I’ve never fit into the boxes people love to shove others in. Never really understood it either; how people so desperately cling to the lines drawn between “masculine” and “feminine.” Like the whole world is an art piece, but we’re only allowed to appreciate the sections we’re told to, while the rest gets ignored or, worse, erased. I’ll tell you this: I was born in the Biafran land with Saint Lucian and Argentinian blood running through my veins, but made for a world far wider than the borders they tried to define me by.

Now, I’ve been around long enough to see how people love to gatekeep. They sit in their tiny, little comfortable boxes, eyes wide open and judgmental, waiting to spot the slightest deviation from the so-called norm. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when people actually had more space to express their nature, but now, well, it’s a whole different game. People have a lot to say when you step outside the “safe” boundaries, but the truth is, they don’t mind if it’s pretty enough, or if it’s attached to someone they’re attracted to. That’s when the real problem starts.

I had to learn this the hard way. See, I’ve been rocking a mix of what you might call androgynous aesthetics for years now. I’m not just playing at the edges; I’m living them. I’ve been the artist, the poet, the nudist; all these layers, stacked up and blended into one person, one existence that refuses to conform. But let me tell you, nothing gets people more riled up than a body that refuses to fit into a neatly defined box. You can paint it on a canvas, sure, but let someone try to wear it or, God forbid, live it, and that’s when all hell breaks loose.

I remember one particular encounter with a guy who thought he was a “progressive.” I was out with him at this posh gallery event somewhere in Belize; yeah, fancy place, but the people? Not so much. I’d dressed in this crisp, white button-down that fell just past my waist, belted tight at the waist like a men’s shirt, but with this long, flowing skirt that made my movements feel like liquid. My shoes were sharp; stiletto boots that made a statement of their own. My hair, an explosion of curls, untamed. You could almost hear it, the way it filled the room with its unrelenting freedom. This guy, though, his eyes, they kept shifting, like I wasn’t who I seemed to be. He tried to tell me that what I wore was “bold,” “impressive,” but the words barely left his lips before his eyes shifted back to the women around, their shapely curves accentuating their femininity.

He called me “art” in a way that made me feel… less than human. It wasn’t the kind of compliment I wanted. But he didn’t mind my androgyny until he saw me as a subject, a canvas to admire; just not someone he could be attracted to in the same way. And I saw it. I saw how people like him, his type, the ones who claim to embrace diversity, only want to accept the unconventional when it’s attractive to them. When it feeds into some twisted, exotic image of what “unconventional” should look like.

“You look… daring,” he said, taking a step closer, his voice dipping low, like I was some kind of challenge.

That’s the thing, though. Androgyny, expressionism, whatever you want to call it, ain’t just a fashion choice. It’s a damn revolution. You can’t say you accept it, admire it, and then only approve when it’s wrapped in a package that fits your desire, your fantasy. It’s never about how comfortable you are with my body or my aesthetic. It’s about whether I feel free enough to exist as I am, in my truth. But no. The moment I step outside of your comfort zone, I’m “too much.” You want me to be a challenge, a token to show off to your friends, something exotic that fits into your little binary ideas, then keep it moving. That’s the truth of the matter.

And that’s when I had enough. It was just after the gallery, in the back alley behind the venue where I’d slipped away for a breath. His voice, his expectations, still echoed in my mind, the way people’s eyes lingered too long, not on the art, but on my body. I stared at the ground, feeling the earth beneath my shoes. That’s when I remembered that the real expression of freedom doesn’t fit anyone’s idea of what it’s supposed to look like. No one gets to decide that for you, and if they do, they’re gatekeeping something that was never theirs to control in the first place.

A girl I met at a party once told me that “being different is only cool when it’s packaged in a way that makes people feel safe.” She had a point. She was right about that. It’s too damn easy to be “accepted” when you’re nothing more than a curated, palatable version of yourself. It’s safe when your radical ideas fit into something the mainstream can call “artistic.” But the moment you break free from that? The moment your androgyny is lived, not just performed, they’ll question it. They’ll hate it.

I saw it on the faces of my followers on Instagram when I posted a picture of myself at the beach, no clothes, just the salt air on my skin. The same people who praised my androgynous look when I was clothed in an elegant suit were now too shy to even acknowledge me.

That’s the hypocrisy of it. They’ll tell you it’s okay to be “different,” just not like that. They’ll want to embrace your freedom, but only when it doesn’t challenge them, only when they don’t have to face their own inability to break free from their boxes.

But here’s the thing: I never lived for anyone but me. The world may have a lot to say, but my body, my skin, my expression, they all belong to me. And no gatekeeper can take that away.

 

 

 

 

Artwork by Nahna James