[ XXXX] girl

Meandering in the mess and aftermath of girlness, girlhood and grooming. With reference from Sharp Objects (both book and tv series) CW: Sexual assault, self-injury and cutting and family trauma.

(i) grooming: a non-chronological list

the gun goes bang, ear on fire, burning, a faceless hand pushes your head to face the other side, faster than the falling tears and bang! off it goes again, same faceless hand, this time a palm-sized mirror, face is yours but the expression unrecognisable. is this what a feedback of betrayal+fear+shock looks like. in the coming years you’ll see this expression often: dressing room, vanity table, hotel bed, reflected on shiny surfaces, soft steel, knife sharp and ready for attacks, reflected on others like you, but not quite, because each sold separately or maybe, like you before, a long time ago, you cover your mouth when you laugh, don’t let the smart words out, tell them it’s your first time, always, make them believe it, many more mirrors come your way, that full length designed to map each corner of flesh, i am all yours, tuck in, push out, hold your breath, faceless hand pinch the extra fat, anak dara gemuk nanti takder orang nak tau, another pinch when you pee standing, this time harder, don’t forget, only boys can do that, hot stuffy dresses, floral, laces, tight at all the wrong places, be familiar with discomforts, let it crush you into submission, cross your legs but not too much. no you do not ask why but always listen, as if with interest, preferably half smiling, eyes wide, glistening, no, not watery though, you do not want to scare them by feeling too much, just enough baby, too much is trouble, although some of them love that shit, you know by now tears are only good for emergency exits, but you learn to drown them anyway, just enough. you practice your face, even when you catch it by accident, that expression appears momentarily, always replaced by something pleasing, pleasant, fun, you learn quick, be a mirror, a shadow an echo, be everything they want you to be but yourself, you pass it down, these tricks to another like you, but not quite, younger, less aware, you pass it down to make it easier to swallow, open up, bear down, bend over, blood bloody, tembus, hembus, breathe out when no one is looking, stained skirts and the loud sounds of the hand dryer, you hurt all over but no one should know about it ever, get used to it but keep it like a secret, some shame, shame shame, do not say the m-word, datang kotor is a better fit, dirty slut, let me clean you up, jangan terkinja-kinja, tak manis, ni kan boy punya and another hand shoves doll after doll after doll, plucked eyebrows, hours in the shower to be baby smooth, baby doll, your a doll, here’s a dress you might like, try it on and let them see, come sit on their laps, lick your lips and lap it all up, close the door, is this your first time, yes always, always, someone is always looking, watching, giving you attention as if that’s all you ever wanted, get use to it, get used, be useful, ah macam gini kau buat kerja rumah, betul-betul, your hand reaches out for the phantom clit they cut off when you are a week old, crescent flesh, a tip of the fingernail, neutered spirit, rusty nail at back of your neck, possessed, you do not remember crying but they remind you, you were not crying, you were screaming, still screaming because it hurts, it will always hurt. 

there there, good girl.

(ii) I’d be disappeared forever awhile,

Girlhood is so painfully complex. I tried charting my own girlness, my lack of it which started really, really early, in the wrongly-shaped belly of my pregnant mother. Way back before popping balloons filled with gendered confetti was a thing, it was a trend to speculate the sex of the baby from some crazy ass myths backed up by even crazier logic:

“Belly shape is one of the more popular myths surrounding pregnancy and gender prediction. You may have heard that you’re carrying a boy if your belly is low. If it’s high, you’re supposedly carrying a girl.

The myth further explains that boys are more independent and, therefore, are carried lower in the uterus. Girls apparently need more protection, so they’re carried up higher.”

My different stages of girlhood:

It is baffling that there is so much predicated on the gender of the child rather than their health and well-being. In the case of my mother, her low hanging belly, shiny hair, clear skin and sweet disposition collected a majority of it’s a boy! votes from friends and family. I came out a surprise and was missing a penis. This was such a great start to life, wasn’t it? What followed was years of gender gaslighting (from my father who insisted I was very much a boy, or too boy-like) and deep rooted conditioning (from my mother who was trying to girlify me by piercing my ears, growing out my hair and dressing me up only in elaborate gowns and dresses).

When I was six, I announced to the world that I will be a boy when I grow up. My father told me I could not be a boy because I was already a girl. I cut off all my hair and was adamant that I was truly a boy. My mother was horrified but did not stop me, believing that this action alone would be enough to quell any future desires of boy-ness. It did for a bit and then it didn’t and then it did. tbh, I wanted to be both and neither boy nor girl. But it was not allowed. Not at that time anyway. And at this point I struggle to write the rest of it, could not chart my own girlhood experiences (trauma-dumping doesn’t feel necessary).

 For years I was in girl drag though I played the part horribly. I truly believed in the quintessential girlness with all my heart and the powers it would bring, to be skinny and soft, pliable, to be easy, flexible, fixable. But there were some things I could not change. The way I walk, my bulky body, kasar

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like a boy. Still boy passing, but never boy enough. At eleven, when my breasts were filling up, the boys I played catching with would grope them accidentally and laugh. Bengkak

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, they’d say. They’d run off to do boy things and told me I could not come along. The girls found it hard to be my friend. Unruly, messy, tomboy girl. One of the boys girl. You can’t sit with us girl.

Screengrabs from my favourite episode of Sharp Objects, episode 6, Cherry:

These slippery trajectories splintered and merged, disappeared and reappeared elsewhere, as something else. Tentacled flesh desperately grasping, holding me back, choking and at the centre of it all, “that dark, hard pit”. Slippery as my insides as I slid a finger up for the first time looking for something more than this. I imagine cutting myself loose, cutting myself free, but failing and falling back in from a casual remark about how good I look, a gentle graze on my lower back, a rancid catcall or some other girl-trope things in films, books and songs, thrown about as truth, from the dead girl to the girl boss, from mouths of mothers to daughters, such cursed heirlooms

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, and girls apparently need more protection, so they’re carried up higher.

*******

In Sharp Objects, there is this quote the cuts pretty deep:

I’d be disappeared forever. I’d be disappeared for a while.

and then again when Camille explains her proclivity to cut herself and how it keeps her safe from her own thoughts and words, and the thoughts and words of others, held captive on her body:

and quiet them down by thinking of vanish,

 Girls learn to quiet them down in different ways, these words, these thoughts. I’d disappear for a while into myself, emptying out as fast as each thrust that goes deep inside my openings. Dark hard pit glowing, growing vacant space waiting, to be penetrated, controlled, consumed. Unbecoming these girl parts: laugh sweetly, be attentive, pretend,

And I keep disappearing into myself, un-girling, hardening, shiny, mirror, shell, transactional, giving the world what it wants, and getting what I need, refusal is rarely an option. BUT on some days (if I am lucky and all goes quiet) I meet the girl I am, somewhere in this mess and let her carry me through, as high as she wants, boy passing, bulky, unruly and loud, unapologetic, safe word always at the tip of my tongue, vanish, lesap, disappear.

(iii) “God is a girl, wherever you are, do you believe it, can you receive it?”

Recently I keep seeing this post on my feed:

“Reexperiencing girlhood in my 20s because I finally have the space and safety to do so”

Reclaiming girlhood in my twenties:

I’m way past my 20s but quiver with delight to see my dear young friends experiencing waves of GirL reawakening within themselves, with one another, within the spaces they inhabit and most importantly, learning to do it safely. Because girlhood is precarious and risky. It is dangerous. It is divine.

**My persuasion
Can build a nation
Endless power
With our love we can devour
You'll do anything for me

Who run the world? Girls (girls)
Who run the world? Girls (girls)
Who run the world? Girls (girls)
Who run the world? Girls (girls)
Who run the world? Girls (girls)

Girls, the fairest of the fairer sex whatever that means but when we run in prides we can run the world. (**I hate this song btw). tbh though, a group of girls have always scared the shit out of me. Scrapping my pager number and the words “free blowjobs” off from the back of the seat at the end of Bus 98 with a metal ruler, chorus of laughter followed by sneers, juicy gossip fodder, sister blister

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, hand burning from a slap reflex, claws out, shrink myself smaller, unnoticeable, less threatening, sidekicks are sidekicks because we get kicked around maybe, something about make-up, something about nail polish, words leaving scars, coral sharp and snappy, something about scarcity, tongues curling into whispers, turning on each other, the odd one out and three (or more) is always a crowd, maybe it’s evolution, maybe it’s how we have been socialised, maybe believing that niceness is a weakness and the only way to survive the violence is to be mean to each other. My biggest bullies were girls, always in groups, in packs ready to shred me to pieces, the weakest link. Even in my 30s. Nah, I don’t wish to sign up for your sisterhood hun, that girl gang, because it always end in the same ways, lord of the flies style, first of the gang to die, to be picked off, to be picked apart. Endless power with our love, we can devour. No thanks love, it’s not for me.

But then it’s not all that. I’ve been saved MANY TIMES, by other girls. Girls that are built differently I guess. Girls that are more than girls, not quite girl, not girl anymore. Less socialised maybe? Less concerned with same-ness but thriving on some sort of primal connection even if it’s fleeting. Divine. Magic. Core memories: leaning against the sink as you cut my hair with a dull pair of scissors, eyes bright from concentration, I have to get this right you say, and again along mosque street by some alleyway in the dark, limb over limb sleeping on the same single bed, laughing until we are crying, crying until we are ok, breakup rituals, hook-up strategies, you called me first when you found out you were pregnant, you waited at the reception and send me home after my procedure, taking turns to be wingmen, make sure you call me when you are home, sleep overs, skipping schools, bus rides, you taught me how to dance, put on makeup, harm reduction sex tips, when I was having a bad trip you held my hand until morning, kissing because it’s nice, “i love you so much” text messages, talking until the sun comes up, remember details about me I have long forgotten, smelling each other, you on speed dial, taking turns as main characters and sidekicks, helping me land my first “real job”, dancing near the water, dancing in the water, skinny dipping at night, thrashing one fullerton and getting locked out for hours, gushing over sunsets, or sunrises, or funny shaped clouds, calling out bullshit, being overly protective, picking me up when I had too much, the elbow squeeze hug pull, leaving food at my door, making sure I ate, letting me cook for you, cooking together, getting high for the first time knowing that we won’t end up dead, death tracks and funeral plans, crying on my behalf when I have no energy to cry for myself,

being in a house party full of boys on molls and God is a Girl comes on and I’m the only girl in that danky room so I dropped you a text when the chorus comes:

God is a girl, Wherever you are…

And you replied within seconds: Do you believe it…"Can you receive it?”

Received! Received! Received! Let us keep giving each other space, and keep each other safe. <3

1. rough

2. swollen

3. i catch myself saying the same girl-things to my own child, cursed.

4. sister blister is a song by Alannis Morisette with the lyrics (though honestly lyrics damn dated hahah.