Uterus!

Hello you lovely, gender-obsessed people! I'm Ryan. And I have a uterus (at least, my gyno tells me I do. I'm not flexible enough to verify that by myself). Cuz I'm a girl. Or woman, or whatever. When a female technically become a "woman" is beyond me. I guess being in your early twenties means being in-between a lot of labels. Anyways, so yes, I am a female with a traditionally male name. And boy (girl!), has it shaped who I am. I've often wondered if I would be a totally different person if my parents had named me "Ashley" or "Britney" or something.

I was that tomboy girl. I wanted legos and tonka trucks and I wanted to play sports. Barbies and pink shit were not ok with me. Ever. My grandmother would still try to give me that stuff for Christmas, because that's what little girls are supposed to get for Christmas. I remember ripping my Barbie's head off once. Bitch deserved it, always grinning smugly at me like she knew that her hypotheical 18-inch waist was going to be forever unattainable to women everywhere. Then, it occured to me that I could get in trouble for breaking a toy someone had so generously given me, so I hid that blonde, nipple-less doll under the couch cushions in our basement.

I may have even ended up having an unhealthy aversion to all things feminine. It wasn't until college that I started getting in touch with that "girly" side of myself (What, Ryan's wearing... a dress???? Since when does she do that?). It took me a long while to see "feminine" as anything other than weak. After some struggling, I've learned that I can be feminine and strong at the same time. In fact, my mother, who is one of my heroes, is the epitome of the strong, feminine woman. So, now if a guy calls me "pretty," I don't have an uncontrollable urge to punch him in the face. And I lift weights and then go drink the pinkest martini drink you've ever seen.

I can't help but wonder what alternate universe girly-named-me would have turned out like (Let's call her "Rhonda."): Would Rhonda have been a pink-wearing, purse-toting, high heel-loving fake blonde? Would Rhonda have worshipped Michelle Pfeiffer instead of Michelle Akers? Would people have treated Rhonda differently than they treated me? Would Rhonda's life be totally different than mine? I certainly hope not. I'd like to think that "I yam who I yam." But, the cynical side of me is saying that it so does matter.

One thing I'd like to say is that I'm so thankful that my parents never tried to push "feminine" toys, clothes, or stereotypes on me. When I expressed a liking for something, they encouraged it, regardless of what "gender" was supposed to like it. My sister and I both learned to be strong, and both grew up believing we could be anything we wanted.

I want to be a writer and I want to love deeply.


(But I still refuse to wear pink.)