dear,
it’s been so long since i’ve last written to you.
have you missed me? i’ve missed you. terribly, terribly so. i look in our bathroom mirror (the one that you would let your body draw smiley faces on when the glass fogged from a too-hot shower, remember?) and see you again. we share the same eye-bags and bright, big eyes that are hard to miss. i think that is one of my favorite things about you two.
i wish i could give you a hug right now.
Continue readingOkay, so, no judging, but my suite hasn’t been properly cleaned in weeks. My roommates and I have a schedule that we usually stick to, but this semester has been rough (and that’s an understatement), so things just haven’t been cleaned up as well as they could be.
To give you one idea: our trashcan has been full for a good while. To give you more ideas in way more detail than you’re probably okay with: the couch cover is all scrunched up, stray hair everywhere, there’s leaves and mud that have been tracked in from the outside on our floor, our poor little coffee table has crumbs and juice and tea stains on it- please don’t even get me started on our fridge. Half the time we even forget to turn off the living room lamp at night because we’re so tired… hey! I said no judging.
Today, I got up at 12:30pm and had a good, hard look at our suite and couldn’t stand it anymore. So for two hours I wiped down all the surfaces, took out the trash, cleaned our bathroom, cleaned the microwave, cleaned the sink, vacuumed, watered my roommates’ plants, and all in all just made our living space look more neat. So. Freaking. Tiring. By the end I was ready for a nap, but I knew I couldn’t because I had assignments due at midnight. I kept thinking, no wonder we share the chores; one person doing this all is too much, especially on top of all the homework and projects and midterms we all need to study for.
It reminded me of my mom. My mother juggles so many things at home: doing the laundry, wondering what to cook for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, sweeping the floor, cleaning three bathrooms, the list goes on and on- all while also having a full-time job at work and a full-time job as a mother. So in the end, she has three full-time jobs, one being invisible or reproductive labor around the household. Invisible labor is I think the worst labor someone could be tasked with, because usually we aren’t even tasked with it directly; it’s simply expected of us. And because of that, no one really talks about how taxing this is on our bodies, or how we should be able to take breaks because of this work.
It’s sad and frustrating. I would argue that yes, knowing how to do basic tasks like washing the dishes and doing your laundry is necessary to living, but its such a different story when you’re doing it for more people than yourself. You take on the labor of other people, and it absolutely sucks when those people don’t even acknowledge it. My father is one of them. He expects my mother and I to do things for him, because that’s our “job” in the family hierarchy- and therefore never says please or thank you. I feel like whenever I do the dishes for him, or fold his laundry, he just sees right through me. Pretty annoying, if you ask me.
I’m lucky to live with people who are appreciative of each other’s contributions to our little makeshift household for the year. My roommates thanked me profusely and it felt good to be validated in that sense. I’m also lucky to be able to have a mother so great as my mom, who does so many things all at once. I express my gratitude via words, gifts, and physical affection, and when I’m home (which is rare nowadays, unfortunately), I do my best to help her in whatever way possible to alleviate her stress. Most importantly, I let her know that her labor is visible to me. Visibility is all some people are asking for, after all.
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
Unruly Bodies 