Washington Post:
Josh is Bolivia, Jon is Chile, Isaac is Brazil, Tim is Venezuela, Tyler is Mexico.
Mrs. Hinds moves back down the line. She tells Jessica she is a tree. Melissa is the Gulf of Mexico. Ashley is the Caribbean Sea, and I am a river I cannot pronounce. Here we stand: The boys as countries, endless, enormous. Their bodies represent millions of people. They are home to cities, buildings, mountains, rivers and lush green valleys.
As girls — as future women — we are the empty things that move in the spaces around them, beside them, are often used and abused by them. Men fight over us, or claim us, sail their boats through our expanse. They cast lines into our depths, drawing up our resources — fish and other animals — sold for their profit.
I am a girl and I cannot be a country, I realize, I cannot be a country.
I want to say something to Mrs. Hinds, want to tell her that I am strong enough to be a country, big enough, that my brothers have taught me many things — including how to build a fire and shelter, and pack mud into dense jumps for BMX biking.
Instead, the boys cluster. They cheer one another. The power dynamic is evident. Whatever sense of wonder Mrs. Hinds had hoped to cultivate is lost in our expressions: Us girls, our ponytails, insignificant things, we think, are we.
“Mrs. Hinds,” I say, my feeble protest. She swivels to look at me.
“Women can’t be countries,” she says, before I’ve even asked the question, no doubt the result of many years of this activity, as if that takes care of that.
Three decades removed, my mother still tells this story when someone asks what I was like as a child.
“She came home, threw her backpack down, and began screaming that she would be a country,” my mother says, laughing. My male friends roll their eyes. My female friends shake their heads. I remember stuff like this, they say, taking a long, thoughtful sip of merlot. But together we laugh it off. A young, defiant me, the very same person, they tease, I remain today.
Everyone has a moment that changes them forever. Mine exists in that classroom, in the knowledge instilled that day not of geography but of how hard the world will work to make a woman think she needs a man to be of value.
I have spent the whole of my adult life — more moments than I can count — trying to be a river for a man, a mountain for a man, trying to respond, in many ways, to Mrs. Hinds’s brand of misogyny. But now, in my 30s — despite the all-too-easy narrative of spinsterhood — all I can think is what a thrill, that no man has contained me, that I own a home and have a job and rescued a dog I love too much. How wild it is to finally be sovereign, to at last be a country.