The Female Man

I’m a victim of penis envy (said Laura) so I can’t ever be happy or lead a normal life. My mother worked as a librarian when I was little and that’s not feminine. She thinks it’s deformed me. The other day a man came up to me in the bus and called me sweetie and said, “Why don’t you smile? God loves you!” I just stared at him. But he wouldn’t go away until I smiled, so finally I did. Everyone was laughing. I tried once, you know, went to a dance all dressed up, but I felt like such a fool. Everyone kept making encouraging remarks about my looks as if they were afraid I’d cross back over the line again; I was trying , you know, I was proving their way of life was right, and they were terrified I’d stop. When I was five I said, “I’m not a girl, I’m a genius,” but that doesn’t work, possibly because other people don’t honor the resolve. Last year I finally gave up and told my mother I didn’t want to be a girl but she said Oh no, being a girl is wonderful. Why? Because you can wear pretty clothes and you don’t have to do anything; the men will do it for you. She said that instead of conquering Everest, I could conquer the conqueror of Everest and while he had to go climb the mountain, I could stay home in lazy comfort listening to the radio and eating chocolates. She was upset, I suppose, but you can’t imbibe someone’s success by fucking them. Then she said that in addition to that (the pretty clothes and so forth) there is a mystical fulfillment in marriage and children that nobody who hasn’t done it could ever know. “Sure, washing floors,” I said. “I have you,” she said, looking mysterious. As if my father didn’t have me, too. Or my birth was a beautiful experience et patati et patata , which doesn’t quite jibe with the secular version we always get when she’s talking about her ailments with her friends. When I was a little girl I used to think women were always sick. My father said, “What the hell is she fussing about this time?” All those songs, what’s- its-name, I enjoy being a girl, I’m so glad I’m female, I’m all dressed up, Love will make up for everything, tra-la-la. Where are the songs about how glad I am I’m a boy? Finding The Man. Keeping The Man. Not scaring The Man, building up The Man, pleasing The Man, interesting The Man, following The Man, soothing The Man, flattering The Man, deferring to The Man, changing your judgment for The Man, changing your decisions for The Man, polishing floors for The Man, being perpetually conscious of your appearance for The Man, being romantic for The Man, hinting to The Man, losing yourself in The Man. “I never had a thought that wasn’t yours.” Sob, sob. Whenever I act like a human being, they say, “What are you getting upset about?” They say: of course you’ll get married. They say: of course you’re brilliant. They say: of course you’ll get a Ph.D. and then sacrifice it to have babies. They say: if you don’t, you’re the one who’ll have two jobs and you can make a go of it if you’re exceptional, which very few women are, and if you find a very understanding man. As long as you don’t make more money than he does. How do they expect me to live all this junk? I went to a Socialist—not really Socialist, you understand—camp for two summers; my parents say I must have gotten my crazy ideas there. Like hell I did. When I was thirteen my uncle wanted to kiss me and when I tried to ran away, everybody laughed. He pinned my arms and kissed me on the cheek; then he said, “Oho, I got my kiss! I got my kiss!” and everybody thought it was too ducky for words. Of course they blamed me—it’s harmless, they said, you’re only a child, he’s paying you attention; you ought to be grateful. Everything’s all right as long as he doesn’t rape you. Women only have feelings; men have egos . The school psychologist told me I might not realize it, but I was living a very dangerous style of life that might in time lead to Lesbianism (ha! ha!) and I should try to look and act more feminine. I laughed until I cried. Then he said I must understand that femininity was a Good Thing, and although men’s and women’s functions in society were different, they had equal dignity. Separate but equal, right? Men make the decisions and women make the dinners. I expected him to start in about that mystically-wonderful- experience-which-no-man-can-know crap, but he didn’t. Instead he took me to the window and showed me the expensive clothing stores across the way. Then he said, “See, it’s a woman’s world, after all.” The pretty clothes again. I thought some damn horrible thing was going to happen to me right there on his carpet. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move. I felt deathly sick. He really expected me to live like that—he looked at me and that’s what he saw, after eleven months. He expected me to start singing “I’m So Glad I’m A Girl” right there in his Goddamned office. And a little buck-and-wing. And a little nigger shuffle.

“Would you like to live like that?” I said.

He said, “That’s irrelevant, because I’m a man.”

I haven’t the right hobbies, you see. My hobby is mathematics, not boys. And being young, too, that’s a drag. You have to take all kinds of crap.

Boys don’t like smart girls. Boys don’t like aggressive girls. Unless they want to sit in the girls’ laps, that is. I never met a man yet who wanted to make it with a female Genghis Khan. Either they try to dominate you, which is revolting, or they turn into babies. You might as well give up. Then I had a lady shrink who said it was my problem because I was the one who was trying to rock the boat and you can’t expect them to change . So I suppose I’m the one who must change. Which is what my best friend said. “Compromise,” she said, answering her fiftieth phone call of the night. “Think what power it gives you over them.”

Them! Always Them, Them, Them. I can’t just think of myself. My mother thinks that I don’t like boys, though I try to tell her: Look at it this way; I’ll never lose my virginity. I’m a Man-Hating Woman and people leave the room when I come in it. Do they do the same for a Woman-Hating Man? Don’t be silly.

She’ll never know—nor would she credit if she knew—that men sometimes look very beautiful to me. From the depths, looking up.

There was a very nice boy once who said, “Don’t worry, Laura. I know you’re really very sweet and gentle underneath.” And another with, “You’re strong, like an earth mother.” And a third, “You’re so beautiful when you’re angry.” My guts on the floor, you’re so beautiful when you’re angry. I want to be recognized.

I’ve never slept with a girl. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to. That’s abnormal and I’m not, although you can’t be normal unless you do what you want and you can’t be normal unless you love men. To do what I wanted would be normal, unless what I wanted was abnormal, in which case it would be abnormal to please myself and normal to do what I didn’t want to do, which isn’t normal.

So you see.

XII

Dunyasha Bernadetteson (the most brilliant mind in the world, b. A.C. 344, d. A.C.. 426) heard of this unfortunate young person and immediately pronounced the following shchasniy, or cryptic one-word saying:

“Power!”

XIII

We persevered, reading magazines and covering the neighbors’ activities in the discreetest way possible, and Janet—who didn’t believe us to be fully human—kept her affections to herself. She got used to Laur’s standing by the door every time we went out in the evening with a stubborn look on her face as if she were going to fling herself across the door with her arms spread out, movie style. But Laur controlled herself. Janet went out on a few arranged dates with local men but awe silenced them; she learned nothing of the usual way such things were done. She went to a high school basketball game (for the boys) and a Fashion Fair (for the girls). There was a Science Fair, whose misconceptions she enjoyed mightily. Like oil around water, the community parted to let us through.

Laura Rose came up to Miss Evason one night as the latter sat reading alone in the living room; it was February and the soft snow clung to the outside of the picture window. Picture windows in Anytown do not evaporate snow in the wintertime as windows do on Whileaway. Laur watched us standoffishly for a while, then came into the circle of fantasy and lamplight. She stood there, twisting her class ring around her finger. Then she