Trying to Look ‘Normal’ in a World That Doesn’t Know What ‘Normal’ Is

I was raised in a conservative home, with high expectations and little room for error. Although I rarely did what I was told, I forged a somewhat approvable path of relative achievement. I respected myself and despite my short dress phase, mostly my clothing reflected the seriousness to which I approached life.

I began experimenting with make up at a fairly young age, trying out blue eyeshadows and pink lip glosses in fifth grade although it wasn’t permitted in my uniform school. I loved the mirror but I rejected the vanity of photos and the unique opportunity of sharing them that social media allowed. Growing up, I felt torn as my mom told me to pull my shirt up and my skirts down while media told me to do the opposite. I pushed parental clothing rules going into tenth grade, my first public school and also began to buy my own clothing as to not be limited by my parents’ money. I tried different things, shorter and tighter shorts, skirts and dresses believing that feeling ‘sexier’ would make me more likeable.

Oddly enough, to an extent, it did. Wearing ‘sexy’ clothing allowed me to have a different sort of confidence, the confidence of fitting in and finally living up to an unwritten standard. I got attention, wanted and unwanted and a part of me craved it. I was encouraged in my semi-rebellious behaviour by some good friends of mine, also on the ‘not-approved-by-mom’ list. When those relationships changed, gradually my enjoyment of flirtatious attention subsided. I became more academically focused and just didn’t have the time to do my hair and makeup or pick outfits the night before. So while I sympathize with this attention-seeking attitude to an extent, having had a phase myself, it took me a while to see how shallow it was. I still carried this influential mindset with me however.

So I had known this boy for a couple of years, let’s call him Derek. Now Derek and I were pretty good friends and had been in some of the same circles for years. He was that kind of sweet person who you’d look at and wonder if he was capable of hurting a fly. Despite the intellectual exterior, his inside was kinder than most.

So upon entering my class knowing no one, it was a relief to see a familiar face. We laughed a lot in class and the time seemed to pass by fairly effortlessly. One day, Derek made a comment about his hands being cold and offered them to me as if for me to judge the temperature. I reluctantly did so with the back of my hand for two reasons. The first being my relative awkwardness about any sort of physical contact and second being my membership in a committed relationship with someone else. I wore shorts that day and when my hands were not sufficient to warm his, he rested his hands just above my knee.

He apologized instantly and pulled his hands back as if burned by my skin. And I let it slide, reasoning that I had been wearing very short shorts that day. Weeks passed by pretending nothing had happened until one day, it happened again.

After it did, another similar apology followed and I accepted it again. Only after did I realize that it had become a lesser deal just due to repetition. I got up to go ask the teacher a subject-related question and he followed as well. When I turned to leave, I felt something pressing behind me and only minutes later I realized someone had touched my butt. I was shocked and it took me fifteen minutes to find my voice and ask him if he had done it. He admitted it, saying he didn’t know what happened and that he couldn’t control himself.

I spent the next hour wondering what I had been wearing this time. I was wearing leggings, with Christmas patterns that were not tight with a large hoodie that belonged to my boyfriend. I texted Derek hours later asking whether I had lead him on. He replied that I hadn’t and I was even more horrified, believe it or not. It bothered me that I would automatically think to blame my clothing and decided to ask my boyfriend and another friend what to do.

I was shocked at my friend’s response. They laughed, saying that they were surprised Derek had hormones, as though it was a perfectly normal thing. I decided to tell a teacher about it, who was also mildly dismissive, just encouraging me to ‘use my words’ as if it was only inappropriate because I felt uncomfortable. I had nightmares for weeks about it and did quite poorly in school, although I feel like it was more related to the response I received when I looked for help.

But the reality is, it didn’t matter what I wore. Even wearing winter jackets walking down the street at 4pm I have been catcalled before. It’s not about how people look, how little or how much they wear but about the choices of individuals. I can only comment on sexism directed at females, in my limited point of view but there have been many cases of guys showing more skin (torn/cut shirts) than girls despite a lack of dress code enforcement. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for a harsher dress code but rather understanding that it’s not about the clothes people wear. Every individual will make his/her own decisions in life and having different thoughts is fine, but what matters is the way in which people do or do not act upon those thoughts.

I could go on about different stories of double standards and victim-blaming where people have never recognized the victim but I just ask you, dear readers, to set your own standards. Don’t settle for the way things seem or the way other people will act and never accept any type of abuse because you don’t deserve that. It might make you feel wanted and accepted in the short term. but it will leave you feeling empty and used in the long run.

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