5 minute read
Identity in Quarantine
By A
All I want is to be loved. While I am fortunate enough to receive love from those around me, I still feel so lonely. What happens when the only person who would understand me doesn’t fully love me back? I have always considered myself to be an idealist in the realm of love. With that understanding and mindset, there is a lack of consideration for the negatives or the hardships that exist in experiencing love. Over quarantine, I spent months waiting to be back on campus, hoping that once I left home, I would have the opportunity to explore new feelings and desires. I wanted to change my hair, change my eyebrows, wear make up, and wear more effeminate clothing. I wanted to do all these things to help myself feel new. Feel better. But now that I am here and I do get to have those opportunities to try new things, I still don’t feel comfortable with myself. I thought that seeing myself in a new way would make me feel happier. Feel more beautiful. I thought I’d actually see myself as a woman. Maybe then, I’d genuinely feel like one too. But that feeling never came.
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“...today i realized how similar ‘diaspora’ and ‘dysphoria’ look on a page: we have always been made to feel foreign in our own bodies.”
This quote comes from Alok Vaid-Menon in “Identity Blues”. (Femme in Public) Although this quote specifically addresses a physical sense of dysphoria, it still speaks to me. When I began using different pronouns and trying a different name, I didn’t consider that I wouldn’t recognize myself. Currently, I go by the name Aspen. When I first began telling people about this name, I was nervous but excited at the thought of trying something new. As I sit with this name and hear people refer to me as Aspen, I feel like I’m lying to others and to myself. I also feel simultaneously overwhelmed with concerns about whether I even like the name. Aspen was the name I would have been given if I were born a girl. And while there are some people who do find comfort in this method of choosing a new name, I feel insincere.
I didn’t technically choose the name for myself, so why should I keep it? I don’t really know if i like how it sounds. Do I even like what this name means?
At times, I catch myself introducing and referring to myself by my birth name. Part of me worries that in taking on this new name, I am subconsciously attempting to suppress or deny the person I grew up as. Sometimes, I miss Aiden. Many of my experiences with my gender identity coincided with doubts of authenticity. I understand that I cannot escape authenticity given that every choice, action, and thought is authentic facet of myself. However, when I considered this idea of self-growth and trying to love myself authentically, I had no idea how vulnerable or isolated I would feel. I feel lonely when the person I envision in my head isn’t the person looking back at me in the mirror. I feel lonely when people of both the Black and queer community don’t accept people like me who intersect the two. I feel lonely when I build up the courage to wear a dress or a skirt, but still choose to walk in secluded areas so people don’t see me. I feel lonely when
I see names of Black trans women trending online and I think to myself, That could’ve been me.
I would say that these convoluted, and at times counterintuitive, thoughts exist in my mind on a daily basis. And I don’t mean to paint myself as a pessimist or anything. It’s just suffocating sometimes. You know that moment, when you’re crossing the street and you look both ways before you can go? You have to check yourself and make sure you feel comfortable before going any further. Sometimes it can be scary when there’s cars coming at you. It’s even scarier when for a split second you think, what if I went too early, too late? What if I’m not walking fast enough? What if I let it hit me? But you don’t. You get to the other side. Taking these steps with my gender identity feels like a repeating cycle of that experience. It’s draining, but I make it to the other side.
While I have brought up the heavier feelings that come with my experience, I have had my fair share of good moments as well. Many of which come through my hair. Getting my hair braided is extremely important to me as well as many other members of the Black community. While it does hurt sometimes, it too is very grounding and intimate. It’s the sensation of having someone graze through your hair and oil your scalp. It’s knowing that tradition, which served its purpose to aid our survival, and served as a ceremonial process. I especially cherish getting my hair braided, because I get to experience a side of myself I wasn’t offered as a child. I picture little five-year-old me wearing a towel on my head, imagining that I have inches at my back. I got extensions braided into my hair for the first time last year. Not only did I finally see myself as who I wanted to be, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw my mom. Everytime, I think of that moment, I have the same feeling. That feeling of embodying the same feminine beauty and energy as my mother. That feeling of love. No one can take that from me. (This is not to say that I should feel restricted to only loving myself when I have long hair, but it’s a start)
I wanted to close this piece by writing to myself. I often write with the intention of writing to both my past-self, as a way of letting her know that she will be okay, and to my future-self knowing that when I look back, I’ll see how far I’ve come.
