By Mariem Mohamed
I turn on the tv and I see a perfect woman on screen. Breasts perky, shirt low-cut. Hair as glossy as her lips. Flat stomach, flatter stare. Kim Kardashian, Jessica Rabbit, Scarlet Johanson Meghan Fox, Margot Robbie.
I ask the women in my life, “what does the male gaze mean to you?”
I know their answers before they even opened their mouths. I see it every time I watch them look at themselves in the mirror with a ravaged, wary glance. Because they don’t see the freckles on their skin from a day in the sun. Or the furrow in their brows after concentrating for a long time. The gleam in their eyes when they talk about something they’re passionate about.
They see what most of us see when we look in the mirror. The parts of us that are most attractive to men. The things we know will catch their attention at first glance. The features that society has agreed upon as desirable. As worthy. A veritable list fed to us by the infernal patriarchy.
Margret Atwood wrote, “You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
I am a man, looking out at myself.
Women have internalized the male gaze so thoroughly that they cannot peer in at their own reflections without it taking over. That voice in your head, dictating every action to align with the definitive erotic pipedream, engrained so thoroughly that you cannot tell if the voice is even your own anymore. We are made to believe that the parts of us that are most beautiful are the parts that are most pleasurable to men.
Every time I look in a mirror, I have to push back the nagging thoughts conditioned into my mind. Make sure my lips look kissable, clothes resolutely skintight.
A man once told me that I had fuckable eyes. Since then, they’ve always been my favorite feature. My skin now crawls every time I look a man in the eyes, but I still wonder if they’re thinking the same thing. Are my eyes fuckable? Am I fuckable? Am I worthy? I make sure to wear contacts and perfectly apply mascara to frame them even if it fills me with suffocating shame.
Society is conditioned not just to normalize the male gaze, but to flaunt it. The epitome of beauty comes only with a man’s stamp of approval.
We are taught at a young age to play into male fantasy. To play the game by their rules. Our individuality is erased in favor of engaging in the wet dreams of the patriarchy.
The internalization of the male gaze is what stops the scissors inches from your hair. Because how could you ever see yourself as beautiful when you know that boys only like girls with long hair?
It’s what created the notion of a “pick me girl.” A girl who claims she isn’t like other women in order to gain attention from men, to impress them. To serve them. But aren’t we all “pick me girls”? Aren’t we all that girl, the one who has embodied misogyny, showing up in one aspect or another of our personality? Seeing beauty through a man’s lens and filtering your actions through that optic.
What woman isn’t living solely for the male audience existing singularly in her head? Shaving her whole body to impress the silent spectators managing her every move. Wearing clothes simply to appeal to the idea of a man finding them cool. Finding yourself subconsciously altering your mannerisms, even when you’re alone, just in case…
“Judged,” was a tentative reply I got from many women. We all knew the judgment came from the inside just as much as from society. It came from the phantom man over their shoulder, dictating which of their actions played into his erotic fantasy of the day.
I turn off the tv and pick up the scissors. If a man likes long hair he can grow it himself.