Those are not the skulls of competing women I murdered, I promise.
When thinking about becoming a women, there are two moments of my teenage years that come to my mind immediately. And no, with this post I won’t tell you the story of my first period. Although periods have something to do with it. And another warning goes out to my reader: This is not a heartwarming tale of reading horoscopes, learning how to plug eyebrows, and loving my mother deeply.
It’s the opposite.
The first moment I’m remembering happened when I was 13 years old. I had recently died my hair black without permission of my mother, I loved to wear a jeans that had a hole on the knee or a black skirt with a lot of layers, and my two best friends were both boys that I loved to go skating with. While discussing the latest “Stargate” episode, I need to mention.
One day my mother took me aside and said the following thing: “It’s time that you learn to behave like a woman. You’ve been having your period for a long while already, and you still don’t act accordingly.” I did not understand what she meant, so she explained: “Hanging out with the boys, letting them hug you, and talking about all of this boy-stuff is inappropriate for a young woman that is already bleeding out of the vagina.”
This was not a warning about me accidentally getting pregnant. Sex was not an issue.
It was a statement of principles. I had periods, I experienced more and more of the hormones of a grown woman, and therefor, going skating and talking science fiction things with the boys was not right anymore.
The second moment I’m remembering happened only a few years later. By then I was 16 years old, wore an innocent combination of gothic clothes, had the red hair, I still wear today … and I was about to discover a reality about female reproductive organs that I would not be able to cope with. It was my first ever visit to a gynecologist. One morning in spring I would experience a sensation in my body which would honestly question my will to live: My first full vaginal exam only days after my first sex ripped apart a rather thick hymen and I was still feeling wound. I will never forget the pain, the disgust, and the confusion of the large metal instrument sliding into me, while an ice cold woman in her late 30s told me to relax more. I ended up crying, and she said: “You will have to learn being a woman.”
So, being a woman means being annually raped by her metal instruments. Got it.
I chose to begin this post with those memories, because they describe moments in which I struggled with identifying as a woman. I never thought I’d be nonbinary or trans, but I also always knew that I did not share the reality of other women, emotionally and cognitively. When not having hot sex with someone great, I like to ignore the fact that I even have a vagina. When relaxing, I still watch science fiction, discuss space travel options with a boy friend who is now my long-term boyfriend, and it even makes more sense since I am a trained science teacher and science communicator. I know my science well!
I don’t read horoscopes, because I studied physics and its history, and I can argue for it to be pseudoscience. I don’t use homeopathy, because I also studied biology and biochemistry plus their history and can once again identify it as a pseudoscience. I can do math. I can fix my own computer. I love reading science fiction and historical books so dry and heavy, my friends gave up on them. For my day jobs, I show children cool fossils and occasionally talk about dinosaurs …
But hey, here we have it! Here comes the “pick me” – girl … Right?!
Honestly, the first time I came across the term “Pick me” – girl, I was shocked that it even existed. The Cosmopolitan describes “Pick me” – girls as subconsciously living up to the male gaze. They might not even notice it as they pick all their interests hoping to become more interesting for boys. Skating instead of shopping, action movies instead of romance. Being super tough while wearing a cute dress – only to be picked by men.
…
Urgh.
…. You should see my face right now. Writing this post is a good exercise for regulating my anger, so let’s unpack this step by step.
I want to start with the male gaze thing.
I am convinced this thing only makes sense if you’re 100% hetero, which is fine. You do you. If you’re not, though, this whole concept falls apart. I always knew that I was at least bisexual. My very first experience I’ve made with a girl, and coped with heartbreak for more than a year afterwards. I have always been attracted to women, and to feminine women. While myself also being hyper feminine. And no, we don’t have sex because we want a man to watch. That can be hot, but when I want a woman, I want a woman. No men need to be involved. And when I find a girl cute, I often later find out that she has been accused of the “male gaze”. I’ve had such a crush on Sabrina Carpenter recently! She reminds me of my first, very lesbian lover.
Also, I am still dressing hyper feminine, as I mentioned. When I had my final oral exam in chemistry, I wore red nail polish and a floral dress. I did not care whether it all fit together. It made me feel happy. Floral dresses give me nostalgia for my beloved grandmother and make me feel like the oil paintings I loved to look at in museums.
I’m not saying that it’s easy being a woman in science. When I entered my professor’s office for a research topic, he looked at me and said: “Why don’t you do laundry?”, as he suggested for me to work with tensides. Those are funny molecules to study! Plot twist: My partner is rather queer, so I borrow him my dresses and do his make-up. Pretty things aren’t girls only. Happiness must not be based on sex.
Next, there is this issue of male interests.
I never understood while certain cognitive abilities should be more masculine than others. When I trained as a teacher, for male dominant subjects, I also took the chance to study learning psychology. There is no reason why a woman’s brain should refuse to do the math. This is a western myth to keep women as housewives and kindergarten teachers. It’s okay if such a life makes you happy, but it’s not a necessary outcome based on your sex or gender.
This problem goes even deeper. Women who were made believe that science is something male are so easy to fall for dangerous pseudoscience. They rise their children and give them homeopathy instead of real medicine, become anti-vaxxers and cause the measle outbreaks we’re fighting with these days, while not seeing the connection between driving a car and global warming. I’m not making it up – I was raised by these women, and I annoyed them with doing the math.
These things do a lot of harm, and it must not be based on your sex or gender whether you want to stand against them. Girls can do math and science, and they need to for future crisis to become manageable.
I don’t see a reason for interests to be connected to a sex. Just do whatever makes you happy. I’ve had male partners who hid DVDs in their underwear, because they were embarrassed of their female taste in movies. “Before sunset” did not live up to my expectations after that drama. Sorry. Men can like romance, women can love spaceships. It has nothing to do with your reproductive organs. Or your gender identity.
Accusing women of only doing this for attention by men is hard to argue against, and that’s what makes it so difficult. I could state that I love science because a night I had spent with Foucault’s pendulum and a bottle of wine was such an intense experience that changed my view on things … and still there will be people accusing me of just wanting to fuck my physics professor.
Psst, the physics professor wasn’t as hot as the one in biochemistry.
The “Pick me” – girl debate is harmful. It assumes that all personal choices, interests, abilities are closely tied to sex and gender, but we know that they are not. It’s just another example of women dragging each other down. It does women injustice by denying their personal choices and talents and reducing it to their subconsciousness being manipulated by men. Let’s bury the “Pick me” – girl now!
I am 30 now, and I am still actively doing things. After establishing myself as a museum educator and science communicator, I went back to university for another degree, and was offered a once-in-a-lifetime job as a research assistant. And all that older women in my life knew to respond to that was that I would still struggle to find permanent work (although I am fully self-funded through working in my field) and that I should not dream too much because I would soon have a baby instead of a career. When I go to the doctor and tell them it hurts, they rape me with a metal object and tell me I’m a child when I start crying. When I wear my favourite floral dress, I’m accused of needing male attention because my ego is so fragile.
In conclusion, being a woman is the most toxic experience ever. Don’t call those who try to escape “Pick me” – girls.
https://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a42134933/what-is-a-pick-me-girl-definition/
Mistress witch writes 