Securing the perimeter
Downstairs, my roommate is laughing. Maybe. I think it is my roommate, but it could be anyone. She doesn't laugh very often and even if I knew for certain it was her, I couldn't confirm she was even in our house, either. I find all of the noises of the street enter my room--whether the windows are open or not. I sometimes wake up in the night to voices so close I think they're inside my room. A few weeks ago I woke up to a woman crying while her boyfriend shouted at her. It seemed as though they were sitting in my bed with me.
Upstairs, I can hear the rabbit scratching at the sides of his pen. He is an enormous rabbit and he has his own room. My roommate pays extra for the closet off the bathroom. I used to flinch every time I heard him move, forgetting I was not alone in the house. I share this floor with my roommate, her cat, and a rabbit large enough to be steed to another, smaller rabbit.
Living in the city and commuting daily to another one has altered my perception of my public self. Whenever I can help it I stay in my room in Fishtown, blinds drawn. I have almost always operated this way. I have never inhabited a room that was not curated to be exactly how I wanted it. And I have never been the open window type. In the house I grew up in, tucked in my bed, I would imagine cowboys breaking through the windows of my bedroom and attacking me. I sometimes dream of that house and trying to close the doors and windows before an intruder enters, securing the perimeter. I also dream of high school math tests I do not have time to study for. They are the same dream: a lack of control, a battle against time, a return to years past, a biting uncertainty about the now. If I look out the windows of this room, I can see brick houses with jewel-colored doors, the park across the street, and the church on the corner. No one seems to attend it--I've never seen a single person go in or out--but it is comforting that underneath the window guards there is the secret of stained glass. I hide in this room a lot, as I always have in my private spaces. A Room of One's Own?
When I open the door to leave my house, I always feel a little surprised. I peer out, then close the front door behind me. I am so aware of the feeling of walking on the sidewalk, crossing the street. I look at everyone around me and I wonder what they are seeing. When a man yells at me for not acknowledging his hello, calling me a "white bitch with big-ass titties," I get a hint. Suddenly I am thrust back into the world, where I am visible and seen and known. My mother has always celebrated the anonymity of the city, the security of being one with the masses, just another person living their life. I feel anonymous; I feel distorted. I feel that the essence of me is just a little bit injured every time someone looks at me. When they comment on my body, I am undone.
In Anthropology 102 I first thought about the ways our bodies are permeable. We believe we can be contaminated, not just by things like poison and pollution and germs. We are ideologically permeable and we are permeable to other people. We must contain ourselves and we must make sure others are contained. We are, always, part of the world and there is no respite from that fact.
Upstairs, I can hear the rabbit scratching at the sides of his pen. He is an enormous rabbit and he has his own room. My roommate pays extra for the closet off the bathroom. I used to flinch every time I heard him move, forgetting I was not alone in the house. I share this floor with my roommate, her cat, and a rabbit large enough to be steed to another, smaller rabbit.
Living in the city and commuting daily to another one has altered my perception of my public self. Whenever I can help it I stay in my room in Fishtown, blinds drawn. I have almost always operated this way. I have never inhabited a room that was not curated to be exactly how I wanted it. And I have never been the open window type. In the house I grew up in, tucked in my bed, I would imagine cowboys breaking through the windows of my bedroom and attacking me. I sometimes dream of that house and trying to close the doors and windows before an intruder enters, securing the perimeter. I also dream of high school math tests I do not have time to study for. They are the same dream: a lack of control, a battle against time, a return to years past, a biting uncertainty about the now. If I look out the windows of this room, I can see brick houses with jewel-colored doors, the park across the street, and the church on the corner. No one seems to attend it--I've never seen a single person go in or out--but it is comforting that underneath the window guards there is the secret of stained glass. I hide in this room a lot, as I always have in my private spaces. A Room of One's Own?
When I open the door to leave my house, I always feel a little surprised. I peer out, then close the front door behind me. I am so aware of the feeling of walking on the sidewalk, crossing the street. I look at everyone around me and I wonder what they are seeing. When a man yells at me for not acknowledging his hello, calling me a "white bitch with big-ass titties," I get a hint. Suddenly I am thrust back into the world, where I am visible and seen and known. My mother has always celebrated the anonymity of the city, the security of being one with the masses, just another person living their life. I feel anonymous; I feel distorted. I feel that the essence of me is just a little bit injured every time someone looks at me. When they comment on my body, I am undone.
In Anthropology 102 I first thought about the ways our bodies are permeable. We believe we can be contaminated, not just by things like poison and pollution and germs. We are ideologically permeable and we are permeable to other people. We must contain ourselves and we must make sure others are contained. We are, always, part of the world and there is no respite from that fact.