Demure is not my middle name
I've evolved into a woman whose natural femme mixed with generous heaps of traditional masculine
I seriously doubted that I would get an essay out to you all, after feeling chronically anxious, distracted and tender this week. I rested and took care of myself as well as possible, giving myself permission to not publish if necessary. And just like that, I felt inspired in the ninth hour, rapidly typing before the words could escape me.
A collection of recent misogynistic interactions inspired this piece, and I hope it comes across more as an awareness and appreciation for my womanhood than a man-hating manifesto. Thank you for being here <3
At a long table in my elementary cafeteria, my friends were whispering about the pink permission slips they all received in the mail about our upcoming Girls puberty talk, to which I was oblivious. Staring down at my plastic-wrapped sandwich, I worried my teachers thought I was too immature or too stupid to learn about such a grown up topic because I didn’t get my pink slip.
My mom waited a few days before calling the school’s receptionist and discovered that I was mistakingly on the Boys class list, and it was only then that I was included in a naive discussion about pubic hair and menstrual pads. I still remember the Just Around the Corner jingle that was far too whimsical for the bloody prophecy it foretold, and I heard later that the boys watched a Kennywood documentary—Pittsburgh’s historic amusement park—in the science lab.
Despite that first misgendering incident that was the start of many more, I came to love that my first name was nonbinary, unassuming of neither masculinity nor femininity. I felt that it perfectly reflected the boyish qualities I embodied when I was a little girl: relocating drowning earthworms from rain puddles with the palms of my hands, proudly washing my Little Tykes station wagon next to my dad waxing his Toyota, insisting on a uniform of jeans, sneakers and t-shirts.
There is a double page in my mom’s photo albums dedicated to my first preschool recital: me sitting in the front row wearing an itchy green floral dress, my knees comfortably apart, unknowingly broadcasting bright pink underwear to the entire audience. I was oblivious to my mom’s frantic cues from the back row, begging me to correct my natural inclination to manspread.
From a young age I wanted to be as contrarian to little girl expectations as possible, evolving into a woman whose natural femme is mixed with generous heaps of the traditional masculine. I’m satisfied in knowing my Sephora concealer shade just as well as my car’s preferred oil; harboring a stubborn inclination towards independence and problem solving and rejection of the demure young woman trope.
I sometimes get so caught up in disassembling patriarchal gender norms that I inadvertently organize attributes into two binary columns like my archaic grade school class list, defeating the whole purpose. Especially when I’m getting dressed for the day, a decision between jeans or a skirt feels like an existential struggle between choosing the masculine or feminine, when it shouldn’t be either. My guilty frustration builds into a hatred for our man-centric world that makes gender expression feel so claustrophobic and tiring.
I’ve been especially frustrated with the patriarchy lately, both personally and profoundly. I’m irked by men’s unsolicited career advice that is oversimplified and dismissive of my lived experience. I’m exhausted by conservative voters’ resistance to a democratic candidate whose racist immigration and incarceration policies would otherwise appeal to them, if only because of a societal disrespect of women, especially those of color.
Solely by our society’s design, even the most well-meaning men lack basic female empathy. I feel the need to explain that if I were a man, my loudness would be seen as leadership, my cleverness received as intelligence. If I were a man, I could act like an expert on a subject of which I know very little, apply for unqualified promotions with the confidence that I deserve them.
If I were a man, I could tell rambling stories without worrying about boring my audience, interrupt without a sense of guilt. If I were a man, the world would be mine for the taking, a sidewalk twenty dollar bill pocketed without looking around, finders keepers, not believing I was stealing.
Feature Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash
I didn't realize the boys got to watch a Kennywood documentary!! I'm mad - they should have been learning about consent and respect lol