California Girls |The Outsiders|

|Chapter 1| Charles Darwin

The first book I remember my father reading to me to pass the time on cold winter days was "The Origin of Species" by Charles Darwin. He had explained to me how he doubted that it would be taught to me due to the vast population of christian students making up my school. So, at 6 years old, I was introduced to the concept of Darwinism. He always was a little quick to jump onto things involving my education.
My school friends would sometimes bring me along with them to church, often out of pity from their parents. Due to my lack of an actual house, mother, and my father living an "alternative" lifestyle, they often assumed I was a poor, misguided child with a lack of any structure to my life. None of this was at all true, but I went anyways because they had snacks every 2nd and 4th Sunday of the month.
I often heard my friend's parents say my father was a "fairy" and gave me no direction of gender, and thus I hadn't the slightest clue the difference between girls and boys. Somehow they must've seen this as a danger to me for whatever reason, and so they would often dress me up in my girl friends frilly, pink dresses and dress shoes. They spoke of lady-likeness while they would brush or curl my hair and told me what a "pretty young lady" I was when I got all ready. It was demeaning.
    This, in my opinion, is the best way to raise a child. If you want them to repress all "unfitting" emotions and have zero form of self-expression. Even then, I knew something wasn't quite right with how they cooed in high voices at me as if I were a gentle piece of glass that might shatter if touched too hard. And now I realize that the gross feeling I equated to early mornings and tight sashes around my waist was the beginnings of sexism creeping it's way into my everyday life. My friends didn't seem to mind it, so I assumed this wasn't anything to be worried about, but when I told my father how they had treated me he rolled his eyes and told me not to pay any mind to them.
Now, as a 16-year-old girl, sexism became more evident to me than ever. I was aware of how people, often adults, differ their treatment of me based on my gender. Now, this can be convenient when being pulled over by a cop, or when asked to participate in manual labor, but the cons far outweigh the pros.
      Every day, I had suffered the rude, vulgar comments spouted uncaringly by the boys in my school. About my figure, my friends figures, what they want to do and allegedly how good they could do it. However, a girl in my class had once had her book bag taken because it had a picture of Elvis Presley. According to them, he promoted inappropriate thoughts and feelings in teen girls and thus wasn't appropriate for our classrooms.
I've also been told several times that my female friends are tramps or whores for going home with a guy, but every time the person talking had failed to mention the man they went home with.
"If you consider a woman less pure after you've touched her, maybe you should take a look at your hands." -Kaija Sabbah
This isn't to say men don't endure hardship in their lives, but what I have noticed is that men's plights are often caused by other men. It's kind of roundabout.
The reason I bring this all up is to say that I was raised in a slightly restrictive world. Or at least it was for me. But at the very least I could thank my father for educating me about the things surrounding us. While my friends pitied me for being misguided , I pitied them for being ignorant. They had accepted the world as it was for how it should be. But I yearned for something more.
Exactly what? I don't know. But now, on the wide, open road, I felt as if I was able to leave behind the prejudice and judgment, even if just for a car ride. The road has always been nice. If you never permit yourself to stay in one place, you can never be roped in with it for too long. This includes the evident prejudice that comes along with the town.
My father sat across from me in the drivers seat of our truck, the trailer hooked and trailing behind us. He was squinting and ducking his head in a fruitless effort to avoid the glaring sun. I was sitting in the passenger seat with a large sun hat, and sprawled out in front of me was my new book.
I'd gotten to page 50 or so, but could never keep track because I kept zoning off while reading and having to restart chapters. Maybe a sketch pad would have been a smarter choice of book.
We had been driving for almost four hours now. I had spent two of them napping and maybe about an hour actually trying to read, but by now I had given up. I picked anxiously at a loose string on my shorts. They were denim and reached above my fingertips; I cut them myself on an especially hot summer day and since then had grown fond of how comfortably they hugged the top of my thighs. My shirt was an old tie-dye shirt my dad used to own, with my name imprinted on the back in sharpie.
Willow Seacrest
On my feet were an old pair of converse my dad used to own when he attended high school. They were worn out and stapled back together, but my father never got rid of them. This was likely due to a lack of money, but he claimed he had saved them for me. On the sole of the shoe, his name was painted in bright red fabric paint. No matter how hard I scratch these shoes the damn stuff won't come off.
    I guess that Darwin was on the right track with his theory. I've always been a firm believer in science. But now, looking at my dad, who failed to foresee the need of any sun protection for his eyes, I wondered just how much evolution of the fittest can apply to humans.
    The road ahead was long and sweltering hot. The area surrounding us was barren and provided no more entertainment than it did a migraine. But the sun's rays peaked through the small holes in my hat and shed a sparkle-like pattern onto my shirt. If I could just find one positive to focus on, I could make it through the trip.
    Boris growled and gnawed at the corner of my book, flexing his claws when I pushed him away. This was going to be difficult.