girl-on-girl crime
A month ago, I was out celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with John (1), John’s fiancé, and my partner at the time. What do any twenty-somethings do for St. Patrick’s Day? We went to a bar. We spent the night watching the local Irish step-dancers, eating fried chicken wings, and drinking. The bar was exceedingly loud and absurdly busy, but we had been there so many times that we didn’t mind being patient for service. Besides, there was plenty to drink while we waited.
John is one of my roommates. Finding my roommates was serendipitous. When I was moving, I had a week to figure out my entire living situation. One day, I was showing my mom how to use FaceBook Marketplace since she was downsizing (we agreed we would save a lot of time and headaches by just showing her how to use mine), and I stumbled upon a roommate ad posted by one of my high school classmates. (Mind you, if I wasn’t showing my mom how to use FaceBook, there is no way I would have seen the ad because I hadn’t been online in about a year.) I didn’t know her well in high school, but I remembered she was always kind to everyone. She met John in college, and they were living together. They needed another roommate because their previous one wanted to try living independently for the first time. I trusted her enough to know that she probably wasn’t hiding any bodies in the freezer, and John probably wasn’t hiding any in the freezer by association. That was good enough for me to request a tour. We spent a couple of hours talking since this was the first time I would live with someone I didn’t know. They seemed kind, caring, and respectful when I first met them (that remains true). I had a week to move, so I was ready to move in if they decided I was a good fit. Everything worked out; I couldn’t have asked for better roommates.
What stood out to me the most amidst that three-hour conversation was John. I thought I should have been nervous about living with someone I didn’t know. I wasn’t nervous about John. At the end of the conversation, I asked if they wanted to talk about anything else. John said something along the lines of, “We just want you to feel at home.” When I heard that, I felt peaceful about the situation. They weren’t empty words. On the first day I moved in, they cleaned everything, gave me a ride to go grocery shopping, and took me out to dinner. They gave me a tour of our city and introduced me to my favorite London fog. Both of my roommates are very attentive and generous. They made sure I had everything I needed to feel comfortable and continue to do so. I could write an entire essay on how thankful I am for them. We may not have the same personalities or living habits, but we all genuinely care about one another, so we have made everything work. I appreciated it when it came from John because he didn’t even know me. John is very caring. It is rare to find people genuinely kind to people they don’t know.
John has a huge heart and is genuinely one of the more thoughtful men I know. He adores his fiancé, and they are a really sweet couple. John is a bit hotheaded but also wise and prophetic. When I met him, I suspected there was much more to him than I could see on the surface. For a thirty-year-old, he has been through quite a bit. Whenever I talk to him, it feels like he has lived many lifetimes already. For privacy reasons, I won’t detail his entire life story here, but he has lived a less privileged life than me or his fiancé in specific ways (and more privileged in others, I’m sure). Nevertheless, he is incredibly kind and filled with gratitude. He never complains and is very intentional. I admire how he integrated the wisdom from his tough past experiences; he is appreciative and humble.
I don’t know quite how to describe John when he drinks other than he is relatively unfiltered. It’s great; so am I. He may be “fussy” (as his best friend and fiancé would put it) but always means well. We have always had a great time when we all get together. Amidst the live music, dancing, and drunken cheering, John asked me loudly, “Who’s hotter? You or that girl?”. I whipped around to check out the girl he was referring to. Three margaritas, one tequila soda, and one tequila shot deep I quickly answered, “Me obviously.” My partner asked what was going on since he couldn’t hear our conversation over the loud music, and John shouted, “Nothing! You’re girlfriend is just really confident!” My partner looked at me and smiled saying, “I know.”
I was photographing orchids at the New York Botanical Gardens a week ago when that memory popped back up. “What a disgusting thing to say,” I thought to myself as I reflected upon my thoughtless reaction and snapped another photo. I was disappointed in myself. The dissatisfaction I felt wasn’t for answering the way I did at the time or because of John’s comment because we had both been drinking a lot (although that is never an excuse for inappropriate behavior on my part). I was disappointed that that was my gut reaction when I didn’t have the wherewithal to create a conscious response.
John didn’t just ask me to compare myself to any girl in the bar… he pointed out the only other black girl in the bar (2). It wasn’t until I was away from that setting that I realized how many comparisons I had run through my head in what seemed like a nano-second. I examined her hair, facial features, body, and clothes, all to prove to myself that I was somehow more beautiful or “better” than her. I’m pretty sure that’s not what confident people do.
What did I measure against? It’s probably no surprise to you that whoever has the greater proximity to whiteness or what a white man like John would want would win that competition. Who’s hair texture was finer? Who’s body was slimmer? Who had nicer clothes? (I lost that battle when I decided to wear sweatpants to a bar. Still, I wanted to win the war.) You could go on and on. I would hazard a guess and say John didn’t know that he was pitting us against each other in a way we have likely experienced our whole lives. Was it even his fault? Certainly not. I took the bait. I didn’t notice it because I was also used to constantly pitting myself against other women to compare and evaluate who was more beautiful. It made me feel safe.
I don’t know that I ever felt consistent safety. I was privileged enough to grow up in an affluent town that, from a third-dimensional perspective, was incredibly safe. I was “safe” because I could walk around town as a child and never have to worry about my security. The chances of someone plucking me off the street to kidnap me were extremely low. The chances of hearing gunshots in the distance were unfathomable. I could hang out with my friends without worry just about anywhere, and that alone is something to be grateful for.
Although, in this seeming oasis, almost no one looked like me. I only had my sister and one friend to compare myself to, which I am sure was harmful to our relationship in unseen ways. I always thought this was okay because it was all I knew. I never considered while living there how this could be detrimental. I was lucky not to have been bullied (although, let’s face it, I would have been an easy target). I did well in school, was captain of my golf team, and had an easily likable demeanor. I experienced rough patches here and there (high school can get messy, which isn’t a big deal), but overall, I had a pretty good time. I wasn’t extraordinarily loved or hated. I was pretty quiet and had a good group of friends, so everything was normal outside. Over a year ago, when I was moving and sorting through my childhood belongings, I uncovered a journal from middle school. I rarely reread my journal unless I am looking for something specific. I flipped to a random page and found an entry about an encounter on the school bus. My best friend, a boy I thought was cute at the time, and I rode this bus together daily. (I don’t know how crushes work when you’re that young. It’s funny to think about who you thought was attractive at that age. I’m sure we were all cute kids.) I wrote in my journal that one day he said something like, “You should only date within your own race.” It would be silly to hold a child accountable to those words because he presumably didn’t develop those ideas on his own. My best friend jumped in immediately and said, “That’s stupid.” (She never tolerated any b.s. at any age.) I could tell from the journal entry that I felt hurt, embarrassed, and othered. I don’t know if it was for the first time, but it’s one of my clearer memories. You may forget what people say but not how they make you feel. I didn’t think about it then (we were at most eleven years old), but I carried that consciousness throughout high school, college, and now. Even though my experience in school was fine on the surface, I continuously felt I was less beautiful, desirable, and valuable than everyone else.
Why do we constantly compare ourselves to one another? I’m not sure I can fully explain this phenomenon because consciously, we all know that we are infinitely-varying-dimensional beings, i.e., none of us are or are even meant to be the same. I don’t know if it’s because it feels comfortable to know where you stand compared to everyone else, so you can’t be surprised if someone is rude to you. You feel safe from unexpected and unwarranted comments by running through all of the potential judgments someone could project onto you in your head. It could also be that constant comparison allows us to evaluate where we stand concerning cultural norms. I.e., it enables us to determine whether we “fit in” or feel at home. Furthermore, it allows us to identify how we can feel at home if we are willing to compromise certain aspects of ourselves to find this safety.
I will be the first to admit I have lived an incredibly privileged life. I have never faced housing, food, health, or true financial insecurities. Even when I was most financially insecure, I was fortunate enough to know that my family had the resources to help me if I was in serious trouble. This isn’t a luxury that everyone has. I was safe in all of those tangible ways. So why didn’t I feel safe?
Recently, I was having coffee with one of my friends whom I have known since middle school. We were talking about how places, like people, can be soulmates. All places are aligned with us; however, sometimes, it can take time for them to reveal their medicine. We are aligned with some places because they fit our personalities. I fell in love with Northern California during my first visit. The clear sun and moon; mountains, forests, beaches, and other diverse landscapes; the unparalleled taste of fresh fruit and vegetables; the sound of the crisp air; breathtaking flowers; delicious food… it was pure magic. My friend feels this way about Europe, whereas I don’t. Similar to soulmates, not every place is meant for everyone during particular seasons in life. Other places are aligned with us to reveal our shadows. We both grew up in this same small homogenous town. She is white but didn’t feel “at home” either. There is a lot to feeling as if you fit in somewhere. I never felt at home there for obvious and unseen reasons. I spent so much time trying to fit in. The closer to white I thought my peers saw me as, the safer I felt. I chemically straightened (burned) my hair for just over a decade. I begged my parents for the “right” clothes (they didn’t comply, so I had to wait until I was out of high school for that). I did all the “right” things to ensure I didn’t stick out in ways I could control. I thought I could breathe in relief if I checked all these boxes. None of it mattered because I couldn’t compensate enough for feeling out of place. I may not have felt at home there when I was younger, but it was a critical mirror of everything about myself that I needed to pay more attention to. My hometown was precisely where I needed to grow up.
The collective standard of beauty was my safety guide. I constantly compared myself to it to determine whether I was safe. If I strayed, I would feel anxious. This intangible safety was one I only felt when I felt as if I belonged. Is how we perceive beauty as a collective a “luxury” issue? Sure. I would agree with that. The answer to that is wholly dependent on who you ask. It could always be “worse,” especially considering all the tangible ways people encounter daily insecurity. No, I have never worried about where I would sleep at night, and I am lucky for that. My mom always says that the only difference between myself and anyone else is the circumstances in which we were born. I am forever grateful for my circumstances and can admit that how I am constantly devalued by others (and myself) is heartbreaking. Just because it “could be worse” doesn’t make anything I am experiencing less real. I have had to find my way of balancing honoring what has hurt me and having some perspective regarding the issues other people in entirely different circumstances may face.
Thank you for challenging me to redefine my definition of “belonging” and “home.” (Also, thank you for being a wonderful roommate and making me feel at home from day one.)
I love pondering how we can redefine our concept of beauty because it’s not really about beauty. What we consider “beautiful” reflects how we understand “value.” It’s just a metaphor, and plenty of other metaphors help convey the same message: some people are more valued than others in the culture we have all created together. I am not saying that we are all directly or consciously responsible for the society that we live in. None of us were even alive at the very beginning, especially if you’re reading this essay. However, consciously and subconsciously, we reinforce ideals of what makes certain people more or less valuable, whether with our thoughts, actions, etc. John and I were doing just that when we were in the bar. No one is perfect.
Recently, I have been thinking about the value of perspective. I have felt so blocked lately, unable to write because I didn’t think my story was “unique” or “special” enough. There is nothing about my life that is especially distressing. That was before I thought: what about the daily toll of constantly being reminded that, from a collective cultural perspective, I have always been valued less than everyone else for simply existing? What about how I was constantly comparing and devaluing myself, consciously and subconsciously perpetuating these unattainable standards? Was that not distressing enough? Is all of this not enough to warrant a deeper conversation? Even though I haven’t experienced anything truly deplorable, simply existing with these reminders that no form of external validation could fix, e.g., more money, a particular job, etc., was harrowing enough. It is painful enough to look in the mirror or have other people serve as mirrors, constant reminders of where you fall on the lovable scale. We all have infinitely unique perspectives because no one is out there like us. Even though my circumstances aren’t particularly extreme, I found that even sadder because hundreds of thousands, if not millions, share this experience by simply existing.
This is one of the reasons I love writing this story; it is a shared experience. I enjoy writing about how we perceive beauty because I know I am not alone. Do you have that recurring dream where you are back in high school and you forgot your homework? What about the one where you didn’t know there was a test and are completely unprepared? Or that heinous dream where you have been absent from school for months, no one noticed, and then you have to turn in homework, take an exam, etc.? I have, and so have many others. You know the fear, panic, anxiety, etc., I feel during that dream because you have probably had it too. It’s a collective dream. The feeling of not belonging is a collective nightmare. You probably know this feeling even if you haven’t had the dream. You don’t need to be me or black to know exactly what I mean. There are so many other ways to experience discrimination, whether it is ageism, ableism, colorism, classism, elitism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, etc. You get it. Even if you are not marginalized, I am sure you know what it is like to be compared (by someone else or yourself) in some way. It is such a commonplace wound, but everyone knows to some degree what it is like to feel unsafe or like they didn’t fit in somewhere at some point in time. You know what it’s like to have your lovability, your value, negotiated. It is a universal, pervasive wound that needs to be healed.
I am sorry for internally negotiating my value and constantly comparing myself to others because, in truth, we are all equally loved.
We all share dreams and nightmares collectively; it is everyone’s job to heal the collective culture. I am so aggravated when people blame things on “society” as if “society” is some distant, unrelated monster that will stay under our beds while we remain protected simply because our bedsheets cover our eyes. Um hello? We are “society.” Collectively, wedecide what we value. Value runs deep. There are so many systems at play that influence what we value. Getting to the root of our true values isn’t easy and takes some reevaluation. We all share the power to pay attention, learn, and heal the collective culture. There don’t seem to be any shortcuts that I am aware of. It may take consistent and constant reevaluation and integration to heal core, shared wounds. However, I don’t see why this cannot be done.
It is also essential to consider why these systems and standards are alive and well. I have internalized these narrow cultural beauty ideals even though they don’t benefit me at all. Or do they? One of my favorite shaman-podcast-hosts (I am sure I will mention Shaman Durek again throughout these essays because he is truly brilliant) used to say something along the lines of, “When we want something to change, and it remains the same, we need to begin questioning the parts of us that want things to stay the same.” (3) Why would we want these paradigms to continue to exist? Why do I continue to internalize them? Why do I continue to measure myself against a standard that is literally impossible for me to attain? Because it benefits me in some way.
No one would ever mistake me for white. Even though I am not the darkest person (due to the white people in my ancestral history), I would never pass. I am, however, the darkest person in my immediate and close extended family. When we were much younger, my cousins and I would joke about one another’s complexions. We noticed who would tan heavily in the summer (me) and wondered why some people in our family looked “white” in their birth photos. Did anyone mean anything by it? No. We were kids, and none of us were malicious. We were more confused than anything concerning our family’s vast spectrum of skin complexions. Attempting to pass could be a key to safety for those with a lighter complexion. (This was especially true at certain points in history.) Is there some internalized colorism in my family? Probably. I’ve always wondered about that. It’s hard to escape when that seems like your way of attaining the unattainable. For some people in my family, that could be their ticket; that could be how this system benefits them. This is only one example. For every marginalization, there always seems to be a way for the marginalized to counter-correct. Is it ever enough?
The collective beauty paradigm runs so much deeper than I could ever describe in this essay. It exists because right now, we want it to. Whether it’s family members who could try to pass or me who can try to stay thin, those who have some aspect of themselves that allows them to come close to what is “beautiful” have more to gain from abiding by the rules rather than saying “fuck it.” People love boxes and rules. People love hearing that if they do X, then Y and Z follow. Rules keep us safe. The rules make this system seem beneficial to me; if I can follow them, I have a chance. We may hate the rules, but they give people like me hope that we will someday win the impossible game if we follow them closely.
There are always more layers. Value is decided collectively. I would speculate that white women want, consciously and/or subconsciously, non-white women to aspire to fit into the beauty mold because then that would mean that they are intrinsically more valuable. I.e., they benefit more from this system when there are people who will do anything to “earn” the beauty they already have. I’m sure men love this because it puts them in a power position to have nearly half the population doing whatever they can to attain desirability and approval within the white-male gaze (4). One layer above is all companies and industries that prey on women’s insecurities to market “beauty” and “empowerment” while keeping everyone small. They flourish. There are all kinds of stakeholders in the exploitative beauty industrial complex. They all benefit from those oppressed by this system internalizing their oppression. I am sure there are more stakeholders than I have listed here. Acknowledging and identifying how we are one of them is the first step to creating change.
I love you.
(1) Disclaimer: Anything I write about anyone in my essays results from my subjective, human, and imperfect perspective. None of my essays aim to portray anyone negatively; that would be unfair, as this is my side of the story. I do not claim 100% accuracy of anything but my perspective, mainly because I have not had contact with some mentioned people in several years. We all grow and change.
(2) Let me make this abundantly clear: knowing John’s character, he didn’t mean anything by the comment and definitely did not say it to make me uncomfortable. None of this is a critique of his character (the same goes for all of the people I mention in my essays). To anyone at the bar, it probably seemed like an insignificant comment. Even I didn’t know it meant something to me until later.
This is important because I wholeheartedly believe we need to do a better job of not assuming the worst in people. I know John well, and he has a good heart. That is one of the reasons I wanted to write about him. He has so many people who love and admire him. His relationships and community speak volumes about his character. I may not know everything about John, but I know enough to know for sure he wasn’t being malicious. John is an excellent example of someone who said something that did mean something to me, but that doesn’t mean he is a bad person. I was never upset with him. I was only upset with myself for my response. He highlighted my unseen internalized biases that needed to come to light. Thank you, John.
This does not mean that people shouldn’t be accountable for their words. However, I don’t think we should wait for people to be responsible for their words to make ourselves feel better. First and foremost, we need to take responsibility for our feelings and heal whatever needs to be healed within ourselves. Imagine if we all cleaned up our sides of the street instead of constantly telling people how to clean up theirs. We don’t control anyone. What do we do when we encounter hateful people? Can you make them un-hateful by trying to shove your dogmas and ideologies down their throats? No. Change and reflection only occur if that person wants to create it for themselves. We can, however, engage in conscious conversation.
If I thought John was hateful, I would have confronted him like I always do if that is what I suspect. It’s important to me. Not everyone who says something they don’t realize is hurtful is hateful. You, your neighbor’s cousin, and I have probably all said at least one harmful thing before. It happens. We don’t know everyone’s triggers. Being unaware or unintentional is not an excuse either. We can consciously confront them if appropriate, but that doesn’t mean we need to write them off. There is a balance. I know that we know where that balance is. Use your judgment. If confrontation will bring more peace somehow, say something. We don’t need more chaos. I am very tired of this behavior and cancel culture. How we show grace and compassion to others often reflects how we show it to ourselves and vice versa.
This is a common theme throughout my essays. I will never blame anyone for my feelings because it is disempowering. As I said earlier, I cannot control anyone. I certainly cannot make anyone apologize for any pain I have experienced, and I wouldn’t want them to anyway. It doesn’t help me. The pain I experienced, as a result, was already within me in the first place. An apology doesn’t magically make it go away. This was not the case with John, but there are many people out there that do want to hurt other people. I will never wait for someone else to bring me resolution or peace.
(3) Disclaimer: I am heavily paraphrasing; that is not a direct quote.
(4) The following essay will address the white and black male gaze.
