A Girl from Pluto Ep. 12

           

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 12

Slut

Although I didn’t dress up as a ho for Halloween in 7th grade and always more modest (“nerdy”) clothes every day, even at home, I was still called a slut.

Walking home from school one afternoon in 8th grade, I heard the offensive word. School buses would pass me on the street and from one of them a boy shouted, “Slut!” I looked up at the bus beside me to see a boy poking his head out of an opened window, looking right at me. I didn’t even know who he was, so I doubted he knew who I was. Not many people did.

Pulling my shoulders back, so he wouldn’t think he got under my skin, I turned my head away and lifted my chin. Whatever, loser, my posture said, or at least I hoped it said that. But inside I was shaking. When the buses were at the end of the road, I finally got the courage to look over my shoulder. No one else was there. That hideous word was, indeed, directed at me.

But why?

My heart pounded in my chest. My palms were sweaty, and my knees shook. No one had ever accused me of being a slut before.

I was shy and awkward and tended to wear a jacket at school for comfort. My gaze lowered to my outfit. I had on jeans that didn’t even fit like other girls’ because my legs were twigs and I had a pancake butt. I even wore a jacket that was zipped nearly to my collarbone. 

As I continued home, I became angry. Who was this boy? And who else was on that bus? Did someone tell him to shout “slut” at me? (Who? Why?) Or did he just have the sudden urge to yell “slut” at any girl and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

That single moment haunted me for the rest of the year, every time I had to walk home from school, which tended to be about two times a week. I’d glare at the buses that drove past me out of the corner of my eye, just waiting for another assault. If it occurred, I had a plan of action up my sleeve; I’d give the little shit the bird. Clear as day. Fortunately (or unfortunately since I never got to take action against him), it never did happen again.

Could it have been a prank?

It doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t. It still made an impact. Several times during the following days “slut” would repeat in my head and I’d look around, wondering if the boy who said that was close. Or if someone on the bus recognized me. 

I never did find out who this boy was.

Many women and young women can easily brush a remark like that off, especially if it makes no sense or isn’t true. But I couldn’t. Eventually, I did get over it, but I never forgot it.

“Slut” is a nasty word directed at women who dress with confidence. “Slut” is a hurtful word that doesn’t have an age limit. Even children have been called sluts, or worse.

If men think we’re sluts, and if women think other women are sluts, then fine. We’re all sluts. I’m a slut. You’re a slut. And guess what? He’s a slut! Let’s take away the power and meaning behind that word.

Here a slut. There a slut. Everywhere a slut, slut.