by Emily Smith
I’d like to take a detour from our usual program and call attention to the insights of another young artist, Lily Myers. She wrote an amazing slam poem earlier this year, one that any female/feminine listener must hear and understand with such immediacy; in three and a half minutes, Ms. Myers describes virtually all the accumulated hurts of our gendered lives. Even the third-party title of this link lays bare that stricken nerve: “Watch A Student Totally Nail Something About Women That I’ve Been Trying to Articulate For 37 Years.”
I cannot do it justice alone. Here it is.
If you identify as masculine, as a boy or man, I won’t exclude you in addressing this piece. In fact, it seems even more important for women to share this with you, the men in our lives. We love you to bits, but it hurts us when you don’t notice our frailties. Sometimes we need to hear that it’s okay to try for bigness. That permission can make a world of difference.
We feel small in our skins because men fail to notice our suffering, but also because other women don’t corroborate our feelings. Shrinkage is a hard problem to articulate; by its nature, it makes itself unseen. Despite the commonness of the struggle, nobody shares it. I doubt most women could have unearthed the raw emotion that Lily Myers exposes here, let alone denounce it as she has so bravely done.
We all face demons when occupying physical space, and I am no exception. Emotional eating is my ceaseless plague; all told, I’ve yo-yo’ed through sixty full pounds between June of 2009 and today. I currently weigh 190 pounds, nowhere close to ideal for my 5’3″ frame. However taboo or artless that may sound, my honesty feels right.
More taboo and artless honesties still to come, in what I hope will evolve as a series on gender and the autism spectrum. Today it seemed more important to cover a neurotypical base, a sort of default or control group for later contrast. Despite that, Asperger’s remains relevant. Stay tuned.
I never forget that my non-Aspergian female friends and family members understand demons, too. I count the following, nameless yet identified, among them:
- A gluten-free vegan who does daily battle with both Crohn’s Disease and anorexia nervosa, quite the courageous “true, young and pure girl-woman” as she once wrote
- A strong, fit teen who still went from designer sample size to an 8 within the space of a year (since grown womanly dimensions have this tendency to occupy more space, now don’t they?)
- A gender-fluid female who resents her tiny hourglass waist — she would feel far more at home with a svelte, boyish cut of the body
- My über-feminine high school gal pal whose body mismatches her indelible sense of self as a woman, and who makes a classier lady than most who are born to it
These women have so much more to offer the world than only their insecurities. Yet over the years, I’ve found I can best understand other women by considering them as self/self-image paired units. I confess to feeling awful about this; the women I know and love are full and dynamic characters. They make brilliant discoveries, speak vivaciously in many languages, seize control of their creative projects and build their own lives. Surely such positive traits should serve to identify them.
The body parts a woman hates, the workouts she despises but does anyway, the foods she’s convinced she absolutely must not eat— these are the facets of her character that prove as form-fitting and impossible to dismiss as her shadow.
We tell ourselves that beauty only goes skin-deep, but that hasn’t been true for a long time. Not since the summons of a seraph with a flaming sword. Not since the paradise where nakedness knew no shame. Not since two lovers sharing an apple marked the end of the world.