Read Online Redefining Realness by Janet Mock - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Mock
Ads: Link
and isolated, an easier target for Derek.
Gender and gender identity, sex and sexuality, are spheres of self-discovery that overlap and relate but are not one and the same. Each and every one of us has a sexual orientation and a gender identity. Simply put, our sexual orientation has to do with whom we get into bed with , while our gender identity has to do with whom we get into bed as . A trans person can be straight, gay, bisexual, etc.; a cis gay, lesbian, or heterosexual person can conform to expected gender norms or not; and a woman can have a penis and a man can have a vagina. There is no formula when it comes to gender and sexuality. Yet it is often only people whose gender identity and/or sexual orientation negates society’s heteronormative and cisnormative standards who are targets of stigma, discrimination, and violence. I wish that instead of investing in these hierarchies of what’s right and who’s wrong, what’s authentic and who’s not, and ranking people according to these rigid standards that ignore diversity in our genders and sexualities, we gave people freedom and resources to define, determine, and declare who they are.
Chapter Four
I look back on tailored lawns fronting freshly painted houses and teenage boys in white tank tops flaunting burgeoning biceps who push mowers and pull rakes. I see Chad and me in crisp back-to-school outfits and unscuffed shoes, soles not worn to the ground, as we walk so fresh and so clean three blocks to homeroom. I see Dad, his waves brushed on point and his uniform, starched to crease, beaming at the stage as I accept the “class leader” award at an assembly.
I won many awards in the third grade, but Dad didn’t see them until I placed them beside the living room TV, the most visible spot in the house. The reality was that Dad had stopped wearing his uniform long before. We had a front yard that was rarely mowed or watered. We got crisp back-to-school separates—a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, and T-shirts we swapped to create more outfits—that we wore year-round until they were worn and outdated. I outgrew my jeans, the hems hovering over my ashy little ankles, at the same time I outgrew the illusion of stability that’s supposed to accompany childhood.
One afternoon in 1992, I went to my room during homework hour to grab something from my desk. Through a crack in our bedroom door, I saw Dad sitting at the desk attached to the side of our bunk. His back was hunched over, too big for the rickety chair, which resembled dollhouse furniture. White vapor misted around his head. Maybe he’s sneaking a smoke of his Newports in our room, since Janine hates the smell in the house , I thought. But it didn’t smell like cigarettes, and I knew this wasn’t for me to see. I was tiptoeing away from the door when Dad turned and looked straight at me. His eyes were wide, the pupils taking over his already dark brown irises. He pinched a charred glass pipe between his left thumb and index fingers, and a wrinkled piece of foil laid open on our desk.
“Why you sneakin’ around?” he said. “Get in here.”
I sat down on my bunk with my legs hanging over the wooden drawers. I looked down at my scabbed knees, blackened by skateboarding.
“Chaaaaaad,” Dad yelled, pushing the door open so his voice would carry through the hall and living room to the kitchen, where Chad was surely daydreaming about playing outside.
Chad wore an apprehensive smile when he entered our bedroom. I could tell that he thought I had gotten us in trouble, and we were in for a long lecture that would shorten his outside time. Chad sat next to me on my bunk and took in the foil and the glass pipe and what looked like small shavings of Ivory soap. Dad’s next action stuns me now in recollection. He brought the pipe to his chapped lips with his left hand, like he would a glass cigarette, and lit it with his right. The glass became cloudy with the vapor that went into him. He exhaled and
Gender and gender identity, sex and sexuality, are spheres of self-discovery that overlap and relate but are not one and the same. Each and every one of us has a sexual orientation and a gender identity. Simply put, our sexual orientation has to do with whom we get into bed with , while our gender identity has to do with whom we get into bed as . A trans person can be straight, gay, bisexual, etc.; a cis gay, lesbian, or heterosexual person can conform to expected gender norms or not; and a woman can have a penis and a man can have a vagina. There is no formula when it comes to gender and sexuality. Yet it is often only people whose gender identity and/or sexual orientation negates society’s heteronormative and cisnormative standards who are targets of stigma, discrimination, and violence. I wish that instead of investing in these hierarchies of what’s right and who’s wrong, what’s authentic and who’s not, and ranking people according to these rigid standards that ignore diversity in our genders and sexualities, we gave people freedom and resources to define, determine, and declare who they are.
Chapter Four
I look back on tailored lawns fronting freshly painted houses and teenage boys in white tank tops flaunting burgeoning biceps who push mowers and pull rakes. I see Chad and me in crisp back-to-school outfits and unscuffed shoes, soles not worn to the ground, as we walk so fresh and so clean three blocks to homeroom. I see Dad, his waves brushed on point and his uniform, starched to crease, beaming at the stage as I accept the “class leader” award at an assembly.
I won many awards in the third grade, but Dad didn’t see them until I placed them beside the living room TV, the most visible spot in the house. The reality was that Dad had stopped wearing his uniform long before. We had a front yard that was rarely mowed or watered. We got crisp back-to-school separates—a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, and T-shirts we swapped to create more outfits—that we wore year-round until they were worn and outdated. I outgrew my jeans, the hems hovering over my ashy little ankles, at the same time I outgrew the illusion of stability that’s supposed to accompany childhood.
One afternoon in 1992, I went to my room during homework hour to grab something from my desk. Through a crack in our bedroom door, I saw Dad sitting at the desk attached to the side of our bunk. His back was hunched over, too big for the rickety chair, which resembled dollhouse furniture. White vapor misted around his head. Maybe he’s sneaking a smoke of his Newports in our room, since Janine hates the smell in the house , I thought. But it didn’t smell like cigarettes, and I knew this wasn’t for me to see. I was tiptoeing away from the door when Dad turned and looked straight at me. His eyes were wide, the pupils taking over his already dark brown irises. He pinched a charred glass pipe between his left thumb and index fingers, and a wrinkled piece of foil laid open on our desk.
“Why you sneakin’ around?” he said. “Get in here.”
I sat down on my bunk with my legs hanging over the wooden drawers. I looked down at my scabbed knees, blackened by skateboarding.
“Chaaaaaad,” Dad yelled, pushing the door open so his voice would carry through the hall and living room to the kitchen, where Chad was surely daydreaming about playing outside.
Chad wore an apprehensive smile when he entered our bedroom. I could tell that he thought I had gotten us in trouble, and we were in for a long lecture that would shorten his outside time. Chad sat next to me on my bunk and took in the foil and the glass pipe and what looked like small shavings of Ivory soap. Dad’s next action stuns me now in recollection. He brought the pipe to his chapped lips with his left hand, like he would a glass cigarette, and lit it with his right. The glass became cloudy with the vapor that went into him. He exhaled and
Similar Books
