In yesterday’s post, I went off on a tangent because of course I did about how much I love tangents/side notes/footnotes/side roads. Then, because I’m me, I spent a healthy chunk of time on that instead of what I actually meant to write about.
Which, in this case, turned out to be about how much I was bashed about the head when I was in my twenties for not womanning the right way. And how it was the planting of a seed (ironic in the context of having children) for me questioning if I was a woman at all.
Side note: Here’s the thing about gender–for me. My biggest feeling about gender is that I am not a guy. I wanted to be once when I was a kid because boys clearly had more freedom and autonomy, but that’s not the same as thinking I am one. More to the point, I don’t want to be one because of the negativity associated with being male. In the general sense, I mean, not specifically. And I don’t want to have to deal with that bullshit, either. The patriarchy hurts women, yes, more than it hurts men, but it’s not great for the latter, either.
When it comes to thinking about my identity as a woman, I draw a giant blank. This is because I (still) don’t know what that means. I can think of how I’ve been treated because I was perceived as a woman, how women treat me (for better and for worse), and how that has affected me. But it doesn’t make me FEEL like a woman.
As for nonbinary, I probably would have chosen that (maybe) when I was a teen if I knew it was a possibility back then. K and I have talked about this–how we both would have went with nonbinary if it was a thing when we were teens/in our twenties. As old people now (in our early fifties), it’s not at the top of either of our important things to do.
Also, for me, there is no gender that feels right to me. I sat with ‘woman’ for a long time, and it did nothing for me. I can relate to women because we’ve had shared experiences, but when I focused on the word woman and tried to relate it to myself, I came up empty. I did not feel anything other than a vague, “Oh, yeah. I used to be called that.” I don’t hate it when others call me she, but it doesn’t really ring true with me, either.
I have explained it thusly: It’s like an ill-fitting raincoat. Yes, it’ll keep the rain out–mostly. But it’s uncomfrortable and restricting (if it’s too small), and I’ll breathe a sigh of relief once I take it off. In other words, it does the job–barely–but it isn’t the best for the job–by far.
When it’s raincoats–I don’t have to stick with the too-small coat. I can buy another one, an umbrella, or just run around in the rain (which is my personal favorite). When it comes to gender, though, they all feel weird to me in one way or the other. With that in mind….
Dear Mini-Minna,
It’s ok to stop thinking about these things so much and so hard. When you are in your early twenties, you will be almost consumed by all the discoveries that come at you in a rapid fashion. Race, gender, sexual orientation, the realization you don’t want kids. That’s a lot! And it’s ok to feel overwhelmed by it all.
You’re going to feel like you’re a weirdo as you’re grappling with all this. And I really wish I could tell you that a large part of that is because you are what the kids these days call neurospicy. To put it simply, your brain doesn’t work the way ‘normal’ people’s brains work, and that’s OK. It makes it harder to get along in this world, but it’s not wrong.
This is something I wish you had known when you were a sad and depressed (not to mention anxious) litle girl who felt like an alien in a human body. Not only because I was Asian in a very white suburb and I had parents (father) who wanted nothing to do with American culture. So I knew nothing about music or TV or movies. Not to mention music or food–well the last isn’t completely true. I knew about American food and loved it, but my mother tried not to serve it at home because my father would only eat Taiwanese food.
Then again, he wasn’t home very often for dinner so it didn’t really matter if my mother cooked Taiwanese food or not. I’m sure you remember that, Mini-Minna. How you and your brother did not want to eat the Taiwanese food and only wanted mac and cheese, and such. Kraft Mac & Cheese was the best. That DayGlo orange matched nothing in the natural world, but it was the best. I could have eaten a whole box by myself.
I want to tell you that you’re fine just the way you are. You did not need to be on a diet when you were seven or told that you would be pretty if you weren’t so fat. (Actually words from my mother, by the way.) You did not need her to watch you like a hawk during every meal, simultaneously scolding you for being too fat and telling you that you had to finish everything on the plate.
My mother trotted the old ‘there are starving children in Africa’ bullshit when I balked at finishing my food (yeah, and what? It wasn’t as if we were going to send them the leftovers that I didn’t eat), and she also was very restrictive about what we had in the house. She did not keep sweets in the house, and it’s probably not surprising to learn that I stuffed my face with sweets whenever I could get my hands on them.
You did not deserve to have your mother hound you in that way about your weight. I mean, no one does, but it’s especially bad since it started when you were seven. Seven years old.
You should have been told that you were wonderful just as you were and encouraged to develop yourself. Instead, you were tolld, both explicitly and implicitly that you were failing in almost every way, so it’s no wonder that you fell into a deep depression when you were seven.
Again. Seven years old.
I have much more to say, but I’m tired so I’ll leave it there for now.