Underneath my yellow skin

Gender is a social construct

If I were 20 years old, I have a hunch that I would be thinking a lot about gender. K and I talked about how if we were thirty years younger, we probably would both be nonbinary. I have mentioned before that of all my female friends/family member who are qeustioning/have questioned their gender, we all have had similar journeys–but have come to different conclusions. One of my friends (who is also my Taiji teacher) has reclaimed ‘woman’ as her own. She is defiant in declaring that this is what a woman looks like. What a woman acts like. What a woman feels like. She has been told since she was a weird kid in podunk S. Dakota that she was not a real girl/woman. This was her response.

My bestie, K, is comfortable being a mix of what is considered stereotypically feminine and traits that are considered more male. Once back in our twenties, she said to me, “Sometimes, Minna, glitter can just be fun!” when I was going on a screed about how anti-feminist glitter was. And you know what? She’s right. Glitter can be fun to wear sometimes (though hell to completely remove). She wore some makeup when we were younger as well as dresses when we went out. I did, too, come to think of it. Just lipstick, though. And skirts more than dresses.

As for my family member, they are nonbinary. They use all and any pronouns. They look stereotypically feminine, but don’t feel that way–necessarily. They have some interests considered more masculine and some that would lean more feminine.

Then there’s me. I grew up hating my gender. Not because I thought I was a boy, but because my mother (and my church) kept telling me all the things I could not do as a girl. I could not climb trees. I could not laugh loudly. I could not sit with my legs apart. Things I had to do as a girl. I had to wear dresses. I had to be quiet. I had to emotionally support everyone around me (read, my mother. But also boys). I was never supposed to show my unhappiness, anger, depression, or sadness. I could only be hapy, but I also wasn’t supposed to talk much.

I was also put on a diet by my mother whten I was seven. She had a lifelong dysfunctional relationship with food and her body (not surprisingly for a woman from Taiwan who moved to America). I was a stocky child because there was peasant stock on my father’s side. But also, my grandmother on my mother’s side was pretty stocky as well. As was my mother despite her attempts to whittle away her form on the daily. She agonized so much over the same five pounds. She made me feel that I was worthless because I was so grotesquely fat.


This was her view of what a woman should be (though, I should note that she did not follow it herself). Docile, compliant, servile to the men around her–especially her husband. She should spawn children by age 26 and only go to college to get a man, apparently. She should wear makeup and dresses, and she should never, ever state a controversial opinion. She should dutifully cook meals for her family every day as well as clean, sew, and keep everything tidy. She needs to play an instrument as well. Maybe know how to dance so she can entertain her man! I actually think the latter two are more Taiwanese culture towards productivity and children in general rather than aimed at girl children. Or girl-appearing children. The Tiger Mom stereotype has a lot of truth to it.

I used to cry every night before going to bed and pray to a god I didn’t believe in to turn me into a boy. Not because I thought I was a boy or felt like a boy, mind. But because I hated being a girl so so much. It was restrictive and made me feel as if I could not breathe. I did not tick any of the boxes for being a girl. I did not like dolls (I preferred stuffed animals); I did not care about getting married or fashion or makeup. I was really into boys at a young age, but I think that was more learned behavior than anything else. My mother drummed it into my head that the only thing that mattered was the attention of boys. It’s one reason that I have a hard time dating to this day.

At some point in my twenties, my mother said to me in frustration, “Just because something is tradition, it doesn’t mean it’s bad.” Without even thinking, I said, “Just because something is tradition, it doesn’t mean it’s good.” She was not happy with that response, I’ll tell you that much.

She also said at one point that she felt that everything I did was a rebuttal to her life. She was wrong. She was also right. She was wrong in that I am not who I am to spite her. She is right that who I am is in part because of how I dislike who she is–and I want no part of it for myself. It’s a fine line, but it’s a firm one in my mind.

To be clear. I am NOT who I am in direct opposition to who my mother is. It’s not spite, though it probably seems that way to her. It’s that I see who she is and what she believes in, and it’s not what I want for myself. That might seem like I’m slicing it very fine, but it’s a very different thing.

This was not acceptable to her. Ever. It’s life cruel fate that she got a daughter who was the exact opposite of what she wanted in a girl-child. It’s highly ironic that I am like her in many ways–which only exacerbates her dislike of me.

Yes, I said it. She dislikes me. She would never admit it, but she dislikes almost everything about me. Me being fat, single, queer, areligious, and childfree are high on top of the list of things about me that she hates. She doesn’t know I am currently agender, but she would hate that as well. If she were to be honest with herself (and me), she would admit that she had no love for me. She only cared about me because I was her emotional support person. If I refused to listen to her, I am sure she would throw a fit until I gave in and started listening again. In fact, that has happened. I have tried to put my foot down, and she just whined and pouted and acted disagreeably until I gave in.

More later.

 

 

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