I'm going to talk about masculinity. But, not as an inherently male attribute. I'd like to speak to you about masculinity as a sample in the petri dish that is my young womanhood. What? I know it sounds a little gross like that, but I really used to think that cooties were just a code for masculinity: something that only boys have. Does it have a place inside of femininity? Not as a phallic or intrusive external force... but, like, in a casual way? In a way that just is?
I have a lot of thoughts that all feel important, so I'm splitting them up into several entries for your short-attention-span-havin-ass. I'll get to it.
Let's get some identity politic shit out of the way, first. I do not want to be a man. I am a cis-gendered woman. I find women attractive, but rarely desire committed romantic relationships with women and have little experience doing such because I fear making anyone feel like an "experiment." My gender is not inextricably linked with my sexuality, but because that's how we've been taught to think, I thought I'd package that up for you.
Second order of business. I am attracted to somewhat problematic men. That's the dilemma that has our very loving, "nice guy" brothers scratching their heads. I enjoy a challenge. I enjoy correcting people, but not too much. I still retain certain boundaries for what I cannot accept. A guy I was seeing said that modern pro-black movements lack tangible demands. He said something like: At least gay people are fighting for the right to get married, like, what are black people fighting for now? This really had me shook because this guy is black! I had to explain that racism is not just about the law, that before these laws could be changed, white folks had to be convinced that black people were first-class citizens just like them. People make these laws, and the law is not neutral, perfect, nor absolute. I had my receipts and started talking about the first slave narratives (that had to be co-signed by respected whites to be taken seriously), and the long history of black art and media that changed the hearts and minds of folks in the U.S. and across the globe. He eventually got my point and I could see that I had changed something in him. That's what I like - the ability to have dialogue and enough openness to listen. Shiiiit, check me too, honey. I love to learn. I could also go on and on about my grievances with "woke" straight cis men, but that is a tale for another time.
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| "Tomboy," digital painting by me, Cheyenne Tobias. |
I have a lot of thoughts that all feel important, so I'm splitting them up into several entries for your short-attention-span-havin-ass. I'll get to it.
Let's get some identity politic shit out of the way, first. I do not want to be a man. I am a cis-gendered woman. I find women attractive, but rarely desire committed romantic relationships with women and have little experience doing such because I fear making anyone feel like an "experiment." My gender is not inextricably linked with my sexuality, but because that's how we've been taught to think, I thought I'd package that up for you.
Second order of business. I am attracted to somewhat problematic men. That's the dilemma that has our very loving, "nice guy" brothers scratching their heads. I enjoy a challenge. I enjoy correcting people, but not too much. I still retain certain boundaries for what I cannot accept. A guy I was seeing said that modern pro-black movements lack tangible demands. He said something like: At least gay people are fighting for the right to get married, like, what are black people fighting for now? This really had me shook because this guy is black! I had to explain that racism is not just about the law, that before these laws could be changed, white folks had to be convinced that black people were first-class citizens just like them. People make these laws, and the law is not neutral, perfect, nor absolute. I had my receipts and started talking about the first slave narratives (that had to be co-signed by respected whites to be taken seriously), and the long history of black art and media that changed the hearts and minds of folks in the U.S. and across the globe. He eventually got my point and I could see that I had changed something in him. That's what I like - the ability to have dialogue and enough openness to listen. Shiiiit, check me too, honey. I love to learn. I could also go on and on about my grievances with "woke" straight cis men, but that is a tale for another time.
I speak on this because my relationship with masculinity has only existed within the framework of toxic masculinity. That is, masculinity that whittles away at anything in its path. This behavior causes and is caused by violence. Homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, you name it - anyone can commit toxic masculinity, not just men. I don't have text books or readings to refer you to this time. I am less read on these topics. But through my own womanist journey, I have come to realize that true selfhood as a woman does not only come from embracing what is feminine. Radical femininity is some beautiful, strengthening, revolutionary shit. Don't get me wrong. But, I believe it is equally important to engage with our own masculine energy as women.
It has been my experience, that most of us hate ourselves. As painful as this is for me to admit... I hate myself. This acknowledgement, however, should not be seen as some cry for help or even a nod at suicide. I am not suicidal and I want to make that clear. I do not like to toy with the word depression, either, as someone who has not been clinically diagnosed as such, and as someone who has a depth of experience in proximity with extraordinarily depressed individuals of varying paths. I wrote that because I needed to. And because I know it's true. I'm learning to love myself. Even the deeper, darker parts that are difficult to accept. I've resisted so much of inner-self that I have - in many moments - drowned in deep inner conflict. So, for the purpose of this series, let's assume that my inner self is quite masculine.
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| "One Way," digital painting by me, Cheyenne Tobias. Created sometime in early 2019. |
I do, however, feel self-destructive and disembodied quite often. I sometimes make unsafe decisions that I despise immediately after. Then I despise myself for making them. I will hate myself for weeks, months, even years for decisions I've made. Going to a stranger's house, thinking we were going to leave right away. This man looked like he was dressed for a cozy movie night - toes out and everything. Suddenly all the CSI, SVU, and Criminal Minds I'd digested kicked in and I felt stupid. He offered me hard liquor very quickly and made repeated comments on how attractive he found me. I left after about an hour, realizing that I'd put myself in an irresponsible position. I've gone out at night too many times to count with less than $20 in liquid assets. I refuse to be afraid of the world. I often feel detached from my physical self when I make these decisions. My thinking is, like, "whatever, it's probably fine." Then, I realize how much I don't love the words "whatever," "probably," and "fine." Especially stacked up like that; that's a lot of detachment....
So... let's stop here for now. I know you're not supposed to put disclaimers in front of work. But this, for me, is an act of cleansing. I do not want to be the post you read in the middle of your day while munching on romaine lettuce on the day that you tried to take the best possible care of yourself. I do not want to be the reason - at least not todayyyy, kee-kee - that your heart beats a little bit faster and your brow sweats, knowing that you avoid your own sadness. Try not to force your eyes away and your finger to flick upwards and outwards toward something more pleasant. Something more forgiving and more ignorant. You will never come to Pass and find farce or illusive construction. That's what my Instagram is for (tea, I know).
As you were. Come back next time for more of my deluge.
Peace,
Chey
So... let's stop here for now. I know you're not supposed to put disclaimers in front of work. But this, for me, is an act of cleansing. I do not want to be the post you read in the middle of your day while munching on romaine lettuce on the day that you tried to take the best possible care of yourself. I do not want to be the reason - at least not todayyyy, kee-kee - that your heart beats a little bit faster and your brow sweats, knowing that you avoid your own sadness. Try not to force your eyes away and your finger to flick upwards and outwards toward something more pleasant. Something more forgiving and more ignorant. You will never come to Pass and find farce or illusive construction. That's what my Instagram is for (tea, I know).
As you were. Come back next time for more of my deluge.
Peace,
Chey
