Right Vs. Wrong

I often think about how women are perceived. Being a woman, I feel you learn intricate unspoken rules and ideals about who to be, how to act, and so on and so on. Although, it’s different today, to be what was considered ‘marginalized’. I often think about how different life may be if I was born a man, not because I want to be one, but because I crave the power that it ensues. Men. These men, walking, talking, pointing fingers and directing the traffic of the ill-conceived notions of humanity. They’re like the words that ping you near the end of a ‘classic’ novel. Like the times you feel that everyone is gossiping about you, or your hair, or, god forbid, your outfit.

I grew up in a small suburban town outside of St. Louis. My mother ingrained into my brain to be the girl that boys ‘wanted to marry’, what she meant by this was ‘keep your legs closed.’ Well, I listened, horrified to be a whore, too shy to instigate nearly anything. It’s not that I'm upset about this, but I am curious. Why had she not told my two brothers something similar? She wasn’t worried about how people would perceive them, but it seems she was afraid of that for me. There are many implications in this thought process, especially in a small town, just outside of the misogynistic, slightly racist, St. Louis metropolitan area.

I remember going to my first protest. Nothing absolutely insane happened at the actual protest I was at, but it was 2020 or so when George Floyd died. This ignited a brawl of right vs. wrong, racist vs. not, ethical vs. unethical, all over the US and other areas. I was 16 and decided I would show up. My father was in the hospital at this time, and I was focused on being a better citizen. I educated myself, read, watched, etc. I’ll never forget when my Uncle scrutinized me in front of my family for it, a 16 year old with an ill father in the hospital. I hadn't even wanted to go to the gathering, but my mom insisted I take my little brother while she stayed at the hospital with my father.

The most grotesque observation looking back at this, was that I was unceremoniously grilled, about race, about the economy, about what felt like an entire universe of adulthood I’d never really entered, and no one said a thing. Eight to twelve adults, people I’d known all my life, said not one thing to interject. This girl, alone, afraid, with people who she wanted to believe she could trust, unrighteously in a debate she’d never signed up for.

Time went on. When I got to university, I stayed focused, clear on the path of what I thought was right. I went to school for architecture for a year. I switched majors. I felt like a failure. I had my first kiss at 19 and thought that I was potentially gay it was so bad. His tongue dove into my mouth like I imagine a snake inhaling a small mouse. I fell in and out of love, with older boys, boys my age, young men, and found myself in Australia after a few years. It seemed that everything had fallen into place. I felt I built something for myself. I have done what such a small amount of people does, it seemed. Perhaps I was over-inflated, but I was raw.

I returned to the states. Excited, motivated, and curious of my future. Upon returning that summer, I fell in love again. This was a different, more serious type of ‘love’. A kinship might be more accurate. This young man wanted to marry me. He wanted me to be swept off my feet, like I apparently had swept him off of his. I tried. For four long months I tried. I toyed with the idea of marriage. He was from a good family, he was sure to be rich in a few years, he wanted to give me everything.

I broke his heart, the day after Christmas. I’d wanted to do it in person, but he’d caught on to my texts, unresponsive to do something after our ‘coffee date’, which was, in fact, where I had planned on breaking up with him. He is a bit older than I am, so I expected him to take it, better, one might say. He called me cruel, said I toyed with him. Maybe I did, looking back, but he was trying to force my hand into a box that looked an awful lot like a cage.

I've always despised women for marrying rich. I'm not entirely sure why, maybe I'm jealous, maybe I'm just anti-feminist. There are too many words to keep up with now. Too many 'things' too many 'iterations' too many perspectives. It's trivial, but it's true. Everything is shoved down our throats, especially women, and you're forced to comply. The ramifications of one's identity, purity, allegiance to the man-made game that we call life, to accept your fate as it lies, it's all one ill-fated process that has manipulated us into thinking we are equals. Society has bred a standard of perfection for women, and a standard of boyhood for men.

Men don’t realize it, but they only want free, unhinged women for people to look at like their pet. To be observed and associated with. Not to actually care for, or value a partnership. I’m not saying this in the context of all men, but I am speaking in terms of what this relationship felt like. Maybe this is some sort of feminist propaganda of an ideal that has been slowly diluted upon since the 80’s. But in many ways, it’s still consistent with the words of today. How people feel about women, how they’re judged more sacrilegiously. I took a vow to myself never to date another catholic after that young man.

I often think about how I am perceived.