Windy City Times, The Voice of Chicago's Gay and Lesbian Community, Dec 13, 2000Copyright © 2000 Lambda Publications Inc. All rights reserved. |
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by Alix Dobkin
THE GIRL'S CLUB
During third grade, precisly halfway through the Twentieth Century on Manhattan's Upper West Side, my best friend Karen and I had developed a small circle of friends in Brownies which increasingly expanded in fourth, then fifth grade. Every day after school I played ball with the boys except on Fridays when the "Girls' Club" met. We played canasta, gossiped and ate. Basically the Club revolved around those most popular with the other girls.
Nowadays postmodern queer theory might be interpreted to mean that I was a likely transgender candidate, but in fact I was merely rejecting the limits set for girls back then and got away with it. As one of the founders of the Girls' Club and the only girl the boys would accept on the ballfield, I enjoyed membership in both of the class power circles.
Membership in the 4th, and then 5th grade Girls' Club had it's pride and privileges, presenting a moral dilemma we often succeeded in overlooking. Our privilege demanded exclusion. Eventually, when Mrs. Collin confronted us with the hurtful consequences of exclusivity, we guiltily voted to open up to all the girls. The winds of change had arrived and we resigned ourselves to their inevitability. And their justice. "We created shining stars and sad outcasts," Jane, a star, commented 40 years later.
During the two years before its timely end, however, the Club ruled with its own order and loyalties. Democracy pretty much reigned, crammed as we were with strong personalities. We each had our say but Nancy said more. She was pretty, had lots of charisma, and lived in a luxurious apartment with good snacks. We usually met in her comfortable, feminine, well-appointed room. Both Karen and Michaele noted something vaguely "troubled" about our social leader in retrospect, but she didn't elaborate and I wasn't close enough to see beneath Nancy's luster at the time.
Everyone adored Mrs. Collin but we were puzzled by some of her peculiar rules. Her sweater prohibition during school outraged us. We could wear a cardigan over a blouse, but not the form-fitting angora sweaters popular at the time. The explanation I recall was that we would get "overheated." But the boys could wear them. Wouldn't they also have gotten "overheated"? When we discussed this at the reunion several theories were offered, the most likely being that she was hoping to avoid any possible display of budding little breasts. But no one could say for sure.
The girls, now approaching Mrs. Collin's venerable age then, reminisced about a unanimous vote we had taken long ago one Friday afternoon. Every girl at that meeting agreed to protest the dress code by wearing a sweater to school the following Monday. Faced with a roomful of stalwart, sweater-clad girls, we reasoned that our mis-led teacher would reconsider and withdraw her senseless ban. The issue itself was unimportant to me. I owned one sweater and couldn't care less if I wore it, but honoring my allegiance to the girls who did care in united action against injustice interested me.
Monday arrived. Phyllis and I appeared in our forbidden garments. To my horror the other girls wore blouses and proper dresses or jumpers. They had chickened out, leaving Phyllis and me alone on the front line. I felt as if I was wearing neon.
There was no immediate reaction from Mrs. Collin who conducted the silent, expectant class in the day's lesson. But there was no doubt she had noticed. I felt tense and woozy with anxiety. Mrs. Collin assigned us work at our desks, but for me concentration was impossible. After awhile she called Phyllis, then me, up to her desk.
"If you object to a rule of mine, come talk to me about it," she scolded. I apologized meekly, humiliated. Here's what she wrote with my next report card dated 2/1/51:
"You learned the hard way that when others suggest doing something that you know is wrong, (actually I thought the protest was righteous) and you are a weak sister who follows, you are left holding the bag. I'm referring to the day you openly defied me by wearing a sweater. Good citizens talk things over before they take up arms. That's why we have the UN. All the other girls" ("except one," she added) "evidently thought better of it. You apologized, I still love you and trust you learned a lesson."
Well, I had, and loved her even more. "A weak sister." "The UN." What a great teacher!
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