Indictment of Boys

I had to rush back from basketball class so that I wouldn’t lose the heat of my emotion before getting it down on paper—or rather, on screen. Let me say one thing. I. Hate. Boys. Let me also say, I refuse to use the word “men” in place of boys, not because I think you don’t deserve to be called men, but because it gives me a sliver of hope that you still have time to grow and mature and change. Now, I don’t hate boys as a general species. I must continue on with my thought.

I hate boys who: think they’re really cool. Doesn’t it just sound lame? “Yeah man, I’m really cool.” It’s infuriating. It’s ten times worse than knowing you aren’t God’s gift to woman-kind but pretending you are, hoping that some poor girl will be too blind or too desperate to notice. I hate that too. I take it as an insult to my intelligence that you don’t think I won’t notice the façade. Honestly, I don’t want someone who acts tough. I want a guy who is tough. Don’t think I can’t tell the difference.

Moving on. I hate boys who don’t wait for screens when they’re being set, or who point at the spot they want the pick, then fail to run their defender off of it. Why ask for it if you aren’t going to use it? I hate boys who can’t shoot a lay-up without ten pump fakes. I hate when they nod and raise their eyebrows at me as though I’m supposed to read their minds; I don’t even know their name. I hate boys who don’t notice the flash of irritation crossing my face. I know it isn’t because you don’t care how I feel. But it never occurred to you that you could do something irritating in the first place. If you understood that, I’m sure you’d take precautions not to annoy me and this would be a moot point. I stay out of your way, you stay out of mine.

I hate that in these moments of seething frustration, I don’t call myself a feminist; I probably never will. I do take into consideration that every woman’s definition of feminism is different, and that many of my good friends and favorite professors would classify themselves as such. But in light of my own definition, I prefer to pursue what I believe to be the Biblical picture of womanhood and go from there. So yeah, whatever Amazonian tendencies I have within me are being suppressed.

Back to what I hate. I hate boys who only notice the girls who are fashionable and flirtatious and plastered in makeup—the girls who throw themselves at anything with a hint of testosterone. I hate the boys who are blind to the women who love the Lord and are chasing after Him instead. On the other hand, I do appreciate the boys who love God so much that they’re oblivious to the female species in general. Or the boys who are patient enough to let many girls pass by while they wait for God to show them who to pursue. I don’t wish that girl was me. I just appreciate that they don’t waste their time on other girls who are frivolous or superficial.

I hate that someday, a man will walk in to my life—one who passionately loves the Lord and His Word, who possesses great integrity of character, whose intelligence is coupled with godly wisdom, who is strong enough to protect me and gentle enough to lead me, who will recognize my flaws and still see the value that God has given me—and he will dispel my bitter hatred for the fallen-ness of his race. I guess I don’t really hate him. Or I won’t when I meet him. What I hate is that my own fallen-ness makes me despise the creation that God deemed “very good.”

I’m not angry any more. The moment has come and gone in a few short paragraphs. I don’t often give vent to my feelings in writing. Perhaps it’s a symptom of the anxiety and stress in my life. Or maybe it’s the PMS monster taking voice within me. I don’t mean to sound like I’m ready to devour the next male that comes into close proximity. It’s the heat of the moment that comes from playing basketball with boys when you haven’t had enough sleep and nothing to eat.