On Femininity, Being Misunderstood, and Just Rolling With It [Part II]

Please don't call me a princess

Last week I started playing with the word ‘femininity,’ and I stayed up so late in the process that I promised I would finish my thoughts here, in Part II. I loved hearing what you all had to say last week on the topic, and can’t wait to see where the conversation takes us this week.

Here’s Part I, in case you need a refresher:

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If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being put in a box.

For someone to look at my appearance or glance at my life and say, “Oh yes, I know the type. She’s such-and-such.”

Of course, this is exactly how the human brain works—we make sense and order of the world by putting it into categories that we can understand. It serves us to simplify. I’m quite certain that I’ve done the same to others on a regular basis, and for that, I am sorry.

But maybe you know what I’m talking about. Maybe someone has looked at you and made a judgement, effectively dismissing your layers of intricate design by giving you a one-word label: Bossy. Girly. Dramatic. Weird. Smart. Tough. Quiet. Sporty. Fat. Skinny. Sensitive. Frigid. Sound familiar? Then this one’s for you.

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My name is always being mispronounced. Whenever I’m in a coffee shop, I have to listen carefully to the names the barista calls out. If I hear anything that starts with “D,” it’s generally safe to assume it’s mine. [Just today I had to confirm that my bacon, egg, and cheese was, in fact, for me and not ‘Deborah.’] Sometimes people will wince as they call it out and ask, “Did I say that right?”

I always laugh and tell them, “It’s DEE-DRUH. But don’t worry, I’ve been called worse things in my life.”

I’m mostly talking about gruesome iterations of my name, but maybe there’s a tiny piece of me that’s also remembering the words people have used to boil me down into a sort of simple syrup over the years.

One word that sticks out to me most is “Princess.” I remember that, a few years ago, I had not one but two people liken me to a princess. One said it disparagingly, and another said it offhand like a joke. “Oh, Princess Dee,” she said. “I always wonder, ‘What would Princess Dee think about this?’ or ‘What would Princess Dee do if she were here?’”

Princess? I thought. I had never once considered myself that way. What did it even mean? Did they think I was prudish? Or selfish? Or too focused on perfection? Did they think I dressed pretentiously? Did they think my life was a fairytale? I wasn’t sure. I wondered if they knew that I used to help cut up moose meat on the kitchen table when I was a kid, taping up the packaging and labeling it for the freezer. Or if they understood that I bought my first Walkman CD player by gathering cans and bottles with my dad, filling up the back of his pickup truck one afternoon and spending my $43 dollars on the blue one at Walmart. Did they know I once helped Ethan walk his steer for 4H by leading it in circles by a backhoe?

I had laughed then, told myself it didn’t matter. But wouldn’t you believe it, years later, I still get dressed and look at myself in the mirror and wonder, “If I wear this, will people think I’m acting like a princess? Maybe I should dress down.” Or I worry that people will catch me being lighthearted, or in love, or whimsical or silly or—worst of all—in need of rescue, and will say those dreaded words all over again: “Oh, what a princess.”