I come from a family of sassy girls.

When I was young my big sister and I usually played well together. Hiking, board games, paper dolls, and a tire swing were activities that take two, so she led and I followed and we got along well. Until she bossed one time too many or I whined once too often.

Then we fought. Like little monsters. I'd yell, scream, scratch, hit, and pull her long beautiful hair. I certainly refused to be seen and not heard. I'd jump onto her back, my legs latched tightly around her waist, so I had leverage to scratch her eyes. She'd swing blindly behind me occasionally meeting her target - my back - with fists and fingernails. We were pretty well matched, each skinny and close in age. And when we were finished we made up, usually without outside interference pushing us to.

And later when I was in sixth grade, girls were not allowed to wear pants in the Pacific Northwest in winter. We could wear them on the way to school but then had to take them off and put them in the cloakroom connected to my classroom.

So my feminist rebel mother sent me to school in bluejeans (an even bigger transgression) with a note in my pocket addressed to the principal. It said, "I am Robin's mother, not you. And I will decide what she will wear to school." We didn't have girls' sports teams yet, but I wore bluejeans.

It got harder. I got yelled at in the classroom until I learned to stop being a "Chatty Cathy." I did more helping and less playing. More watching and less doing.

Back when we were young, before we were "societized" and socialized to behave, we called out what we didn't like. We yelled "Stop It" when we didn't like something. We said yes when we wanted and no when we didn't. And then family life, the neighborhood, and social norms started putting on the pressure to conform to girls' rules.

That sassy girl is still inside. I remember her. Do you?