Upon arriving in France I was a woman. Informed by the cattle of Wisconsin farmlands, the timbre of my being was influenced by a knowing that came long before me.
Sanctuaire
That first year was transitory. I learned messages from the fellow expatriates at my side in the night clubs, from the pushing of limits, from the rape of my roommate that first October. We were a sisterhood herded together through circumstance. Girls teaching each other independence, learning from the unlearned experiences - the yet to be seen. Our friendship was irresolute, as unsteady as our belief that everything would be ok.
This transient time of kinship was brought to an abrupt end when I was hoisted from our haven, as an October of my own hit me in March.
Échangé
On an ordinary Thursday night, I chased a contemptible drink (jägerbomb) with a beer and began to dance. We sang aloud, our joviality splaying on the dance floor. Men watched from dark corners. My friend, Fer, pried me from my joy to the outside, fresh air gracing me, singing soft relief to the sweat trickling down my spine. “He’s looking for some fun,” she said, gesturing to a man crouched on the curb. He was at least twice my age. A jagged toothy grin, bleach blonde hair, and bright anticipating eyes examining my clothes from top to bottom. A barrier, I realized, to his goals. As I promptly turned away, Fer caught me by the arm demanding answers to my situational ineptitude.
“Don’t be a prude” she exclaimed, I pushed off, ignoring her expletives trailing behind me.
Not long after, I saw her passing him off to my roommate Lauren. The circle of life.
Chambre de Bonne
Living alone took me from girlhood to becoming a woman. I bought a vibrator, I curated a collection of adulthood costumes, I owned my own hookah. I would buy strawberries from the market down the street, and spend my last pennies on wine. When money inevitably ran low, Tinder became my Doordash, men became an avenue for hash and food, (always at my disposal). In fruitless attempts to feel my body again, I paid freely whatever I owed. A banker, a “famous” Youtuber, and an engineering student became my lovers - my resources. They taught me that womanhood meant pleasure, exchange, and exposure.
Antoine
A warm April breeze swept me into the 4th arrondissement one day to a green-curtained cafe near Saint-Severin. The cobbled rue pietonne led my eye to the man I met online. He was far too handsome for a woman like me. He prowled towards me, strategically, eyes latched like a panther, performing this charismatic mating dance. Smiling, looking up and around him in a playful way, then back at me as if to say “yes I am looking at you.” We met in the middle. A slow, intentional bisous was upon me - a priest giving his blessing. We sat at that cafe for a long while, using google translate and our tongues to communicate. He was a perfect gentleman, buying me a rose from a street vendor, paying for multiple beers, teaching me words I’d soon forget.
Many months of joy ensued, apart from the few times he’d hit me. We lived together outside the city, where I learned that womanhood was quiet.
Uniforme
Wear the heels on the cobbled streets, better to break an ankle than lose your man. And wear the red, he’ll desire you more. He likes your hair long, dark and curly. All the better to pull you by. Speak French. Remain foreign enough to entice his friends, but not too much to tempt them to bed. French women don’t dress like that, they don’t talk back like that either. Chin up. Drink like a man but gain none of the weight. Bear his children one day, it’ll be the biggest blessing you’ll ever receive.
Nom Oublié
After an average dinner, we stood outside smoking and I asked him (I don’t remember his name) if it feels weird to see all his old friends again. “I think the adventure was worth it don’t you?” I asked, dangerously close to his side. “I would give everything away to do it again,” he admitted. I smiled and looked up at him, cigarette lifting to my mouth, “maybe you should.” He grinned. The moonlight showcased a merciful savior to my loneliness in that moment, and there was nothing but true kindness in those gentle eyes. Eyes that saw exactly what type of situation I was in as an American 19 year old girl enraptured by an almost 30 year old drunk. Someone who was dancing between being a good friend to Antoine and telling me to run. I saw it in his eyes as he wanted to say I should find a new adventure too. To free myself before my life would be written in paper - “a girl gone too soon.” But he just grinned and said “maybe I will.”
By those few words I knew what he meant.
Charade
I knew something was off within me. The head-down instinct of the range I inhabited with Antoine felt stifling. I don’t remember exactly when I began to peek up. A therapist who saved my life in March sat across from me in an unconditioned sweltering brick building in May. “What is it that you aren’t saying?” Federico had asked. “I don’t think I’m a woman.”
There, the words of a thousand words spilled out of me. I knew my herd back home would be ashamed of what I’d become. My mother, the proudest of all women, loved me for precisely that. She was so worried when my period came later in life, that I hadn’t been “born with the right parts.”
I expected Federico to flinch at my sharp words, but his lack of experience in this form of pretense allowed him the freedom to say with grace “so what?” So what that I’m not a woman? So what that I’m not made of the strawberries I eat? Of the costumes I wear? The men I’ve fucked? I asked what I should do - a rocked world crumbled beneath me. “Today, this week, as long as you need, allow yourself to not be a woman. See what changes. Don’t tell anyone. But in your mind allow yourself to not be a woman and see how it feels.”
I was surprised and relieved to find that nothing changed.
Fierté
I went to my first Paris pride behind his back. Chrissy came with, she had never seen a pride parade before. (I thought I had until I saw this one). Here, no one was just a woman. Vibrant colors shone through, breaking apart the facades of the everyday masks we wore. Music, moments of silence, laughter - a cacophony of love!
I wore black. I said it was in honor of those who died before me.
In secret it was for me who felt dead.
Régression
“Je ne suis pas une femme, ni un homme”
I told him that fall. I remember the trill of his laugh, as he mocked me. “You want a penis? You want women? As long as I can watch.” He continued to whisper those words to me long into the night. “You think you’re not a woman? Let me show you how I can change your mind.”
He taught me that to not be a woman meant punishment.
Renaissance
Ava paid for the overpriced uber to move my things before he returned home. The uber, an older man, asked me why I was crying. “Leaving is hard” I remembered saying, as I blankly stared out the window. The heat of August’s attempt to dry those tears blew in. “Did he hurt you?” he asked. I was shocked at the gentleness in his eyes. I barely tilted my head in response. He passed me his pack of cigarettes with the lighter sticking out, and gave me a morose but tender smile. We spoke no more. The France 24 channel hummed in responsive static.
When you finally leave, it is to be reborn. The world hits you as it did when leaving the womb. All the blood rushes in - it peels your existence apart. Sensorial input overwhelms your being from every angle of your life, overtaking you until it suddenly stops. Without warning, silence intrudes. You can finally hear the slight wheeze of your breath; a sound you had forgotten existed. A sense of relief that feels like a lie.
That night that I moved into my studio apartment, when Ava had finished moving the last of my bags, when she hugged me goodbye
and I closed the door, I found myself on the ground. on a dirty tiled floor of my newfound haven, my knees scraped up from the impact, the world coming to still.
Leaving had never felt so close to god.
Prêt
By the time I left France I was no longer a woman.
Maintenant
I know not what I am, only that I’ve been.