boyish for printy

b yish <3 stevie







I was diagnosed with OCD at age nine, and was sent to a therapist to engage in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, CBT. In her office, she had the largest stack of Uno I had ever seen; it was anywhere near four to six full boxes compiled into one game. In hindsight, it was definitely to keep the game going as long as possible so as not to lose focus, as I don’t remember many times we fully finished the game in a session. When we did, she never let me win on purpose. She was one of the first people I felt understood me and wouldn’t treat me like a child. I left her for our move to Sacramento when I was 12. Uno has felt empty and numb since.





i’ve been girlmoding all day and i felt hot and comfortable and like i could be a woman and i was treated like a woman and it felt ok - because i was choosing that. i’m fine with being treated like a woman on the rare days like today when i feel completely and utterly like i can be comfortable as a woman. and yet then i become painfully aware of it. a guy in the parking lot called me pretty. the starbucks barista complimented my bright red eyeshadow. the one man on eastern rolled up to me and waved creepily as i walked by. the guy at the intersection in front of whole foods slurred \"hey good lookin\" as he looked me up and down at the crosswalk. i rolled my eyes, looked disgusted as ava biked by, clutching my pepper spray, feeling threatened and in danger in my own neighborhood. it’s moments like that that im reminded of just how disgusted i feel when womanhood is thrust at me and not chosen under my own terms. -photo + journal july 4th ‘22





boyish - little big league i dont hate my body im just afraid of it - mallrat butch - saint motel androgynous - joan jett and the blackhearts cut your hair - pavement walk on the wild side - lou reed sweet cis teen - dazey and the scouts boyfriend - the candescents i/me/myself - will wood dream girl evil - florence and the machine fem in a black leather jacket - pansy division is this it? - the greeting committee imposter syndrome - sidney gish hold it in - jukebox the ghost butch in the streets - tribe 8 cis girls - dyke drama like a body - sorry mom

since the mid 19th century during the San Francisco gold rush, the “hanky code” aka flagging has been a discreet system of communicating sexual identity and preferences in the queer community. typically, a handkerchief in the left pocket symbolized tops (dominant sexual partners) vs the right pocket to symbolized bottoms (submissive partners). the colors and patterns over time began to display more specific preferences like fetishes and kinks, beginning in the 1960’s and 70’s, evidently developing into a subtle symbol to outsiders but a, quite literally, dirty secret between queer people and queer people only. flagging in the modern lens has expanded beyond the hanky code, but still has deep roots in queer stereotypes and sexuality. for instance, femmes with a carabiner on their front belt loop or a nose pierced on the “gay side” (i had a piercer tell me that they get upset when people ask which is the gay side because ‘gay people literally invented the aesthetic of piercings, every side is the gay side!’). while flagging is only recorded as beginning in the 1850’s, a large part of embracing queer history means recognizing that queer people have always been here. disclaimer: with the evolution of style, many traditional queer flagging symbols have been developed into trends and aesthetics for the greater population. this is to say that not everything that may be seen as flagging is meant to be such. http://www.onyxnynortheast.org/hanky-code-introduction



Growing up in a society institutionalized with such Yet it was then that I produced the most art and a structured binary, as a child I never fully writing I ever could dream of. My Sacramento bedroom understood the concept of “boy colors” and “girl lay covered with magazine clippings, scraps of fabric colors.” Cultured to think that my disagreements and glue and paints and journals as I harnessed my with such structure was altruistic feminism, I was whole brain into the spread on the floor. It was all I thrown into this box of sisterhood, unsure of what could manage to turn out. This process of self felt unsettled. It wasn’t until sixteen that I reflection did more for my healing than I thought realized perhaps the fear was of my own womanhood. possible as I learned to take care of myself in a way All I could see in my reflections were the I knew how: churning out every bit of who I was in a multitudes of ingrained gender stereotypes; creative format, slowly becoming who I hadn’t let everything I had been taught as a woman from the myself be. I had been clinging to my learned identity time I was born felt impersonal and hostile. like hand me downs; it was no wonder I was withering away. The summer after I turned seventeen, I felt the pull of my given name draw me back into those Now when I recognize the pieces of my identity, entrapments. Sophia deserved a place in this world, there’s neither fear nor anger but rather boldness, a and yet I could not offer her a home. The shame sense of pride. These are my multitudes: I choose what gathered as I needed to reject what I had been I represent. I'm a conglomeration of identities I’ve handed, the name that screamed my mother’s pride been handed and fragments I’ve chosen for myself. after birthing the girl she wanted after numerous Transness has become so much more than others’ miscarriages, and yet it was the freedom I craved. perception of me. It's the confidence in how I carry Sophia fell away into Stevie, but the fear and shame my head higher than I could in childhood. It is my of shedding a title of seventeen years was a weight lifeblood, the way my heart beats inside my chest. The too heavy. I felt like so much more than my identity I craved had once terrified me, even when it queerness, but for years I'd been under the felt unattainable. Fourteen year old me needed spotlight of stereotypes, a poster child for a world eighteen year old me, and here we are. Hand in hand. of ever-divulging identity. I am breathing new life into my identity daily, and The seasons fell, as did I, landing me in the it’s under my control. It's my own little rebellion. hospital within the middle of what was continuously Everything is finally my own. echoed to be the most important period of my high school career. Admitting I needed help placed me in a safe haven at home under strict watch until I was identified as “no longer a danger to myself”. Stonewalled self reflection and too many conversations about how I was doing caused me to spiral, as I feared returning to the real world from the safety of my home. For the drawn-out days in my ever-sheltered room, I found time and practice of caring for myself the way I had learned to care for others.



I Am NOTHINg WITHOUT A VOICE.