In Com Theory last week we touched upon Mead’s Theory of Symbolic Convergence, and one of the primary principals of it is the concept of the “Other,” which is the version of ourselves that we create based on society’s view of us. Without delving too deeply into the theory, basically when we refer to ourselves as “me” we are referring not to what we are, but what everyone else has labeled us as. And, in light of all of this, i just feel like i am in a constant power-struggle to keep “I” somewhere close to “me.” If you take that a step farther you could imply that people’s definitions of me inevitably reflect on my behaviour because i am either conforming to their expectations or trying to subvert them.
If you can’t see how fucked up it is for that to be imposed on a still-developing person for the entirety of their adolescence and young-adult life i’ll have to lend you my textbook sometime.
selfy-stuff
If you don’t know me in person the point of that whole diatribe might have been lost on you, so i’ll lay it out simply.
I like girls. I’ve liked girls since i was in prekindergarten. I am more often than not head over heels for someone. That’s part of why this page is called what it’s called. But, in person i do not come off as masculine, and i am not forwardly aggressive with women. I do not turn around to look at nice asses, i do not generally leer at women in movies, and i don’t make comments about who i’d like to bang and why. Furthermore, because of various experiences i’ve had in the past, i enjoy subverting gender roles. I think it’s funny to flirt with boys at parties if there’s no one worth seriously flirting with, because i inherently know that i’m not flirting seriously. I will make comments about a man who’s attractive because i don’t feel as though i’m objectifying him by doing so. I have a wholly different operational mechanism for interacting with women.
The point was not that i want to flirt with men, or kiss men, or anything of the kind. The point was that everyone immediately assaulted me for not having kissed a man, and it made me want to slink up the stairs to lock my door behind me. If i was belittled to such a degree in that situation, what would i have been made to feel like if i had ever kissed a man? What if i had experimented once with another boy in my youth? What if instead of just feeling incredulous and belittled i felt marginalized? My friends are of a great mix of gender, race, and sexual preference, but somehow i’m still uncomfortable more times than not, and it’s not because of anything i’m doing… or not doing, as the case might be.
Everyone has learned how to respect me during our time at Drexel insofar as everyone makes an assumption about my sexual preferences and gender identity and then gets themselves proven wrong (by their closeminded standards) by my flirting with girls and watching football. But, i keep them confused, much to my partial delight and eternal chagrin. I give lap-dances to boys at parties, or i mention that there are cute freshmen of both sexes to be had in the play.
People are so quick to assign labels that they often forget exactly how people really work. My friends have learned in the past two years that i generally don’t label easily and so they just leave me be, but when everyone’s sitting around drunk and loose-lipped people say things. And they hurt. A lot. Last night we were playing “I Never” and i was the only person in mixed company who had never kissed a boy — and i haven’t, ever. It’s not to say that i never would, but i am generally not attracted to men and haven’t had any reason to lay lips on another boy in anything other than a friendly manner.
First someone was incredulous… was i sure i hadn’t? Next i was told “that you lie alot anyhow.” And then a third person chimed in that it was ironic considering… “Considering what?” …. “Well, considering that you…”
Of course he didn’t say it, because no one wants to be outrightly awful to me even when their lips are loosened with liquor, but we all heard what he was saying; it was ironic because i was the gay one. The theme repeats. I mentioned that i never had sex with Selina and they all asked why not; i truthfully replied that it was because i didn’t want to be entangled with anyone on that level at that point in time, regardless of whether it was a consideration of our relationship or not. And they laughed. Of course, they said, i wouldn’t have sex with a girl… of course, they pointed out, i would have a good reason not to.
I’m getting tired of these arbitrary social boxes. Yes, my manner of speaking and gesturing has a primary association with “gay” stereotypes. Did it ever occur to anyone to ask me if i enjoy talking like i do? After talking like this for twenty years, and learning all of my tonal and indicative qualities from a group primarily composed of women, can i really change overnight? Did they ever think to ask if i would if i could? For all the haircuts i get and tight shirts that i wear, i still get boxed up neatly — even if no one normally says it it becomes quickly apparent when everyone checks their appropriateness and grabs a beer.
I am so sick of it, and so sick of myself. Everyone else is allowed to flirt with who they want to flirt with regardless of motive. Our masculine male friends get to make out with other guys as a lark at parties and never hear two words about anyone doubting their sexuality. But not me. I have struck such a precarious balance with everyone i know that all i have to do is remark that a boy is attractive and suddenly my box is tightly packed again. I have no option of flirting with people just for fun, regardless of my reasons. I could never kiss a boy, no matter what circumstantial contrivance it involved. I’m too fucking busy trying to get everyone to just judge me for who i am to begin with to do anything else.
I had had a pretty insular week after returning from my whirlwind boston excursion, so last night Aim and i decided to head down to South Street and see the Beta Band on extremely short notice just to get out of our respective houses. It was great to see Amy again; her presence has been super-lacking in my life since she started her new job and i got back to classes. But, anyway, that’s not the point.
The point is that i returned from Beta Band to find that the roomies were entertaining at the apartment. At first it was superfun… we had a bunch of people around who i don’t always get to chat with, and i was enjoying myself. I even had a beer.
When it comes to parties i am a floater… i very rarely have a strong connection to any person or conversation so i just mingle around until i get miserable and leave. That’s my modus operandi, and it’s inevitable; eventually i’m so frustrated with my inability to be connected to anyone else at all that i wander home and go to sleep. In my own home i figured it would be different… i wouldn’t be on the outskirts of the conversations because i would be in charge… i would be the host.
I was wrong. It turns out, as soon as you amass a big enough group i immediately turn off socially (even if i’m friends with them all individually). Even before everyone started wandering away to their own cliques in different rooms i had reduced myself to tiny inserted comments and laughing along with the crowd. I endured the typical jokes which i do not enjoy, and i mingled from room to room unable to connect to anything that was happening even though i owned the lamps and cushions people were clustered around. Eventually i just locked my door, stripped off my clothes, and went to sleep to Death Cab turned down so low that all i could hear were the upper registers of Ben Gibbard’s voice intoning “highway” over and over on the second track.
It’s not fair. I refuse to have my own home be a gathering place just so i can be trapped there without anywhere to escape to. I don’t know what our social future will turn out to be, but i’m starting to think that it’s out of my hands: i don’t have any say in it, but i’m not taking any responsibility for it either.
Boston is currently fifty-five degrees, but it feels like forty-nine. Cords are back in the suitcase. I am neurotic.