collecting towards a gender
A reflection on using things as a gateway into adolescent interests and gender confusion.
One of my earliest memories of things that felt important in my life were my figurines.
These figurines were a slapdash collection, mostly, about two-inches tall, all loosely assembled from the 1990s canon action figures. They lived in a small, plastic Tupperware that served as their vessel during bathtime.
In classic childhood fashion, I was deeply committed to complex, operatic narratives of treason, alliances, and inter-species love with these figurines.
I clearly remember when this red Lego Bionicle figurine (what even were those supposed to be? i never understood) fell in love with a Dragon Ball Z character.
A match made in fan-fiction heaven. Clearly, also, the early machinations of a queer person because sexuality was very irrelevant, and like 3/4 of these characters were aliens.
Now, I also had a handful of Barbies, which were fine. But they lacked the sturdiness and complex joint articulation (i mean, look at those purple kneecaps) of my action figures. So those won out. While my parents were adamant that toys did not reflect any kind of gender, of course, I was more likely to be gifted feminine-coded childhood objects: dolls, dresses, barrettes, etc. At a sixth or seventh birthday, I remember being given two separate sets of porcelain pink roses, which, at seven, I was sort of at a loss for how to interact with.
magical boy/girl/nonbinary person
In my later adolescence, I found myself drawn into the world of anime and manga (it was the 1990s! Pokemon! Dragon Ball Z! Sailor Moon! Toonami on Cartoon Network!) I wasn’t trying to be a collector, but I was obsessed with some of these stories and would watch them endlessly.
(I’ll never forget how when I was 13, I video-taped over a beloved childhood TV show with songs for young children in order to watch an anime. Thankfully, I’ve relived the clip via YouTube, but the memory sends a sour twinge through me. I can feel, so cleanly, the self-centered focus I felt at 13 for my life and my interests [which, developmentally, is totally fine; not shaming myself]. I didn’t realize how those kids’ songs would stay with me, but the anime episode specifics would cease to matter.)
What stands out, though, even among a, perhaps overboard fixation with cartoons, is that at least this was fueled predominantly by the feelings of joy I felt. (I always go hard on an interest; it’s still like this, I’ve just learned to pump breaks.) I’d also call out that, while in the 1990s and early 2000s anime culture was heavily a “boy’s world” for Americans, it was not exclusively. I liked the love story and floofy, over-the-top costumes in CLAMP’s Cardcaptor Sakura as much as I loved the gritty court scenes in Prince of Tennis (yep, tennis-themed sports manga).
On top of that, anime characters are significant in how they exist in their gender(s). There are two queer-coded best-friend love stories in Cardcaptor Sakura, both gay and lesbian.
Alternatively, there are narratives that like Dragon Ball Z, where men scream and have huge muscles. There’s also Rumiko Takahashi’s Ranma 1/2, which I loved as a kid, where a character (Ranma) gets cursed so that if he is hugged by a member of the “opposite sex,” he transforms into a female-bodied version of himself. Hijinks ensues.
Now, I’m not one to talk about the larger trends in Japanese animation and culture. I’ll just say there’s tons of gender creative presentation shown, alongside other elements of very traditional (heterosexual, cis) gender presentation or behavioral mores. But for me, any gender exploration was implicit. An explicit understanding of gender and how it was reflected in my favorite things, only became present as I got older.
dipping a toe in gender expression
I had some version of this collecting that was internally-motivated until I was 12 or 13, but then my memory jumps. Coming out of an emo phase (the bangs!) and inspired by a trip to Paris, France, with my parents, my attention was caught by the the luxurious department stores and drugstores there.
I bought a single blue, metallic eyeshadow, that I proceeded to apply liberally on any occasion, meaning, really, almost daily. I remember coming back to high school to an interest in lime green eyeshadow that I smudged far past the end of my eye, in ode to Teen Vogue magazine. So distinctive was my smear that a girl in my class came up to me and said, "Do you read Teen Vogue?"
"Yes," I whispered back, like the truest secret of myself had been seen.
"Do you read Teen Vogue?"
"Yes," I whispered back, like the truest secret of myself had been seen.
the black hole of beauty YouTube
In college, as the grainy YouTube of "Charlie the Unicorn" became Bethany Mota and Michelle Phan make-up tutorials, these tutorials formed a mirror I held against myself.
I sat in my studio apartment trying my damndest to be my most feminine, ethereal self with the perfectly water-lined eyelids, MSBB (“my skin but better”) blush, MLBB (“my lips but better”) lipstick… while not stabbing myself in the eye too much.
I'd pluck my eyebrows regularly. I’d layer and blend eyeshadow after eyeshadow. At the errant twitch of a finger, I'd scrub my eyelids with a makeup wipe. As my eyelids burned from the rawness of this process, I'd start the look over again. What had started as one single eyeshadow palette turned into a way of committing to a hyper-feminine presentation of myself.
I collected makeup knowledge, and makeup, to discern a space of femininity that I could follow. I studied my face with exacting awareness of imperfection. I watched women reduce their pores and hide under-eye circles I was convinced I, too, had. I told myself it was “fun,” but I also remember it being “stressful” as I covered my desk in powder and tried to copy their demonstrations. I’d apply and reapply all under their gaze–which, wasn't it really directed back at themselves in the camera?
Despite the oppressiveness I felt performing “high femme,” it was also “simple”. “Simple” in the way of rigidity that’s presented as choice: do this, don’t do that. (This same simplicity lives in diet culture, too, and many other forms of cultural, aesthetic-based commodification, but that’s a thought for another time.)
As a person in their late teens, I was also relieved in how this content gave me a script to follow. A literal step-by-step way to use the right things to look the right way, to be the right kind of woman.
Never mind that this script felt, inherently, like it eroded a sense of self-appreciation for how I looked and other aspects of the self. Never mind that I grew concerned that I looked so improved with makeup on, I was nervous that my natural face was permanently deficient and disappointing (to whom? probably mostly others, but myself, too). In improving myself, I was more attractive, more worthy of taking up space because I was womaning correctly.
Collecting, trying, and following makeup trends became a token part of my behavior and identity. I couldn't walk into a Sephora without buying shades I was convinced I needed, things I'd seen women use online; they were famous and beautiful and happy. So I prayed at their altar for ascension to a similar plane.
They were famous and beautiful and happy. So I prayed at their altar for ascension to a similar plane.
You might be wondering, especially if you were not targeted or indoctrinated by the world of makeup/beauty/skincare, why I did any of this. Wouldn’t it have been easier to, like, just not? I don’t mean to psychoanalyze myself too hard, but I have wondered about how I fell into this anxiety around identity and presentation when it obviously didn’t impact everyone this way. I’ve come to a few conclusions.
First, this content was framed not just as self-improvement, it was framed as “makeup is fun,” “omg, let’s relax, sit down, and chat while i show you this look,” as girl time. This was before the days of full-blown wellness culture in the mainstream way, but makeup was definitely spoken of as a thing that could be freeing, playful, and rewarding. (I think it is, for many people.) It was positioned, through the monologue the makeup artist would do as she’d demonstrate her techniques, as an intimate girl chat. It filled a gap that I hadn’t really known I’d felt: I’d grown up without many close friends who identified as girls and, as a then-girl, I always felt I’d missed out on some key experiences of girlhood. (In hindsight, I think this feeling of displacement was yet another way my subconscious gender dysphoria manifested.)
Makeup also allowed for a bond. You could walk into a Sephora and say what you were looking for, or the effect you wanted a product to have, or a concern you had about your face, and a person would help you. They’d find a few products, test them out, teach you the application. They might even try some other stuff out, just for fun, if you let them. You might both end up gushing over a shared appreciation for a product, a shade, a scent. This is all real, and it can be super fun. It just happened, for me, to be a trap that I put myself in, a distraction from inner turmoil and questioning and damaging behavior.
This collecting justified, solidified, became the mask of my identity. I was even told by multiple friends that my strongest identifier was my lipstick–a feature not actually a part of my features–in 2017. In 2018, I spent almost a quarter of my day on a trip to Los Angelees building a custom lipstick shade (which, I'm not going to lie, was kind of fun), regardless of if I could have responsibly afforded it.
It’s funny, and sad, to realize that, to a degree, I was trying to buy things to supplant feminine relationships and gender exploration when I could have. . . talked to the people in my life. I didn’t yet have gender expansive language, and I wouldn’t come to that much later, after I came out more generally. But I did start developing friendships with wonderful women, many of whom are still in my life. And we were awkward freshman and sophomores in college, but I wish I could have said, “Hey. Do you ever feel totally suffocated by the pressures of gender?” (I’d bet money on the answer being ‘yes,’ regardless of their gender identity.)
I wish I could have said, “Hey. Do you ever feel totally suffocated by the pressures of gender?” (I’d bet money on the answer being ‘yes,’ regardless of their gender identity.)
stepping away from collecting
Once I realized my true non-binary self, all of my makeup felt useless. I would dabble in a little eyeshadow here or there, but it always ended up in my eye and on my fingers. Lipstick, genuinely, gave me feelings of dysphoria. I held on to eyeshadow for a while, giving myself the security blanket of known presentation.
But I realized the stuff was a tool I'd used to hide from myself. It so easily provided a safe, binary, paint-by-numbers identity where I could hide my inner feelings of discomfort in fervent collection and financial investment. While makeup is a tool of expression and freedom for some, I used it as a weapon against myself more often than not.
I often wonder of the time, money, and psychic energy I'd saved had I just sat with all the feelings I felt when I looked in the mirror, instead of directing my gaze at women looking back at themselves.
Instead, I tried to push these feelings away by sitting in an imagined, safe world of vanity mirrors and cute makeup brushes. I tried to buy my way into a different mindset, into an identity that both doesn’t exist (there is no perfect social media version of your life) and didn’t exist for me because I wasn’t being honest about the level of dysphoria I felt.
I tried to buy my way into a different mindset, into an identity that both doesn’t exist (there is no perfect social media version of your life) and didn’t exist for me because I wasn’t being honest about the level of dysphoria I felt.
I wish I’d had the language I have now. I wish I could go up to my 19-year-old self and say, “Hey. You feel weird about gender, and your body, and that’s okay. I know it’s depressing to you. I know you hyperfixate on it. But you’re not alone in having these feelings. And society is trying to convince you that working on yourself, trying to conform to these standards, isn’t just fun, it’ll solve the problem. But it’s not you. It’s a much, much bigger problem. While that feels scary, that means you don’t have to do this. You can save your time, your money, your energy. You can sit with the discomfort and go on a walk. While you’re at it, maybe get rid of your mirror, and your scale, and stop watching these beauty tutorials.”
how i (don’t) look now
I try not to look in mirrors. (Now I know this is called “body checking,” and it can be a sign of disordered eating.) I try to focus on how clothes feel on my body. I don’t use any skincare. I don’t wash my face with anything but water. I cut my own hair with a trimmer since I shaved my head in August. When I’m most in my body, I’m actually the least aware of it. I’m moving, or I’m not, and I’m not concerned with how I am interpreted by others; I have no control over that. No amount of makeup will ever change that. Knowing I am read often as a cis woman or called “she” automatically, can be frustrating, not because of any individual’s failing but because our society is ten, twenty, one hundred years behind my own conceptions of gender and sexuality. Now, though, I’m not waiting on them to catch up. And I’m not buying my way back into those out-dated narratives, either. They never fit me well anyway.
i’m curious
Has any purchase ever helped you find, or push you away from, an identity?
How did your feelings (or lack thereof) around a/gender influence any purchases you’ve made? If this is totally foreign to you, I’d love to know that too.