Figure 1.--
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Figure 1.-- |
The puddle splashed against my legs, the filthy water dripping down my knee-socks. In front of me stood Charlie Miller, the perpetrator of theoffense. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smirking with
satisfaction.
It was a tradition at St. Teresa's Elementary School in Plimmerton, New
Zealand for the boys to torment the girls as much as possible within the
first few days of a new school year. It was a sort of display of
physical domination and machismo that sent out the message: We are the
boys ‹we play rugby and wage pea-shooter wars; you are girl ‹you play
hopscotch and cry when you get dirty.
For the most part it was correct.
Boys in New Zealand were tough and brave, girls tried to be demure and
pretty
Secure in the knowledge of his imminent victory, Charlie Miller eagerly
awaited my expected maudlin blubbering and tears. Leaning casually on
the bars of the jungle gym, he was the picture of confidence: calm,
assured, relaxed.
My right hook sent him reeling backwards, causing the
satisfied grin to vanish from his brutish face. As his pudgy bottom
scraped along the oncrete of the playground, he cried out in pain and
embarrassment. All activity in the school yard froze as if it had been
paused by an invisible remote control
Charlie slowly heaved himself off the ground, a bright red welt that
would later become a nasty yellow-black bruise appearing slowly on his
face.
Undaunted by his tough reputation, I stood proudly, my hair ribbon
only slightly askew. We faced each other like gunslingers at high noon,
each cautiously anticipating the other's move.
The battle of the sexes had come to this show-down. I was determined to
win, not only for myself, but for the dozen or so of my female
classmates who stared transfixed in their identical green plaid jumpers.
Never again would a girl at St. Teresa's back down in the face of male
aggression. From this day forward, running in the school yard, playing
on the netball court, hangingpside-down from the monkey bars, we would
be equal.
Charlie's fierce expression could not pop the balloon of new-found
confidence swelling inside me; I had hattered the mystique of his
invulnerability; I was no longer scared of him.
Walking slowly away from the rapidly forming crowd, Charlie puffed up
his scrawny chest. "What's everyone standing around for? Let's go play
some rugby."
II watched him walk away, somewhat relieved that I had escaped with my
limbs fully intact. Suddenly he stopped, turning to face me once again.
"Hey hot shot, you want to come?" he inquired to my complete
mazement.
"Sure," I said, in the most confident tone my 6-year-old voice could
muster. "Let's go."
I headed towards the rugby field, the mud on my knee-socks hardening in
the sun of the warm afternoon.
I was dirty, but I didn't cry; I was a
girl, but I didn't play hopscotch. As Charlie Miller looked at me with
unabashed respect I discovered what I should have already known: I was
his equal and I always would be.
Heather McCready
