(This first photo was taken for a family Christmas shoot. I felt weird when it was taken, but when I saw the photograph I knew I couldn’t stand to havethat represent who I am.)
Today, for third time this week, my mother told me she didn’t like my hair slicked back. Personally, I love it. It makes me feel cool and dapper, and in control. I didn’t even realize I didn’t like wearing dresses anymore until my mother asked me to put one on for family photos. It felt wrong. I’ve always thought that you should wear what’s comfortable, not necessarily what other people think you look best in. Even if you look back years later and think “wow that looks terrible” at least the photo is an accurate representation of who you are that moment in time. Isn’t that what photographs are for?
I don’t know what I should wear to my mother’s New Year celebration. I know what I want to wear: I want to wear my new collared shirt, my new bow tie, and my new suspenders. I want to slick my hair back. But a part of me does not want my mother’s neighbors to remember me as that one butch lesbian. The part of me wants to keep my hair down and wear the dress my mother likes, but that wouldn’t really be me. Part of me wants to be approved of at all costs. Another part, a larger part, perhaps, wants to meet my own standards for once instead of someone else’s.