I don’t think I’ve ever felt female, or *feminine*.
Every fun activity I’ve ever been exposed to, I’ve enjoyed as a person and not as a female — drawing, writing, eating sweets, playing with a kitchen set, playing house-house, playing doctor-doctor, lagori, baddie, building with fancy-store-bought-fake-Lego blocks with their tiny potted plants. Watering the garden with my grandfather, watching Power Zone in the afternoon because that’s the only time I had the TV uncontested, terribly lettering lyrics of Alice in Chains songs and making worse-still drawings of Eddie on my rough note books. Lax-rules cricket, watching it in our balcony and secretly hoping to make a heroic balcony catch, and once, being cheered by all my friends when I, crisply chicken-poxed, came out to see them. Dressing neatly, eyeing stickers and inventively shaped candy, cultivating different kinds of handwriting. Trying to make my own site and Winamp skins. Dreaming of owning a pair of Nikes whose ads and air-themed features swore I could walk the clouds or spikes that would turn me into a ripple-muscled automaton-feline that would sunder a notion like human limitation.
I was amazed by life. I secretly wrote sincere-feelings short stories and astonishingly aching poems, edited B&W photographs shot in 2/3rds composition on a modified point and shoot, burnt CDs and traded torrents, hand-drew story boards of films I would one day make, and made friends on the internet – all in my grandfather’s room because that’s where the computer was.
I’m so lucky that I get to see how happy and loved I really was; I grew up in a difficult home. And it hurt even more that just outside my door, I seemed to attract so much pain. I just couldn’t understand why. What about me was wrong? Why was I a lesser person, a secondary human? In what way had I unwittingly, or even knowingly erred?
Why was my hair, why were my teeth, why was my vagina, why were my breasts so troublesome?
This is what I’ve known of what being female means. It means a life that keeps pinching the side of my boob on the bus, at the movie theatre, in a street after dark. It means having to sit with my knees together lest how I sit invites a fitting reply. It means being fearful of wearing something that I think I could celebrate my body with, because it’ll invite judgement, and on a bad day, an expression of it. It means feeling ugly, unwelcome, incomplete, inadequate. All the fucking time.
It means constantly constructing bizarre and unkind logic to cope with how unfair it is.
I have seen every woman I have ever loved struggle with this: the oldest of whom is now 84.
It’s so exhausting that I spend so little time inhabiting my body, (one that I don’t at all feel is *female*, like everything in the world goes out of its way to tell me it is) and I spend all my time shrunken into just my mind. Watching it, managing it, taking care of it.
I am not a person motivated by the idea of having children. Because life is so painful that I would rather not have someone I’d deeply care for go through it. This is such an upsetting view of life – because look at that – I was so happy. And then I saw that it was only because I was playing inside such a small box without ever being able to touch its walls.
And now that I do, I feel trapped. In a small box.
I am in a small box with a sticker tacked on it that says, “Female”.