Dear YA Heroines,
It's been a while since I've thought about you. Usually, I just spend my time swooning over your male counterparts. Or wishing they were dead. It's a toss up, really.
But lately I've been reading things like this, this and this. Things that make me think, which has given me severe allergies in the past. I mean, can you imagine? Me, thinking. Hmm...
Anyway, let's get to the point. YA Heroines of the world, I heart you. I really do. But you have to step it up.
What do I mean, you ask?
Simple. I mean stop being so predictable. Stop apologizing for doing exactly what you wanted to do. Stop pretending you don't think about sex. Or that you don't like it (if you've had it, of course). Stop being nice simply because you have a vagina. That doesn't guarantee ANYTHING. Neither does having a penis.
Because you are whoever your creators want you to be, not what people expect you to be.
You are whoever you need to be in order to find happiness, not fit the mold.
You are free to shout instead of whispering. To jump instead of tiptoeing.
But you're also free to whisper and tiptoe if--and only if--that's WHAT YOU WANT.
I am sick of people complaining about you, YA Heroines. It makes me do painful things like thinking. But it also gives me something to say after the pain goes away.
What do I have to say?
This: there is no one way to have a vagina. Or a penis.
Get over it.
The Girl Who Played With Stereotypes
P. S. I'd like to thank Sarah LaPolla, Kirsten Hubbard, and Natalie Whipple for giving me the best headache of my life.