Presenting as Myself: On Femininity and the Queer
As my hands rummage through my collection of button-downs, they fall on a periwinkle-colored floral, long-sleeved, with little blue buttons and a loose collar. This is the closest thing in my current wardrobe to how I wish to present, aside from my makeup.
I couldn’t give up my makeup.
Painstakingly, I fit myself into my binder: it will ease my chest dysphoria for the time I have it on, which has led to bad binding habits on my part. I don’t bind with ace bandages or anything like that — I just bind for way too long, until things start to hurt, really.
My hands pass over the floral button-down again…and they continue through my wardrobe, opting for a pink striped one instead. This one is a little bit more form-fitting than I usually wear, but it’s loose enough around the chest that I still wear it sometimes. The only downside is the way it shows off my waistline.
I slip it on, and throw on a pair of jeans. Just plain, boot-cut, blue jeans. And some fancy tennis shoes, of course, with a pair of socks with little squirrels on them. Can’t live without those.
Now it’s time to put on my makeup. I put on my foundation, and my concealer — covering up acne scars and dark circles — and now it’s time for the fun part: eyeshadow. I love eyeshadow. I choose a muted pink, the color of a dead rose, and begin patting it on. I use my eyeshadow as eyeliner as well, choosing a purple of the same tone and winging it out like cat eyes.
Beautiful, I think to myself. I am beautiful.
It’s somewhat forced, but I think it anyway as I put on my purple lip gloss and get ready to head out the door.
“She.” “Her.” “Hers.” “Ma’am.” “Miss.”
Misgendering is an intense disappointment when you have done everything you can to project an image of yourself onto the world, and yet people still see you as something you are not. Many of us go to great lengths not to be misgendered — and for me, giving up my dresses and skirts was one of those.
Ever since I knew what it meant, I have wanted to be what some people would refer to as a “genderfuck”. I wanted to be that person who people argue over what pronouns you should be using. That’s an image I try to cultivate, but it doesn’t work out so well when you have an inclination towards the feminine.
From ages 12 to 13 I would get made fun of for not wearing makeup, and for wearing men’s T-shirts and jeans with DD breasts and a lion’s mane of long hair. Sometimes I wonder if I was more effective of a genderfuck when I wasn’t even trying — not that being made fun of is a good thing, but at least it kept people talking. I still have the bright red pantsuit I wore to the Valentine’s day dance in 7th grade.
These days my hair is cut short (I’m growing it out again) and my wardrobe is filled with “men’s” button-downs (I hate them). I didn’t start enjoying my feminine side until I realized that there’s nothing wrong with being feminine — but I wasn’t a girl, and that continues to confuse people to this day. I’m hoping it will confuse them less after I go on testosterone and get my top surgery, though that will probably just get me taken as a boy, in all honesty.
My gender is constantly pulled in what many would consider two different directions — the desire for a “masculine” body, and the desire for “feminine” dress. But why do these have to be irreconcilable? To answer it simply, they’re not. Testosterone means washing my face more often and making sure I get a close shave so my makeup takes — but that doesn’t mean that I can’t have both.
It’s queer, but it’s not bad. It can be dangerous, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.
Quite simply, I do not fit into the concept of “gender”. I am an outcast from it, a stranger in a foreign land. My gender is complex in the simplest way it possibly could be, and yet simple in the most complex of ways as well. It is a feeling. It is an emotion. It is an experience.
Sometimes I dread the fact that I don’t “fit in” to societal ideas. A lot of the time, I wish I wasn’t trans, just because it would be easier. The weight of our lost is a hard one to carry, after all…especially when you don’t know if you’ll be the next name on the list. But alas, life isn’t easy for anyone, I don’t think, and we must prevail.
As a queer, trans, mentally ill person, who has a lot of tough days, I am very fond of the idea that existence is radical. As in, my existence, my life, my breath, the fact that I am here in a world and a society that does not want me to be, is the most radical act I can possibly take. It’s that idea that’s gotten me through many a bad morning, and noon, and night.
If you’re ever feeling bad, just remember that you are here. And that, in and of itself, is an act of defiance, it is an act of activism, it is important, and radical, and everything that makes the world change into one that will accept you. It is an act of love for yourself and for the world.
I’ve always had the most luck defining my gender in colors. Right now, I would define it as being a splotchy gradient of bright orange and light green.
But that, too, is subject to change.
Written by M. Mars, who takes residence over at mmarscreations.com. They use the pronoun “they/them”.
