To My Father Who Told Me Sexism Doesn't Exist

TO MY FATHER WHO TOLD ME SEXISM DOESN'T EXIST- Here is a look at my education.

In kindergarten a boy pulled my pig tails and tripped me. I got skinned knees. When the teacher found me sobbing she told me he must have done it because he liked me. She didn’t punish him, but instead encouraged me to give him a break for his actions. That’s when I learned that boys intentions were more important than my perception of them. That it was more important for me to be nice, than to be physically safe. 

In second grade a boy named Nicholas used to make witty comments during every class, which earned him the title of class clown. Everyone laughed when he spoke. There was one girl- Julie, that had the same sense of humor. But she had to be quieter about her jokes. The teacher laughed at and encouraged Nick’s jokes, whenever Julie did it the teacher would shut her down, or chastise her. That’s when I learned that there was a language difference between boys and girls.

When I was in third grade there was a boy that told me he liked me. I told him I didn’t feel the same. And so he started to attack me. Daily he would point out my choppy haircut, my furry eyebrows, my hairy arms, and my peach fuzz on my face. He never attacked my character, just my appearance. And he told me because of my failings in my appearance no one would ever love me. I told the teacher, but she just told me he was wrong, I was beautiful. As if that was the fault in his actions- the truthfulness of his words- not the words alone. I called him four eyes, and got called to the principals office for bullying. But for months after he had his friends continue to tell me how ugly I was. After that I learned that it was better to suck up to boys you don’t like and pretend there is a chance, than deal with their reaction to your rejection. 

The first week of fourth grade, I got called to the principals office for a math test- because the teacher didn’t think I should have gotten such a high score. There was a boy, Dan, who sat on the opposite side of the classroom, who had all the same answers as me. And the whole experience in the principals offices seemed like an accusation. By the end of it I wasn’t convinced that I hadn’t cheated anymore. Because somehow it was more believable that I could read papers from across the room than be talented in math. After that I learned that different ares of education had gender attachments to them as well. 

In fifth grade we worried about going into middle school. Because, for the first time,it would be all three local schools combined. When we went to multi school events, I was told I had to glare at the pretty girls because they were “competition”. The day was a minefield of stink eyes from girls who knew nothing about each other and some unspoken agreement that someone else’s appearance somehow made your own less important. That’s when I learned I wasn’t even protected by my own. 

In sixth grade our teacher used to drop pencils and make girls in skirts pick them up. He told one of my friends her grade would be raised if she wore short shorts more often so he could see 
her “nice long legs”. When word got out we were called to the vice principal’s office. Which is where he proceeded to tell us how wrong it was to accuse good married men of such things. We had to continue the rest of the year with a teacher who would make us do “morning stretches” as he went around the room to evaluate us, his arms always lingering on my friends back. That’s when I learned that “The Boy who Cried Wolf” was a more socially valued story than “Little Red Riding Hood”.

When I was in seventh grade I was pulled aside by a teacher who told me I was too bossy. He encouraged me to stop talking altogether in class, and to let others lead. The funny part? There were no activities for which to lead or follow. He was making the statement based on how often I answered questions in class. So I stopped talking in class altogether. Later, when he gave me a poor grade in class, his reasons were that I hadn’t participated enough. That’s when I learned my voice was only valued when it was asked for. 

When I was in eighth grade I asked why we couldn’t read a book with a female protagonist. I was told that most of the books like that were trivial and focused solely on romances and drama that boys wouldn’t be interested in. That’s when I learned that it would be harder for me to be able to find myself accurately reflected in the world around me. 

In freshman year I had a reputation for being a prude. But there was a boy I really liked. The one day he asked me out, I found out that I was only asked out because there was a dare that he could be the first to get into my pants. That’s when it solidified that to most men in my life I would be an object as opposed to a person. 

In Sophomore year our teacher split us up into groups, and each group was named for a male in that group. In our group, we only had one boy so we were Matt’s group. Matt had no interest in the subject, or the assignment so I took over as leader. My teacher pulled me aside and told me I should let Matt lead because he was going to need more experience with it. Whether he meant the subject material, or leading in general I have no idea. So I went back to the table and stayed silent. Matt did as well. In the end, all of us girls did all the work in a jumble without a leader. But we stayed Matt’s group, and Matt got the praise when we got a B+. That’s when I learned my biggest success would always be expected to be tied with a man. 

In Junior year, all my doctors continually treated me like I was a drama queen, or had mental health problems when I said I was going through immense pain. It took three doctors, three prescriptions of unneeded antidepressants, and five specialists until ONE finally took me seriously enough to operate. Turns out I had the worst case endometriosis the doctor had ever seen, cysts the size of bowling balls, and had to have my appendix removed. That same year my friend swore something was wrong with his ankle, and had it operated within a week. They found nothing, but continued doing tests until he said the problem disappeared. That’s when I learned that my pain wasn’t considered real until there was proof.

In Senior year I went to a party and had someone slip something in my drink. I blacked out. But I was promptly informed the next day that while everyone at the party knew I was on something, it took thirty minutes before a friend decided to take me home. Only after I’d tried to take my clothes off in a room full of people I didn’t know, hit on a friend’s boyfriend, and kissed a stranger. I woke up with accusations of being a terrible friend, and a promiscuous person. The relief I felt that no one took advantage of me while I was roofied, was underscored by the realization that everyone knew and blamed me for my drugged out actions more than they blamed the person who drugged me. That’s when I learned it’s easier to blame one girl than an entire system.

When I was a different kind of freshman I went to my ward bishop when I was feeling guilty about some personal decisions. He asked for the males name with the events and I refused to give it- I was confessing my own misdeeds not someone elses. He continued to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t have known what I was doing and that the only way I could have been in that situation was by coercion from someone else. That’s when I learned that someone else always got credit for my actions- even my bad decisions.

In my sophomore year a friend of mine dated an abusive boy. He used to tear her down, make her feel small. He tore her down chip by chip and used those chips of her self worth to bring himself back up. When I tried to tell her family- because I feared for both her safety and mental wellbeing, they told me I was jealous of their relationship and that he was a good match for her because he “evened her out.” Like she was a bread he could shape and mold. That’s when I learned that happy ever afters were more important than the sacrifices they called for. 

When I was a junior I had a boy kiss me that I didn’t want to kiss. I tried to pull away, but he held me tight against him. When he started going further I cried “Wait. Please. Stop.” But he just laughed and continued grinding me deeper into the couch, as tears streamed down my face. It wasn’t until I yelled, “GET OFF AND GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.” That he finally let me go with a “You don’t have to be a bitch about it” and a look to where my roommates rooms were to check none of them had heard. That was the first time, but certainly not the last or the worst, where I truly understood that while I might move my limbs, and muscles, it wasn’t hard for someone else to claim ownership over them. 

My last senior year I was told I was going to be promoted, only to be told in front of everyone that I didn’t get the promotion but another girl had. When I asked why I was told that the main manager felt more comfortable working with a married girl. That’s when I learned that sometimes the qualifications aren’t qualifications that should affect how I do my job.

When I was a child rape was a joke or a scary nightmare that seemed impossible but now I know more women who have been sexually assaulted than people who have been outside the United States. And these women? Are encouraged to be quiet, because we don’t know how to handle their pain. 

I personally have been denied equal education, equal voice, equal pay, equal rights in the workplace, equal healthcare treatment, and equal respect. In my life I have been physically injured attempting to escape from someone heckling me, I have had to fake engagements for people to leave me alone because they can not understand my ownership of myself, I have been stalked because someone else saw me as their possession, I have been violated, I have been injured. And yet you continue to tell me my voice doesn’t matter. 

Well my education may support that- but I don’t.