When I was eleven, I wore combat boots, legitimate Navy issue Shore Duty combat boots. Lord knows where they came from, but none the less they were mine. I used to wear those boots with torn jeans (they weren't bought that way and I've forgotten how many times my parents tried to throw them out but I know I retrieved them from the trash can more than five times) and a Air Force field jacket, which came from my dad.
It's hard to know how I changed from that stubborn, confident, dissident child to this run of the mill milk toast woman longing for approval from random strangers on social networking sites. I'm sure that it wasn't a specific moment. I'm sure it was a slowly lost battle with my mother and society about what a woman is supposed to be and do and wear. I know it happened in college and came with the desire to be accepted by someone who had no idea who I was until after I opened my mouth (and as fast as my pen moves, my brain finds sarcasm and wit slowly when impressions are to be made). It was self preservation at the cost of self.
Looking back now, knowing what the world is and the battles to be fought, I miss the girl with the field jacket and combat boots. They are tools much better suited for the world of adults.
Song for the day: http://www.thesixtyone.com/#/s/azGPSYWEo5p/
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