Early in childhood when I believed in the dangers of smelling frangipani flowers on a desolate road at night or the beings that dwelled in banana trees, one place ruled my nightmares.
The female restroom.
Even at age 8 or 9, I recalled being told stories of girls having abortions & hanging themselves out of shame in the last stall in the restroom. By some unspoken rule, we always went to the bathroom in pairs, nervously waiting for the other to finish as we checked our hair in the mirror, the acrid smell of urine heavy in the air. Even the mirror posed a danger to our fearful minds, challenging us to look only at our faces & not the last stall, inevitably slightly ajar but empty.
Or so we would silently pray.
Growing up, the fears in the bathroom changed as hair ties & hairbands gave way to lipstick & makeup. I found myself standing in a corner, listening in as friends talked about boys and clubbing and things I didn’t quite understand. My hope then was not to be seen as different, to not be cast out, to not be looked upon in disgust.
The mirror showed me someone who was getting taller & broader in the shoulders over time from playing sports, hair shorter & spikier than the dollish bobs my mother preferred. In the same time that I grew out of my fear of the dark, my mother cultivated a fear of button-down shirts on me, ripping them up if I ever had any.
I think we know what’s coming next.
I stepped out of the last stall, hearing the toilet flush behind. Out of the corner of my vision, I noticed someone stepping into the restroom, screaming as soon as they saw me. I turned to look at them, their hands in front of them as if to ward evil off, eyes darting between the sign on the door & I.
“You don’t belong here!”
– Sarah LECK