I have a love-hate relationship with the letters “w” and “o”. But perhaps it’s more fitting to put the “hate” part first and make it a hate-love relationship. Because 99% of the time, I yearn for nothing more than to rip the stupid letters “wo” away from “man”. 

It’s not that I necessarily want male genitalia hanging from between my legs; (although they do sound convenient) I simply want to rid myself of the burdens that tie themselves into my life due to the fact that I identify not as a man but a man with two extra letters. In other words, I hate life as a woman.

Of course, it didn’t start off this way. I’m sure there was a time when I was once oblivious to the never-ending side effects of being born a girl; the only issue in my mind being which of the sparkly dresses I should slip my Barbie in. But the truth is, I don’t recall a time like that clear enough for me to be able to articulate it in writing. This is why the sentences I typed about my life when naivety was still present, ended up getting deleted. 

All I remember is that one day I became aware. I was suddenly aware of the way men viewed me. I was aware of what the title “woman” meant. I was aware that my peers no longer referred to me and my friends as “girls” or “women” but “b*tches.” I was aware that the women were always cleaning and washing dishes during family events while the men sat around and guzzled down beer. I was aware that drunk men are dangerous. And without my consent, someone had cleared my vision and I was now aware of the hurdles, traps, pebbles, and boulders I have no choice but to walk through. But the most bitter awareness was that nobody would ever acknowledge the scars and bruises that came from my path. 

The awareness however didn’t stay neutral for long. The awareness mingled with shock. Shock dragged in fear. Fear clung to despair. And despair warped into rage. That blood-hungry rage befriended hatred. And to this day, I still hate. I hate the way men old enough to be my grandfather ogle at me in public whenever I wear a skirt, I hate my instinct to reach for my pepper spray at the slightest rustle of a tree branch at night, I hate the fact that I’ve been carrying around pepper spray since I was 13, and I hate my clawing urge to prove myself and my intellect whenever I step into a room filled with men – as if my genitalia drops my iq by 20 points. I hate how men unconsciously expect you to move if they’re about to bump into you. And what I hate most is that I always end up moving out of the way.

We have to do better. Because every time I leave the house, I can see a dull pit of worry settling in my mom’s mind. And that’s because she grew up in the same world as me. She knows the dangers and hands and eyes that are out to stain every naive girl. She understands what being a woman means. 

I sometimes go quiet from awe when I remember that she grew up without Google or i-phones. It seems like a completely different time. And yet, my mom when she was 15 and 15-year-old me share the same worries; regardless of the decades between us. I wonder why that is. I pray that my daughter doesn’t also grow up hating the letters “w” and “o” tied to her identity.