Hello Restore Childhood Community!

Submissions to our first ever open call ~ Calling All “Tomboys!” ~ have been a joy to read. We originally said we’d select three, but there’ve been so many great entries, we may need to select a few more. June 30 deadline approaching ~ keep sending us your stories.

Today, we present our second selection from Julie:

My name is Julie. I was born in 1992. I was the baby of the family and always seemed to march to the beat of my own drum.

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I’ve been a tomboy for as long as I can remember; never liked the color pink, Barbies or baby dolls, and I was always more comfortable in my brother’s hand-me-downs than a dress.

I loved Legos, Playmobil, and playing outside.

When we played house, I was almost always the dog.

Growing tired of having to comb the mats out of my hair from my romps outside, my parents gave me a much more manageable pixie cut. I never fussed when they laid out girlier clothes for me to go to school or church in. But if I had my way, the color pink would have been wiped from the face of the earth.

If someone had told me when I was 5 that “maybe you’re a boy,” I probably would have given that some thought, because in my mind boys had more fun.

As I grew up, a tomboy I remained. That had never really been an issue until around seventh grade when someone at school began circulating a rumor that I was gay. It was a rumor, or more so a question, that I would get often and it really began to wear on me.

I found it distressing that people would opine about who I was attracted to just because I loved shop class and wore Chuck Taylors.

That was probably the first time I really felt insecure and worried about what others thought of me. That said, in that era, all I had to do was politely correct people—“No, I’m not gay, I’m just a tomboy.”

I can’t imagine how I would have felt if I had grown up today instead of the early 2000’s with everyone around me— parents, teachers, my friends, even therapists suggesting I might have been born in “the wrong body.”

In my thirty-year-old brain I know it’s absolutely ludicrous, but in my five-year-old brain it would have been something to be desired if it meant that I didn’t have to give up my likes and interests.

Julie holding a caterpillar, age 3 (1995)

I never grew out of being a tomboy.

I rarely wear makeup unless it’s a special occasion or a date night with my husband.

I enjoy working with my hands and have a job as a welder at a local fabrication shop; I am the only woman there.

Recently, I asked my husband:

“Does it bother you that I am still a tomboy?”

The answer was reassuring:

“Tomboys are more fun,” he told me.

I hope to have a daughter of my own one day. I don’t know if she’ll be a little tomboy like her mama, but I know that, no matter what, I will love her all the same whether she darts for Barbies or Legos and plastic dinosaurs.

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I was a Tomboy in the 90s...