Burping in Public: Lessons From Mom on Femininity
My mom got a kick out of burping in public, refusing to talk in her “inside voice” as she leaned over to let one rip. She could guzzle down a six-pack better than any college frat boy, and had no problem flipping someone off. Her idea of dressing up was picking out one of her many coveted sweatsuits and a pair of matching sneakers.
Growing up, there was never any strands of pearls or lace gloves for me to try on. No heels for my little feet to swim in and wobble around our apartment, striking a pose. I was never taught not to chew with my mouth open — something my mom literally did during every meal before passing out for a nap. I wasn’t told to cross my legs at the ankle or that cursing would make me appear less ladylike. There wasn’t a range of red, pink, and nude-colored lipsticks on her dresser; just one berry shade that she wore every single day. And my only interaction with that lipstick was smearing it on our living room walls and deeming it art.
Essentially, my mom was in no way what one would call a “girly girl.” So when I lost her, it felt like I also lost the chance to “learn” how to be a woman. The odd thing about losing your mother at the age of 18 is that you’re not a child, but you’re certainly not an adult. I was old enough to vote, open a bank account in my own name, and even drink in certain Canadian provinces. But essentially, I was still a child who had to grow up over night.
I had to learn hard lessons about life on my own. That’s not to say I didn’t have mentors (and plenty of self-help books) along the way, but that solid foundation was gone while I grew into womanhood. Plus, my mom wasn’t very maternal — and I’m paying the price for that now via therapy bills — but ten years of navigating the ups and downs of grief has also taught me a lot about acceptance.
I’ll never get to sit around and drink wine with my mom or watch sappy films on Netflix. She’ll never zip up the back of the perfect bridal gown we find together, then cry when I tell her I prefer cats over children. We’ll never get to analyze Beyonce’s Lemonade album over and over while on a flight to a new country. There will be no manicures, no matching tattoos that we’ll regret in the morning, no #MotherDaughterDate hashtags. I can never ask how she survived years of mansplaining in the office in her male-dominated field, or if she ever questioned her place in the world. I’ll never get to ask her if she ever ended a friendship or about the first guy who broke her heart. I’ll never be able to tease her about gray hairs or laugh about that one time I found her dildo in her closet and never told her.
We’ll never trade secrets like childhood best friends, and I’ll never get to tell her that I forgive her for not being the perfect mom or the perfect woman — because that doesn’t exist.
I’ve realized now that beyond the superficial things I thought made you feminine are qualities like empathy, intuition, and humility. It’s helping others stay afloat when they’re drowning. It’s both nurturing and challenging relationships with people, and showing vulnerability even when I’m scared and think I have everything to lose and nothing to gain. It’s confidence. Forgiveness. Honesty. Sensuality. Collaboration. Patience. Creativity. Power. It’s trusting my own voice and making my mark on the world. It’s looking in the mirror and smiling at what I see reflected back at me. It’s embracing flaws and denouncing skewed views of perfection. Fumbling my way through my Down Dog during yoga, chipped nail polish, hair that defies gravity…all of it.
It’s knowing I’m worthy and have always been enough. This is what my femininity means to me.
I still feel like a clown when I put on red lipstick, it’s a spectacle whenever I do wear a skirt, and I will always choose a pair of dingy Converse over strappy stilettos. Seriously, why some people choose to wear heels by choice is a never-ending conundrum to me, but I will continue to be self-sufficient and face the world with a fresh set of eyes. I’ll accept that there is no guidebook or secret to figuring it all out. I’m just discovering myself every day; and every day, I am a different woman than before.
So, in the end, I guess femininity is still a word I can’t spell without the help of autocorrect. But it’s also one I’m defining for myself no matter what type of woman I am, what I choose for my own life, or how many pairs of flats are in my closet.
My mom’s femininity was hers. Mine is mine. And even in death, she continues to teach me about life.
