When I was in elementary school, I had two best friends. When things were good, it was a harmonious triangle filled with laughter and pegged jeans and singing our little hearts out to New Kids on the Block. And it was perfect, because I loved Joey, my other friend was obsessed with Jordan, and the other was feelin’ the bad boy streak in Donnie. It couldn’t have been better. Except for the times when three became a crowd, which it inevitably always did. Then it turned into having one girl over and leaving the other out, a BFF necklace with only two pieces, etc. so on, you get the drift.
At that age, sleepovers were always like running the gauntlet. At one particularly challenging slumber party, a group of us decided to put a friend’s hand in warm water after she fell asleep first. Classic shenanigans. But when she woke up, sopping wet and completely pissed off, every finger in the room pointed right at the “90210” across my flat chest. They threw me under the bus, and there is no bus heavier than one carrying a gaggle of young girls on a mission to cast someone out. I sobbed to my friend’s mom and begged her to call my parents to come get me, which she did not. Instead, she let me sit in her study with her while she watched Cheers and eventually sent me back out to my sleeping bag and the wolves surrounding it.
This was just one of a thousand examples, blurred by years of growing and giving less and less of a shit about old wounds. It becomes harder to recall the specifics of passed notes, intentional skipped invitations, rumors, sticks, stones, all the typical weapons in the adolescent female arsenal, after you’ve healed and found suitable adult humans to spend your time with.
Until it comes back around.
These days, the shots aren’t being fired at me. They’re being fired at my girls. My daughters. And the burn is so much worse when I see it hit their skin.
I talk to my friends and their daughters are having similar struggles. “She’s just going through a tough time right now,” they say. “You know how girls can be,” they say. And I agree, because I do. We all do.
Decades have come and gone since the last time I cried over a strategic assault against me. An intentional gesture aimed at dimming my light or alienating me from a larger group. But the tactics, the bullets being fired, are frighteningly similar. The goal remains to make the target feel embarrassed, alone, stupid, different, disposable.
My question is this … Who is training the troops?
Where is the next generation getting the playbook for girl-on-girl abuse? Certainly children pick up on patterns and that perpetuates behaviors. When I do “x” I get this type of attention. When I do “y” I feel good/bad. When I do “z” the consequence is … Are we simply not evolving past the instant gratification of lighting others on fire so that we can feel warmer? Is the shine of compassion not as bright and enticing?
On every playground and in every hallway of every school, guaranteed, there are groups of girls assuming roles as old as time:
- Tina is unapologetic and confident. She is the ring leader. When Tina says someone is out, they are out, and you better fall in line. Never question Tina’s actions (or her parents’).
- Sara is obsessed with Tina. Sara rarely experiences turbulence in the group.
- Tammy has a good heart and often questions the things Tina tells her to do, but ultimately does them anyway. This puts Tammy on the bubble when it comes time for Tina to pick a target. Tina’s parents are concerned.
- Sandy has a strong moral compass and often feels conflicted about being included while also being kind to others. Sandy tends to be silly and loud and is a bit of a free spirit. This makes Sandy the most popular target.
Does any of this sound familiar? Personally, I will admit to being a Tina, a Sara, a Tammy and a Sandy at different times in my life, but mostly, as a young girl, a Sandy. My saving grace was my humor, which often helped me diffuse impending attacks, and my mother, who coached me across the battlefield and served as my personal Clara Barton. She would tend to the mental health wounds, gaping and uncontrollably bleeding from a malicious accusation or horrific handwritten note, anonymously slipped into my book bag between classes.
And now my own daughters are dancing about these disappointing roles and I’m the one with the bandages. And, I have to tell you, it is so frustrating. I am so tired, for them.
The deliverables are different, sure. Now we have online meetups and text messages to sling arrows, but the objectives are largely identical. When girls feel insecure or threatened or uncertain or, I don’t know, bored, they seek out the weakest link or the most vulnerable soul, and they dig in. Different is bad. Individuality is bad. Another’s success is bad.
As a mother, while I make no claims of being perfect, my messages are simple and, hopefully, very clear:
We NEVER make someone else feel bad because we’re feeling bad.
We NEVER make someone else feel bad because they are different.
We NEVER respond to hate with more hate.
We NEVER put our hands on someone out of anger.
We NEVER assume we know what’s going on with someone at home.
We NEVER do something mean just because others are doing it.
We ALWAYS come from a place of kindness and seek to understand.
I wish for my kids to be successful in their lives. I wish for them to find their soul mates and have babies and settle into all the joy. But the absolute most important thing to me and their father is that our girls are good people. The people who stand up and change the narrative. The girls who will become women who turn around, extend a hand and pull the next woman up. While I think academics and athletics and all of the achievements we push our children toward are tremendous, I think we have to coach and celebrate their character above all else.
Are my girls perfect? Nooooooo! [She says laughing hysterically.] They are insensitive and judgmental and petty and manipulative. And those all came up before 8 a.m. today. They always complain about what I make for dinner, so clearly they are ungrateful and have zero taste. But we are having tough conversations and trying to break some cycles. What will come of it? The verdict’s still out. But it’s the hill I’m willing to die on.
I can tell within 30 seconds of my chicks walking through the door what kind of day they had. That rehashing and unpacking that happens in those minutes that follow them getting off the bus are critical. I never assume that their version is the absolute truth, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt that it is, in fact their true perception. I ask questions to help them see all of the other perspectives at play. To see where they could have done things differently. To explore other ways to handle conflict.
Imagine if we all invested just a little bit of time every day to help foster new definitions of the roles our young girls should assume; the peacemaker, the adventurer, the inventor, the connector, the investigator. It’s so much better than just the bully and the bullied. It’s not that our daughters will never or should never disagree. It’s how they handle themselves when someone sees things a different way, or acts a different way, or looks different or sounds different. The first instinct shouldn’t be to attack or alienate. We have to give our girls different tools, instead of weapons. We have to start modeling grace.
I’m sure every woman has a scar from a time when they were young – or maybe even an adult – when a fellow girl hurt her, in that way that only girls know how to hurt other girls. Engaging in that psychological, social, emotional warfare that men and boys will never quite master. Let those scars be a reminder and a motivating factor in your approach with your girls, so that they might have fewer marks to show their children.
When someone sends an arrow flying toward one of my daughters, I no longer offer them advice for how to retaliate or respond. I simply share with them that I, too, have been there. I tell them how it made me feel and ask them how they feel. I try to sit in their pain with them, rather than dismiss or fix it. I ask them to remember how much it stings when someone treats them that way. I set the expectation that the malicious behavior stops there so that no one else has to feel the way that I felt when I was a little girl, or they feel now as little girls.
Let’s create new roles.
Let’s arm the troops with compassion, rather than cattiness.
Let’s raise kind girls.
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