“I don’t wish to be a man, I only want to be, but the world holds onto this repressive binary idea of gender.”

A text by Manuela Pizarro (translation: Sophie Kübler | text editing: Lucy Plamer) Image courtesy: Maddy Minnis 

Call me what you want. Inside me lives a woman who fucks with what you call a “man”.

First let me present myself and place myself into little boxes for you: born a girl, long black hair, brown skin, slim build, mid-level height and Latina. I label myself as one of those stereotypes we have digested throughout life. In my everyday language I am called my self “clitoric-lesbian” – motivated by a naïve soul, who was new to masturbation. I imagine to myself that in a decade I will replay this tale again, yet in a different frame, and that I may once again know this slight discomfort.

I find it remarkable how humans label, rank and organise to figure out, fit and file themselves. The method of subdividing to educate oneself and understand one and other better are concepts we imagine that vary from time to time. Sometimes they get better, sometimes they become blocked in their burdens until a war bleeds them out. Gender is an ideal that keeps transforming. This is not just a scientific speculation based on biologic characteristics such as genitalia. Today, this theory is a longer line of factors in-between flesh, being and society. In addition, gender alters throughout territories now and when the conversations get dropped like hot potatoes,  the non-binary gender is the popular standardisation. My body is now the rebel for gender realism which society condones.  If I went outside, someone always called me  “mister” or “boy” or told me “boy, these ladies’ bathrooms are not yours” My mom laughed when I mentioned to her, and responded “don’t complain, you’ve dealt with looking like a man your whole life, why worry”?

If not? 

I don’t wish to be a man, I only want to be, but the world holds onto this repressive binary idea of gender. This search of myself and many others received no support from encouraging parents or any offer of explanation from the Opus-Dei School, where I studied. They were unfazed by my masculine habits and never appeared troubled that the topics I studied didn’t inspire me either. The Tomboys in Pop Music of the 90s weren’t popular to me, Sporty Spice was the closest. But you know what fuck you? The story goes that lesbians always had this crazy obsessiveness with their best friend, the beautiful “cis-hetero”. But what was my obsession of looking like something society insists on portraying as wrong? This wish, dear people, develops from my inner-self and I puked my guts up over it many times. Yes, those classic attacks, one drink too many makes you dizzy, then the liquid in your throat creates a sensation and even though you want to keep inside and try to hold your mouth closed, out shoots the semi-solid, liquid, whilst rotating your head 180 degrees over a white wall. Until today, I still don’t understand where and why I have this masculinity, and how it refers to my femininity. What is femininity?, and what is masculinity? I mean we are beyond determining colours by masculine and feminine yet still are those that rope themselves to these misconceptions.

“I find it remarkable how humans label, rank and organise to figure out, fit and file themselves.” Manuela Pizarro

So I ask in which phase or momentum of the debate are we? We extended the spectrum of that talk, but I consider that we must disarticulate at a point. Something you play with and throw out the window, then watch it come back and arise in a fresh form. We fall to our knees, get up and start building again.  

I envision gender-fluctuations, as skin changes in the sun and the fact that each of us have infinite states and conditions of skin, with too many types to differentiate between because of the way our skin mutates. It’s correct that skin changes and that nothing within the universe is static, not even conceptions. 

My thinking ends with this anecdote…. One day at a beach party, a girl came over to me, grabbed my breasts and exposed them. We were both under the influence of substances, both drunk and both taking part in the pharmacapornografic era. My inner whore enjoyed this, I even petted her tits. After a while she said she couldn’t  believe how perfect my breasts had become, because even if they were unreal they were perfect.  The woman soon asked, “do you still have your penis? can I touch it?” I smiled at her and answered “no, removed with the scalpel”. Our quick romance ended. 

Here is my body flooding your binary system, creating other forms through myself, and through the eyes of some confused spectator. We are raised by these two uncommon behaviour patterns, but for me, this very strict and neat line is imagining the past, a small vision of a small world, a lie within their own strategy, that stands near to its end. I want to break it and I want to take part in its burning.

There are no ends of the way we can interpret our corps. 

As Paul Preciado in Testo Yonqui said: “Accept that the change that is taking place in me is the mutation of an era.”