Dog Bite

I have this memory from my sophomore year at a high school house party. In a familiar, uncomfortable moment of not quite having anyone to talk to, I ended up in an awkward conversation with a girl and her boyfriend, both a year older than me. It was early fall, so with apparently nothing else interesting to talk about, classes came up. I remember mentioning my nerves about taking AP BC Calculus the following year. 

The boy’s expression is still etched in my brain—not just disbelief, but patronization, laced with unmistakable condescension. 

“Yeah, right. Good luck with that,” he chuckled, and I winced. 

That moment, no matter how small it seems now, made me really pause and second-guess my abilities, and everything that had led me onto that math track in the first place. I went home that night and spiraled, per usual. A silly high school class suddenly felt monstrous, something I was no longer fit to tackle. My stomach twisted for months leading up to my first day in Mr. Carey’s class the following year, and I spent most of that course feeling inadequate and unprepared. 

I ended up with an A. 

Turns out, that boy’s face showed up again, and again, and again, on different people, in different contexts, throughout my life. I went on a brief date with a boy one summer in late August before my junior year. College came up, and at the time, I was genuinely unsure where I wanted to go or if college was something I was meant for. The boy spoke with certainty about ending up at the same Ivy League his brother, father, and grandfather had all attended. When he finished his long-winded speech, he told me he was sure I’d “figure it out eventually.” He added that, of course, it mattered far less for me than for him to pursue higher education. My brows furrowed at that. 

I went to Vanderbilt. I earned a 4.0 my first year and a half. We never went on a second date. 

This past month, I attended a networking event. I had never really worn a full suit before, aside from a few student-organization interviews, and felt a little silly buttoning it up in the mirror. Still, I slicked my hair back and headed to the career center. Despite my nerves, I felt good that night—energized, confident, almost buoyant. I had heels on, which helped with the height problem, and I made my rounds speaking to alumni with my shoulders back and head up. That confidence was interrupted while I was waiting in line to speak with a woman in HR at some firm. A boy I knew vaguely came up behind me and tapped my shoulder. 

“You know, you don’t have to be scared of talking to the men, right? They don’t bite.”

The same furrow appeared on my forehead. I indeed wasn’t scared of the men and had already spoken to several. I was simply standing in line. 

I could talk about infinitely more of these scenarios that left me feeling inferior, but I think my point is, I have spent much of my life doubting my capabilities, battling imposter syndrome, and trying so hard to compensate for all I believed I lacked. Most of that doubt lived internally. But something interesting happens when it becomes external. When it comes from other people, it sparks something else entirely: a sharp, insistent drive to prove them wrong and challenge their assumptions. 

People often say that all it takes is one person believing in you for you to accomplish your goals. I’ve come to believe the opposite. Sometimes all it takes is one person who doesn’t. So thank you to the three boys highlighted here—and to the many other bewildered faces, marked by perplexity and shaped by a patriarchal certainty. You have carried me farther than the cheerleaders ever could. And to my young women out there trying their best: men, in fact, don’t bite. But some boys do. 

More on this at a later date, love,

El.