I am NOT a lady

This week I’m doing something a little different, I hope you enjoy it.

I was listening to an audiobook when the word ladylike slipped through the narrator’s lips, and an almost visceral reaction overcame me. Memory snippets of the word ladylike pouring from different mouths looped on top of one another like a scratchy broken record in my mind.

That’s not very ladylike of you, the voices said. My memory dubbed the most likely neutral tones with cruel, witchy ones with pointing accusatory fingers.  

I was told I was unladylike well before I even knew what the word meant; the mind of my childhood self smushed those words like playdough in little hands into something I could understand. In place of the word ladylike, I heard I was not like the other girls.

Little girls were supposed to be made of sugar and spice and everything nice but I was made of what the boys were made of - frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. Girls my age lathered their bodies in shiny oil and slipped out into summer heat to tan their glimmering skin while I hid the ghost-white tops of my thighs in shorts. Girls my age dressed their wrists in shiny bands and hung dangly decorations from their ears while I left glittery jewelry where it belonged: in my dresser drawer. Girls my age started shaving their legs while I pasted bandaids across beat-up skin. Girls my age beamed to show off their new dresses while I tugged at mine, never feeling comfortable in the flowy, flowery fabric.

I was taught to sit politely with my knees kissing and my hair pulled away from my cheeks with little butterfly clips. I was told to always look presentable when I stepped outside the confines of home. I was told to speak like a lady and to behave like a lady, teaching me to fear hearing that I wasn’t a lady - but the ladylike box that was forced around my sides was suffocating and dark. It cast a shadow so dark that it overpowered my expression and brutally policed my appearance, language, and behavior. When I was told I was not ladylike it stripped me of not only this notion of moral essence but also of my ability to express my version of girlhood and womanhood. I was a feral alley cat hiding in the dank corners of castles full of lovely ladies.

The word ladylike originated in the sixteenth century originally derived from the word ladily (1400s) defined as a woman chosen as an object of chivalrous love. The term does not exist outside of the English language, except when borrowed from it, meaning there is no direct translation for the term in other languages. For example, the translation in French can either be "féminin" or "distingué" meaning “feminine” or “distinguished,” however, there is no French equivalent, nor any other language equivalent, for the word ladylike. With evolving language and cultural norms, the term is now held to describe a well-mannered or refined woman of status like the definitions below:

la·dy·like: appropriate for or typical of a well-bred, decorous woman or girl

-or better yet-

of a kind traditionally considered suitable to or attractive for a woman

While the word ladylike is no longer symbolic of objectification (and thank goodness for that), the word hangs heavy with a sloppy, mushy history of minimizing and controlling women to act, behave, and express themselves in pursuit of maintaining a moral high ground that is built upon inauthenticity.

For a while, I believed that if I ever wanted to gain respect or a seat at the table I must become a lady. It wasn’t long before my thirst to get muddy, to be bold and loud, to be a leader, and to let my hair run knotty was unquenchable. And sometimes I really just wanted to say the word FU*K.  

I set out to untangle the word lady from woman, pulling back the deeply intertwined threads one by one. I replaced the dresses that tainted my character with a pair of overalls that make me feel like a piece of art. I chopped off my long blonde hair that disguised my nature and along with it, I chopped away the beliefs that men only like women with long hair. I grew in assertiveness and forgave the younger version of me who saw that forthcomingness as bossiness. When I am the only woman in a room full of men, I do not submit to being a lady, I rise to be an equal.

Along this journey, I still hear my least favorite phrase time and time again, but instead of letting others write my script for me, I took the pen and have begun rewriting my narrative, a narrative that honors my health, well-being, and equality in whatever way I see fit.

My knees and shins are a canvas for splotches of black and blue paint - the leftover souvenir from a weekend of adventuring outdoors - with the pattern shifting each week taking the form of a new masterpiece.

to that they’ll say, that’s not very ladylike

My hands are a mosaic from befriending barbells and granite formations. Rough callouses meet peeling fingertips - the painful remains of a beautiful rock climbing trip.

to that they’ll say, that’s not very ladylike

My back is a topography map covered in valleys and mountains. Muscles I didn’t know existed grew and changed my shape - a trophy from growing mighty and fierce.

to that they’ll say, that’s not very ladylike

My voice is a weapon that I will wield to bring hope. With my voice, I will share words that summate my stories and experiences into a beautiful reservoir to be used for the greater good. I will honor the power that is a voice; I will be assertive and stand my ground.

to that they’ll say, that’s not very ladylike

And in response to all I do that breaks the mold and tests long-held beliefs, they will say

That’s not very ladylike

and again

That’s not very ladylike

…

and in return, I will say

I am not a lady.

If there is one word I could remove from our vernacular surrounding womanhood it would be ladylike; at a minimum, I will stand to disband its stigma. I will fight for the women who bare their scars and let their voices roar. Ladylike is a word of control that I refuse to lay my arms down for. Not being ladylike does not strip you of your femininity or your character, those traits are the recipe for a wonderfully delicious, kick-ass life. To all the feral alley cats 🍸 cheers!

Thanks for being here; see you next week!