Some would say that I used to be a bit of a tomboy.

No, this column is not about my… Some would say that I used to be a bit of a tomboy.

No, this column is not about my grandmother’s roommate at the nursing home insisting that I was a boy during my early, tender teen years and unfortunate inch-long haircut – rather it’s about my actual street cred as one of the guys.

I was born in a little borough that was suffering from a baby girl drought. Out of the 10 or so kids that lived on and around my street, I was one of just two girls born during about a five-year period. It probably didn’t help matters that the only other girl and possible playmate who lived up the street was a weirdo, either. She tried to force me to play gymnastics with our dolls, but my dolls apparently weren’t skilled enough. I told my mother I refused to go to her house again.

So, whether they liked it or not, I tagged along with my big brother and the rest of the boys. There were certainly downfalls to being the only girl in the group. I had to be April when we played Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, even though I desperately wanted to be Michelangelo. I also was afflicted with being the youngest, so they would often try to ditch me when they were doing something super-fun and thought I would tattle.

Once, I was instructed to sit outside and wait while all the boys went inside one of their houses to pee and not to come in because girls and boys couldn’t pee together. I sat outside for a good hour before I realized they weren’t coming back for me.

One of the boys used to gather us in a circle like he had some important secret to tell, then out of nowhere, he would flash us. You’d think we would have learned the first time. This could have done serious damage to my formative psyche. Come to think of it, I’m not so sure it didn’t.

I really became qualified to hang with the boys when I would get hurt like one of the boys. When one of our friends crawled under my brother’s bed, we decided the best course of action was to jump on the bed. My brother bumped me and knocked me off, and I hit my head off of his metal closet. A late-night ER visit and six stitches in the back of my head later, I had the hardest reputation on the block for a solid week.

The stitches incident was only second to the time the guys forced me to try chewing tobacco. They gathered a large pinch and stuck it in my lip, snickering as they waited for the effects. When a good 10 to 15 minutes went by and I didn’t puke, they were shocked. I was subsequently rewarded with a small wooden plaque with a tiny packet of tobacco glued to it that crudely said “Jessica likes chew.” I’m pretty sure my mom put it on display in my brother’s room when she found it after we moved out.

Then came the awkward phase when I had a crush on nearly all of the guys. Yeah, even the Mad Flasher. My brother especially hated this phase. Of course, because I looked like one of the guys, none of them returned my affections. At the time, I figured this was because the close friendships we had formed. This was before I realized guys will look past the fact that a girl may be their second cousin if she’s hot enough.

As we got older, all the boys were encouraged to do the manly coming-of-age things such as hunting and fishing. I desperately wanted to take the hunter safety course in order to get my license. My dad ignored my pleas and enrolled my brother instead. I don’t recall him ever bringing home a prize buck. Dad did take me fishing, however, and I got to showcase my skills when we went salmon fishing in Alaska with some of my brother’s military buddies a year or so ago. I had the largest catch of the day. Beat that, boys.

When my guys had all grown and moved away at the end of my high school career, I nearly went through withdrawal. Instead, when I was in the county pageant (groan) and a Boy Scout leader approached us to see if any girls were interested in joining the troop for meetings and outings, I was the only girl who attended the next meeting. I joined them on camping trips where I had to stay in my own tent. We went spelunking and even rappelled with Green Beret members.

What I’m saying is I miss being one of the boys. As much as I love living with four other girls, none of them ever want to go hunting or throw rocks at things or scratch themselves. The guys taught me that sometimes it’s refreshing to have a “what you see is what you get” mentality. Now, who wants to go fishing?

Jessica likes chew. E-mail her at [email protected].