Encountering Gender
Angie Niver
Intro
I am a woman. In conversation, I am referred to as she or her. Since birth, my parents have dressed me in skirts and dresses. I wear nail polish. I put on mascara. I still suck in my stomach because I saw a girl do it on TV when I was eleven, and now it’s a bad habit. I wear enough makeup in the morning to feel pretty, but not too much that boys will think I'm “not natural”. I get whistled at in cities by men who are old enough to be my father. I’ve come to consider these behaviors and realities as innate part of my womanhood.
Truthfully, I like skirts and dresses, though I usually opt for sweatpants or pajama pants, because they expect less from me than a skirt does. I wear nail polish because slowly, meticulously applying the coats of paint gives me the smallest sense of control in a world where I seem to lack any. I’ve started to only recognize myself when I have my makeup done, but I honestly hate the way it feels on my face. Being catcalled fills me with tremendous fear because bluntly, I am terrified of the power men have over my body. This is what I’ve found to be the woman's experience.