Growing up, I don’t remember having a close friend group, or even a single close friend from school.

In second grade, I remember all the girls in my grade seemed to be friends with each other, like there was some invisible bond between them all.

Some kind of secret membership that made them all feel like a group, a unit, a sisterhood. 

I was on the outside, looking in

I always felt like I was on the outside looking in. As much as I wanted to have friends and a group of people I could be myself with, I just didn’t quite fit in.

I envied Jasmin Harris. She was smart and tall and pretty and had a personality with some self-assurance. She seemed like she was happy and comfortable in herself, and also had lots of friends. 

At one point I convinced myself that if I got as good at her at double dutch that maybe I’d have friends, too. When she caught on that I was just trying to get into whatever she was into, she called me out on how I need to be true to myself, not just try to be another version of her. 

In hindsight, I respect her so much for the maturity she had to tell me that, but in the moment, I felt so lost. Me being myself seemed to mean that I was alone and not fitting in anywhere.

I wasn’t into the same things the girls were interested in— makeup, fashion, dolls, and other “girly” types of things. Instead, I loved playing tag and manhunt (like hide and seek) outside and exploring in the woods with the other kids from the neighborhood, most of whom were boys).

After all, I grew up with two brothers, so I was used to being around boys, and actually related with them more than girls.  

The big blow up at the girls’ lunch table 

One day at lunch, I got into an argument with the other girls in the lunchroom, and it turned into a big blow up. 

It felt like they were talking down to boys amongst themselves; they were making fun of all the things that boys like doing. Something about it really bothered me, and I felt like someone needed to stick up for the boys. Or, maybe something felt like they were talking down to not just boys, but to me, too.

I was so upset and hurt and couldn’t hold back my emotions. I just knew I needed to say or do something, and with tears coming down my face, I blurted out, “Well, maybe I’d want to be a boy!” Everyone at the table got quiet, and they looked at me like I was a total freak (as if they didn't think I wasn’t weird enough before). I was so upset and alone, and started sobbing. 

Mrs. Marshall taught me it’s okay to be a tomboy

Mrs. Marshall, our teacher, must’ve noticed I was distraught when she came to the lunchroom to pick us up (funny how in elementary school it’s like waiting for mother hen to come pick us up to walk in a double line back to the class. I guess we were still too young to be trusted to walk the halls by ourselves without getting distracted and making random pit stops).

She led us all back to the classroom, and as all of us started filing in, she pulled me aside and asked me to wait by her until all the other kids went inside. She poked her head in the room and gave the class instructions to put away their lunch boxes and get ready for the next lesson. Then, she closed the door, leaving her in an empty hall with a sobbing second grader who couldn't bear to go back in that room with all those meanies. 

I was still so upset and unable to calm myself down. I don’t remember going to her for help, but she could see that I needed it, and I’m so grateful she did. I don’t know how, but somehow she figured out what had happened at the lunch table. 

She crouched down low to talk with 7-year-old me at eye level. I remember her looking me in the eye as I did that ugly cry where I was trying to hold it in but couldn’t and the snot was running down my nose and I couldn't breathe right (homegirl still ugly cries like that, some things never change). 

I felt so embarrassed, ashamed, and alone for standing in my truth and being shunned from the rest of my classmates. She told me that there’s nothing wrong with how I feel, and in fact, I’m not even alone in being a girl who feels that way. 

She even said there’s a name for girls like me: “It’s called being a tomboy, and it’s totally okay,” she said. 

Tomboy? I’d never heard that word before.

My crying started to settle down and I was just curious enough to stammer out, in between my sniffles, “What’s that?”

“It’s when girls like doing things that a lot of boys like doing,” she explained.

I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn’t crazy, and more importantly, that I wasn’t alone. In fact, I was so not alone that there was even a name for people like me. 

“Really?” I said, with tears in my eyes, feeling an inkling of hope that maybe there wasn’t something terribly wrong with me.

“Yes, and there’s nothing wrong with being a tomboy,” she reassured me, calmly and lovingly. 

I don’t remember most of what else she said to me that day, but I remember how she made me feel. In that moment, I went from feeling shunned and alone in the world, like no one could possibly understand me, to feeling understood, accepted, and loved.  

Mrs. Marshall made me feel like I was ahead in my maturity, that these other kids just weren’t at a level where they could understand how a girl would like hanging out with boys more than with other girls. 

A special bond, the friend I needed

I just needed a friend, and I guess that’s what Mrs. Marshall became for me that day. During the rest of the school year, me and Mrs. Marshall had a special bond. On spring break and other holidays off school, we’d write postcards to each other, not saying anything special, but just how little vacations were going at home. As a 7 or 8-year old, there was little that was more exciting than getting a postcard in the mail with my name on it. 

My mom kept those cards to this day, and as I look back on them, I can see how Mrs. Marshall  wrote them intentionally with easy words and very clear handwriting, like we practiced in school. 

Maybe it was this experience that set the trajectory for my life in having friends that are mostly older than me.

It’s amazing how little I remember from all those days of school. But I do remember that moment, and how she made me feel like it was okay to be me, even if it seemed like I was the only one. She made sure I knew I wasn’t alone. In fact, I was so not alone, that there was a name for people like me! 

Thank you, Ms. Marshall.

The power of community and naming

Today, I’m constantly reminded of the power of community and belonging, and the dangers of feeling alone in the world. There is something to be said for having a name or label for the different communities we belong to. Of course, labeling can come with dangers too—some people feel like they just create more specified division where there was none, but somehow, it usually tends to be someone from the majority group who says that. 

I do agree that naming and labeling can be harmful, especially with stereotyping, but that doesn’t dismiss the loads of value in them, too. 

Labels don’t define us, but they can give a sense of where we belong, or, more importantly, they let us know that there is a place where we DO belong. They serve as a reminder that there are others out there just like us. 

For me, there are lots of labels I can use to describe communities I feel connections to: I’m a lesbian, Hispanic woman, immigrant daughter, recovering addict, trauma survivor, just to name a few. 

I don’t use the term tomboy much anymore (saying I’m in the queer community feels like a better descriptor these days), but I’m still very much that girl who can’t imagine myself wearing heels, rarely wears a dress, and doesn’t understand why some women can’t ever leave the house without putting makeup on.

I don’t enjoy getting my nails done or indulging in fancy clothes or fashion accessories–it’s just never been my thing. It seems like such a waste of time for me.

Bringing the power of belonging to others

After experiencing the power of community and belonging for myself, I make it a point to extend that to others as well, to let other people know they’re not alone at different parts in their journeys. 

Sometimes, it’s just letting people know that they’re not crazy for how their brain works, or for how they might be feeling. Every time I let someone know they’re not crazy and not alone, I can see them take a deep breath, a sigh of relief. 

It helps to know we’re not alone and there’s a community of people out there who have also struggled how we’ve struggled, and who have found a solution, too. Because if they are like us, then maybe, just maybe, their way out could work for us, too. 

There’s so much hope in that. Especially in the recovery and the queer communities, there is so much internalized shame and isolation. So to know that there’s a whole community ready to embrace and support you for our shared journey of pain and search for freedom and belonging, it makes everything worth it. 

Mrs. Marshall, thank you for letting me know how meaningful it can be to name what we’re going through, and to know we're not crazy for feeling like we do, and that most importantly, we’re not alone.