Becoming a Woman by Mia Shackelford

Growing up a teenage girl today is easy. Comparatively. But what’s hardest is something that maybe can’t be modernized out of existence. Maybe the hardest part is natural to becoming a woman in any kind of civilization.

It still hurts. As a little girl, I loved dressing up. I had crazy Turkish dancing outfits. I ran around naked, covered in colorful ink from markers. I wore tutus and fairy wings, my mom’s 80s coats, and blankets draped like togas.

I still love to dress up. I have a childlike fascination for seeing what something, anything looks like on my body. I like to test my identity against different outfits. Who am I when I wear fishnets? Flannel? A bikini, cat ears, a tutu, and sharpie?

I wish it was still as uncomplicated as it used to be. At the same time, I don’t. I’m ecstatic about being older. I’ve always been independent, always wanted to be a teen. But somehow I never thought I’d have to alter my favorite thing.

I go out in a beautiful black sweater and walk through the Haight with a boy. The homeless men start talking. A group of guys wolf whistles.

I’m at Caltrain, waiting for the 7:20 train.

“Hey, where are you going?” He’s in his 20s, leather shoes. It’s all I register, I don’t want to look too long.

“Um. San Jose.”

“Why?”

“Um. Friends.”

“What are you reading?”

I show him my book.

“You got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“What, you don’t want to talk to me?”

“Um….”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry. Didn’t know.” He speed-walks away.


I’m getting dressed to go to Golden Gate Park on a sunny day. I have a cute plaid skirt and a blue sleeveless collared shirt. I worry. The skirt is short. I’m wearing mascara. Do I look like I’m dressed up like a “naughty schoolgirl?”

These are easy examples, but there’s so many more. And remember, I look around twelve. My more developed friends get five times this shit.

Maybe it’s my fault, for expecting to wear the same things I did as a kid.

Maybe it’s my fault, for roaming the city with friends.

I don’t want to restrain myself in fear. Little Red Riding Hood had fashion sense and an open nature, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to be gobbled up.

A review of city life? Wonder, excitement, and…fear. Nothing is as empowering as walking carefree with my friends at night. Wherever we want, not afraid to laugh. That is what i expect, what I want when I venture out, occasionally at socially unacceptable times of the night.

I can’t blame my parents for disapproving. It’s a dangerous world out there, I guess. But so much of what bothers me isn’t danger. There’s pepper spray and self-defense classes for that.

What bothers me is that I can’t be a person before being female. What bothers me is being caught off guard, ashamed, of something natural and freeing.

When i got my first period, my dad said “Welcome to Womanhood.”

As embarrassing and cheesy as that it, my real welcome was worse.