Why You and I Should Take Up More Space
Out of this imaginary cage
The stranger I had just met seconds ago stared me down like he was ready to report me to security — and, to my dismay, he did.
“She touched my bag!” the man said to the two guards on standby while pointing in my direction. He proceeded to recount my crime in both English and French, launching into a full lecture on why nobody should ever pull a stunt like mine:
Standing there.
It had been a long day of traveling for Hans (my fiancé), and me. We were heading to Brussels all the way from Perpignan, a down-to-earth French city near the border of Spain.
When we finally arrived in the capital city ten hours later, Brussels-Central Station was packed to the brim — it was rush hour, after all. We walked toward the elevator and I, barely 157 cm (5’2), made sure not to cut in front of anyone.
As always, I was hyper-aware of my body: where I was standing, whether I was touching someone else, and if I was in somebody else’s way.
But shit happens, sometimes.
The way to the elevator was a bottleneck, so passengers naturally competed in silence to get into the line first. As I stopped walking to avoid bumping into the person in front of me, my suitcase gently brushed against a man’s plastic bag that he was carrying.
He started with, ‘Please don’t touch my stuff,’ to which I responded with an apology. It didn’t seem to be enough, however, because the man started telling me over and over again not to touch his bag. I wasn’t even near him after the initial bump.
I kept apologizing until he started complaining to the security as I watched in horror. Now in defense mode, I shouted, ‘It was an accident!’ I made sure the guards could hear me.
It took a lot out of me to walk away because I felt terrible — terrible for taking up his space.
I went to dinner with Hans that night while ruminating about the incident.
When my noodles with 7 different meats failed to cheer me up, I told him how upset I was. “All this time, I’m always super conscious about getting out of everyone’s way. The last thing I want to be is an inconvenience!” I told him. “The one time I fucked up a little, I got yelled at.”
Unsure of the solution, I said to him that I would be even more careful about where I stood.
It’s a bit tricky to figure out the root cause of this “quirk” of mine. As far as I can remember, I’m almost always trying to make myself small, both literally and figuratively.
I’d wait to talk until after everyone else had finished — but I wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing myself too much either, so I’d say, ‘What about you?’ almost immediately to shift the attention away from me. I’d also ask thousands of follow-up questions, even if the effort wasn’t reciprocated.
I couldn’t be further away from being the main character because I was always one of the extras — an accessory or a side plot. I’m Sookie St. James — or Lane Kim.
If I had to pinpoint one fateful moment that led me to this issue, it would be that one time I went shopping at Abercrombie in 2007.
I was 17 and in downtown Santa Barbara by myself. Completely unaware of the concept of saving, I planned on splurging at the overpriced store after receiving my monthly allowance. I decided on a few new tops and then waited patiently in line for my turn to pay.
The cashier was your typical Abercrombie staff circa 2007/2008 — blonde, blue eyes, intimidatingly beautiful. He seemed friendly and cheery to the person in front of me, so no red flag at this point.
Things took a 180-degree turn as soon as he saw me in front of him — he immediately looked away. I stood there, confused, looking about 14 thanks to my Asian genes, while he stared at the literal wall. It took me a minute to finally say I was ready to pay.
He still refused to look me in the eye when he finally scanned my items. I had to look at the little monitor to find out how much I owed because he didn’t say a word to me.
I quickly paid to get the hell out of there. I felt incredibly hurt. On the bus back home, I started questioning everything.
Whenever I see an open space, like a field or even runways at the airport, I feel relieved and free. It used to confuse me, but now I think I know why.
Open space gives me the illusion of release.
Whenever I choose to make myself small, I deliberately lock myself inside an imaginary cage. I establish strict rules and boundaries that apply exclusively to me. By preventing myself from taking up space, I sacrifice my own freedom in the hope that everyone else feels more comfortable because of it.
No wonder, I’m almost always anxious — I’m in a pretend cage while everyone else roams free.
For the last month or so, I’ve started reminding myself not to do this anymore. I’ve been caught in this cycle since I was 17, so I can only afford baby steps. It looks like this: whenever I’m grocery shopping, I pay less attention to my surroundings. That doesn’t mean I bump into people left and right, though.
I simply stop feeling the need to hurry up and move out of the way when someone else is looking at the same item.
I keep reminding myself that taking up space doesn’t mean others have less. Taking up space gives me the same freedom granted to those around me. This includes the freedom to express myself and the freedom to simply exist.
Of course, there are still going to be assholes out there in the wild — no doubt about it; I met one in Abercrombie.
But those who are bothered by the mere fact that I exist are precisely the people who shouldn’t dictate the boundaries of my existence.
