I’m back to talk about gender again. I want to make ‘gender-blender’ happen, but I doubt it’ll catch on. In my last post, I finished it by talking about EJAE, the singing voice for Rumi from Kpop Demon Hunters. She never made it as a Kpop star in Korea, and she has said it’s because her voice was deemed not feminine enough. I have watched a bunch of reactions to her singing the songs that she’s pprobably an alto with a really big range. Yes, everyone loves her high notes (and she nails them; they’re so pure!), but several singers/voice coaches have commented on how warm her low notes are. And how dark. Honestly, I like it when she’s hitting the low notes more so than when she goes way high.
I know that South Korea in general is obsessed with looks and rigid gender roles. When I watch Kpop singers, it’s very clear that so many of them have had work done, even though they’re in their twenties and thirties. When I was in Taiwan, I got made fun of by my Taiwanese cousins for being fat. When I was in Thailand, I was told I looked like a man, basically. This was thirty-plus years ago, but I’m not sure how much it’s changed now.
I used to say that I got hit with rampant sexism from both my cultures, just in different ways. It really did a number on my head to be told in so many ways that I was just so wrong. The weight was the first of many things that I was supposed to change. My mother put me on my first diet when I was seven. But, at the same time, I was supposed to eat everything on my plate because she was an Asian mom at heart.
I was seven. Seven! Being told that I was fat and gross. Maybe my mother didn’t say the second word, but she made it painfully clear that she felt that way. She did actually say, “Your face would be so beautiful if yonly you weren’t so fat.” I think I was a teen or in my early twenties then.
When I was eighteen and about to go to college, I decided to lose weight. I went hard and lost forty pounds in two months. And became anorexic. Not on purppose, obviously, but it happened. I almost feel ilke it was destined to happen given my mom’s nagging. Then, in college, I could not keep up my exercise regime (I exercised up to seven hours a day), so I started adding casual bulimia to the mix. What do I mean by that? I mean that I ‘only’ did it two or three times a week. I put only in quotes because I know how that sounds now, but at the time, it made perfect sense to me.
I didn’t have the strength to starve myself the way I had before. I would try, but–see. I only slept three hours a night. That left me with several hours in which I had to stay awake. And not eat. I would eat oyster crackers for breakfast and lunch. A cup of them. Then I would have maybe a bit of fish and rice for dinner. Then, I would stave off the hunger until two or three in the morning. When I could not stand it any longer, I would buy several packets from the vending machine and scarf them down. Then, I would feel guilty about it and throw it back up.
That was my first bout of anorexia and bulimia, but not my last. My junior counselors called my mother, and that was a complete disaster. My mother was so mad at being called to discuss her problem child (who wasn’t my brother for once). She was upset and embarrassed, and how very dare I? When my junior counselors talked to her about me, she was angry. I could tell by the set of her jaw and the murderous look in her eyes. She was shamed by my bad behavior, and she was not at all concerned about me.
How do I know that? Because she did not say anything the whole time my JCs were talking to her. MUCH later on, I had to put a moratorium on her talking about my health because it was clear she just meant my weight. As evidenced by the fact that she showed no concern about me starving myself. The only thing she ever said to me when I was dangerously thin was, “Your waist is smaller than mine.” And she was not pleased at all.
The entire time I’ve known her, she’s worked on losing those five pounds. She’s never really needed to lose them, but she was obsessed with them. She’s 5’2″ to my 5’5 1/2″. The envy in her voice was so evident. I didn’t say anything, but I noted it.
You know what got me over my body issues? Dying. I died. Twice! And came back twice. My body did that. It took an unimaginable amount of punishment and came out of it without a scratch. Seriously. I was in a coma for a week and my brother was told by my medical team that he would have to make a decision soon (whether to pull the plug).
Then, I woke up. And started talking. Sure, I forgot a word now and then, but I could talk in full sentences. My medical team did all their tests on me, and I passed all of them with flying colors. Or at least solidly. Five days after I woke up, the PT took me for a careful walk down the hallway. She had a walker just in case I needed it, but I didn’t. Need it, I mean.
Do you understand? I had walking (Non-Covid-related) pneumonia, which triggered two cardiac arrests. The EMTs had to use an Epipen on me and the defib. Oh, and I had an ischemic stroke. It’s telling that the stroke is just an afterthought. I rarely remember it, to be honest, what with everything else I had going on at the time.
The PTs and OTs told me that it would take a year maybe two before I was fully functional. They cautioned that I may never get back to ‘normal’, though those weren’t the words they used. Much later, I watched a video featuring a prominent Mayo Clinic doctor who stressed that someone who had suffered a stroke had to get used to a new normal. He tried to put a positive spin on it, but it was clear what he was trying to say.
Seven days after I woke up, I walked out of the hospital of my own volition. I did not need any PT or rehab. I was able to go home. I did not need a walker. I was high as a kite and tired as hell, yes, but mostly intact. Three days after I got home, I was able to do some light Taiji. Not my beloved weapons, but it was amazing that I could do any of it at all.
A few days later, I was feeling sassy. I decided to do something with my thigh-length hair. I usually just pulled it up in a high bun (my hair is very thin). I did Chun-Li puffs on each side. I did two ponies and then braided them. I settled on one high pony that was half-braided. That’s the look I’m still rocking. I may switch it up, but it’s served me well.
For someone who hated my body for all my life, it was quite a pleasant change to be positively arrogant about it. You could not say shit to me about it because it saw me through death. Twice. Well that quickly went to wild places. More tomorrow.