All I did know at that time was that I was a girl. I used to hear it from my mother all day long. ‘Girl!’ she would call, and all it meant to me was that I wasn’t a boy and I wasn’t like my brother. My brother’s hair was cut short but otherwise left free and uncombed, while mine was allowed to grow longer and longer and my mother combed it twice a day and twisted it into plaits and imprisoned the ends of it in ribbons and rubber bands. My brother woke up in the morning and left his bed just as it was, while I had to make my bed and his as well. My brother went out into the street to play without asking my parents’ permission and came back whenever he liked, while I could only go out if and when they let me. My brother took a bigger piece of meat than me, gobbled it up and drank his soup noisily and my mother never said a word. But I was different: I was a girl. I had to watch every movement I made, hide my longing for the food, eat slowly and drink my soup without a sound. My brother played, jumped around and turned somersaults, whereas if I ever sat down and allowed my skirt to ride as much as a centimetre up my thighs, my mother would pierce me with a glance like an animal immobilizing its prey and I would cover up those shameful parts of my body.
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