GIRL CODE 101

By: Blythe Bird

We are the finaglers. The exceptions. The girls who have not run

the mile in four years,

who layer deep V-necks with excuses. Eyelashes bat

wiffle balls at the male gym teachers.

We are the girls taught to survive by using our bodies

as swiss army knives,

calculated scrunched nose giggles and friendly forearm lingers

You’re-so-funny-please-don’t-touch-me.

We convince ourselves there is protection in being polite.

No, you go first. Girls: we have to be nice.

Male kindness is so alien we assume it is seduction

every time.

We remember age 9, the first time we are catcalled.

12, fraudulent bodies calling us women before

we have the chance to.

13, the year dad says wearing short skirts in the city

is like driving without a seatbelt.

15, we are the unmarked tardies, waived detentions, honorable

mentions in lush floral dresses.

16, we are the public school mannequins.

17, we know the answer but do not raise our hands.

Instead, we are answering to guidance counselors who ask us, Well,

what were you wearing?

Their voices: clink-less toasts.

We are let off the hook from hall monitors, retired football coaches

who blow kisses and whisper

Little Miss Lipstick into our ears in the high school cafeteria. We shiver,

but hey- at least we still get away without wearing our student ID’s.

This is not female privilege; this is survival of the prettiest.

We are playing the first game we learned how to.

We are the butts smacked by boys who made welcome

mats of our yoga pants.

We are easily startled. Who wouldn’t be?

We are barked at from the street.

We are the girls petrified of the business school boys

who were taught to manifest success

by refusing to take no for an answer.

And I wonder what it says about me that I feel pretty in a dress,

but powerful in a suit.

If misogyny has been coiled inside of me for so long

I forget I will not stand before an impatient judge

with an Adam’s apple, hand grasping gavel, ready to pound

a wooden mark. Give me a God I can relate to. Commandments

from a voice both soft and powerful.

Give me one accomplishment of Mary’s that did not involve her vagina.

Give me decisions, a wordless wardrobe, an opinion-

less dress.

Give me a city where my body is not public property.

Once, my friend and I got catcalled

on Michigan avenue

and she said **** You

while I said Thank You, like I was trained to.