by Write(H)ers blogger, Deja Beamon T'13
I remember the first time I was called a slut. It was the 6th grade and I had a huge crush on this kid with long sweeping hair who was a grade above me. The specifics of our interaction on the playground don’t really matter. I think I smiled at him in passing then told all my friends how hot he was. Middle school stuff. His other admirers in his grade saw and before recess was over someone had called me a slut.
I was confused. I knew the word was dirty but I didn’t know what it meant. This kid Danny and I ended up conversing over the word and trying to figure out his meaning. Danny decided the best form of action would be to ask the teacher. Facepalm. I ended up in the hallway with the two girls that had called me the name. I was terrified of authority as I still am (it could be because of this brown skin) and was so scared I was in trouble.
Nothing major came about and I don’t really know what the teacher said. All I know is that I was thrown into my femininity in a horrific way. There is so much to be unpacked in this interaction. Why does my smiling at a boy automatically make me a sexualized being? Why were these females calling me these names?
I can speculate of course. As one of the only brown skinned students in my school, I already had a target on my back. Label me other. Thinking that I had any authority to even smile at this boy led someone to believe they had the right to check me. Who gon’ check me boo?
The main girl I remember who called me the name was also a brown girl. Although her ties were more South Asian, we still stood out. She was a cool girl that I always wanted to be like, if only I had money. Back then, other girls being mean to you was no big deal. Everyone did it. Today I see her use of the term to call me out to signify two things. Our likeness : As a 7th grade girl, you were able to sling sexist terms at me like you created the dictionary. I’m sorry that someone introduced you to that word so young. And two : The way this world has set women against each other. If that was me now, I’d like to think we could have sat down and talked about it. Were you two dating? Had I offended you? Knowing that I am slightly shy and avoidant of confrontation, at least if that happened today, I would have the tools to understand why those words exist and why they are directed at me.
So Quvenzhane, I understand. Just like you, many of us women of color, women in general, have been forced to face our femininity in the worst way possible. Called words we stumble through dictionaries to grasp the meaning of. Dirt sling in our eye so we can’t even begin to see the wrong of the world. Through my studies, I often say I am priveleged to have this knowledge. The knowledge to not blame myself for how fucked the world is. But sometimes I wish, I didn’t.