Lingering in Doorways

Men like bratty women. “Hear me owwwt,” says the girl on my Instagram Explore page. “You’re a people-pleaser. You are way too reasonable, way too flexible, and wayyy too empathetic. No wonder you keep attracting dusties.” She waggles a finger at the camera. “Nice girls get breadcrumbs. Brats get provider men.” It’s the nth time I’ve been ambushed by this pseudo-therapist on my Reels. Ambushed, because it’s not like I actively seek relationship advice from influencers. But here they come anyway, in droves, to tell me I am being avoidant (except I’m secure) or that I have unprocessed daddy issues (I really don’t) or, more recently, that I suffer from something I had no idea I had: the singular unfortunate affliction of being a nice girl. I’m not sure I take too well with being diagnosed this in the wee hours of a school morning. Not when I’m in the middle of a precisely curated scrolling routine — today it’s celebrity bookshelves and fall nail inspo boards — and definitely not when I’m on my period and craving peace. Most of all it’s the defensiveness I hate, this involuntary urge to clutch my pearls and whine, “What’s wrong with being a nice girl?” in like the most wounded voice possible. Because I can’t just scroll away now. I watch that shit, and I go to said pseudo-therapist’s page and watch the rest of her shit, and then of course I end up feeling a little awful because I know I’m being pushed propaganda and it’s working.

I’m a sweetheart. By all accounts, I am a very nice girl. I try my best to be exhaustively polite, liberal with my pos and opos even though I was not exactly raised that way, because I grew up with the paradigm that the worst thing a girl could possibly be is an inconvenience. Once, I had a teacher at my all-girls Catholic school make an example out of me. “I can tell you have an easy life,” she said, in front of all my classmates. “Sweet girls like you always do. It’s the nasty ones that have had it rough.” I remember feeling oddly pleased by this observation. There must be something in my poise, I would go on to think, or in my manner of speaking, that suggested gracious and well-mannered and most importantly soft (though, in hindsight, what she probably meant was sheltered). But I liked that. I liked the idea of having no hard edges whatsoever. I liked being liked, and if later on that position required more from me — required that I be perpetually forgiving, that I learn to walk on eggshells, or that I play dumb — then I was just glad to do my part. Anyway, as far as anyone is concerned, I have never been done wrong. I don’t get mad. I don’t even get frustrated, or at least I hate publicizing it. Even now I despise confrontation, and when faced with the tiniest sliver of hostility, no matter how random, my first instinct is to say sorry. Sorry! Screw context! I am overly apologetic about everything.

And so it bothers me, this sudden pivot in values. Somehow, something I have always been very good at has gone out of fashion. If the pseudo-therapists are to be believed, nice girls get zilch. Niceness is to be blamed for bad boyfriends who need mothering. Niceness denotes a lack of self-respect. It doesn’t help that the tag #highvaluewoman is always attached to these posts, or #divinefeminine, which leaves a sour taste in my mouth — does that make being a nice girl somewhat less of either? I can’t help but feel a little betrayed, maybe even resentful, because if this is true then it means the personality I’ve worked my whole life to embody was the wrong one all along. I spent all this time perfecting my doormatism when I probably should’ve been learning how to be a bigger bitch. God knows I might have been saved a lot of dating-life-induced headache.

This is what’s going through my head as I’m on a night out with B., a high school friend visiting from New York. She wanted a taste of California nightlife so I take her to the Bungalow, on account of it being fun (dance-party-fun, NOT stand-around-clutching-your-drink-fun) and relatively safe for two girls to navigate alone. Collectively we wave off a handful of guys, which was expected, but after two or so hours of cycling through the same menial conversations, something starts to bug me. B. gives out fake names like it’s nothing. The lies roll easily off her tongue: where we’re from, why we’re here. She’s dismissive and unwavering, whereas I’m a nervous laugher when I lie, and when I find us an out (unconvincingly, I admit) I’m given The Look that I’ve since interpreted to mean Really? That’s the best you’ve got? It’s when I hesitate and feel all sorts of guilty about this — despite knowing that I am under zero obligation to entertain these men whatsoever — that I realize that something here is very wrong. After all, I’m confident and articulate. I know instantly when I’m not interested in you. So why do I feel so bad expressing that? Why can’t I stomach the idea of being anything but agreeable, obliging, and harmless?

I’ve been in relationships, romantic and otherwise, with men who blew a fuse at the slightest perceived misstep. I know what it’s like to mistake terror for passion. No one can say I didn’t adapt. I learned very young that in order to be deserving of love, I must make myself small, I must make myself sorry, and above all I must not want. Wanting implied a lack of gratitude that was simply unacceptable.

In hindsight this explains my previous deep-seated resentment towards girls who were proud brats — they could be needy, they could pick fights even, and yet they were still spoiled with unconditional affection. Why? I’ve always wanted to demand. Why is this allowed for you, but not for me? After all, it wasn’t like I was asking for much. I was practically on my knees for the bare minimum. I grew so bitter turning these thoughts over and over again in my head that eventually it was easier to just give up. I just wasn’t that kind of girl. I resigned myself to the idea of being a spinster for the rest of my twenties.

And then I met a guy.

That’s always how it starts, no? I met a guy. But that’s exactly what happened. We were introduced in the summer, when I was unprepared for any sort of relationship and quite vocal about the fact, so I blew him off, consistently, for three whole months. It didn’t faze him (or so he tells me). He knew what he wanted. Slowly, he softened the walls I worked so hard to calcify. He was endlessly patient, devoted, and kind. It amazed me. I’d never been handled with such tenderness before. It didn’t matter if he had to drive two hours each way to see me for a split moment, when we weren’t even dating — or, perhaps more astonishingly, endure weeks of silence when I was in one of my solitary moods. He saw something special in me even then, something valuable, and thought that in itself was worth every effort.

For the first time, I understood what that influencer meant about striving for brattiness. It isn’t about difficult attitudes at all. It’s about realizing your worth, what you deserve, and adjusting your standards so that anything less is simply not enough. It’s about being considered. Brats get their car doors opened for them and flowers just because. Brats get told, endearingly, “Anything you want.” This is because brats understand that for the right person, there is no such thing as asking for too much. In fact, you shouldn’t have to ask at all. It took me the right relationship to see that, but it’s a mindset that can be discovered any time and applied to every facet of life.

It’s unfortunate that we are so used to shrinking ourselves to keep other people comfortable. Somewhere along the way, we forgot that we are inherently entitled to the spaces we take up. This goes beyond romantic relationships but all circles where female ambition is demonized. We need to start realizing that there is nothing shameful about having desires and going after them; nothing wrong with asking and expecting to receive. Brat energy is knowing that anything we want is already ours. It’s an adjustment of paradigm that puts our needs and concerns at the forefront, rather than simply brushing them aside.

All of this is not to say that compassion and empathy are outdated. I still think my lifelong dedication to being a nice girl — or, more aptly, a kind girl, because there is a difference — is one of my greatest strengths. But my key takeaway from all this (and hopefully yours, too) would the very real, very understated importance of refusing to be confined to the identity of a convenient woman. We can be sensitive and emotionally intelligent, but we are also allowed to be disagreeable, to butt heads, and to make a scene when the lines we’ve drawn are crossed. We can be brats. We can live without apology.

What I mean to say is, let me throw my tantrums. Let me ask for more. I know what I deserve.

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Angelica Mendoza is based in Orange County, California. She’s the part-time blogger — and by part-time she means twice a year if you’re lucky — behind Lingering In Doorways, a personal essay column documenting her early twenties. On Instagram you can find her on @lingeringindoorways for writing updates.