How does a performative man manage to perform all day? Are they constantly frolicking between classes or pondering the political and economic state of the world? For some, a performative man is an archetype they try to avoid on campus or dating apps, but for me, it’s my lifestyle.
*”Sofia” by Clairo begins playing*
As I open my eyes to my sweet queen Clairo’s beautiful melodies, I sit up in bed and look around my room. I catch sight of my poster of the Midwest Princess herself (that’s Chappell Roan, for all you less-than-cultured men out there). I lock eyes with her, take a deep breath and think to myself, “I think I can do this if I try.”
I jump out of bed, ready to make a big change. A change for the better. A change to de-centre myself and re-centre women, really. I step into my jeans and attempt to grab my belt from my desk, but my pants fall. Sigh. This is the cost of jeans so nonchalantly oversized that they fit three Ultra Peachy Keen Monsters in the pant leg, I guess. My jeans fall three times before I can securely fasten them to my waist with a peace sign belt buckle, but as wise woman and feminist scholar Kelly Clarkson once said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!”
I attach Sappho — my Labubu — to my hip with a carabiner I got climbing last week. I look down at her tiny UBC English department hoodie with bittersweet nostalgia, knowing she won’t be repping that for much longer.
Today’s the day I set my life on the right trajectory. Since coming to UBC, I’ve spent my days in the Rose Garden writing poems about the inequalities women are forced to face daily. But, I realize, my heartfelt words and tear-stained pages are not enough — today is the day I become someone fully invested in being the change I wish to see in the world. It’s time I move towards action and allyship, for real.
I couldn’t imagine making such a life-changing decision, though, without the sweet nectar of the Okumidori variety of the Camellia sinensis tea plant, or as casual drinkers would call it, “matcha.” I ride my longboard to the Nest to grab my green goddess from Blue Chip — without strawberries, of course, as a true connoisseur would. With a sip and a smile, I finally feel ready for my meeting with… Arts Advising.
As I make my way to Brock Commons South Room 2060, I grow anxious. Every time I enter a conversation, I fight an uphill battle; the expectations for men are so low that it takes forever for anyone to trust that I’m truly “just one of the gals!” To calm down, I take a restorative breath and mist my face with my organic rose water. Skin dewey, I’m feeling more prepared already.
I sit down with my career advisor. Without hesitation, I blurt out, “I want to change my major!”
Concerned, my advisor asks what I hope to study instead.
“I need to major in interdisciplinary studies in English with a focus on the philosophy of gender equality, also known as feminism,” I tell her, eager to hear her excitement about this new development in my academic quest toward pulverizing the patriarchy. My advisor informs me that, sadly, that isn’t a major.
“Exactly, and that’s the problem!” I yell as I stand up. I flip the documents she has scattered across her desk and storm out. Wow, that felt good. Maybe I should major in performative arts instead. I consider going back to inform my advisor, but I decide not to ruin the integrity of the statement gleaned solely from my art.
I pull my headphones out of my pocket, spend five minutes getting the knots out of the wires, then begin my cruise back across campus. I’m riding through a crowd of people when suddenly I get pulled into a cluster of well-groomed gentlemen.
“He’s definitely in the competition,” a lady who grabs me mutters.
I’m definitely not in the competition, I think to myself, but who am I to correct a woman?
The next thing I know, I’m in a line with all of these stylish guys. I look around and keep thinking about how I’d totally wear all of these outfits.
Bored, I pull my most recent read out of my satchel, Feminist Fight Club: An Office Survival Manual for a Sexist Workplace, and the crowd roars in applause. It’s weird, but I agree that sexism in the workplace is a real issue we need to work on. I look down to open my book, but realize that all the guys in the line are also reading. From Sylvia Plath to Jane Austen, I see a plethora of thought-provoking, iconic literature. These are my type of people, an example of what men should be.
A mic is handed to me and I’m told to introduce myself and talk about why I believe women’s rights are important. Finally, a platform for me to preach my learnings. I explain how I am currently working towards getting a degree in interdisciplinary studies in English with a focus on the philosophy of gender equality for that exact reason. The crowd’s response is electric. I’ve never felt so accepted. The other quality men, one by one, give their names and champion the abolition of the patriarchy and instating a matriarchy.
Would it be weird if I asked for their Instagrams? I need more guy friends.
The lady with the mic announces that it’s time to decide the winner. I, for one, am pretty sure we are all winners because an opportunity to preach about such issues of paramount importance is never a loss.
One by one, the announcers point to us, and the crowd cheers.
My anticipation is building… But I don’t win.
But really, doesn’t that make me the real winner? Only an egocentric testosterone-driven male would actually want to be crowned a performative man; this isn’t a performance. To be such a standout example of a man is hard. To refuse external validation and live for the cause itself, is the noblest journey. As sung in my favourite musical, The Greatest Showman, “This is brave, this is bruised, this is who I’m meant to be, this is me,” and I’m not changing for no one.
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