lola_inslacks (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lola_inslacks) wrote,@ 2005-03-21 22:58:00 |
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Queer Theory Final Essay
So, this was my final paper for my Queer Theory class, can I get a what what?! The assignment was to write my gender and I think I got it pretty down pat. Tell me what you think! I know that I am not going to be the only one to type this in their essay, but I don’t think I can start without saying this. Asking me to define my gender is running on the assumption that I know what gender is. I don’t. I don’t have a fucking clue what gender is, outside of the surface definition of “a social construction based on actual or perceived sex.” Also, asking me to define my gender is seems to make the assumption that my gender is rigid and is an “always was, always will be” type of thing. In the past, I have never identified my gender outside of “girl/woman,” and I honestly cannot say what my gender will be in a decade, a year or even tomorrow. So, I have decided on a couple things regarding my gender and how I am going to define it. The first thing is that my gender is not something that is totally, one hundred percent individually constructed. Society has helped a lot. Sometimes it has been for the better, but for the most part society and its norms have taken me through the scenic route on Gender Avenue. Also, I have decided that gender is a performance, a role that I play and nothing deeper. But, instead of feeling shame for not expressing something truer or deeper, I have determined to revel in and love the role. If I am to play a surface level role that has nothing to do with my “true self,” I am going to enjoy the hell out of it. So without further adieu, professor Bradshaw, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my gender…(drum roll, please)…
My gender (for now) is a FUCKIGN SEXY, FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE TEN (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING, CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING, BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES.
Now, as you’d say, let’s unpack this statement. First, we’ve got FUCKING SEXY. I threw the FUCKING in there mainly for emphasis, but, not to get too personal, but the FUCKING part is one of those things that I love to do and, if I may say for myself, is one of the things I do really damn well in my life. Also, they just compliment each other well. I don’t get to the FUCKING unless I know and identify as SEXY and I’m SEXY when I do the FUCKING.
Now, as far as the measurements/sizes go, I believe that these really are very important parts to my gender identity. I know for myself that a woman/female/whatever the fuck I am to have the words FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE 10 (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING proceed FUCKING SEXY in the context of describing herself is a fucking ovarian (as opposed to ballsy) thing to do. Enter society and its norms, stage right. Our society has made it abundantly clear than any woman above a size 0 and shorter than five foot eight is to be considered a sexless, disgusting “not quite a woman” type of being. Seeing this over and over and over and over again, I looked at my body, which has never been a size 0…EVER and has never been taller than five foot six (not counting, of course when I’m in STILETTOES) and I began my incredibly scenic drive down Gender Avenue. This goes without saying, but the scenery was not pretty at all. I mean, it was “pretty” in the way that it showed me exactly what society thought was pretty, but it wasn’t pretty because, as said, my body did not match the expectation of society and thus, my body was never right. At age thirteen, I’d get up every morning at 5:30 to exercise until 7:30. When I got home from school, I usually exercised for another hour or two and I’d do five hundred sit ups before going to bed. I was a size four. That would have been fine if I were five foot eleven, but I was only five foot five at the time, so I wasn’t thin enough. When I was fifteen, I got into something that really complimented the whole “my body is a piece of shit” pastime: drugs. I’m not going to turn this paper into a DARE paper, but coke and meth allowed me to not eat, while booze and opiates allowed me to throw up whatever I did eat. I know, quelle tragédie! Well, long story short I got sent to rehab and, yes I did get sober and, yes I still am sober. The point of this fated trip to the Hunter S. Thompsonesque period of my life is that after I got sober, I really began to appreciate my body. I began to see that my body, or more appropriately, I didn’t deserve to go through what I put myself through. Yet, I was still a size 4 after getting sober, so it was easy to proclaim self love while still, more or less, looking “normal.”
Then, I decided to quit smoking…
Granted, the effort did not stick, but the extra twenty pounds or so did. And all of the self love, all of the finally calling my body by its name (beautiful), all of the feeling sexy and wonderful…vanished. All of it was conditional; I granted it to myself so long as I looked like everyone else. I hid under pajama pants and vintage t-shirts. I always came to class with wet hair and my fuzzy slippers. Sure, it was cute in it of itself and there are definitely people out there who can rock the wet hair, fuzzy slipper look, but ultimately I knew that it was not the role I was born to play.
I know that this may sound like something I made up just for this paper, but it isn’t. I asked myself, “why was this love and respect I had for my body conditional?” I had no good answer. So, it was decided: I was FUCKING SEXY, no matter what the tag on my pair of jeans said.
I will not sit here and say that it was smooth sailing from there. I hit highs and lows. I admit I did try to lose weight recently. But I stopped that effort because I realized that I was, again, basing my FUCKING SEXINESS on what society defined as FUCKING SEXY and with that definition, as proven over and over and over again was a definition that I could never fit into. So, my wide hips, my curvy, thick thighs, my love handles, my stretch marks…they all helped me expand and revamp my definition of FUCKING SEXY. So what is my definition of FUCKING SEXY, you ask? Well, not to sound too cyclical, but…my definition of FUCKING SEXY is me, and I am FUCKING SEXY. The realm of FUCKING SEXY is not strictly reserved for waif and Playboy models. You are part of the FUCKING SEXY realm if you say you are, and that alone is FUCKING SEXY. Some may disagree with me on that; some may try to put me down and tell me that I don’t belong in the FUCKING SEXY club, but I still consider myself a card carrying member and I just choose not to listen to any reason that counters my belief about this.
Moving on to the rest of the words that occupy my gender identity more or less adhere to the playfulness and shallowness that is the role I play.
Let’s talk about my boobs first, shall we? I have to confess, the weight gain did afford me two new aspects in my life that I have really grown to adore and appreciate: Thelma and Louise (i.e. my once medium 34B, now full 38C ta-tas). Rest assured I’m not going to go into a rant about how they represent my mothering side, or about how they made me appreciate my newly “classical female body.” And I’m not going to say that I don’t take into account that breasts are overly focused on in our society and I know that some people (I’m not going to say “men” because women focus on my boobs as much as men do) stare at my ta-tas and not at my eyes. But, they’re mine…they are me. And, may I say (I’m sort of ashamed, I’m quoting an episode of Seinfeld…but, I can’t think of another way to put it) “they’re real and they’re spectacular.” So, when it comes to the CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING part of my gender, it’s about not hiding myself just because society’s fucked up. Like I said, they’re me and they are a FUCKING SEXY and fantastic part of me. Why the hell not do with them what to? (And I totally just sounded like one of those wild teen guests on the Maury show…) So some people aren’t going to look into my eyes? Their loss. My ta-tas being all up in their face is all part of the performance. But my eyes…no matter how much mascara, liner and shadow I use, I still can’t avoid that my eyes are the window into my genderless, raceless, classless, performanceless soul (you can take the English major out of English class…) Meredith-1, Gawkers-0.
Finally, we’ve got this last part: the BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES. Is it true BISEXUAL FEMME VIXENS have more fun? Hell yes, it is! Now, first things first. You’re probably asking, “Meredith, are you saying that your BISEXUAL identity is a performance?” My answer is no, I don’t think my BISEXUALITY is a performance, but I also don’t think that I was born with half of that gay gene that Oprah was talking about, either. Like I said at the beginning of this paper, I don’t know what gender is and I can’t tell anyone what there gender is or isn’t. So, I don’t judge my level of attraction to someone on gender. Some straights and gays alike try to tell me that I don’t exist, like I’m a unicorn or a leprechaun or Dick Cheney or something. I have questioned if I am just a cowardly lesbian or a horny straight girl. I’m not, and I do exist the way I am. Hence, I can be a FUCKING SEXY FEMME VIXEN with as many people as I damn well please! Is it true that BISEXUAL FEMME VIXENS have more fun? You tell me…
So here we are at the FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES. I could write a whole essay on the definitions of FEMME and VIXEN, but I will spare you all that, mainly because I have already exceeded the page limit to this essay. We’ll just stick to the dictionary definitions of these words (because they actually fit quite nicely). FEMME is defined as ultra exaggerated femininity, especially applicable to us queermos, and VIXEN is a female fox, and also applies to a woman who is considered to be quarrelsome. And the Oscar for best FEMME VIXEN goes to….Meredith Rose Cornett! “Oh thank you, thank you! I so knew I was gonna win!” My ultra exaggerated femininity in it of itself is quarrelsome. Going back to the whole “I’m not backing down just because society’s fucked up” motif, as we all know, the genders of “man” and “woman” have been put into a hierarchy and we all know which one is considered to be the better one of the two. I refuse to allow myself to believe that the construction of masculinity is better than femininity. I refuse to give up performing as a FEMME because, quite frankly, we are either being misrepresented by people who let society’s fucked up values define their performance of femininity and thus, they internalize it and never realize that it is all an performance, or we are being trampled by masculinity. I’m not having it! I am going to wear pink, put on fake eyelashes and ROCK MY FUCKING STILETTOES and never for a second will I believe that it makes me weaker or worse than anyone. Go ahead, try to make me feel bad for not being perfect, society! I will just turn the other tity. Try to trample me, masculinity! You won’t be tying to trample shit when my STILETTOE meets your proverbial balls. Just try and stop this FUCKIGN SEXY, FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE TEN (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING, CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING, BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES! You’ll find it to be impossible.
So there it is, my gender…there it is, all out on paper. I can’t fucking believe it. To be honest, I didn’t really know what it was until I saw it on paper. But there it is (at least for now). I started writing this paper very late at night and now I am finishing it and the Sun is coming up. Like I said, you can take the English major out of English class…I know that it’s going to sound like bullshit, but I’ve come this far, why lie now? I can honestly say I have never felt better about who I am and what I perform. Believe me, the ideas were all up in my head, but to see them on paper…to see all these amazing, brave things that I perform day to day is flooring.
I hope that this made sense, because I can picture this being one of those thing that only make sense to me. But, then again, I guess I’m the only person that it has to make sense to.
Either way, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it.
From Chicago, this is Meredith Rose Cornett, the FUCKIGN SEXY, FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE TEN (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING, CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING, BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES, signing off.
So, this was my final paper for my Queer Theory class, can I get a what what?! The assignment was to write my gender and I think I got it pretty down pat. Tell me what you think! I know that I am not going to be the only one to type this in their essay, but I don’t think I can start without saying this. Asking me to define my gender is running on the assumption that I know what gender is. I don’t. I don’t have a fucking clue what gender is, outside of the surface definition of “a social construction based on actual or perceived sex.” Also, asking me to define my gender is seems to make the assumption that my gender is rigid and is an “always was, always will be” type of thing. In the past, I have never identified my gender outside of “girl/woman,” and I honestly cannot say what my gender will be in a decade, a year or even tomorrow. So, I have decided on a couple things regarding my gender and how I am going to define it. The first thing is that my gender is not something that is totally, one hundred percent individually constructed. Society has helped a lot. Sometimes it has been for the better, but for the most part society and its norms have taken me through the scenic route on Gender Avenue. Also, I have decided that gender is a performance, a role that I play and nothing deeper. But, instead of feeling shame for not expressing something truer or deeper, I have determined to revel in and love the role. If I am to play a surface level role that has nothing to do with my “true self,” I am going to enjoy the hell out of it. So without further adieu, professor Bradshaw, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my gender…(drum roll, please)…
My gender (for now) is a FUCKIGN SEXY, FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE TEN (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING, CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING, BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES.
Now, as you’d say, let’s unpack this statement. First, we’ve got FUCKING SEXY. I threw the FUCKING in there mainly for emphasis, but, not to get too personal, but the FUCKING part is one of those things that I love to do and, if I may say for myself, is one of the things I do really damn well in my life. Also, they just compliment each other well. I don’t get to the FUCKING unless I know and identify as SEXY and I’m SEXY when I do the FUCKING.
Now, as far as the measurements/sizes go, I believe that these really are very important parts to my gender identity. I know for myself that a woman/female/whatever the fuck I am to have the words FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE 10 (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING proceed FUCKING SEXY in the context of describing herself is a fucking ovarian (as opposed to ballsy) thing to do. Enter society and its norms, stage right. Our society has made it abundantly clear than any woman above a size 0 and shorter than five foot eight is to be considered a sexless, disgusting “not quite a woman” type of being. Seeing this over and over and over and over again, I looked at my body, which has never been a size 0…EVER and has never been taller than five foot six (not counting, of course when I’m in STILETTOES) and I began my incredibly scenic drive down Gender Avenue. This goes without saying, but the scenery was not pretty at all. I mean, it was “pretty” in the way that it showed me exactly what society thought was pretty, but it wasn’t pretty because, as said, my body did not match the expectation of society and thus, my body was never right. At age thirteen, I’d get up every morning at 5:30 to exercise until 7:30. When I got home from school, I usually exercised for another hour or two and I’d do five hundred sit ups before going to bed. I was a size four. That would have been fine if I were five foot eleven, but I was only five foot five at the time, so I wasn’t thin enough. When I was fifteen, I got into something that really complimented the whole “my body is a piece of shit” pastime: drugs. I’m not going to turn this paper into a DARE paper, but coke and meth allowed me to not eat, while booze and opiates allowed me to throw up whatever I did eat. I know, quelle tragédie! Well, long story short I got sent to rehab and, yes I did get sober and, yes I still am sober. The point of this fated trip to the Hunter S. Thompsonesque period of my life is that after I got sober, I really began to appreciate my body. I began to see that my body, or more appropriately, I didn’t deserve to go through what I put myself through. Yet, I was still a size 4 after getting sober, so it was easy to proclaim self love while still, more or less, looking “normal.”
Then, I decided to quit smoking…
Granted, the effort did not stick, but the extra twenty pounds or so did. And all of the self love, all of the finally calling my body by its name (beautiful), all of the feeling sexy and wonderful…vanished. All of it was conditional; I granted it to myself so long as I looked like everyone else. I hid under pajama pants and vintage t-shirts. I always came to class with wet hair and my fuzzy slippers. Sure, it was cute in it of itself and there are definitely people out there who can rock the wet hair, fuzzy slipper look, but ultimately I knew that it was not the role I was born to play.
I know that this may sound like something I made up just for this paper, but it isn’t. I asked myself, “why was this love and respect I had for my body conditional?” I had no good answer. So, it was decided: I was FUCKING SEXY, no matter what the tag on my pair of jeans said.
I will not sit here and say that it was smooth sailing from there. I hit highs and lows. I admit I did try to lose weight recently. But I stopped that effort because I realized that I was, again, basing my FUCKING SEXINESS on what society defined as FUCKING SEXY and with that definition, as proven over and over and over again was a definition that I could never fit into. So, my wide hips, my curvy, thick thighs, my love handles, my stretch marks…they all helped me expand and revamp my definition of FUCKING SEXY. So what is my definition of FUCKING SEXY, you ask? Well, not to sound too cyclical, but…my definition of FUCKING SEXY is me, and I am FUCKING SEXY. The realm of FUCKING SEXY is not strictly reserved for waif and Playboy models. You are part of the FUCKING SEXY realm if you say you are, and that alone is FUCKING SEXY. Some may disagree with me on that; some may try to put me down and tell me that I don’t belong in the FUCKING SEXY club, but I still consider myself a card carrying member and I just choose not to listen to any reason that counters my belief about this.
Moving on to the rest of the words that occupy my gender identity more or less adhere to the playfulness and shallowness that is the role I play.
Let’s talk about my boobs first, shall we? I have to confess, the weight gain did afford me two new aspects in my life that I have really grown to adore and appreciate: Thelma and Louise (i.e. my once medium 34B, now full 38C ta-tas). Rest assured I’m not going to go into a rant about how they represent my mothering side, or about how they made me appreciate my newly “classical female body.” And I’m not going to say that I don’t take into account that breasts are overly focused on in our society and I know that some people (I’m not going to say “men” because women focus on my boobs as much as men do) stare at my ta-tas and not at my eyes. But, they’re mine…they are me. And, may I say (I’m sort of ashamed, I’m quoting an episode of Seinfeld…but, I can’t think of another way to put it) “they’re real and they’re spectacular.” So, when it comes to the CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING part of my gender, it’s about not hiding myself just because society’s fucked up. Like I said, they’re me and they are a FUCKING SEXY and fantastic part of me. Why the hell not do with them what to? (And I totally just sounded like one of those wild teen guests on the Maury show…) So some people aren’t going to look into my eyes? Their loss. My ta-tas being all up in their face is all part of the performance. But my eyes…no matter how much mascara, liner and shadow I use, I still can’t avoid that my eyes are the window into my genderless, raceless, classless, performanceless soul (you can take the English major out of English class…) Meredith-1, Gawkers-0.
Finally, we’ve got this last part: the BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES. Is it true BISEXUAL FEMME VIXENS have more fun? Hell yes, it is! Now, first things first. You’re probably asking, “Meredith, are you saying that your BISEXUAL identity is a performance?” My answer is no, I don’t think my BISEXUALITY is a performance, but I also don’t think that I was born with half of that gay gene that Oprah was talking about, either. Like I said at the beginning of this paper, I don’t know what gender is and I can’t tell anyone what there gender is or isn’t. So, I don’t judge my level of attraction to someone on gender. Some straights and gays alike try to tell me that I don’t exist, like I’m a unicorn or a leprechaun or Dick Cheney or something. I have questioned if I am just a cowardly lesbian or a horny straight girl. I’m not, and I do exist the way I am. Hence, I can be a FUCKING SEXY FEMME VIXEN with as many people as I damn well please! Is it true that BISEXUAL FEMME VIXENS have more fun? You tell me…
So here we are at the FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES. I could write a whole essay on the definitions of FEMME and VIXEN, but I will spare you all that, mainly because I have already exceeded the page limit to this essay. We’ll just stick to the dictionary definitions of these words (because they actually fit quite nicely). FEMME is defined as ultra exaggerated femininity, especially applicable to us queermos, and VIXEN is a female fox, and also applies to a woman who is considered to be quarrelsome. And the Oscar for best FEMME VIXEN goes to….Meredith Rose Cornett! “Oh thank you, thank you! I so knew I was gonna win!” My ultra exaggerated femininity in it of itself is quarrelsome. Going back to the whole “I’m not backing down just because society’s fucked up” motif, as we all know, the genders of “man” and “woman” have been put into a hierarchy and we all know which one is considered to be the better one of the two. I refuse to allow myself to believe that the construction of masculinity is better than femininity. I refuse to give up performing as a FEMME because, quite frankly, we are either being misrepresented by people who let society’s fucked up values define their performance of femininity and thus, they internalize it and never realize that it is all an performance, or we are being trampled by masculinity. I’m not having it! I am going to wear pink, put on fake eyelashes and ROCK MY FUCKING STILETTOES and never for a second will I believe that it makes me weaker or worse than anyone. Go ahead, try to make me feel bad for not being perfect, society! I will just turn the other tity. Try to trample me, masculinity! You won’t be tying to trample shit when my STILETTOE meets your proverbial balls. Just try and stop this FUCKIGN SEXY, FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE TEN (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING, CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING, BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES! You’ll find it to be impossible.
So there it is, my gender…there it is, all out on paper. I can’t fucking believe it. To be honest, I didn’t really know what it was until I saw it on paper. But there it is (at least for now). I started writing this paper very late at night and now I am finishing it and the Sun is coming up. Like I said, you can take the English major out of English class…I know that it’s going to sound like bullshit, but I’ve come this far, why lie now? I can honestly say I have never felt better about who I am and what I perform. Believe me, the ideas were all up in my head, but to see them on paper…to see all these amazing, brave things that I perform day to day is flooring.
I hope that this made sense, because I can picture this being one of those thing that only make sense to me. But, then again, I guess I’m the only person that it has to make sense to.
Either way, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it.
From Chicago, this is Meredith Rose Cornett, the FUCKIGN SEXY, FIVE FOOT SIX, SIZE TEN (36 EUROPEAN) WEARING, CLEAVAGE SHOWING, PUSH-UP BRA SPORTING, BISEXUAL FEMME VIXEN IN STILETTOES, signing off.
