Adult intimates would point the finger of scorn in vain. To pass life as far as possible like a girl was the very essence of existence, for which I was willing to sacrifice everything else.
The instinctive manner of coasting is a criterion of psychic sex. Every boy of my set, excepting myself, rode bellyflops—too strenuous for the soft-muscled and timid girls. As I possessed their physical and psychic softness, I also coasted upright.
In ascending the hill, I kept with the girls. I enjoyed talking about only their interests. As the boys passed, they would call out: “Girl-boy! Mollie Coddle!”
One afternoon, two snow forts were built fifty feet apart. All the boys, excepting myself, took their stand |Outlook on Life at Eleven.| bravely behind the breastworks and rained snowballs on the defenders of the opposite fort. The girls were almost prostrate in the deep snow behind—out of danger of being hit in the face—packing snowballs for the throwers. And I, GIRL-BOYWISE, did as they, the eternal impropriety never dawning on me.
But one of the girls cried out: “Why are you not throwing snowballs with the boys? Afraid of getting hit, are you? Why don’t you put on petticoats?”
After I retired that night, I had not yet recovered from my speechless chagrin. “Why was it that I was not taking a boy’s place in life? Why did I sit upright when coasting? Why did I feel more at home in girls’ attire? Why did the boys tease me just as they did the girls? Could it be that I was a girl imprisoned in the body of a boy?
“How could I face manhood? Are men under compulsion to go and vote? But how could I push my way into the crowd of rough men always hanging [at that period] around the polling places?
“How terrible to be a boy! Couldn’t I take papa’s razor and in a minute rid myself of the excrescence? A razor ought to be sharp enough to do the job! O God, change my body this moment by a miracle! Turn me into a girl!” I sobbed.
One day, being a goody-goody, I had felt it my duty to tell the teacher on a mischievous boy. As I left the school for my train, I was seized violently. “If you were a big, strong fellow like us, we would give you a good thrashing! We’ll only see if we can lift you off the ground by your hair. The more you cry, the better we like it. Keep your hands down! |Girl-Boys’ Reasons for Suicide.| Slap! Slap! Slap! And stop carrying your books on your arm like a girl!”
When they let go their grip, I started off on a run, only one boy pursuing and shouting out threats. I shall now reveal the girl-boy’s patented secret for getting out of a predicament. I sprinted to the porch of the first house, gave the door-bell several violent jerks, and shrieked for help.