not one of them

[This is a paper I wrote for English.
She let me keep the format like this.
(Young rocks.)
Anywho, enjoy!]

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There comes a time in every tomboy’s life

At least once a day

When she is forced to surrender all independence,

All knowledge,

All of her muscles.

Because her kryptonite is something she loves even more:

Gentlemen.

You see,

My childhood consisted of a

Much different life than most girls.

My childhood was the epitome of adventurous.

While most girls were inside

With their perfect ringlets,

And precisely painted nails.

Playing House,

And deciding what dress Barbie should wear.

I lived under the sun.

With dirt wedged between my bare toes,

And grass stains on every article of clothing I owned.

Never a care for what my sun bleached hair looked like.

Scrapes and bruises were my trophies

Scattered across my knees and elbows

That left accounts of my daily adventures.

We traveled hopping fences.

And in some cases,

Strategically pulling out the bottom nails on the fence board.

So while it looked normal,

You could lift up the board

and slip right through for speedy escapes.

Wrestling on the tramp,

Messy mud fights,

Finding the best climbing trees,

And conquering spontaneous adventures.

I was one of the boys.

To state it simply,

I grew up 3/4 boy, 1/4 girl.

Enough to get rough and tough and have fun,

But also just enough

To melt my parents heart whenever necessary.

Some girls simply drive me crazy;

The way they act helpless and stupid

Doesn’t help our gender’s reputation

In the slightest.

Their little flimsy arms

That haven’t lifted anything more than their shopping bags.

Their manipulative and desperate

“damsel in distress” act

To merely get attention.

…It all drives me wild.

Whenever I get the chance,

I feel the need to prove

That I’m not one of them.

When a door comes my way,

I want to open it.

When the guys set up chairs,

I want to help too.

When there are big boxes to carry,

I want to lift more than my share.

And sure,

When there’s food to eat

I don’t mind going first…

But other than that,

I have a hard time letting the guys

Do the hard work for us.

Not too long ago I was at a choir function

When I heard the familiar pitiful plea

From a helpless girl,
“Could we have some guys help move the risers?”

Without a skip of a beat,

I jumped up

And I joined the guys who were a little short on help.

Some girls gave me weird looks,

But I got out of there as soon as possible

Before someone could criticize me.

At the back of the classroom

I found one of the bigger risers.

(One that usually takes two guys to carry.)

I took a deep breath

As my fingers gripped around the metal bars.

At first,

Adjusting to the weight.

Then trying to find the best position to carry it in

Until I felt like I finally had it just right.

 I then proceeded to walk down the hallway.

Feeling pretty good about myself,

I must say.

The risers were heavy,

But not unbearable.

It was a good challenge.

But not five steps
After I picked it up,

I was stopped by a guy

Who wanted to help carry it for me.

“Nah,

I’m fine.

Thanks though,”

I politely declined.

“No,

Really,

Let me get that for you,”

He politely insisted.

And the internal battle began.

Don’t pity me.

Wow! You’re really offering to do that??

I’m strong. Let me prove it.

That’s so nice of you to help!

I can do it on my own.

You’re such a gentleman…

And you see,

There comes a time in every tomboy’s life

At least once a day

When she is forced to surrender all independence,

All knowledge,

All of her muscles.

Because her kryptonite is something she loves even more:

Gentlemen.