Limp Wrist

Throwing Like a Girl, Crossing Your Legs, and Other Bodily Crimes

“Creation of Adam” by Michelangelo, ca. 1511

Happy Pride Month, readers! I hope your month is off to a glittery start.

June’s been approaching for the last eleven months, and I have been debating what I might want to touch on to commemorate the season, or if I have anything to say at all. I tend to write about LGBTQ issues every so often regardless, but there’s something about Pride Month that evokes a certain kind of reflection.

It’s the solidarity of it, I think. It’s connecting over shared experiences, but it’s also connecting over the very act of sharing experiences, even as they differ. It’s celebrating everything that makes us different and special, but it’s also celebrating how similar and human we all are after all. It’s recognition of a long history of oppression but also of overcoming. It’s putting the human body out there for all to see, come-as-you-are, in every shape and color and size, dressed up or hardly dressed at all, whether sexual and non-sexual, rude or revolutionary; built for both pleasure and progress and everything in between. If you’re used to not feeling accepted, only feeling conditionally accepted, or feeling tense and uncomfortable in your body, it’s so important to have a time and a space and a community where you can feel embraced, where you can let your guard down, where you can release that tension.

In all of this, I have been thinking about the body—my body, your body, all bodies—and the double duty that our bodies pull not just to keep us alive and move us around our world, but also to adhere to these rigid expectations that ask us to carry ourselves in certain ways, decorate ourselves in certain ways, and enjoy our bodies in certain ways, lest we be perceived as something lesser, something other. This absolutely applies to the queer community and the ways we contort ourselves to appease the world around us, to not give away our queerness in times or places where it’s unsafe, but I think this also applies to… everyone. We can all relate to holding tension in our bodies, worrying that we’ll let ourselves slip. So, in the spirit of Pride Month, let’s share some of that. I’ll share mine, and I hope you’ll share yours.

Suck in your tummy. Get your thumb out of your mouth. Keep your hands to yourself. Stop hitting your brother.

There is perhaps no end to the ways we contort our bodies to fit into the confines of various social expectations, but I do think I can pinpoint a beginning, at least for myself. For me, it’s as far back as that first memory of my parents poking at me, trying to get me to behave, to be aware of the space I took up in relation to others, and to control my flailing limbs and wandering fingers. You can probably relate. Some of these commands are for our own safety, some are to keep us from hurting others or leaving messes in our wake, and some are more about fitting in. Why did I need to stop sucking my thumb? Because someday I’d be glad to not be the only kid in school with his dirty playground fingers in his mouth all day. Totally fair. Also, totally not sanitary, so, it’s a good lesson. But, then, why did I need to suck in my tummy as a little kid? I guess because it would make me appear slimmer and healthier, something people might expect of me one day. It would train my body to hold itself in, hold itself upright, to maintain that tension on its own, to look right. I guess, yeah, it’s achieved its goal of making me hold in my stomach without even thinking about it, but it’s also come with a weird side effect of not really ever being able to relax my torso comfortably… which is apparently not good for you. That trend of bodily tension is one that seems to continue as we get older, for better or for worse.

Sit down. Sit still. Put your hands in your pockets. Get off the floor.

The world is full of very important rules, etiquette, and social norms, and so we do our best to conform, especially as kids, soaking up every new piece of information and doing everything we can to fit in with the people around us. None of this is to say that the way we learn to command our bodies to fit social norms is inherently bad. In a lot of ways, it helps us get along with others, succeed in life, and stay out of harm. For example, because of my clumsy, wayward little hands as a kid, my mother drilled that “put hands in your pockets!” command so deeply into me that, to this day, I instinctively bury my hands in my pockets or clasp them behind my back when I walk into a store selling small, fragile objects or antiques. I’m positive this has saved me having to pay for a broken vase or antique on more than one occasion, and for that I am grateful. My too-long arms still have a tendency to knock things over when I’m not paying attention. For the record, I do still have trouble sitting down and sitting still, but I find it far easier to keep myself off the floor. My point, though, is that this socializing is not all bad, and holding our bodies in check to keep ourselves and others safe and comfortable is part of living in community with others. But they also don’t always make us better people, or better to each other…

Sit up straight. Stand up straight. Keep your elbows off the table. Stop mumbling. Man up, little guy!

As we get a little older, the commands start to feel less and less about honing our motor skills and spatial awareness and more and more about adhering to etiquette, aesthetics, and fitting into what the world expects of us as grown men and women. Good posture, table manners, and articulate speech great skills to have, for sure, but it’s from this point that the tone and messaging of the commands diverge into two paths: One for boys and one for girls, expressly stating the expectations of color-coded gender roles that had been quietly present since the day we came in to the world. At the precipice of puberty, the didactic guidance shifts to reinforcing gendered behaviors, gendered posture, and gendered speech, not just separating boys from girls in this process, but also separating the kids who can fit into these expectations from the kids who struggle to, instilling a distinction between the good boys and girls and the ones who don’t behave like good boys and girls ought to. These demands on boys and girls and the shunning of any failures to conform are largely rooted in sexism, a prioritization of masculinity, a belittlement of femininity—wherever it occurs—and rigid expectations for both with very little room in between.

I recognize that the effects of this socialization have an outsized impact on girls and women, encouraging politeness over courage, nurturing over enterprising, and responsibility over risk-taking, among everything else. Girls and women far too often bear the onus of preventing the harassment, sexual violence, and danger that many experience by policing their own behavior, dress, communication, and movement. The demands of femininity are endless, and I sympathize greatly with the expectations that girls and women have to deal with. As a man, I can only truly speak to my own experience, which is very rarely as perilous as what women go through. I can only speak to what it’s like as a boy having masculinity thrust upon you and dredged out of you… to be told to man up and stop crying. I can speak to the sports and hobbies I should have been good at, the movies I was expected to like, the toys I was expected to want for Christmas, the games I was supposed to play, the feelings I was allowed to feel, and the types of friendship I was supposed to have. As a gay man, I can also speak to the experience of being in the “nonconforming boy” quadrant of the chart. I can speak to the hunting trips my older brother was invited on but that I wasn’t, the sports I was never interested in watching or good at playing, the toys I was ashamed to admit I actually wanted for Christmas, the games I could only ever play by myself, the feelings I felt all on my own, and the social connections I longed for but deprived myself of. I can speak to feeling unsafe expressing myself around my peers. If all this inner turmoil was not enough, it would not be long before I would become abruptly aware of my own body, how I carried it, and what it might betray about how I was feeling on the inside.

Don’t walk like that. Don’t sit like that. Don’t talk like that. Don’t hold your wrist like that. You throw like a girl!

Just as my body started changing and my eyes started opening to the bodies changing around me, a passing remark from my older brother to keep me in check turned my eyes back onto myself. He told me not to hold my wrist “like that”—you know, limp, hanging how a wrist might naturally hang if you’d never been told not to let it hang “like that” because it would make you look gay—and not to cross my legs because, it turns out, that was how girls sit, and therefore how gays sit. What was once just a wrist was now a limp wrist. What were just legs were now a landmine. At any moment now, I might accidentally convey to the whole world the struggle I was going through, might out me as some other, not “boy” enough or “man” enough. It wasn’t just my wrists and the way I sat that I was worried about, either. I can trace a lot of my body anxiety back to this memory, this sudden realization that the way I walked, talked, sat, stood, touched, threw a ball, and moved through the world might make me less than the other boys. My body, its movements, and its responses might ruin me. With this came a discomfort in my skin, an unease with my own nakedness, and a newfound obsession with monitoring every movement, limiting the tells, and acting the part of boy I was supposed to be… and probably not even very well. Like my tense tummy and my pocketed hands, it became very difficult to let the habit drop as I got more and more used to hiding behind some plausible approximation of boyishness. You lose yourself a bit in the performance and whatever comfort you might have felt in just being yourself starts to slip out of your grasp.

In hindsight, I wonder: Did the other boys have to think this much about performing masculinity, or did it just come easily to them? Were they constantly worried about being called a girl, about being called soft, about being called gay? Were they policing themselves, too? In my mind at the time, I just assumed it came naturally to them. They were, I assumed, natural boys doing all the things that came naturally to them. I was the outsider, the unnatural boy desperate to be mistaken for a natural boy, too. Exhausting. I guess maybe some of them felt some pressure to perform, to do anything to not appear gay or soft or girly, but maybe compliance just came easier to them because the demands were closer to how they already felt and behaved. Some of them probably never thought twice about it. Maybe boyishness just naturally sprang from some of them. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like—if it felt like anything at all—to be exactly oneself and to be exactly right. The pressure and tension of fitting into this rigid role had me on edge, vigilant, fearful for years. I have to imagine that I was not the only boy who felt this at the time or man who still feels this.

With a little digging, it turns out that regardless of a person’s sexuality, our social and cultural views of gender and sexuality—especially the internalized bias against homosexuality among both heterosexuals and homosexuals—have come to dictate much of our behavior, our posture, the way we express ourselves, and the connections we make with one another. Men are particularly susceptible to this pressure to embody a form of masculinity that hinges upon heterosexuality, but these expectations to look a certain way, hold ourselves a certain way, speak a certain way, and carry ourselves a certain way touch all of us.

Take a deep breath. Unclench your jaw. Unfurrow your brow. Relax your shoulders.

These days, I don’t think nearly as much about trying to bend my body and my movements to fit into a manly box. Partly, I’m sure, because some of these practices are just engrained into me at this point, and partly because I think some expectations around gender have changed since I was young, but also because I’ve had time to focus on being myself and accepting myself for who and what I am. Growing up and growing older does that, I guess. Surrounding myself with people who love and support me for who I am—no matter how masculine or feminine, how silly or serious, how happy or sad I might be—has helped. Learning to love and accept my body in all its nakedness—all alone or in the company of others, socially, recreationally, or sexually—has relieved some of the tension that I’ve held onto for so long. That, I think, will have to be a lifelong practice. Letting go of the biases I’ve internalized—around masculinity, gender expression, and sexuality—has been difficult, and I cannot claim to have succeeded, but progress has loosened some of those strictures. Realizing others are going through their own struggles has built some compassion and perspective as well, a sort of unspoken solidarity. I’ve been trying to relax that tension—in my breath, my jaw, my brow, my shoulders. If you start paying attention, there’s tension all over. I try to remind myself to let it go, relax, loosen up… to be myself, not for the sake of eschewing social expectations but for the sake of not contorting myself unnaturally and uncomfortably to fit them.

This isn’t a uniquely me experience, or even a uniquely queer experience. It fits nicely into Pride Month conversations, but it’s for everyone. We’re probably all holding on to some tension, holding in a breath, holding in our gut or our emotions or our otherness, for fear of falling out of line or losing acceptance. Maybe it’s not even about fitting into strict gender and sexual roles, clinging to ideals of beauty and fitness, or expressing our inner selves in a socially acceptable way. Maybe it’s something else entirely. You’d know better than me what it is you’ve got going on, but if you are holding onto some tension, some tightness, or some fear, see if you can let it go just a little. Find a community or a space where you feel free to let it out and breathe and relax. Even just for a moment.

I think I’ll keep burying my hands in my pockets in fancy shops, for my own good, but I’ll try to let my wrist hang free a bit more. I need to get out and share experiences more. I need to get out and feel free to be me a bit more. I need go get out and get naked more, both literally and figuratively.

And with that, I’m off to enjoy Pride Month! Cheers queers, nudies, and all the rest!