thirteen– I wanted to be kate moss, minus the cocaine, to be skinny.
Under the presumption of a collective understanding that it is not difficult to discern the harsh and unfortunate truths of the world, I have come to understand a certain category of truths. In that regard, as a girl. And in this regard, as a woman.
June, 2009.
I know these from the magazines I would pick up at the store to read in my bathtub at 9 years old and feel like a grown woman. Although, how womanly, mature, and adultlike is celebrity gossip? It had the utmost unwavering importance to the developing mind of a wanna-be woman, a 9 year old girl. Having lined the small, narrow register aisle, my eyes would race across the glossy covers, a celebrity is spotted on vacation on the one that catches my eyes. Positioned under the photo of a bikini clad woman wading into ocean water, is a strikingly large and yellow caption: WEIGHT GAIN? CELLULITE ALERT! This told me exactly what it meant to be a woman: skinny.
I know these after my fourth grade class reconvened post ‘sex-ed’. We were divided. Perhaps, the first acknowledgement of separation. The boys went with the male gym teachers, the girls with woman school nurses. A TV propped up on a plastic cart was wheeled into the yellow wallpaper classroom. Uniformly, one by one going out the door, a white deodorant stick which smelled of musty roses was shoved in our fourth grade girl hands. I did not know what a clit was, or where, I did not know My own Body. I just knew there would be blood and I would have to wear pads. Maybe tampons, but who wants to shove plastic up their vaginal canal?
I know these from the man who whistled at me when I was 11, as I was running across the street, exiting my middle school, from his car, and became disgruntled when I gave him the bird. I had just barely been introduced to the concept of the first wave feminist movement, astonished by the pink tax. That was the earliest recalled attempt at dismantling my at-that-time lived reality of this category of truths.
I know these waking up the day after getting my period at 12.
6:30 in the morning, I ran to my mom downstairs. My voice quivers, I AM STILL BLEEDING!
“Periods don’t just last one day” were the words that came out of her mouth, while embracing me as my tears broke on her shirt.
I know these reblogging romanticized aesthetic tumblr posts and photos. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Thirteen year old girl run eating disorder blogs. The Russian Gymnast Diet. Full of starvation tips and How To’s on the secrecy of the act. Dubbed chic. thirteen– I wanted to be kate moss, minus the cocaine, to be skinny.
December, 2015.
I knew these as my desire grew to fit into a pair of American Apparel jeans. My waist size had been twenty-five. My aunt unknowingly always made my thought-to-be dream come true, spending a weekend in the East Village with her meant a short walk to the SoHo store. Crying in the mirror when I did not fit into those ninety-dollar Mom Jeans was not my dream. This told me exactly what it meant to be a woman: skinny. My waist size had been twenty-five.
I know these as the hand that slithered up my skirt sitting across from a Grown man, Freshly 17 on my break as a diner hostess. Dry heaving and choking on tears in the bathroom stall, the cops were called. He continued to work there. My first time in the backseat of a patrol car, escorted to the station at the violation of my body by the hands of a Grown man, one whom I worked with.
I know these getting diagnosed with PCOS. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. Sitting legs spread wide, heels in stirrups, feeling like an over-observed animal, the Male Gynecologist told me there is nothing to worry about. I inquired further, what can I expect? How should I handle a cyst popping? How did I develop these? however he informed me at 18 that not much research had been done, so he was unsure. After logging online, he did not lie.
I know these after countless sittings in a fraternity house basement while in college, maybe 20, listening to the conversations of ‘her tits look great’ and ‘I would fuck her,’ or ‘she’s a butter face’ when I am ‘deemed’ ‘chill’ enough to be ‘one of the boys’. Conversations about women’s bodies surrounded the oddly painted coffee table as the geeb was passed around. I was always considered ‘one of the boys’ until one of them decided they wanted to fuck me. I was an “evil bitch” denying them my pussy.
I know these reading Zami, Audre Lorde was eye opening. An introduction to literature written not by white, cisgender, known, powerful, considered talented men. It was hard to come across women written pieces. The intersection between race, gender, and class. The infrastructure of racial bias instilled by institutions no longer preaching, All Men Are Created Equal. This told me exactly what it meant to be a woman, not just of my stature: demoralized. dehumanized.
I know these sleeping at a close college friend’s house, a night finished after movies with a few of the guys and Four Loko, where he forced me to get on top of him, and held me down. I asked him to stop. I cannot tell you what happened after. His fraternity noted me a liar.
I know these presenting at my school’s Colloquium regarding Rear Window, and Laura Mulvey’s male gaze theory. Media perpetuates the desire, the necessity, the capitalization of looking at women. In any capacity. A zoomed in, close up shot following a woman’s ass as she is walking away in a movie scene to a male-centric curated Instagram algorithm of thirst traps. At this point in time, women are looking at men looking at women. What does this tell us? Who is us?
September, 2023.
I know these walking to my apartment in Bushwick. Two men sitting on their stoop whistle at me as I walk by. Quickly, I turn my music off, headphones still in. Bitch, if someone rapes you in the street, I will ignore your screams for help. I go about my day.
I know these as google translations from a foreign uber driver on my ride from Bushwick, between the J gates and J halsey stops, to Greenpoint, the Pencil Factory to be exact. He is asking me if I have a husband. If he treats me well. He tells me I look sexy. I report him, Uber never replies.
I know these through Christine Blasey Ford, a case shared to my graduate course titled Gender and Sexuality in U.S. Policy Formation. Though brave in speaking her truth, the confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court of October 2018 occured, with disregard to his acts of sexual assault. 50-48 Senate vote. Fifty to Forty-Eight.
Under the presumption of a collective understanding that it is not difficult to discern the harsh and unfortunate truths of the world, I have come to understand a certain category of truths. In that regard, as a girl. And in this regard, as a woman.
I know these as the sharing of universal girl experiences. But why? The four year old little girl eating a lollipop in public and being observed by the watchful male eye, the thirteen year old dress coded at school for having shoulders, the nineteen year old who isn’t familiar with her body, the twenty-two year old afraid to speak up about toxicity and trauma, the thirty year old afraid of ageing, worried that she won’t get married or have kids, the fifty year old unable to cover her minimally researched women related illnesses and health expenses.
I know these processing. The emasculation and the concept of insecurity within a male, imposed by societal expectations and lack of educated desire to alter perceptions is Violating. There should be no demand for dominance. My most recent time in the backseat of a patrol car, escorted to the station at the violation of my body by the hands of a Grown man, one whom I was romantically involved with.
September, 2025.
I know these smoking weed with my friend in my tiny, one bedroom apartment, essentially a studio, sitting in a cramped living room, typing away on a shared document of concocted ideas to heal the world, to heal the women we know and don’t. To spread strength to other women. We stick to something we know best. Ourselves, womanhood, and writing.
To discern the harsh and unfortunate truths of the world,
It has to be understood within the capacities of an identity, also to be understood outside the capacity of one’s own limitations.
