**This post contains the usage of the f-slur as it’s a term I’ve found encompasses me to a certain capacity. If this offends you, please feel free to keep scrolling**

I think there’s a point when people give up on you. And that sounds more melodramatic than I intend, but there’s truth to it. So often we talk about trans people from a place of unlearning and relearning gendered roles in society, but what about those that were never taught at all? An argument can be made that most gendered thoughts and behaviors come from the unconscious – what is reproduced in the world around us – and I don’t discredit that. But how does the world teach gender to a child whose gender is unintelligible, a lost cause? A father can only teach his “son” so much. The most formal gender schooling I received was years of sports, before he realized I was a lost cause. An incredibly awkward sex talk, before he realized I was a lost cause. Scoldings for playing my mother’s heels, before he realized I was a lost cause. Treated like a fag and lived as a closeted transsexual: the gift of visibility is one I would not force on anyone. 

 Some people have the capability to be straight-passing, cis-passing, white-passing, but in truth I’ve never tasted that luxury. I wasn’t always an outcast, though there were times when it certainly felt like I was, but I was always visible. Like a lighthouse on the shore directing all eyes on me the moment I walked into a room. I do not have the luxury of blending into the shadows or disappearing into a crowd, so I learned to lean into it.

 Visibility is a blessing and a curse. It drives away those who would cast malice behind my back but encourages those who would to my face. But the pressures of constantly being seen take a toll. Eyes glued to you no matter where you go, the way you talk, the way you walk, the way you carry yourself cut open and dissected for the world to see. In my case, to be seen is to be known. You’re turned inside out with your most delicate vulnerabilities on display. But in that comes community. Whether it’s an innocuous smile across the room from someone just like you, or unknowingly giving a stranger the confidence to start living, to be seen is to exist outside of yourself. To be seen is to contain multitudes. To be seen is heavy, but it is never a burden one must shoulder alone.

In “Throwing Like a Girl,” Young conceptualizes the idea of “inhibited intentionality,” in which the capability and movement of bodies are limited based on gendered ideations. In other words, gendered notions teach us about how we are to move our bodies, with girls being told to not move so freely and boys being told the opposite. With this, I am reminded of a story from my mom’s childhood.

As she recalls this story, my mom once slapped one of her younger brothers in the face due to him making her overwhelmingly upset. Based on other stories that she has told, I figured that this was a common occurrence. My mom is the oldest of five, with two younger brothers and two younger sisters. She always laughed as she remembered the instances in which she got into physical fights with her younger sisters; yet, for some reason, this story with her brother was not as funny. 

“I felt bad because I had felt like I made him feel like less of a man.” 

“He was only a teenager, and I felt like I attacked his masculinity.”

As she recalls this instance, she expresses remorse and regret. She had no problem fighting her younger sisters, but when she physically slapped her brother, she thought she had crossed a line as a woman. Not because she was in the wrong, but because she felt she had taken up too much space. She moved in a way that should have been restricted because she now had committed the “crime” of stepping beyond the restraint of gendered movement. 

As Young states, “feminine bodily existence is an inhibited intentionality, which simultaneously reaches toward a projected end with an “I can” and withholds its full bodily commitment to that end in a self-imposed “I cannot.” In the case of my mom, she had stepped outside on these ideations and realized that she “could.” Yet, because of the expectations set for women and their bodies, my mom felt the self-inflicted reaction that she “shouldn’t.” In other words, once she realized that she “could,” her first thought afterward was that she “shouldn’t have.” And ever since, she still feels the same way. Instead of withholding her movement, resulting in a self-imposed “I can’t,” my mom fully committed and resulted in a self-imposed “I shouldn’t have.” In this sense, it becomes clear the ways in which we are socialized to not only police other bodies but also our own. Once we learn what we “can” or “can’t,” we try our best to maintain those limits. However, if we go beyond them, we do our best to compensate by replacing the ”I can’t” with an “I shouldn’t have.” 

I’ll admit it—I’ve heard “you throw like a girl” more times than I care to count. And every time I hear it, it hurts my pride at least. So it always made me want to prove them wrong. But then I came across “Throwing Like a Girl” by feminist philosopher Iris Marion Young, and it completely changed how I thought about that phrase. Young doesn’t just talk about throwing a ball; she dives deep into how society shapes the way women use their bodies. According to Young, the reason girls tend to throw without using their full bodies isn’t because they can’t—it’s because they’ve been conditioned to hold back. This social conditioning fosters self-doubt and a fear of judgment, leading to self-consciousness and unhealthy comparisons. In order to see this, we need to challenge these societal norms and encourage women to embrace their physicality and confidence. In defining this confidence it means embracing yourself, taking risks, and being bold about who you are. It’s about recognizing that your worth is not defined by how others see you, but by how you see yourself.”She writes, “Girls do not bring their whole bodies into motion… they tend to remain relatively immobile except for their arms” (p. 142). 

This really resonates with me. It’s not just about throwing; it’s evident in how we sit, walk, and carry ourselves. There’s this unspoken rule that women should take up less space, move carefully, and be less bold. We’re told not to be too smart or show too much emotion, and we constantly worry about our outfits being too revealing or not revealing enough. These expectations limit our authenticity and confidence. Recognizing these societal pressures is the first step toward embracing our true selves and challenging those constraints. Young argues that this isn’t about biology. It’s not that girls are naturally less powerful in their movements; it’s that society tells us, from a young age, that we should be. She states, “We reduce women’s condition simply to unintelligibility if we ‘explain’ it by appealing to some natural and ahistorical feminine essence” (p. 138). This highlights the danger of oversimplifying women’s experiences. It makes me reflect on how often society tries to define women through fixed, supposedly “natural” traits, ignoring the complex social and historical influences that shape our identities.

Reading this passage made me think about how I carry myself. I’ve always been told to sit neatly, cross my legs, and keep my arms tight. But why? Boys don’t get the same message. They’re taught to sprawl, take up space, and own their physical presence.  Young’s essay made me see that these differences are deeply rooted in the expectations placed on us. It’s not just about how we throw—it’s about how we’ve been taught to exist in the world. And maybe it’s time we start throwing like we mean it and being seen as we truly are and not what people see us as. 

Growing up, I never wanted to be seen, quite frankly, I never liked attention but in a society where it is so easy to be forgotten I experienced the battle between the two. My features desire to be mysterious but my consciousness craves to be seen. How can the two even co-exist? The ability to appear and disappear to my liking was my super-power but I made it my job to be-friend everyone that even in my time of isolation I was always pointed out.

This internal conflict, is a rich ground for exploring phenomenology, the study of experience from a first-person point of view. Phenomenology delves into the structures of consciousness, mind, embodiment, identities, and memories, offering a profound lens through which to understand this paradox.

Consciousness and the Desire to Be Seen:

At the heart of phenomenology is the concept of intentionality, the idea that consciousness is always about something. My consciousness, with its craving to be seen, directs itself outward, seeking validation on recognition. This desire is not merely a superficial need for attention but a deeper yearning for acknowledgement of my existence and experiences.

The Mind’s Dual Nature:

The mind, in its complexity, harbors both the desire for visibility and the comfort of invisibility. This duality can be understood through the phenomenological concept of “neoma” and “neosis”– the content of a thought and the act of thinking itself. My neoma, the content of my desire to be seen, is in the constant tension with my neosis, the act of withdrawing into invisibility. This interplays shapes my identity and how I navigate the world.

Memories and Past Experiences:

My past experiences and memories are integral to my sense of self. It informs my present consciousness and influences my future actions. Phenomenology views memories not as static snapshots but as dynamic, lived experiences that continue to evolve. My memories of seeking and avoiding attention are not just recollections but active components of my current identity, influencing how I navigate the tension between visibility and invisibility.

Conclusion:

The paradox of wanting to be seen and unseen is a deeply human experience, one that phenomenology helps me to understand in all its complexity. By examining the structures of consciousness, mind, embodiment, identities, and memories, I can gain insight into this internal conflict and find ways to navigate it more harmoniously. ——————————– In the end, the coexistence of these desires is not a contradiction but a testament to the richness of human experience. It is through this lens that I can appreciate the beauty of my multifaceted self and the intricate dance between visibility and invisibility.

-SantanaA

Content Warning: Mentions of nudity, genitals, and explicitly sexual content

My room is a mess.

Clothes are strewn haphazardly across the floor, my navy-blue comforter crumpled from where I have twisted it in and around my fingers from stress. In front of my mirror sits a make-up bag, unzipped and spilling products; mascara, blush, and eyeliner prepped and ready to highlight the “right” features of my face. Before that, though, I have to choose an outfit. And by God is it a puzzle, and I am merely piecing the corners together.

Crop-tops, skirts, lingerie, fishnets- there’s too much to choose from, and too many checkboxes to write off. Is my cleavage showing? Are my eyes wide and innocent, and can I peek up through my lashes with the mascara I’ll be putting on? If I turn around, do the bottoms of my butt cheeks show in the teasing way I want it to?

Modest clothes are always left behind in the closet. I wring my lip in worry, staring at the baggy jeans I have, before shutting the drawers again and turning back to the low-rise shorts that barely cover anything. A green floral lacy bra peeks out of the hoodie I throw on to avoid stares. In the end, I am forcing myself to hype myself up with courage, taking a deep breath and leaving my room to go and meet him.

Him has referred to too many people for my liking. People who leave too soon, for reasons unbeknownst to me. And in most of these cases, I’ve come back feeling like a shell of myself. My muscles are sore, I have bags under my eyes, and there’s this pit in my stomach that grows with each occurrence. It gnaws at me whenever I opt to wear a pretty white tank top and a brown miniskirt because he asked me to. It sits, heavy and festering, when I subconsciously raise the pitch in my voice to appear kinder, softer, more lovely, because he’d get hard to it. And it feeds on my insecurities, when I push myself more onto him, onto this image of me basking in the golden sunlight, with nothing on but my femininity. All for him.

If I showed up in sweatpants and a black compression shirt like the guys at the gym do, would they still want me? If, instead of a miniskirt and a lacy bra, I showed up in boxers and a binding sports bra, would they still kiss me as if I was the last person on Earth? What about if I had a dick? Would they be disgusted when they pulled down my pants and saw something else other than folds? When they ask to take off my top, what if instead of breasts they saw the smooth skin of my chest? Would it change anything?

I would grapple, and still struggle, with these thoughts constantly. As a gender-fluid person who is assigned female at birth, every time someone took me to bed, I couldn’t help but wonder if the presentation of my femininity was what drew people in. More importantly, I couldn’t help but wonder about the consequences that would result in me presenting anything other than feminine.

I hid these questions in pigtails and false eyelashes and lip gloss. I tried not to think about showing up to a date with him in cargo pants and an oversized graphic tee, with my hair falling into my eyes because its unkempt. He would not like that. I knew that from experience. He might feel weird about being seen with someone so non-feminine. Or even worse, feel threatened at my masculine presentation. And you know, as I would sit in his lap and let him run his hands through my hair, he would tell me that whatever was his, was mine. I didn’t know that sentiment also pertained to his view of my body shaping my view of my body. That his love for femininity would become my love for pleasing him.

Those days are recent. Passed and done and over with, but recent nonetheless. I still am coming to terms with regarding my body as a loved one I take care of, instead of property to rent and dispose of at someone’s leisure. And one day, I will find someone who understands what it means to be attracted to a person rather than a body. That there is more to me than my curves: there is also the messiness of my hair when I wake up, and the low register of my voice when I’m ordering coffee. No longer is my body theirs. The purposeful wall of separation I’ve created between my body and I will turn into a simple breath of air one day, and I am excited to experience it.

Sexy to Someone – Clairo

For as long as I can remember, every summer my large extended family migrates upstate to north country New York to spend time with each other at my grandmother’s house on Lake Champlain. The house itself is falling apart, and every year the men of the family take it upon themselves to fix up a new part of the cabin in order to occupy themselves while the women spend time shopping and cooking enough for twenty five people, while the kids spend the day exploring the area and playing in the lake.

Growing up, aside from playing mermaids at the beach and following my older cousins around, I was expected to help sweep the sandy house every day, set up the grown ups and kids tables for dinner, and to clean up afterwards while the adults got themselves something to drink. While my parents tried to get the boys of the household to do the same, they tended to get away with doing less than the girls of the family, using the excuse that they had spent the day helping (or watching, as some of my cousins argued) their dads with that year’s construction project. Nonetheless, that’s how summers were organized for my family, and as I grew older, cut my hair shorter, and started wearing more masculine clothes, I got into the swing of helping inside the house while my brother helped outside of it.

[Image: Lake Champlain as seen from a cove, a sailboat and island are seen off the coast, with mountains on the other side of the lake seen off in the distance]

The summer I was 20 years old, my family once more made the trek upstate. This summer was particularly notable because I hadn’t been able to make it the past few years, meaning this was the first time I spent my summer in New York after socially and medically transitioning. I was expecting to spend my first day back following my cousins around and gossiping before heading back to the house to help my mom and aunts cook dinner. But before I could run off, one of my uncles handed me an armful of plywood and told me to haul it over to my grandmother’s porch. I ended up spending the day with my uncles and cousins disassembling the porch while my grandma sat in her adirondack chair and filled out her crossword puzzle with the help of my mom. I didn’t mind, despite not knowing the details regarding how to disassemble a porch, this was my family’s way of accepting me as a man, and therefore expecting me to fulfill certain duties as a man.  

However, as the sun started to set, and my aunts began making food for the family, I was called into the kitchen to help out with dinner. I am not a confrontational man, and didn’t want to make a fuss, so despite my achy and bruised body, I made my way into the kitchen to help, while my uncles sat in the living room to talk, and my cousins ran off to the beach. I found it interesting that despite my family’s acceptance of me as a man, I was still expected to fulfill the responsibilities that came with being raised and socialized as a girl. 

While this is one of the more notable times I recognized this happening, it was far from the only time in my life I’d been expected to be a man, after having been raised a girl.