As a child growing up in the 1980s, I never fit the mold of what society deemed a “girly-girl.” Instead, I embraced the spirit of a tomboy—though I often resented that label, feeling it implied I was more boy than girl. Why wasn’t there a term like “tomgirl”?
Recess was a time for adventure, and I thrived in games of dodgeball with the boys. In Eugene, Oregon, during the early ’80s, we called it slaughterball. We dashed across the playground, dodging and chasing the ball while shouting, “Facial disgracial!” On occasion, I would join the girls on the monkey bars, performing tricks like penny drops, only for them to question my preference for playing with boys. My answer was simple: I just connected with them better.
My home life on our quiet street mirrored this dynamic. Most of the neighborhood kids were boys, and we would gather in the space between two houses, where one friend owned a sleek, black Darth Vader carrying case for Star Wars action figures. We would create epic battles on the stone retaining wall, while the only other girl in the area often claimed the Princess Leia figure. I settled for the extras from Buck Rogers, like Twiki and the robot dog.
We were free-range kids before the term even existed, playing until dusk, at which point we would return home dirty and starving. My mother was often in the kitchen preparing something healthy, like zucchini and cottage cheese. This was a time when my family was still intact, before my parents’ impending divorce.
“Did you have fun?” my mom would inquire.
“Yeah, we played freeze tag and Star Wars. Can I watch TV?” I would respond, and she rarely denied me, as my time indoors was limited.
Thursday evenings were reserved for Magnum, P.I., and I never missed the opening sequence. My eyes followed T.C.’s striped helicopter as my feet tapped to the upbeat theme music. I would lie on the brown and gold shag carpet, resting my chin in my hands, eagerly awaiting the moment Tom Selleck would turn toward the camera. Whenever he flashed that trademark raised eyebrow, my cheeks would flush with warmth. I couldn’t articulate why I adored the show so much, but it was undeniable that Magnum stirred something within me.
“Got a crush on Tom?” my dad would tease.
“Nu-uh! Of course not!” I would scoff, even though I knew it was Magnum, not Tom, who captured my heart.
Reflecting on those days, I realize what drew me to him: he felt safe. There was no risk in daydreaming about him, and his shorts, while arguably short by today’s standards, didn’t seem inappropriate back then. He blended charm with a goofy demeanor, and his playful banter with Higgins made him seem like an endearing underdog. I might not have understood the feelings of inadequacy at that age, but I imagined what it would be like to know him. Every time he graced the screen, I could allow my heart to race and indulge in a dreamy smile without fear of being judged for my boyish interests. There were just those iconic eyebrows, that mustache, the Ferrari, and the thought of kayaking alongside him.
Yes, Magnum/Tom was my first true crush—the one who gently pierced my tomboy heart. And he was quite the memorable one.
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In summary, embracing my tomboy identity amidst societal expectations shaped my childhood experiences, from playtime to my early crush on a television icon. It highlighted the importance of feeling safe in one’s interests and the freedom to express oneself authentically.