ABSTRACT
Feminine. Female. Girl. I watched my younger sister spend hours in the bathroom with a curling iron, my mother with her nail file and eyebrow tweezers. I watched and listened to the girls in my school talk about boys, go behind the equipment shed to kiss them, later whisper in algebra class about fucking them. I watched from the other side of a stone wall, a wall that was part self-preservation, part bones and blood of aloneness, part the impossible assumptions I could not shape my body around. Dresses. Make-up. High heels. Perfume.
I tried wearing the skirts my mother sewed for me. She urged me into Girl Scouts, slumber parties, the 4-H knitting and sewing clubs. I failed, not wanting any part of these activities. I loved my work boots and overalls long after all the other girls had discovered pantyhose and mini-skirts. But failing left a hole in my heart; I wanted to belong somewhere. Am I feminine? Maybe I meant: ‘‘What
am I, a girl, a boy, something else entirely?’’ Maybe Imeant: ‘‘Can Ibe a girl like this?’’Or maybe I was simply trying to say: ‘‘Mama, I don’t understand.’’ What did I want her to
