Because I was a Girl, I was told ...(2)

… I Wasn’t Strong Enough

Sharon R. Mier, 70, Ithaca, N.Y.

It was 1977 and I was the only woman on a committee of men creating the first Chicago Marathon. Told there would be prizes only for the first finishers — the men — I said that can’t be; there have to be two categories, and prizes for the first women. The men had to think about this. Finally, they said, “Well, O.K., if you find us 1,000 volunteers.” And so I did. The committee also wanted to invite a few top men runners, no women. I convinced them to invite women. A man in charge asked me to find beautiful women for publicity, whom they could entertain at the Playboy Mansion. I worked behind the scenes to get the fastest women and then to keep them safe.

Emily Chen 31, Worcester, Mass.

In my fifth-grade classroom, a few tables needed to be moved down the hall. There were only girls in the classroom at the time, so our teacher said, “It’s O.K., we’ll wait for some of the big strong boys to get back!” I didn’t understand why, but that didn’t sit right with me. “No, we’ll do it before they get back,” I said, and marched the tables down the hall. I was, and still am, quiet and not always confident in myself, so my decision to verbally oppose a teacher and organize a group of my peers to accomplish a task we had already been told we couldn’t do remains one of my proudest memories.

… I Couldn’t Play With the Boys

Karen Cushing, 60, Cambridge, Mass.

When I was in grammar school, astronauts and spies were big in popular culture. In third grade I wrote an essay titled “I Want to Be a Lady Astronaut.” A few years later, there was a TV show called “The F.B.I.” I was enthralled, and decided that I wanted to be an F.B.I. agent. My family took a trip that summer to Washington, where we went on a tour of the F.B.I. building. I was so excited! This was my dream! When the tour guide asked if there were questions, my father spoke up, saying his daughter wanted to be an agent, and did the guide have any advice. The guide answered that women were not allowed to be F.B.I. agents. I think they tried to let me down easy by saying there were other jobs in the F.B.I., like secretary. But I was very disappointed.

Jessica Mallett, 41, Toledo, Ohio. Photo: The New York Times

I was 4, it was summer, and we were on my friend Bobby’s front porch. We were playing with action figures. I was handed the Princess Leia figurine and told I HAD to be her because I was a girl. I threw the figurine into the yard. Told him to go get it. Then I picked up the Wookiee, because some days, you want to be a Wookiee. I wanted the option.

Cassie Chandler Moungey, 42, Simi Valley, Calif.

When I was in kindergarten, my class did a play based on the book “The Story of Ferdinand.” The teacher said that all the boys would get to be the bulls and all the girls would be the “girls in pretty dresses who threw flowers.” I didn’t like dresses. I thought being a bull looked much more fun. I told my parents. They called the teacher (I had fabulous parents). She agreed to let me be a bull. Today, I’m 42 years old and I love that memory, not just because I broke the gender rules in the early ’80s, but because it’s a testimony to being true to yourself, and that is exactly what I want for my own children.

… I Couldn’t Chase My Passion

Rebecca Meade, 55, Sykesville, Md. Photo: The New York Times

I was in the fourth grade when my family moved from England to the United States. The carrot that had been dangled to make me less miserable about the move was band. In America I could be in the school band. I couldn’t wait. I knew what I wanted to play. Fourth grade started. I survived being the new girl with the British accent. I survived lonely recess periods and aching homesickness. One day the teacher handed out forms for band and chorus. I was ecstatic. Please write your top three picks for instruments. I chose the drums — three times. Drums, drums, drums! My band form came back with a note: Please choose again; drums should be for boys. I was stunned. Hot tears of indignation filled my eyes. I chose chorus. If I couldn’t play drums I wanted no part of it. Flash forward to the Christmas concert. I watched with a scowling rage as Gordon marched on stage with the single drum strapped around his neck while we in the chorus sang “The Little Drummer Boy.” The scowl turned into a smirk as I watched the dark stain grow across the front of his pants. I drew great comfort from the knowledge that the school had made a huge error in its choice of drummer.

Amanda Beam 41, Lanesville, Ind. Photo: The New York Times

Growing up, I lived with my grandparents in a small Indiana town. My Papa raised chickens, not to eat, but to show. Each August, he would load crate after crate of chickens into his covered pickup truck and make the trek across the river to the Kentucky State Fair. When I was 8 or 9, Papa

encouraged me to raise a few on my own. My grandfather wasn’t a feminist in the traditional sense, but he taught me lessons that stayed with me. When I entered the chickens into competition, he advised me to go by my initials: “A.D. Hillard.”

“Why?” I remember asking, while fluffing a white banty hen with a hair dryer.

“Because then they won’t know you are a girl,” he replied.

Youth prohibited me from understanding this simple suggestion, but later on I realized Papa was talking about more than a chicken contest. He was teaching me about life.

(APD)