reading room
split
a femininity made of observation first. of watching women in restaurant reflections, adjusting necklaces while thinking, checking lipstick in the backs of spoons, crossing legs without noticing, holding laughter differently from the boys i grew beside.
not innate— rehearsed slowly, accidentally, like phrases borrowed from friends until they start sounding natural in your mouth.
there are tutorials for this. mirrors. bathroom lights too white to forgive anyone. youtube makeup routines playing tinny through phone speakers at 1am because sleep can wait another hour. a razor left beside the sink like a tiny instruction manual.
some days it feels beautiful. some days it feels like customer service for strangers.
the word itself never settles. ask ten people what femininity means and watch them contradict each other politely.
one person means softness. another means lipstick. another means motherhood. another means obedience wearing perfume.
someone says: SMILE MORE.
learning early that friendliness and safety are often mistaken for each other.
someone else says: you'd be prettier if—
the sentence usually finishes itself.
and still there are women with shaved heads, steel-toed boots, deep voices, women who swear loudly, women who build engines, women who cannot have children, women who don't resemble the adverts at all—
and none become less real for it.
perhaps femininity is not a thing possessed but a pattern socially rewarded. a set of gestures repeated often enough to feel inevitable
or maybe some of it really is just advertising. expensive bottles and careful lighting teaching people what to desire.
though i still catch myself wanting it anyway.
i felt it in my posture before i understood why posture mattered. in checking my reflection mid-conversation. in the panic of school photographs before i knew the word dysphoria. in learning how to smile before deciding whether i meant it. in the deliberate softening of my voice when speaking to strangers. in hearing recordings of myself and sitting there afterwards thinking: no, not quite.
sometimes the mask slips. sometimes there was never a mask, only exhaustion from paying attention to yourself for too many hours in a row.
they say femininity is natural, but nature rarely cares about our categories that much. rivers overflow. birds reverse roles. even chromosomes occasionally arrive contradicting expectations.
the category survives anyway.
temporary as fashion. strict as scripture.
and somewhere beneath all that performance, beneath the beauty aisle language, beneath the careful smiles and frightened mirrors,
a person— not symbol, not archetype, not aesthetic— just a person trying to move through the world without becoming public property.
masculinity begins as observation too. boys learn early how to make themselves seem unaffected. how to widen their stance in photographs. how to laugh at things they do not find funny. how to turn embarrassment into sarcasm before somebody notices.
which softness follows you home.
which gestures get remembered later in locker rooms, group chats, car parks.
a posture corrected before anyone says a word.
there are tutorials for this as well. fathers shaving in steamed mirrors. action heroes who never seem frightened. men who bleed quietly. deodorant adverts before football videos. gym changing rooms thick with Lynx Africa and threat. school corridors where softness gets noticed immediately.
not innate— rehearsed slowly, defensively, like bracing before impact.
some days it feels empowering. some days it feels like preparing for a fight that never actually starts.
ask ten people what masculinity means and watch them hesitate differently.
one person means staying quiet until the feeling passes. another means keeping your hands still even when anger rattles your ribs. another means fists through plasterboard and never explaining why. another means laughing along when someone weaker becomes the joke. another means becoming useful enough that nobody asks whether you are happy.
another voice says: MAN UP.
another says: BOYS DON'T CRY
boys learn quickly how fast affection becomes ammunition.
as if fear stops existing once embarrassment enters the room.
and still there are men who cry easily, men who hesitate before shouting, men who move gently through conversations, men who raise children alone, men who hate violence, men who wear makeup, men who have never recognised themselves inside the mythology—
and none become less real for it.
perhaps masculinity is not a truth discovered but a performance rewarded so early most people forget watching the rehearsal.
teenagers learn this before algebra.
even now, some part of me still straightens its posture when another man enters the room.
i have felt it in the lowering of my voice. in pretending not to care. in laughing half a second late. so nobody notices hesitation. in learning how not to react before deciding whether i was hurt.
sometimes the performance slips. sometimes fear speaks first.
they say masculinity is natural, but nature rarely obeys our categories so politely. male seahorses carry children. lionesses hunt. entire species change sex without panic, legislation, or comment sections.
the category survives anyway.
held together like concrete already beginning to split.
and somewhere beneath all that performance beneath the cologne adverts and competition rituals, beneath the handshakes pressed too firm,
a person— not emblem, not protector, not warning label— just a person trying to survive being seen incorrectly.
— Lilith