. Contradictory. Wrong. Or was it
she who was wrong? Were there certain things that girls just shouldn't be interested in doing, after all? Confusing. She knew, too, that there were "girl" activities -- ballet class, for example -- that she did not enjoy. At all. She didn't quite fit, somehow, within the subtle gender lines. Frustrating.
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Herself still sees the shadows of those lines when she surveys her interests today -- she knows they fall far more under stereotypical male pastimes than female pastimes. She'd much rather listen to a discussion of car parts or firearms than attend jewelry or cookware or makeup parties. She far prefers roaming the aisles of the home improvement stores to bargain-hunting in the clothing outlets. It is not any particular allure of being a woman in a man's domain that draws her; simply, the subjects are just far more engrossing. And despite those questions of her youth, she no longer gives much thought to the gender-based dictates of others. She tries to do what makes herself happy. As she should.
She likes to put on a dress and high heels on occasion. And if she feels like it, she can also mow the lawn.
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