“I was seven, Wearing play clothes, When he decided, I was his experiment I was seven, Playing in my home, When he decided to Claim my innocence”
“I was eight, Wearing a black shirt, And pj pants with pink stars When it all started I was eight, In the trusting lap Of my uncle, Too young to question, Too young to debate”
“I was three, Or possibly five, When it became, A monthly encounter, I think I was three, Sometimes in a sundress, Others in pajamas, When he decided He had the right to me”
This poem was inspired by an exhibit called What Were You Wearing. The title of the exhibit is a question commonly asked to victims of rape/sexual assault, implying that what happened to them was somehow their own fault. The exhibit proves that clothing is irrelevant when it comes to sexual assault, and that we should stop victim-blaming by asking this question.
Dancing is both an art form and a sport. It is one of the few places where the mind body connection is joined and exhibited in a such a way that it can be seen as tangible. There is beauty in watching a piece, its emotions and story, be fully embraced in this more visual way. There is also beauty in being able to commit to the act of dancing, training the body in a way where one can escape the mind and rely solely on the body to perform as it has been practiced. The experience of dancing can be further nuanced depending on the circumstances in which the action is taking place. In the case of dancing competitively, there is the need to have the physical body look and move a particular way and if the situation calls for it a reliance on the team and the desire to feel like a full accepted member for which the utmost requirement, in my experience, has often been felt to be the amount of skill one possesses.
As someone who has been training in dance since the 1st grade, and allegedly dancing well before then, my experience with the art has been multifaceted. When my skill-level increased to the point of notice to others (around my last year of middle school) I was offered positions to teach a few classes weekly for my dance school. It was during this time that I finally felt the most included by my peers and their parents. Rather than commenting on the shortcomings of any rehearsal, parents would instead exchange niceties. I was able to exchange practice questions and answers with my peers as they began approaching me in a way they had not before. As the chubby, short girl, I was finally able to prove that I belonged in a space that revolved around bodies, despite mine not being of an “acceptable type”. Such dynamics can, in many cases including my own, a dual judgement first from the other players/teammates and their respective communities as well as judgement from the internal self about the internal self which can have long lasting impacts on self-esteem and the mental self.
The point of team sports like this can and should be to have fun, create community and experience movement in a healthy way. However, in spaces where the emphasis is placed first most on the body and the specific ways in which it moves, it can be difficult for bodies that do not conform to social expectations to achieve the same community experience.
Who am I? I, I’m my thoughts, My dreams, My aspirations. I’m my name, My looks, My imagination. That’s what I see, When I stare, Into my reflection.
My reflection, Ripples in the river of life, The shallow, Shallow river of life. To the world, I am my reflection: I am only what the world sees, Only what the world decides I am. My body is but a vessel; Why must the world ignore me, But acknowledge the vessel?!
Books, merely objects Are still judged By only their covers, So who am I to demand They not judge me By only what they can see. The inside of a book Is where the value lies But most people don’t bother; It’s easier to judge From the outside
My body is a part of me, It embodies my soul My personality, But it is not all I am. I am not my scars, My disability, I am me, A completely separate entity. I, Me, Not just what you see
First it has to be acknowledged that there is no one “look” and everyone perceives labels to mean different things. How one styles their clothing is going to reflect what they think looks good on them and expresses themselves accurately. Everyone has a unique perspective that has been shaped by their experiences. Just because I perceive these things as gender neutral does not mean everyone does and it should also not be assumed that wearing any style associated with gender neutral or gender non-conforming makes someone gender-non-conforming. To that end, wearing or dressing in a way that might convey a gender (such as wearing more masculine or feminine clothing) does not mean that someone identifies as how you are perceiving them. As tik toker kissmychaase put it “Even when I’m fem I’m still a them.” meaning even if this person dresses feminine they still go by they/them pronouns and that should be respected.
The clothes, shoes and accessories we put on our bodies says a lot about who we are and deeply influences how others interact with us. In “not just the reflexive reflex” by Mary Kosut and Lisa Jean Moore clothing and accessories are described as part of an identity-kit. When this identity-kit is stripped away it takes a chunk of someone’s individualism and uniqueness. Clothing is important, it allows self expression and can create comfort.
Fashion is outfits (clothing and accessories) and make up that project one’s belonging to a certain group. There are many types of Fashion. All of it is subjective and while some outfits are easier to deem as part of a subculture, others are harder to identify or explain. Some examples of fashion subcultures are Goth, Lolita, Hipster and so many more.
Gender neutral fashion is one of the most extensive groups of fashion. Mostly because it encapsulates so many other subcultures and can drastically change with each one. Each subculture, country and group of people are going to have another perception of gender and normal, and with that the idea of gender non-conforming changes.
America and many other parts of the world live in a gender binary, the perpetuation that there are only two genders male and female and someone is either part of one or the other. In Western society things like skirts, frills, lighter colors and dresses are considered feminine and associated with women. While simpler colors, pants, collared shirts, and suits are considered masculine and associated with men.
Gender neutral fashion usually aims to make it unclear what someone’s gender is, this can include techniques such as baggy or more rectangular clothes to hide body shapes, underwear like boxer briefs which can work for anyone, and culottes which can be described as pants that are flowy enough to also look like a skirt.
Here is an article with some brands and examples of gender neutral fashion :
and here is one of the pictures that stood out to me
Also worth noting gender and pronouns are not the same thing, gender neutral, genderqueer, genderfluid are all labels and can only be applied if the individual chooses to apply them themselves. No one gets to say “oh you use [some set of pronouns] you must be [this gender]” and vice versa. No one has to have a label and you can also have multiple labels. They are just sets of words to help unify groups of people.
And make looking for clothes easier (mostly joking).
Emotional labor is the act of “regulating or managing emotional expressions with others as part of one’s professional work role”. For the context of this blog post, I will also be referencing emotional work as well, which is the role people use in any social context. RANT: Every post, YouTube video, and link that I looked at typically focused on the emphasis of how women have been the brute focus of emotional work and often, labor. WHAT ABOUT THE MEN?! BLOG: Ideally, men have been the focus, but in our current generation, I am starting to wonder if men are becoming the scapegoat for blame. There are good and bad things to this, but I can only share my experiences. From growing up in a household as an adopted child to working in hospitality at some of the best hotels in the Houston area, to coming home and being expected to “clean up everyone else’s shit” (one of my ex’s fathers literally told me this and suggested I work for some type of plumbing company) to experiencing my own version of emotional labor is…exhausting. As a recommendation, if you’re dealing with being the emotional laborer of your family or workplace, I suggest counseling, good friends, hobbies, and money. Now that I have your attention, the emphasis on emotional labor during this period of the class was for women. Honestly, I love that. Often, the strongest women in my life have carried the emotional labor of EVERYONE in the family. My Grandmother (capital G, because she truly is a G), and my Aunt (who raised me, God bless her soul) have not only raised multiple members of the family but have guided others and influenced people for generations to come. I can endlessly explain what they have done for everyone, including my impaired brother (this falls into the disability category of the past few weeks, but I decided to not go in-depth with these issues and instead focus on emotional labor…anyway) My Grandmother has done amazing things as a widowed woman, and when my grandfather was alive, what I recall of him, he was a remarkable man, veteran, and overall generally good person. In order for him to be that he needed to have an even stronger woman there to not only support him, but to motivate and guide him. We so often focus on a certain gender, but I think its vital to focus and include everyone because we cannot physically do it all on our own – even if social media suggests that we do. When it comes to emotional labor for myself, as an older male, I grew up with the family vibe of “you want it? Do it yourself” This mindset has its own version of toxic masculinity and it worked for a time, but as I have grown older and started practicing gratitude, meditation, and fitness, I have learned that kindness is the key to growing. However, that is also the curse of being easily manipulated and being the scapegoat out of a lack of emotion – if you allow yourself to be. When working as a hotel supervisor, I found myself taking on the emotional verbal abuse of people that travelled so far and attempted to check in, but one minor inconvenience (Well…one time there was a major inconvenience, we sold out and by the time they got there…the people didn’t have a room… and they were diamond members which is equivalent to being a traveling version of Karen) set them over the top, and I had to apologize profusely, make up for their issues by giving them a free nights stay at another hotel, etc… all while keeping a smile on my face. So dumb, but it was vital in learning how to maneuver around people when they are angry and teaching myself how to stay calm in the face of disappointment. That’s an invaluable trait and lessons/memories that I am grateful for. I don’t know, I am a believer in the idea that everything happens for a reason. Maybe I should allow myself to be the gatekeeper of my own “shit”, to be more selfish and selfless at the same time, and to lack the attempt to understand everything and everyone around me but I cant do that shrug. In essence, I think all of us must have some type of role in emotional labor, but please, don’t forget to take care of your mental, physical, and financial well-being. Your family, friends, and pets will thank you for it. (I will always choose to be kind and thank you to all of the people in my life, wouldn’t be me without YOU).
There’s a struggle at the very heart of my experience as a trans person. The struggle of trying to navigate a society that heavily reinforces the gender binary in ways that most cis people don’t even think about, while also trying to do away with this outdated notion. A prevailing notion on how one does gender is through their performance. Our appearance & the way we use our body signify to others what gender we are. There is nothing in one’s very nature that makes her a girl, it is how she’s been taught a girl looks & behaves that determines her performance as such. I’ve discussed gender in the abstract, but how does it apply to me? How do I experience gender? Well, I am a demigirl, an identity within the non-binary umbrella where I am a girl, but also partially outside the gender binary. Despite this, in circumstances where I have to interact with mostly cishet people, I desire, but do not achieve, to present as femme as possible, to only be seen as a girl, as I don’t trust the general society to grasp that nuance. If someone even for a fraction of a second thinks that I’m a guy, it’ll create gender dysphoria. So if I’m basically trying to present as a girl, this in a way could be perpetuating the gender binary, by erasing the non-binary aspect of my identity in my presentation. But then how does one present as non-binary? There is a misconception that non-binary inherently means androgynous, because you are neither a boy nor a girl, you must not lean towards looking like either. This just creates a gender trinary, which I feel like is only an improvement from the gender binary in superficial ways. It allows for the expansion of gender in so far as it doesn’t mess with the existing structure too much. In other words, as long as it doesn’t challenge the patriarchy. But then, how do I do my part in transforming society such that the general notions of gender match how diverse it actually is? The only satisfactory answer I’ve been able to come up with is for others to be educated about the nuances of gender. After all, I don’t feel that same pressure in queer, especially trans, spaces. In those circumstances I know I’m around people who have the same or similar enough experience & knowledge of gender that I don’t feel obligated to live up to gendered pressures that are thrust upon me. When I’d go visit my ex-boyfriend, or my ex-girlfriend before that, who are both trans, I knew it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t feel up to looking as femme as I could manage, as they’d still see me as the gender I am. So through my experience with other trans people I know it is possible to live in a society that doesn’t require strict adherence to gendered stereotypes. But I can’t really give a presentation on gender to every passerby on the street, so all I can really do is wait, & until then, hope I’m seen as a girl.
trigger warnings: body dysmorphia, suicide, mentions of disordered eating, illness
If you remember what your body looks like, I think you’re one of the lucky ones. If you don’t, then I’m not so glad this is what we have in common. Coming from an older West Indian family, my body was always a discussion. No matter how many soccer practices I showed up to, salads I ate, nor how well I did in P.E. class, whenever an aunt approached me it was always “You’ve gotten bigger!” Even throughout my adulthood my body has gotten bigger. I know I’m big, but I wish they knew that I didn’t need to be reminded every second of my life.
I think it’s important to note that I wasn’t always fat, but I still struggled with food and dieting at a young age. Having to deal with cholesterol issues during elementary school was the start of my long, relentless relationship with food. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office with my uncle, his eyes glazed over, listening to every word my pediatrician said. My relationship with food not only originates in this moment, but also with my family’s history of heart disease, diabetes, and many other debilitating diseases. By the time I reached high school, my uncle had a coronary angioplasty, stent insertion, triple bypass heart surgery, and several other surgeries for various kinds of cancer. He never wanted me to suffer like he did.
For as long as I can remember, my uncle micro-managed everything that graced my plate. There were even times we fought at the dinner table so he could see whatever takeout I’d brought home. The stress of bringing home any form of food that he would scrutinize started to transfer into other aspects of my life. In middle school I discovered how uncomfortable it made me feel to eat in public spaces. In high school I even went as far as to become the library aide so I could escape the daunting task of consuming food in the adolescent-filled cafeteria and tried my best to retreat back to the library every lunch break. The library was my safe haven, a place of structure for the moments where I felt the most vulnerable. This is still a habit I have today, I always look for security.
It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started my first romantic relationship. He was beautiful, smart, and even had a piercing on one ear that was the jackpot of my teenage girl fantasies. Being with him was the first time someone told me I was pretty. For someone that had only dreamed of having a boyfriend, that meant the world to me. I naively thought that feeling would last forever. As the pandemic raged on, and quarantine forced us into our isolated nests, there became an evident strain on our relationship. Still, we continued to stay with each other. I never noticed when his demeanor changed or that I couldn’t fit into half of my jeans anymore, or even that I was getting bigger than him. I made a huge mistake. You know that horrible mistake people make when they get lost in a relationship because they already have constant bodily validation? Yeah, that one. I gained the “happy weight”, I let myself go. People hate happy weight because being fat makes you feel empty and alone after a relationship. Nobody thinks that you’re attractive anymore and it feels like now there’s this huge responsibility that you have to get back to when you were skinnier. I fucked up.
Coming out of that relationship I became extremely depressed. I moved back in with my family, back to a space I never felt secure in. Endless nights spent scrolling through Tinder, a space where your body is always being perceived, felt completely invalidating. I was a completely different person. And I didn’t feel that way because I had loved and learned valuable lessons about navigating relationships, but it was because I was fat. Everytime I looked into the mirror, a devil appeared on my shoulder pointing out every flaw on my now monstrous body. It’s like my ego had turned against me.
I didn’t want to live in my body anymore. I thought I was nothing without the comfort of another person telling me I was good enough. I can’t say that I never feel that way today, but I’ve worked on it. I’m not about to go on a spiel about how much it matters to love yourself, nor about how self-love is a journey and not a destination… but would love really be worth it if it meant that I had to be skinny, athletic, or fit any of the aesthetic qualities guys on dating apps wanted? Probably not. But I want to be better, because I know that the moments in between these feelings of doubt and despair are much more important than these superficial views of my body. Though, how I never saw myself changing is still a phenomena to me.
In the end, I’m still trying to upward spiral out of this feeling called body dysmorphia.
For years, I have heard everything under the sun when it comes to being one of the “only’s” in my group. As an adopted and mixed biracial child (27-year-old kid at heart currently), who lived in the mountains of Maryland as a teenager, coming to grips with how the world might view me and my curly-headed naivety was rather unnerving. I came to understand the reference of being the token black friend that allowed for the N-word pass or in other cases, being the only black friend in the class, group, seminar, etc. These experiences heavily shaped my perception of what it means to deal with race.
Personally, I am under the belief that Racism and Phenomenology go together and proclaiming to not see racism or ignoring the effects of racism on our current/past generation(s) is just downright sad. Phenomenology, or in my opinion, the study of the first-person point of view, can contextually be used to define how one person may “feel” in multiple facets of life. Regarding racism, are we to ignore any subject or mention of race, because it did not directly relate to our own lives? Or is race completely made up, and another reason for people to divide themselves from another individual or group?
The biggest change in my feelings of being different, and knowing that I was one of the only’s, came to me when I first heard the N-word, with a harsh r, referenced by a classmate in 9th grade. While it wasn’t said to me directly, it made me immediately focus on the issues behind the people who cannot or will not, for the lack of a better term, filter between what is racist and what may just be an awkward-ass conversation. Being raised within a school that was predominately 95% white was different, but fitting in and being myself was never an issue for me. Hearing the term, “I’m not racist, I have a black friend!” or “you’re not a black person, you’re white” was all predicated-on ignorance and a lack of socialization. I didn’t understand at the time, the importance that we placed on color, but I know what I experienced can be directly linked to misguided views and the sum of young adulthood. Looking back, it’s comedy. Which leads to my understanding of what phenomenology is. Color me shocked after spending at least – 30 minutes thinking deeply about what this long word could be condensed into, but I think the first-person point of view is a great example of what this study means.
When it comes to my personal experiences with racism and bigotry, I feel as if the instances I experienced as a child paled in comparison to others. While extreme to some, I would classify these lessons as just that – lessons. I fall somewhere beneath the idea of creating your own destiny and acknowledging the effects that racism may have had on our entire society. Personally, these instances did not break me and made me even stronger. Hell, now that I am slightly older and have experienced a gumbo-sized stew of diversity in Texas, race means nothing to me. We’re all different and accepting people as different is the key.
As a child, I “felt” as if what I experienced was profoundly true. Even if I was the black friend, call it racist or not, what did that other person feel when they muttered the N-word? If it was of no malice, it’s hard for me to take that comment personally. If I meet someone from a completely different location, that had a different lifestyle than I do, how can I not look at them and wonder where their family tree stems from and how that influenced them today? Asking these questions and looking deeper could 1000 percent be me overthinking, but I think that’s exactly what the study of the phenomena is; putting yourself in another person’s perspective and “feeling” (or at least attempting to understand) why they feel the way they do. Hoping for awareness, I have faith that talking and sharing our experiences as a society can aid in the attempt to ensure blatant racism does not continue to effect generations to come.
Content Warning: While this post is a mostly humorous description of how music can be a very nostalgic experience, I do talk about thoughts of mortality and fear of aging, so please take note if that affects you!
Now that I’m on the brink of 20, growing old has become such a terrifying feeling…Woah woah, before you click off this post, scoffing at how someone so young could possibly be feeling something as aging so profoundly, hear me out!! Please?
Luckily, my joints aren’t failing me yet, but every now and then I’m struck by a sinking feeling that my childhood is coming to an end, if it hasn’t already. A year like 2012, which feels like yesterday in my mind, was actually ages ago. Back then, ten-year old me was distressed over some cataclysmic end of the world prophesied by an ancient Mayan calendar and ingrained into my mind by the science-fiction movie 2012. Nine years later, I’d argue that I am living during the beginning of the end of the world: routinely chipping away at Blackboard response posts and humanities readings while my country is crumbling, my community is dying, and the climate is rapidly atrophying. And you’re telling me that once I graduate, I’mexpected to live out the rest of my days spent working for the privilege to rest and retire? My inner child yearns for more.
Unruly Bodies 