SO, I'M A GIRL...

My 10th year saw me go from being a cute kid to an awkward little girl. It was like the fates had bitch slapped me. And, yet, this turn of events made sense: I was the only daughter in the family and, with my mom having recently lost interest in making me her fashion guinea pig (just the thought of the sequined velvet jumpsuits makes me shudder), I’d naturally gravitated towards the jeans, t-shirts, and sweats favored by my brothers and their friends. On top of that, my own foray into the world of style usually failed. I can still remember clutching a magazine cutout of Pat Benatar to the hair salon and telling the stylist that I wanted hair just like hers. Growing up, I’d always had short hair, but this particular cut in combination with my androgynous wardrobe was DISASTROUS.

You see, people started to think that I was a boy.

One unfortunate experience, in particular, has been forever seared into my psyche.

It was the fall of 1990. My family and I were spending Thanksgiving weekend in North Carolina with my aunt and her children. Amma—my mom—upon discovering that a dear childhood friend had recently moved to Cary, NC, decided that we should pay him a visit. I went along happily, dressed in black jeans and a white sweatshirt. I sat demurely in the family living room and, while my brothers were busy talking to each other, I listened to the adults recount the days of their youth in Islamabad.

I had always been a quiet, observant child and I didn’t mind not having company that night. But our host’s eldest son tried to recruit his little brothers to play with me. The three of them were in an attached room behind me and I could hear the older brother talking to the kids:

“Why don’t you two play with that little boy? He looks awfully bored.”

“No way! We don’t want to play with him!”

“C’mon, he looks like a nice kid. Just give him a chance.”

“NO! You play with him if you like him so much!”

Please God, tell me that they’re talking about Sabahat and Shafaat, I remember praying. But my brothers were hardly “little” and looked anything but bored. So I sat very still and continued to listen to their exchange.

“We don’t like him! We’re busy!”

“Don’t be rude, boys. He’s our guest. Keep him company.”

I was shocked; I was outraged.

WHAT? They thought I was a boy?! Me? Adding insult to injury, the brats crawled underneath my chair and started poking my legs until their brother finally saw them torturing me and pulled them out.

You think that’s bad? It gets even better, dear reader.

During a lull in their conversation, my mom’s friend waved towards me and my brothers and said, “So, wow, you have three sons.”

My brothers chuckled.
I felt the blood rush to my face. HEL-the hell-O! Couldn’t the idiot see my earrings?? Okay, so the earrings were tiny hoops and I suppose he was old and a bit blind but how could he not tell??? I didn’t know what to say. Panicking, I turned to my mother, who calmly replied, “I have two sons and this is my daughter.” She smiled at me as if nothing was the matter.

Later, in the car, I sat with my brows wrinkled, my mouth set in a frown. My brothers’ chuckles became full blown laughs and they laughed until my dad told them to cut it out.

“I guess he’s aging faster than the rest of us,” my mother said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “His eyes are going if he couldn’t see that you’re a little girl. C’mon, you even have your ears pierced!”

The larger population’s confusion about my gender continued until the boy cut grew into pixie licks and waves that framed my face, sharpening my (very feminine, I’ll have you know) features.

As traumatized as being mistaken for a boy was, I didn’t start obsessing about it; the hurt that children suffer usually doesn’t make sense until much later in life. After the initial experience, I’d gone back to wearing jeans and sweatshirts. So, my lack of fashion sense didn’t make me the most popular girl in class. I was still fortunate enough to have good friends who were willing to accept my increasingly ragtag exterior as I, too, started to experiment with fashion. The tomboy clothes were eventually integrated into a wardrobe of COLORS…lots and lots of bright and random COLORS that should only be thrown together within the confines of HELL…stomach rolling, head spinning, blinding COLORS, which, in combination with round glasses that covered half of my face should give you a pretty good indication of what—in spite of having a handful of good friends and a loving family—my nerdy childhood was like.

Things only started to fall into place for me in college. It was in college that I decided that maybe black and white tights topped with a hot-pink Planet Hollywood t-shirt that reached my knees wasn’t the wisest in clothes options…or that perhaps that t-shirt I’d designed in the 6th grade (a plain white tee on which I’d written with fabric paints the titles of all of Stephen King’s books) shouldn’t be worn anywhere beyond my bedroom. So, I toned down my fashion choices. I plundered my mother’s vintage jewelry and, for the first time ever, my money went towards pretty things, things other than just books.

My shifting interests especially confused my brothers. “Why are you wearing makeup?!” they’d ask when I’d return home from school, wearing blush and lipstick.

“Because she’s a girl,” my mother would answer for me. Sadly, even they needed the reminder.