GIRLS-GIRLS-GIRLS

WHO AM I?

My name is Jean, French for John. I was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. In Texas, J-e-a-n is a girl’s name, and G-e-n-e is a boy’s name. This fact was frequently pointed out to me by boys who added a little raised eyebrow and a smirk. I usually responded by saying that Jean is French for John but that I got the name because my mother was Swedish. Mostly the boys who said the Gene/Jean bit were not the brightest bulbs in the string, so the Swedish quip stopped things. Fact was, my mother’s maiden name was Johnson and I have five second-cousins named John Johnson. My parents liked the name John but things got confusing at family reunions so they did not want to add another John to the gene pool. (badada-badada-boom)

     I was an only child. My friends were boys and girls. I played some with girls, but girls weren’t really into pocket knives, frogs, football or fishing, except for Grace Ann. That was okay. Grace Ann wanted to play Beauty Parlor. O-kay, how’d you do that? She put lipstick my Teddy then I took scissors and gave him a “Flattop”, shaved his head down to the fabric. He never forgave me and always had this button-eyed stare.

I have always called girls, girls. It was the 4^th grade Sex Hygiene class where the joke: “Hi Jean. Get it?” spontaneously arose along side knock-knocked-up jokes about sex. When I got home my mom told me I was adopted. My mother was afraid the hygiene course would raise questions about the specifics of knock-knock so she told me the standard 1950’s adoptees story: young girl, alone, knocked-knocked up, who thought the nice couple, mom and dad, who really wanted me, who chose me, would be best for me. I think my eyes looked like Teddy’s.

Hygiene class put the term female into my vocabulary. “Female” is scientific. I already knew about female black bass, deer, rabbits and other animals. But, to me, “girl” is a feeling word. I didn’t much use the term “female” unless it was some sort of scientific reference – and I usually wasn’t relating to my friend girls scientifically. We were friends and evolving quickly to “Snowball Dances” and Spin The Bottle.

When I was in college, I was adopted again - this time by a dorm floor of freshmen girls. I went with them to 3.2% beer halls as their designated “date”. That way they could dance and if a boy wanted to hit on them, and they didn’t want to participate, they’d point over to the table where I sat with their friends and say, “I’m with him!” I saw many a guy look over at me, size me up, shake his head and turn away disbelieving that somebody as scrawny and big-eared as I am could be with a table full of pretty girls. Yeah. It was unbelievable. But, hey! Apparently I’m a good listener.

WHY AM I HERE?

All my life I have had girls, girls, girls! Lucky me, right? In college, I worked for girls who ran campus publications. I made extra cash as a “Party Pics” photographer and shot “candid” photos at dozens of sorority parties. (And, they were indeed candid.) After college, I worked with girls all my life. I was even Administrative Director of a non-profit where the entire staff, except for myself, were girls.

     Many times I would go into the office and the Female Energy was very intense, almost palpable – was palpable. Notice how I sued the scientific word “female”? Female-to-female static energy seemed different than in a mixed social situation. Cut that feeling with a knife palpable. These feelings which were almost smelly. The girls had their noses lifted slightly. Their eyes narrowed. Their smiles snarl-like. I mean, I would go into the main office and it was like entering a bumper-car repelling force-field. All shields were up! Everything was defensive. Cat-like arched backs with hair sticking straight out. But, just my entering, allowed somebody to discharge the energy on me. The old static electricity deal.

     So the charged person would come to my office and proceed to unload the negative charges. I could tell in the first 30-second whether or not I was personally at risk by being alone with her and ought to call in a witness, and that depended on the subject. Sparks would fly, of course. I could not help with girl-vs-girl stuff other than listen. But that seemed to help. Never take sides, you will be shocked. Employee – job - employer things were what I was listening for.

The worse was the single-mom, goofy-ex, angry kids, life is too much melt-downs. These gals had to melt somewhere. Usually they were key players and I depended on them for their good work. So, I’d listen until they got it back together. Sympathize. Encourage. And out they’d go back to the Girls Ranch. There is this boy / girl “thang” as we say in Texas. Sometimes just having an “opposite” is all that’s needed. I really did no more than be there.

WHAT DO I WANT?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve sensed that I’m now offending some of the girls I know because I’m not calling them “women”. Some apparently feel that since they’ve been through the cultural shift of the Women’s Movement, and they’ve put up with so-o-o much, pitched out crappy husbands and so forth; they’re matured, they have earned the rank and title of “woman” and that my calling them “girl” is somehow demeaning.

     “Woman” seems too scientific. “Hey, woman! How’re you doin’?” I’m not talking to my mom, she was a woman, I’m talking to you. I want and try to relate to you, the girls in my life, on a human-to-human basis, in a feeling way - not feeling as in “touchy-feely” way, but with genuine, heart-felt sincerity – person-to-person. Feelings are different from emotions. To feel someone is to sense them not just with the intellect. Emotions are scientific.

     So, to all my friend girls, I don’t care how old you have become, I will always be looking to relate to the girl in you who you are beneath that mature exterior. That girl inside is the one who has always been you. So, if Jean with the girls name, calling you girl angers you a little, I have a suggestion which I ran across at a group of girls.

     Two summers ago I visited a “Sisters On The Fly” gathering at a trailer park in Colorado. There were maybe a hundred fly fishing gals from around the country who had gathered to fish, knit, cook and lie; who were showing the public their collection of antique, small camping trailers. On the side of one trailer was a carved sign which read: “Pull Up Your Big Girl Panties And Deal With It!”

     I say this with a smile, a wink and a glance over my shoulder to see which one of you is gonna whack me on the back of the head! After all, I know you girls too well! I'm sure I'll at least get static.

© Copyright 2016, Jean W. Yeager

All Rights Reserved

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