So Many Different Ways to Be Beautiful
Terri Reinhart
Reprinted from Studiofoxhoven 2
When I was young, my best friend was a little girl named Gina who was quite vocal about how she wished she was a boy. She even wadded up tissues and put the wad down the front of her pants because she wanted a penis so badly. I didn't think about it. Children usually don't. We had a great time climbing trees and hiking through the wild areas near our neighborhood.
All was fine until I joyfully came home one day and announced to my mom that I was Gina's girlfriend. I was too young to get the icy tone accompanying my mother's response of "What do you mean by that?" I said since Gina thought she was a boy and I knew I was a girl, I was Gina's girlfriend. At age 9, friends are friends. Period. We had fun together.
We moved to Colorado soon after and I missed Gina and my old neighborhood terribly. Being shy and quiet, entering a new school mid year was torture. I hated it. I wanted to go back to my home and my friends. There was something else, too. My innocent comment had obviously made my mom very nervous. I had never been a "girly girl". I liked climbing and hiking and catching lizards. I did not like playing with dolls and I hated Barbies. The label of Tomboy was a badge of honor.
By the time I was in high school, the dress code had changed and, for the first time, I could wear jeans to school. This can't have helped Mom's anxiety about my lack of femininity. At a time when it was stylish to wear old overalls and t-shirts, I was scolded for not wearing nice clothes, not curling my hair properly, and teased for being small breasted.
In my mom's defense, until 1973 homosexuality was still listed as a mental illness by the American Psychiatric Association. It was also a crime. Scary stuff. She needn't have worried. I am straight and cisgender. It's just who I am. I could no more make myself lesbian than my lesbian friends could make themselves be straight.
Perhaps it's no wonder I struggled with what it meant to be feminine. I know I wasn't alone, not by a long shot. Struggling with identity and figuring out how to fit in and still be a unique individual is the definition of high school. With the feminist movement of the 1960's and 70's breaking down barriers for women, we were all dazzled with the possibilities ahead of us. It was exciting and overwhelming for us, but must have been puzzling and threatening to some of our parents.
There are still times I hear the voice in my head, letting me know I'm not attractive and not feminine enough, but I can deal with it now. I'm lucky to be married to a wonderful man who doesn't insist on me being a girly girl. In fact, generally when I've felt the most insecure about my identity has been when I have to deal with professional women.
And coming full circle, I have always had close friends who are part of the LGBTQ+ community. Now, as I dance with a lovely, inclusive gay square dance club, I realize more and more how comfortable I am with this community. It's a place where everyone is accepted. I delight in seeing one young man occasionally coming to a party dance wearing a dress and heels. Actually I'm totally impressed seeing anyone square dance in heels. And I'm delighted I don't have to.
It's a place where I never hear the voices in my head tell me I'm not attractive and not feminine enough. It's a place where I've learned what my new friends learned long ago: there are so many different ways to be beautiful. Male and female, masculine and feminine are not opposites. They are splotches of many colors on an artist's paint filled palette and often run together, making even more beautiful colors.
“I was not ladylike, nor was I manly. I was something else altogether. There were so many different ways to be beautiful.”