On walking.

I.

My latest (mild) obsession is with a certain type of video that keeps making its way onto my algorithmically-generated TikTok “For You” page. These videos typically feature young, white, presumably cis(?) women demonstrating the ways in which they prepare themselves to be perceived as young men when facing the public. The instructions in these videos are all quite similar and the steps require having or obtaining the following:

• Long hair,
• Something to pull that long hair back with,
• Make-up,
• A knit hat,
• A hoodie, which should be oversized.

Monday night, after work, after watching yet another such video that had made its way into my feed, I figured I should just give the techniques a try for myself, once and for all.

I hauled out my bag of make-up (which primarily consists of various palettes of eye shadow, all in the same shades of light brown, medium brown, slightly more medium brown, is-this-pink-no-I-guess-this-is-still-brown, and wait-is-this-black-are-you-sure-this-isn’t-too-bold-maybe-don’t-use-this-one; one tube of red lipstick that is in a red that is actually flattering on me(!); eyeliner I only use theatrically or on others, because if I try to put eyeliner on myself in an attempt to look alluring or even passably competent, it looks like it was applied by a sleep-walking toddler; a tube of concealer that probably went off a year and half ago; a tube of Glossier boy brow, because I’m not immune to the persuasive tactics of Instagram ads; and so on.), grabbed my not-oversized-enough hoodie, a hair tie, and my youngest son’s bright orange knit cap and went to work.

(I was aiming for a combo of this video and this video.)

My youngest, when he saw what I was doing, had three reactions:

1. What are you doing?
2. You don’t look like a guy; you just look like my mom.
3. Hey, wait! That’s my hat.

Undeterred by his skepticism, I continued on my brief quest for almost-passable masculinity. I knew I had achieved success when I messaged a photo of the final results to one of my friends and she replied:

“Omggggg
Definitely a guy I would have let live on my couch in my 20s
And been all like ‘why is he so distant though'”

Yes!

Yes.

But could I pass?

In public?

If I were to get the right hoodie and a less bright orange hat and the right makeup and the right rest of it.

(
oh, and a mask.
Would the top part of my face be convincing enough?
I didn’t think to try it with a mask on.
)

Could I pass?

I mean, if I went to the store, I could always go to one with the self checkout lane, so I don’t have to talk to anyone.

But what about the way that I walk?

My gait?

II.

My gait.

When I was in the 5th grade, the other girls would tease and taunt me because my ponytail would wave from side to side when I walked. Though they accused me of it, I did not do this purposefully. I have always had what my mother has referred to as a “bouncy” sort of a walk, (which can perhaps give off an unintentional air of lightness or a swing to my step).

They thought I was trying to impress the boys.

Because we all know that nothing impresses a 5th grade boy quite like a wagging ponytail on one of the quietest, nerdiest girls in the class.

The joke was on them, I suppose.

I only managed to impress one boy my whole 5th grade year. He gave me a giant box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. I downed the whole thing after school and got sick to my stomach.

I dumped him the next day.

For the remainder of the year, I eschewed all pre-adolescent romance, choosing instead to be the playground’s one and only ordained minister, “marrying” young couples during recess.

I’m not sure many of those young marriages stuck.

The boy who bought me the chocolates is married to one of my old friends now. I don’t know if she knows that her husband bought me chocolates in the 5th grade.

Not that it matters. It was his parents’ money anyway.

III.

Tuesday morning, I walked around my house trying to figure out how I would walk if I were a man. It’s kind of hard, in my house, to get a good stride going, as it’s pretty small. There’s not enough real estate for such experimentation.

How would I walk as a man, if I were to only walk a few feet at a time and then have to turn around and walk back?

Without bouncing.

Without my hips giving it away.

I have no good answers.

IV.

When I was a teenager, I needed glasses, but I refused to wear them. I recognized my friends by the way the blurred outlines of their bodies moved as they approached me.

When I was approaching my 40s, I met a man who, when he walked, would glide across the floor with an air of turgid self-assurance.

This is no longer captivating to me.

V.

In the summer of 2019, I had such severe panic attacks that I struggled with agoraphobia. I often made myself go out in spite of this, with mixed success.

To get from my car in the parking lot to (and through) the front door of wherever I was going, I would meditate on my footsteps. Counting up and then down. If I missed one, because my mind wandered, I’d start over.

1.

1, 2.

1, 2, 3.

1, 2, 3, 4.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.

10,

10, 9.

10, 9, 8.

10, 9, 8, 7.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

I never attempted such mindfulness when I’d leave, as I would simply try desperately to outrun the rising nausea in the pit of my stomach. The cold sweat. The racing heart. The world spinning in on itself.

Once, mid-panic attack, while I was leaning against the wall of a women’s restroom and splashing my face with cold water from the sink beside me, willing myself not to vomit, a younger woman walked in and asked if I was okay. I told her I was trying to convince myself that I could make it out of the bathroom, down the hall, down a flight of stairs, and out to my car without puking from anxiety.

She offered to walk with me. I accepted.

She offered to hold my arm. I accepted.

We walked out of the bathroom, my arm in hers, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door onto the sidewalk.

She offered to pray for me. I accepted.

She stopped and prayed for me, right there. Out loud. In the middle of the sidewalk. Laying her hands upon my shoulders, as confused bystanders scurried past, pretending not to see.

When she was done, I thanked her and turned to leave, but she’d apparently spotted the rainbow chalice pin on my backpack and decided to save my soul.

VI.

My thoughts are a maze.
Sometimes I get stuck there,
like a wind-up toy that’s hit a wall
before it’s fully unwound itself.

When I walk, the gyri and sulci smooth.
The maze becomes a labyrinth.
The walk, a meditation.

My mind and body conspire to propel me forward
Jotting their notes in a file I will never see,
Then guide me home, until the next time.

VII.

If you could have one superpower, what would it be?

Invisibility.

VIII.

From Book II of Plato’s Republic, Glaucon to Socrates:

“He was a shepherd, so the story runs, in the service of the reigning sovereign of Lydia, when one day a violent storm of rain fell, the ground was rent asunder by an earthquake and a yawning gulf appeared on the spot where he was feeding his flocks. Seeing what had happened, and wondering at it, he went down into the gulf, and among other marvelous objects he saw, as the legend relates, a hollow bronze horse, with windows in its sides, through which he looked, and beheld in the interior a corpse, apparently of superhuman size; from which he took the only thing remaining, a golden ring on the hand, and therewith made his way out. Now when the usual meeting of the shepherds occurred, for the purpose of sending to the king their monthly report of the state of his flocks, this shepherd came with the rest, wearing the ring. And, as he was seated with the company, he happened to turn the hoop of the ring round towards himself, until it came to the inside of his hand. Whereupon he became invisible to his neighbors, who were talking about him as if he were gone away. While he was marveling at this, he again began playing with the ring, and turned the hoop to the outside, upon which he became once more visible. Having noticed this effect, he made experiments with the ring, to see whether it possessed this power. And so it was, that when he turned the hoop inwards he became invisible, and when he turned it outwards he was again visible. After this discovery, he immediately contrived to be appointed one of the messengers to carry the report to the king; and upon his arrival he seduced the queen, and conspiring with her, slew the king, and took possession of the throne.”

From Plato, The Republic, translation by John Llewelyn Davies and David James Vaughan, revised by Andrea Tschemplik (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2005).

IX.

I just want to go for a walk, alone, on a clear night.

X.

A book of poems (received as a gift) sat on my shelf, flipped through, but almost wholly unread for nearly a decade, when I pulled them out and took them for a spin.

X,
X, IX,
X, IX, VIII,
X, IX, VIII, VII,
X, IX, VIII, VII, VI,
X, IX, VIII, VII, VI, V,
X, IX, VIII, VII, VI, V, IV,
X, IX, VIII, VII, VI, V, IV, III,
X, IX, VIII, VII, VI, V, IV, III, II,
X, IX, VIII, VII, VI, V, IV, III, II, I.

We walk in the daylight.
I don’t memorize your gait in my periphery,
But I learn your rhythm,
The un-self-consciousness of breathing the next breath
and the next one.

---

kfw 2021