i might be pussy
Alt Title: A Confession Of Softness. A word of warning, imma say 'pussy' a lot in this piece.
The worst thing somebody could call me when I was coming up was a pussy.
If somebody said you were a pussy in 1999, it meant you were easy prey. You were a target. For ridicule. For violence. For the kind of particular torment that only middle school students can muster.
And muster they did. I spent my entire childhood protecting my sister from bullies half my size. I’ve had squabbles on the block turn into all-out brawls that left half the neighborhood with either broken property or bones. I’ve walked past people with half their faces missing, but somehow, according to them, still selling sour diesel at a price you’d be a fool to walk away from.
Living in New York is a very specific kind of upbringing for a femme presenting person. You deal with grown men street harassers long before you hit puberty. You’re expected to know how to rebuff cat callers, and you’re expected to do so aggressively. My uncle used to give me lessons.
“So if a dude comes up to you and says ‘can I talk to you shorty?’, you gon’ look him dead in his face and say ‘fuck off creep nigga!’ You got that? Say it back to me.”
I loved to cuss and I did so with gusto outside my daddy’s earshot. All the derivatives of “fuck” were my favorite. I was more than happy to oblige him. I felt like Ashely Banks in that iconic Fresh Prince scene:
“FUCK OFF CREEP NIGGA!!” I finished by flipping my middle finger up for emphasis. My uncle was proud.
“That’s right, Princess. You can’t show these mother fuckers no softness.” In other words, don’t be pussy.
The scariest part about all this was: At 9 years old, I absolutely was a pussy, and at 33, I still am.
I’m going to keep it a stack with you, I don’t like to fight. I’m too pretty. Too anointed by God to be physically squabbling in the street somewhere, messing w somebody’s child who decided today was a fine day to test out a box cutter on some tender flesh.
Respectfully I’ve always been good on that.
I don’t even really want to argue with you like that. My daddy was the type who stomped around the house, and slammed doors, and yelled about everything. Spankings were not regular occurrences, but the threat was ever looming, and my daddy was usually good for cashing in on it if need be. As an adult I have a “talk to me nice” boundary and a witty rapport as a distraction technique because I’m easily triggered.
I have been tricking the world for ages. Convincing everyone that I am not the type of problem they are looking for by curating a boisterous, gregarious personality. I leaned into my tall frame and broad body early. I towered over people when they spoke to me, and let the distance between our heads say what it needed to. I let them call me “manish” and “big bro”, and told them my hands were bisexual so what did it matter? I laughed about how anybody could get it so that nobody wanted it. Pussy where? Not here. Not me.
But it was always nerve-wracking. I lived in constant fear of being called out. Of being forced to put my fists where my mouth was. Of having to actually beat somebody’s ass.
And so, I resolved to put on one show, and make it good enough that nobody wanted an encore.
I picked the biggest, baddest bully - the one who was always talking shit, and following me home, and invading my space. And the very next time she opened her mouth to say something slick to me, I popped her right in the jaw.
POW! Right in the kisser.
Nobody ever called me pussy after that, but I cried all night when I got home.
I’ll be honest, “pussy” as a term that means weakness never sat right with me. I got my period when I was 9 years old and even though my momma explained it all to me, when I saw all that in my underwear the first time, I real life thought I was dying.
I tossed the evidence and wrote my momma a goodbye letter and everything. The next month when it happened again, I was like “oh.” But the experience left me wondering how anybody could ever assume that a pussy was anything besides the strongest organ on any kind of body.
When the streets say “pussy” they mean - this person don’t really want the smoke; they prefer frolicking to fisticuffs, and bubble baths to brawls, and I am that.
I am soft.
Like the light that slips through the blinds at 7:32am Eastern Standard Time, and caresses my melanin into wakefulness.
Like the whispers of my fiance when he tells me I am made of stars and strength and the best of all things.
Like the sudden rush of inspiration that comes to you in the shower after a good night’s sleep, and you have to get out quickly to jot it down somewhere, but not so fast that you slip and fall, because then you’ll lose it.
I am soft.
I cry at all the sad scenes in movies. I close my eyes when they hit people on screen or in real life. I have literally wept over Cottonelle commercials because the puppy was just TOO CUTE.
I write love letters and make mixtapes. I use weighted blankets and anxiety medication. I hide in closets and breakrooms to cry because there have been too many big feelings all in a row and now I don’t want to be looked at anymore.
I grieve for people I don’t know. Mothers who have lost their sons too soon. My brothers gunned down, and unheard. My sisters downtrod and constantly maligned. The babies, the babies. All the innocent babies.
There is famine and fire, and warfare laying waste to entire populations. Entire geographies. There is misery and fear so thick you can taste it in the air, and feel it coating the back of your throat.
When the streets say “pussy” they mean this person is easily harmed. I am. Easily harmed. I require a gentler world to exist in. I demand more easy silence. Demand solace. Demand ceasefire. Demand justice.
And I am done pretending otherwise.
I am soft. Like pussy.
And like pussy, I vow to be that which births some new shit into this world.
Something softer.
Love y’all. Mean it.
If you love me back, Buy Me A Book!
-B
You ate this up! This word never sat right with me also. And its made more difficult because I am a Black man who grew up in Chicago. The expectation to be hard and unafraid isn't me. It doesn't fit me. If pussy means weakness...call me whatever you want. One thing about me? Imma cry. I am not the fittest in the Hunger Games
It is the craziest thing that words we associate with women are thought to connote softness or weakness. Women are so tough; we have to be. But softness and strength are not mutually exclusive. I cry at all the sad scenes, too. And the news. And the right song on my playlist at the gym. I love this whole piece. Thanks so much for sharing it.