craft scissors

by Cathryn Salis

I learned my name the same way I learned who I am.

Someone told me and taught me how to spell it,

how to act it. I was handed a nametag and with it, a script

The rules to being.

I never deviated.

Then, I lost my script and forgot all my cues.

Why am I dancing right now? My feet hurt.

My hair is in my face, I can’t see.

I cut my hair with craft scissors

and now it’s an uneven mop,

barely touching my ears. I don’t recognize myself

but I hate myself less

I’m no longer performing.

The rules are but a faint memory and the only evidence I ever followed them

are my tap shoes in the corner of the room.

I wouldn’t call this a breakdown

but more of a break out

of the confines of society’s beauty standards

I worked so hard to squish into

to fit into

to squeeze into

to mold into

no matter how you put it I just didn’t fit

comfortably.

I have privilege

I didn’t have to work too hard

but as a not-so-woman

in this not-so-accepting world

“beauty is pain” meant a lot of pain on my end

a lot of uncomfortable assumptions

dealing with emotions,

feelings I didn’t know the names of.

Pressure of conformity to a T.

The bright light at the end of the tunnel

was choice and education.

I couldn’t see it for a long time but as soon as I could

I ran full-speed towards it

and found answers

I found my people

I found a world without boxes

I found labels that fit and stuck

I found acceptance north, south, east, west

and then I found the hate.

I turned around to face where I had come from but I wasn’t accepted back in

there were slurs and violence and ignorance and oppression

being thrown at me from the most unusual angles

“I thought you were my friend!”

“I was. Not anymore.”

To survive, I found a way to pretend.

I could cover up my labels

squish back into my old box,

their box,

then I could go back through the tunnel I came from,

live in a society made for people who look like me.

Sometimes in this world I have to choose between safety and authenticity

but I have privilege

I get a choice where many others don’t

I hate myself for squishing into their box

It hurts

so I cut my hair with craft scissors

and the box gets harder to fit into

but I don’t recognize myself.

I don’t see the one I don’t like

so I smile to this new person in the mirror

and when they smile back, I feel better

and I go back into the light at the end of the tunnel.

I found my acceptance and people and inner peace.

Sometimes I still have to choose safety or authenticity,

but not often

because this society was made for people who look adjacent to me

and even on my worst days,

I can never let myself forget that.

While I like my home in the light at the end of the tunnel,

with the peace and acceptance and shields from the hate,

when I watch my friends get slaughtered because of labels they don’t get to cover up

I can’t help but feel responsible.

I go back into the battlefield.

It’s my job to help fight ignorance.

My privilege has purpose.

I can’t be free until everyone else is.

I can’t remember the last time I was honest to myself,

like how badly my feet hurt from dancing all the time

so I cut my hair off with craft scissors

and I hate myself less.