Spring 2021
W27
Issue 01
The Unbearable Crisis of Being (Perceived ) By Jennifer Poon Advertising, Marketing and Communications, ‘22
“Please do not perceive me.”
Y
ou might’ve heard a friend or an acquaintance make this statement or express some related sentiment, and you might’ve done so yourself. The idea of “being perceived” has grown at a swift pace throughout the masses, boring its harsh realities into the minds of those who are especially vulnerable. It’s almost a trend of some sort; in September 2020, singer Halsey tweeted to her 14 million followers, “Happy #BiVisibilityDay !!! if you must perceive me, please perceive me as such,” along with a curated selection of pictures of herself. The notion of being observed by others is now widely thought to be frightening, as it has stimulated an unusual sense of self-awareness within many. The unease that stems from this seemingly new concept of being perceived is poisonous, and I myself was a victim to its grip. My relationship with my self-image has always been complicated, never been resolved completely, continually goes through stages of hot and cold. However, this excessive time alone, secluded, has effectively warped the dimensions of my body and made me forget how to position myself comfortably within the public eye. I used to daydream about being genuinely happy with myself and exuding contagious confidence. God, I deserved it, after all. I spent the majority of my upbringing being force fed impressions of the ideal, Eurocentric physique — face sculpted like the letter ‘V’, large eyes of sapphire blue, legs that stretch miles and miles. I did not have the luxury of worrying about trivial things like whether I was blonde or brunette because people like me were never part of the discussion to begin with. It took me until my final few teenage years to, slowly but surely, start embracing my heritage and the physical aspects it granted me. And then the pandemic hit.
browsing pottery and art in Marrakesh markets, maybe even exploring my own familial roots in Fuzhou. Now, the thought of exposing myself to strangers in many different places fills me with agitation. In fact, it makes me cringe to believe that I was brave enough to show myself anywhere last year. Back when classes were held in-person, I would take long, reflective walks through the city streets nearly every night, finding a strange comfort in the glow from neon signs and the emptier sidewalks. Admittedly, I pretty much ignored any potential dangers that might’ve awaited me as a woman walking at night because I cherished these walks deeply. I suppose being quarantined should evoke some feelings of cabin fever, some strong desire to go absolutely anywhere and do absolutely anything. I spent many months being envious of those who swore that they would live it up the second the pandemic was declared over. I wanted so desperately to feel the same way; I was Before the pandemic, I had elaborate aspirations of traveling supposed to be furious that I couldn’t go out every night, the world: spending late hours in underground Berlin clubs, like a 20-year-old should. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel
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