The Hats I Keep By Mia Maaytah I felt confused when I entered my third year of university. My approach to sexuality and gender changed depending on class or work or through exhausting conversations with the same mundane types of people. My demeanor corresponded with my desire to match my surroundings. It was not until COVID-19 that I realized I had been yearning for extravagant fluidity in clothing and sexuality while searching for some title to encompass it all. After moving to Toronto in 2017, I spent the following years crafting my identity. I wore multiple hats, catered to the environments they suited. During the weekdays, I was a journalism student — a woman with a loud mouth and a limited circle of friends. On the weeknights I worked long shifts in the service industry, allowing the objectification of my short dress and low neckline. Still, I prioritized the heaps of money over the hair stuck in my lipgloss and the unnecessary commentary from guests.
In a world with gender normalities and sexual entitlements, my choice is not to rotate them frequently, but to coexist within them all together
I’d spend the weekends with my close friends, sipping wine and nursing heartbreaks, or shooting tequila and trying new positions. While wearing spaghetti-straps and no bra, highlight and red lips, we frequented clubs where I kissed girls in the bathrooms and kissed boys at the bar. Online, my social media profiles quite literally painted me colourfully — a feed full of art and highly saturated photographs. I’d contend that it didn’t scream heterosexuality, though the pictures of my current boyfriend would argue otherwise. Rarely did I feel like the same person all of the time. I chalked this up to late stages of adolescence and the coming-of-age movies that told me I was still finding myself. I rationalized all of my experimentation, and decided that it was nothing permanent, but rather a fleeting moment of curiosity. As if those hats I often wore were just as quick to go out of style — I had to try them all.
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