As a junior in high school, way back in 1967 when T Rexes still roamed the hallways checking restroom passes, I wanted to take a class in the industrial arts department. No way, I was told; those classes were only for boys. I should stick to the girls-only home economics department.
This was during the early days of what’s now called the Women’s Movement—which hadn’t yet moved very far. True, we were the first generation to have the birth control pill. True, we saw the passage of Title Nine that mandated equal opportunities for girls in school sports. And we pioneered the miniskirt. (Before any grandmother rolls her eyes over how short girls’ skirts are today, she should look back at one of her own high school or college yearbooks.)
Still, doctors, lawyers, and engineers were mostly men. Nurses, secretaries, and elementary teachers were mostly women. Girls were encouraged to excel—up to a point. Only as long as they didn’t outshine the boys who were expected to be the real future leaders.
Instead, girls were taught, indirectly but very clearly, to be “nice.” Nice girls did not speak up with strong opinions, did not challenge authority figures, and were not “pushy” or “bossy.” They were pleasant, obedient, quiet, helpful, and in the background.
This sort of niceness is not the same as being kind. Kindness is essential for being a good and successful human being. It comes from a place of confidence, wholeness, and strength. “Nice girl” niceness, on the other hand, comes from a place of needing to placate others because you feel powerless, inferior, or afraid. In my opinion, it was and still is one of the most harmful behaviors taught to girls.
Here’s one reason why—a true story from my junior year of high school in Gregory, South Dakota. (I have changed the names, though; you never know which classmates might pop up on social media.)
At Easter, the United Methodist Church youth group organized a midnight Good Friday service. Three of us—Connie and I, who were juniors, and Linda, who was a senior—were in charge of setting up. We met at the church around 9:00 p.m., got everything ready, and then walked downtown. Connie was eager to find some excitement. Linda was up for some fun. I would rather not have gone along, but I wasn’t going to hang out at the church by myself, either.
We ended up getting into a car with two senior boys. Dave, the driver, had been drinking. Tim, in the passenger seat with his guitar, was clearly drunk. We drove around for a while, stopping to talk to kids in other cars—which was the thing to do on weekend nights in small towns like Gregory. Tim strummed chords on his guitar and amused himself by making up a song about “midnight Mass.” Connie chattered and laughed and was having a great time. Linda seemed to be enjoying herself. I sat awkwardly in my corner of the back seat, not saying a word, wishing I were somewhere else.
That wish got even stronger when Dave and the driver of another car decided to head out north of town and have a race.
Highway 47, north of Gregory, is a two-lane road that goes through the western edge of the Missouri River breaks. It’s something of a prairie rollercoaster, with a series of deep rolling hills and valleys. Visibility is limited, and passing another vehicle can be a challenge even during the day.
I knew exactly how idiotic it would be for two cars, at night, with impaired drivers, to speed along that road in both lanes. I was terrified. And what did I do? Nothing. I didn’t protest. I didn’t try to talk them out of it. I didn’t speak up and say something like, “Fine, but take me back to the church first.” The guys were both seniors; I was a junior. They were cool and popular; I was a shy, awkward nerd. And of the five people in the car, it appeared to me that I was the only one who didn’t want to do this stupid thing.
We drove a few miles out of town on Highway 47. The two drivers lined up side by side and revved their engines. Somebody said “Go!” And we were off.
Connie was shrieking with excitement. Linda was quiet. I was barely managing to breathe. Then I realized Linda was gripping my hand as hard as I was squeezing hers. It was my first clue that maybe I wasn’t the only one who was scared.
Finally, after an eternity that couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, Linda spoke up. I don’t remember what she said, but it was enough to get Dave to slow down. He made a U-turn in the middle of the road and headed sedately back to town. The boys dropped us off at the church. We went in, finished getting ready, and dutifully led our Good Friday service. I hope I did so in a spirit of profound gratitude.
Because all it would have taken was one car coming from the opposite direction, one deer in the middle of the road, one blown tire, or one tiny misjudgment. And any or all five of us in that car could have died.
Including me—who did not drink, did not party, did not take risks, and did not want to be in that car. But who was in that car just like everyone else. Because I did not know how to speak up and say no. I had no clue that, if I had, Linda very likely would have backed me. As the shy introvert that I was, plus the nice girl I had been taught to be, I had neither the tools nor the confidence to take basic, life-protecting care of myself and my friends.
So my message to you—my granddaughters, and your friends, and young women everywhere—is that yes, kindness matters. Please do be kind, with strength and confidence. And also remember to be kind and strong for yourself. Because being kind helps make you a good and successful human. But being nice could get you killed.
Practical Prairie Woman 