I always wanted to be a boy, for my father's sake. I was child number six, the fourth girl. I know he wanted a boy. Failing the gender test, I tried to give him what he wanted. My parents had a boy's name picked for me, one that was ultimately given to my nephew, Robin, twelve years later. I instead got the most commonly given name of that year, right up there with the male equivalent, John. He treated me like a son, and I loved it.
I was a tomboy and a grubby little person. I got dirtier than I might have liked, but kept my hair long, because he liked that. I endured hours of scalp torturing detangling efforts from my mother, who narrated the sessions with 'Twigs! Twigs and sticks and pitch! If you won't take care of your hair, we might as well shave you bald-headed!' ('bald-headed'...in my day, you were never just bald). After each wrenching brushing, released from the chair of torture and Doom, my Daddy would run his tough snaggy hands over my hair and proclaim, 'That is pretty. I just love long hair on a little girl.' Did I love being his long haired little girl or hate not being a boy?
Outside, though, I would get cuffed for daring to fall off of a horse or not snagging a runaway chicken. I would be coarsely berated for crying if I was hurt or bleeding or for not beating a dog soundly enough for the dog's disobedience. Like I was a boy.
In seventh grade, a neighbor boy became the object of my first crush, my first kiss, my first heartache. Later, in school, he turned into my tormenter and bully, setting traps for me, slamming my hands in my locker, spilling my science projects over my clothing. Over the months, I lost weight, I cried every night, I dreaded the bus ride and the school day. Because he lived down my half mile drive, I stopped riding my horse. When I told my parents, I was shamed and ridiculed for not 'acting like a McBride', not 'fighting my own battles', not meeting force with force. I shed shameful secret tears as I fell from my father's favor.
Finally, one day, I snapped. I really did. That is the only explanation. The boy, Steve Teem, flicked gram weight beads into my face as I leaned over my science book. I flung my entire box of beads at him. The teacher, having witnessed the original deed, made Steve pick them up. Stung, ego pounding, the boy followed up with snapping me in the back with tightly stretched latex tubing, leaving bleeding welts through my thin blouse. I just lost it.
I remember the text in my science workbook receding as I stood, retrieved the discarded tubing, and grabbed it. I gripped the retreating shirt and began to swing the tubing across back, arms, face. The teacher responded by taking away the weapon. Still I advanced, pounding with tightly closed fists, lifting my tormentor by his shirt front. Distantly, I heard 'Hit him once for me!' (for he was a bully) and 'Mr. Tews! Get her off me, Mr. Tews!'
The teacher and some classmates pulled me off of him. He was crying. I was crying. The teacher wisely calmed us by talking about mundane things, then extracted promises of no future violence. Made easier by the fact that the boy chose to move home to his father two weeks later, no doubt due to his new reputation as having been beat up by a girl. I overheard a classmate tell someone a few weeks later, 'Don't mess with McBride. She'll beat the crap outta you.' I was shocked. I had a whole new identity.
I did at home, too. My dad was so proud of me. He said I had lived up to the McBride name. That I kicked ass, but I should have done it sooner. That I was worthy. That I was like a son. But, I was torn. My ego was proud, but my heart was sad and conflicted that such out-of -control violence should be so rewarded. Ultimately, I went with the accolades. I embraced the stronger, more confident, more daring and swaggering identity. It held bullies at bay and gained kudos from the most important man in my life, my Daddy.
I still am Daddy's girl, front and center in my personality. That person is tough and decisive, she has no regrets for the use of necessary violence, and she confronts conflict like a street fighter. Behind her is the child, the youngest of six, the beaten and abused child of a crazy family, the boy/girl who is still trying to win the approval of a father, long dead, who would have preferred a boy.
