"By propagating women's nature as non-violent they are discouraging women from becoming fighters in the struggle for their own liberation and that of society."

Anuradha Ghandy

I was in a Subway sandwich shop. It was after school. Fast food restaurants were always slightly off to me, the employees with their blasé attitude towards their work, the pale yellow-blue flickering lights, always the men sitting in the back. It was during opportunities like these I had to use my “superpowers,” I suppose not superpowers, but my efficacious body language. It was always the same - on city streets, in fast-casual restaurants, on public transportation, alone. I would always put on the meanest face I could possibly impose onto my face. I would drop my eyebrows and eyelids, stare blankly, pout my lips slightly, yet not enough to look like I was trying too hard. I would sprout eyebags onto my face. My shoulders would drop, my back hunched forward, my feet holding more weight into the ground. It appeared to be a uniform to me at this point, the language of being scary, of putting on an act to repel people from me - and it always worked. 

Scariness was born unto me. My mother was born in Canada, having a pale complexion, rosy cheeks, and polite mannerisms. My family always calls my mother “bubbly,” she does have blinding white teeth after all, and she possesses the skill to talk to any stranger she meets. I inherited a little bit of the “bubbly,” for sure, but I inherited more of my father’s traits. 

My father is an investigator in foreign affairs for the federal government. He’s been mysterious to me, almost shrouded in mystery, although I’ve known him my entire life. Since I’ve been conscious, he always had a black leather wallet filled with impressive government badges, licenses, warrants, all types of elaborate documents that I still don’t quite understand. I received most of my physical appearance from him. My bold eyebrows, sharp eyes, and my unusually straight nose were all signs of my father, of my Jewish heritage. It went beyond appearance. He has always tended to be carried away somewhere by his professional life, whispering about lofty business affairs under his breath. His self-concerned analytical brain seemed to rub off on me the older I became.

On a specific occasion, a woman ran from my father, locking her door with a sigh behind her. I was around eight. On another occasion, missguided anti-semetism struck me as a teenage boy online told me I looked like I belonged to a family of terrorists. I was always scary, along with my father, and it became more of an identity and less of a fabricated language the more I understood the world around me.

I was catcalled at 14. Wearing a sundress and jean jacket, flip-flops, floating above a bridge on a highway. From then on, my walks around the city would become a lot more careful and a lot less aloof. I would soon put on my essential body language, as I morphed into a tiger behind a cage. There was always fear behind my eyes, walking around, but that fear was glazed over with my need to frighten the people I saw. 

My expressions were the one weapon I had with me, being slightly over five feet, hardly able to fend off any possible emotional or physical attacker. Expressions could work anywhere, from anyone I mentally deemed as suspicious to the girls at my middle school who would snicker at me as I walked by. I had a rhythm to it - if I would get a tremulous feeling in my gut, I would glare at my surroundings, and I would almost instantly feel a sense of calm. 

In seventh grade, I joined the speech and debate club. I liked to talk; everybody knew this. I would come to discover that nothing would be more difficult than being the sole female on a debate team of twenty conservative teenage boys. Hearing words synonymous with “female dog,” thrown at me became a common occurrence. Being a woman and talking loud couldn’t seem to coexist. Out of shame, and a thirteen-year-old girl’s desire for boys to like her, I began to speak less. I couldn’t be loud, brooding, unapproachable and a woman - all at the same time. I lost the subsequent debate championship. 

It was difficult putting on a voice and an identity that wasn’t mine. The taunts would continue through high-school. I wore titles of “witchy,” “evil,” “bitter,” on my sleeve, all without saying a word. At the time, it felt like the intimidation was a part of me, some sort of antagonistic creature on my shoulder I could never shake off. Despite the unfortunate titles I receive, it’s pleasant to have the power of female intimidation by my side. Never do I have to worry about walking home; as a woman with a supposedly “sour” face, I make it home safely every time. My classroom discussions always receive full marks, as I can successfully defend myself during arguments. Growing up, I began to find the balance between my voices. It is increasingly possible to still be a woman, but to also have a complex array of narratives. The happy-go-lucky bubbly voice is always within me along with the intimidating unapproachable voice. They are both me, but more importantly, they are both feminine.