girl mom.
on bisexuality and the male enigma. happy pride.
the other day my mother asked me if it was her fault that i don’t like men.
Is it me? Did my efforts to keep you safe backfire? Her voice was crackly through the Whatsapp call and I prayed that the terrible connection would make the video freeze right around the time my face twisted and I rolled my eyes.
Having an immigrant mother is an experience that leaves you changed, mostly for the better. I remember when I had my first therapy session and began to seed the roots of my family there on the floor of my room so that my therapist could know them as I did.
When it came to my mother I would struggle to describe her love for me because it was so strong, that only someone from the islands could understand. Mothers and daughters are just so different when dyed by the colors of a non-Western flag.
No, I told her. I just feel safer with women.
She then went on her familiar spiel of “women can be just as vicious, if not more” and I let my mind laze as she went through her talking points. Pinterest was opened on my tablet right behind where my phone rested and I made sure to “mmhmm” and “yeah” in all the right places as I contemplated whether or not an overly saturated photo of a rosy lily should go on the ‘pink’ board or the ‘birth chart’ one.
Even though my annoyance was strong, I wasn’t without sympathy. I understand immediately why she’s so confused and floundered when I express my lack of desire for male best friends (or friends of any kind) and distrust of men in general.
This is most likely impacted by three things:
i. I have a known romantic/sexual desire for men. I experience attraction to them and my mother is hoping that this will prevail against my bisexuality which we don’t talk about and I’ll end up with a husband.
ii. My mother has had terrible experiences with most women in her life, something fueled by the ultra-conservative culture of Haiti. Immigrant culture often instills men as the center of your life.
iii. I really love my dad.
The thing is, my dad isn’t a man to me. It’s not that he’s subpar. He’s just…my dad.
He’s the only man to ever not bother me as far as I’m concerned. He’s obsessed with my mom (there are pictures of her everywhere) and he’s funny in a way that doesn’t rely on misogyny. He’s emotionally intelligent with room to grow and I can talk to him for hours at a time.
Just this afternoon, I got an email from my accommodation to let me know a male tenant was moving into the third room in my flat. Immediately, I felt my stomach drop but it wasn’t with fear. It was with disgust and discomfort.
I dreaded walking out into my kitchen in the morning and seeing a man there as I slathered a lightly toasted sourdough bagel romantically with avocado and pomegranate sprinkled precisely on top. I hated the thought of sharing my bathroom with him, some phantom figure I had yet to meet, and having to nudge my vanilla and macadamia nut bath gel to the side to make space for whatever he used.
I hate how aware of myself I’ve already become, especially given that he isn’t here yet. Within the next few days was the move-in timeline I was given and I adjusted myself in the train seat, already anxious and irritated. At most, he moves in Sunday or Monday and I only have two days to deal with him because I fly out to go home in the middle of next week.
Still, I texted my mother that I felt uncomfortable and then lost signal, taking my second train to my final destination. I already know how the conversation is going to go later. My concerns will either be dismissed or she’ll look at me incredulously, shocked at how her daughter has become such a despiser of men.
It makes me laugh. I’ve never liked them, but she’s noticed it more in the last few years which has coincided with my lack of romantic partners and dating.
I’ve even gone back and forth at the thought of being a lesbian, but unfortunately, I do rather like men for certain reasons but the piece of the pie that cements my attraction to women is larger.
But I’ve realized it’s more than that. And then, I started thinking about girl moms.
Here’s a rather sordid secret: One of the reasons I know I can’t be a mother is because, at the thought of having a son, I feel a bit put out.
I struggle to connect to men in any way, shape, or form. I’m always on edge that their interest in me can’t be anything other than physical and it’s kept them at a distance. I feel fulfilled and valued by every female relationship in my life, less like I have to perform which is a persistent feeling when I’m around men.
I’m not sure if I would say my male crushes are unattainable which is usually a sign of compulsory heterosexuality. I think they’re just specific. I’ve always pictured myself ending up with a man just slightly older than me, cultured, and—if I could have it all—a chef.
I think my dislike for men didn’t root itself in my mother’s attempts to educate me on how they could be, but actually in going to a co-ed catholic school that strived to keep us chaste and mold us into traditional husbands and docile wives. The goal was to nurture that until we found our partner in high school (small-town semantics) and settled down with a round, pink pill of a baby at twenty-three.
I was determined not to end up there and I still am. So I shielded myself with my high standards and academic focus which has stunted my romantic life in ways that have both helped and hurt me.
On one hand, I don’t see men as the center of my life and I don’t give them as much weight as some others do. On the other, I missed out on that first defining relationship that could’ve made it easier to put myself out into the world.
There’s a part of me that gets off on it, I think. I like the idea of a man managing to get past my defenses and the quiet shock that I’ll get when I realize I like him. For real this time. I like the idea of obsession—not with me physically and not mutually but with making me happy, making me laugh, and competing to keep my interest.
I’m not sure if that’s healthy. I’ll have to ask Luci.1
So no, I’m not a lesbian. I wish I was. It would make it all easier. Am I a misandrist? Another question for Luci.
The disdain keeps me in disbelief and keeps a primal part of me at bay. I’m disgusted, intrigued, and exhausted too easily to keep up the facade.
I don’t fold. I’m hard. If I soften, I might beat myself up for it.
God bless whoever ends up with me, as my mother jokes.
He’s going to bruise. I know I will.
My therapist. Names have been changed.
the relationships I have between men and women are so incredibly different and I don't talk about it often because I don't want to come off like a misandrist cause that's not it but genuinely relationships of any kind with women are just so much more fulfilling
gorgeous writing as always, never stop writing
i feel the EXACT same way about a) the prospect of ever having to share my space, my home with a man (i'm anticipating there won't be room for one, what with all the trinkets) and b) the idea of having a son. i'd have no idea where to begin with that.
thank you for this xx