Angel in the House Assignment

“And the phantom was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem, The Angel in the House. It was she who used to come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed her…” (Woolf)

I first met my Angel when I was nine years old; on the playground of my elementary school. I was wearing my favorite shirt from the zoo: black with a large face of an ape covering the entire front. I had just gotten braces (the first in my grade) and was very proud of them. My hobbies including playing kickball, golfing, and swimming. I often had the same thoughts as Zora Hurston, “who would deny themselves the pleasure of my company?” (Hurston). Then one day, I was playing basketball with a group of peers when I noticed my friend had on a shirt with only one, unrecognizable word across the chest. Later, at lunch, I asked her what it meant. My group of friends laughed and wondered how I had never heard of the name brand store before. They teased me and asked why I don't "act like a girl". Suddenly, my ape shirt that I had been wearing 3 out of 5 days a week felt ugly- too black, too large. The shirt that meant something to me, that represented an experience, a memory, a trait specific to me, a part of my identity was inferior compared to the vapid one word tee shirt my friend was wearing. It was the first time I remember feeling like my identity was less than someone else’s. I suddenly became intensely aware of these unspoken rules I was supposed to be following. Growing up with parents who adamently refused the gender binary made me oblivious to my angel much longer than most girls have the pleasure of. The differences I never noticed before, began to scream at me.

At first, I battled these new expectations. My 4^th and 5^th grade years were full of torment, as I realized I did not fit into the Limited Too jeans my friends were wearing. At 10 years old, I was developing body dysmoprhia. I didn't want to be a girl anymore-- at least not the definition of girl that was being pounded in my brain. I tried to learn to skateboard, I listened to all my brother’s punk CDs and even dressed in his clothing. I noticed my brother had been placed in advanced classes since kindergarten and despite our same test scores, I had never been offered the test. I forced my parents to call the school and let me take the test and I passed. But being only a child, the Angel eventually won. I kicked and screamed but eventually, I did believe that I was fat, I believed that I acted like a “boy” because I preferred blue and red Pokemon cards over all pink ovens. I felt defected. Blending in became my number one priority. I quit my advanced classes and I started chasing the unattainable identity- which is that of the groups. Videos of Christina Aguilara and Brittany Spears songs centered completely around the affection of men were the main inspirations I was given by media. No longer did I yearn for my own affection, derived from success in areas I found interesting; but instead I began to find the opinion of pre-pubsicent boys’ I went to school with more important. And these boys- they didn’t seem to care. They were more interested in extracurricular activities, competition in gym, and being the first to read out loud in class, which only fed into my own rejection of self. I don't say this to blame them, because they had not met the angel yet. As Virginia Woolf says, “For though men sensibly allow themselves great freedom… I doubt that they realize or can control the extreme severity with which they condem such freedom in women” (Woolf). It is the curse of the angel. It is no one’s fault and it is everyone’s fault, all at once.

I began to feel helpless. There were no wins for me. If I conformed to the narrow guidelines of female success presented as scantily clothed singers and actresses, I felt empty inside. But if I followed my “authentic self”, I was rejected by my peers. The angel is what ended up giving me a solution. I found it impossible to truly please myself but found if I could give others what they wanted, I could make them feel good about me, for me. I became a chameleon, trying to relate to everyone I met and please what they felt I should be. Around a year ago, after a semester of feminism, I was able to see this angel for what she was—a phantom over my shoulder: “She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it--in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others” (Woolf).

It has been a rough journey so far to find her, but I am lucky in that I have located myself through the small girl on the playground again. I found her within me, barely breathing. And I think if I had waited any longer, I’m not sure I would have made it…

“If I had not killed her, she would have killed me” (Woolf).

Woolf, Virginia. ""Professions for Women" by Virginia Woolf." "Professions for Women" by Virginia Woolf. 21 Jan. 1931. Web. 9 Sept. 2014.


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