Whispers of the Binary
Lightning strikes over and over before the rain falls, and I realize the objects around me have become so feminine, subtly or undeniably so. The candle radiates femininity through its soft, shy light, yet remains strikingly poignant in its scent. In the sound of rain hitting the trees, I hear my mother’s voice. Suddenly, as the rest of the house sleeps, loneliness feels feminine in its cold embrace. The deep midnight sky stirs memories of the childhood that felt so grotesque in the moment. Now long gone, youth feels feminine and delicate in my memory. Femininity became the lens through which I interpret everything I see, think, and remember.
Nature has always been present, ensuring the existence of something profoundly feminine in the world. Femininity becomes almost intrinsic to the fabric of existence. Nature changes and forces its will; an endless cycle of cause and effect. A sunny sky will transport me to the memory of elementary summer camp, but a brutal rain will take me back to the day I crashed my mom’s car. Nature has always been female, untouchable, life-bearing, and restrained to eternity, hence its presence in every single memory.
Some memories and feelings are distinctly feminine. Persistence has always been a trait I associate with women. My grandmother moved out on her own at fourteen and fought for her education to become a teacher. She persisted; he did not. My grandmother provided for her three children despite being a single, poor mom. She persisted; he did not. In my life and in the stories I was told, there was never a man who persisted. In fact, the men in my family exemplified the opposite: abandonment and disloyalty. Now I understand that, just like the women who came before me, I too must persist.
During my childhood , my mom would take us to the Orchid Festival in Cataño. My grandmother would join us, and they would spend hours examining the delicate flowers and chatting with other women they met. The old lady would advise taking the pink orchids because they were rare. An orchid, with its two round petals like open arms reaching for a hug, will always be feminine in my mind. It is natural for me to think of objects as feminine or masculine, creating associations and drawing connections; some are universally accepted, while others are deeply personal.
On the way back home from the festival, the bridge connecting the two green mountains was a woman. The structure, with its graceful arches and steadfast support, is undoubtedly female.
Connection is female, and destruction is male. War, in its brutal and violent essence, is a man who destroys nature. War breaks with the balance of existence, planting instead eternal flashes of chaos. Then only a woman’s fortitude can rebuild what’s been lost and, with her song, soothe the echoes of war into calmness – women who lead peacebuilding movements and bridge divides. I see this in the way a father disrupts peace so that a mother will fight to regain it; in the way world leaders, mostly men, kill each other for land and power – men who can only be calmed by their mother’s lullaby.
Silence is a woman, commanding and pervasive when she is sought. She moves swiftly and spreads quickly. She can cut your throat and open the gate for your darkest thoughts to peek through.
Sometimes, when my mother comes home, I can read in her expression that I should not speak. Only she will demand silence, and when it is not met, only she will enforce it. The difficult times arrived when I discovered that breaking silence is even more profoundly feminine, powerful, and intense. It is always done in a way you will never forget— through a cry, a whimper, or an embrace.
Femininity is present and intertwined in the objects around me, constructing my memories and ideas. Femininity has become a force in how I view the world, and I will carry it with me indefinitely.
At times, this framework feels natural and logical, but I also struggle with the feeling that these binary ideas are too narrow and superficial. Even more frustrating is the thought that femininity does not exist despite it being such a comforting force. Awareness often sparked when I found myself in unfamiliar environments, where I was less accepting of norms and more prone to questioning them. Once I began recognizing the patterns in the lens I wore, clarity faded. My vision became blurred by an awareness of gender roles and stereotypes that whispered in my ear, telling me how to think and act. Thinking about what's feminine and masculine no longer feels natural, but rather calculated and intentional.
As I acknowledge that femininity helped me view and understand the world, I consider that perhaps I was conditioned to use it this way. It makes me question whether femininity is truly mine to choose. If it was never really a choice, then was it ever really feminine at all?