Compass & Quill

I’ve been thinking a lot (too much) about my upcoming wedding(s). I think there will be two – one at a courthouse, one under the desert stars. There’s a lot going on in my daily life, so I really don’t have the room or the time right now to spend planning out details of something(s) that’s going to happen over a year from now. I mean, I am. But I really shouldn’t be.

That’s not what I came here to write about, though. Or it is, but it isn’t. The thing is, I’ve been thinking about the dress (you know, THE dress) – what I’d like it to look like and what it represents. And I have thoughts. Probably too many for this blog post, especially considering that I just took a sleeping pill. That being said, here are a few things in no particular order…

First off, I haven’t seen a single white dress that looks good to me. Maybe that will change, but I’ve looked at thousands of white dresses at this point, and for the most part they make my heart sink into my stomach. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe years of being the bridesmaid and never the bride? Or maybe it’s because deep inside, I feel like wearing a white dress as a symbol of virginity is some patriarchal bullshit that deserves to be dragged kicking and screaming to the dump and set ablaze? OK, maybe that one. And yes, I do know that there are many colorful wedding dresses out there, and I have a good idea of the (non-wedding) wedding dress I’m going to choose, but still. I have thoughts. I’m not set on anything just yet. I’m mulling all this shit over.

Which leads me to the idea of wearing a dress at all. I look good in dresses, and in general I like to wear them. But I’m starting to rebel against the thought of being required to appear “feminine” for specific occasions. I’ve been thinking a lot about femininity as a concept lately, as well. In general I like outer adornments that are often deemed to fall under the realm of femininity: dresses, heels, jewelry, lingerie, that kind of stuff.

But I don’t like them because they’re feminine. I don’t like them because I’m a woman. I like them because I’ve been taught that they look good on my body, and so when I look at myself in these things, I am pleased that I look nice. But these things don’t make me a woman. My long hair doesn’t make me a woman, just like my short hair doesn’t make me a man. My makeup doesn’t make me a woman. You could argue that my body parts make me a woman, but that’s not true. Does my brain chemistry make me a woman? Am I supposed to FEEL like a woman? Do YOU feel like a woman? I know I’m not a man. But I don’t know that I’m a woman with the same sense of certainty that I know I’m not a man. And I don’t feel non-binary. I feel like something else. A secret fourth thing. Other. I’ve done a considerable amount of reading about being agender, but that doesn’t exactly seem to fit, either. The word itself feels like a dead end, but I feel like a possibility.

Maybe I’m just more attached to my soul than my body. Or do I feel less attached because I’ve always felt like an outsider, so nothing seems to fit? I know that I’ve always hated my real name, but I could never decide on another one. The first time that I knew I hated my name, I was three or four years old. I remember riding this big plastic bouncy horse on springs while mulling over what my mom had just told me: that if I really hated my name and wanted to change it to Strawberry, I could do it as soon as I turned 18. Even then, I knew that Strawberry didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but I loved strawberry ice cream and Strawberry Shortcake, and I knew that it felt better than the name people called me. Strawberry felt like love. My name felt like a chore, or a stack of tax accounting books, or freckles on the nose of someone you don’t even care enough about to hate.

Over the years, every time I tried to find a new name, all of the other women’s names that I tried on sounded even more fake than the name my parents gave me. Online I call myself Nova. In my head I’m often maus. Lately I’ve also tried on “Amos.” It was my favorite cat’s name. She was a beautiful gray cat with white paws and a milk mustache, and we mutually adored each other. I don’t know that Amos fits, either, but just thinking the name gives me a deep swell of love. What do people normally feel when they say their own name?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m me. I’m the same me I’ve always been (for better or worse). But I’ve never known who that is, and I think I never will. This is just another moment in a long line of moments where I realize that I’m allowed to ask questions about things I’ve always just accepted.

I guess mostly I feel like I exist outside of the visible parameters. That’s OK. I’ll still wear a dress to my wedding(s). Maybe a white one to the courthouse to please my mom, who is just happy that I found a partner who cooks. Luckily, it’s a partner who understands when I say, “I’m a nameless fourth thing, but you can keep pretending I’m who my driver’s license says I am.” He still laughed when I said I planned to change my last name to his. After all, who turns their nose up at a white dress but takes their partner’s last name? I didn’t tell him it’s because my last name reminds me of my first name, and my first name isn’t really mine.

I guess we are who we are.

Whoever that is.