Girl Germs

I used to feel so lucky whenever I would spot a hair extension lying haphazardly on the sidewalk. It was better than a penny or a four-leaf clover. In my former ignorance, I didn’t know that a cheap weave sometimes slips out of its own accord. I thought girl hair lying on the ground could only mean one thing: catfight. Two girls going buck wild on each other at the bus stop. An intercepted love letter to someone else’s boyfriend ending in ripped clothes and an acrylic nail to the eyeball.

I’m just a lousy voyeur, though. I like a good women-in-prison movie, but if I were cast in that movie, I’d be the quiet old-timer in the library rather than the feisty ho shanking fools in the yard. I don’t have the stomach for girl-on-girl violence.

When I first encountered Riot Grrrl in 1990, all the pie baking and cat-eye glasses didn’t mesh with my other interests, such as smashing 40s outside the police station. However, petty differences aside, I wholeheartedly embrace the Riot Grrrl principle of girl unity. I believe in a world where girls don’t internalize sexism and where we encourage one another instead of competing. Seeing all the new girl bands and fanzines that have cropped up in the past couple years is amazing, and I believe that Riot Grrrl is a crucial step in the evolution of feminism as well as in the evolution of underground music. At least in theory.

Last year, in ’93, I got the chance to roadie for one of my all-time favorite Riot Grrrl bands. I was stoked! In the weeks leading up to the tour, their tape took up permanent residence in my Walkman. I walked around town with my ears full of girl love, feeling 50 feet tall and ready to rampage until, finally, it was time to get in the van.

On our way down to Los Angeles from the East Bay, we stopped at a favorite Riot Grrrl eatery, Taco Bell. As we sat down at a table with our trays full of 59-cent slop, the singer, let’s call her Erica, got up to go to the bathroom. The second she was out of earshot, the other girls turned to one another and enthusiastically began talking shit about her. Specifically, about her big butt!

“At least she’s not wearing the yellow pants!”

“Does anyone have a spoon? Erica is wearing shorts. Cottage cheese for everyone!”

I was shocked. Could it be that these pioneers of Riot Grrrl were merely… perpetrators? I felt as though the girl-love rug had been yanked out from under me. Beneath those baby barrettes and those sassy bobs dwelled heads full of secret girl evil. They were no better than the other assholes of the world. No, they were worse. Because they had thought about the way women treat one another and claimed to be an alternative, and they made my dumb ass believe it! If they were a lie, what else wasn’t real? Were Huggy Bear record sales being covertly funneled into Domino’s Pizza? Were there roofies in those pies they’re always baking? Was getting girls to write “slut” on their stomachs just part of an elaborate mean prank?

Now that some months have passed, I’ve gotten over the initial shock of Riot-Buttgate. I find the idea of catty feminists sometimes funny, sometimes mortifying. I know that, at times, it feels nearly impossible to resist a funny burn at someone else’s expense. But it makes us all look bad when we profess to stand up for girls while simultaneously tearing them down. Will Riot Grrrl ever succeed in creating a world free of total bitches? Only time will tell.

by janelle hessig