My mother and I rush through the front door, me with tears in my eyes and my hand covering one of them. Quickly, she takes me and lays me on the couch, peering down at me with widened eyes and heavy breathing.
“What’s wrong?!” my father demands as he walks in and immediately rushes over to me, eyes wide and eyebrows knit.
“He got an eyelash stuck in his eye.”
My father’s tensed figure immediately relaxes. “On the first day of preschool? Are you serious?” he asks, turning toward my mother.
“It hurts,” I sob out.
My father lets out a heavy sigh. “Alright. Julian, I’m going to need you to move your hand…”
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“I just wanted to tell you, boy, what pretty eyes you have,” an old woman says to me, her wrinkled face turned up into a small smile. The woman walks halfway across the restaurant to get to my table. Family members behind her look down on me with simple gazes, some looking down at their watches, and some staring at me with the same stanched smile.
“Julian, that nice lady just complimented you. What do we say?” my mother adds. I respond with a simple nod and a “Thank you, Ma’am,” and hear some of the other spectators say Awwww. The old woman then leaves slowly with the support of those with her.
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“Aww, just look at his eyes! They’re so gorgeous! He looks so much like you, Rachel!” a woman says to my mother. My mother nods, her eyes vivid and a cranked-up smile upon her face.
“Doesn’t he?! He’s going to be one heck of a charmer when he grows up,” another woman responds. I stand there, staring at the towering people smiling down at me.
I looked up at my mother as she smiles down at me. “Julian, these nice ladies are complimenting you. What do you say?” I look down and hug my mother’s leg closer. The two women respond with a chorus of Awww’s.
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The woman stares at my eyelashes with stern amusement. “You know, Julian, makeup is not allowed backstage,” she says.
I stared back at her. “I know,” I responded.
She nods her head solemnly. “Then why are you wearing mascara?”
“What’s mascara?” I ask.
She frowned. “Don’t play dumb with me,” she says as she licks one finger and rubs one of my lashes with it. Nothing happens.
After a few minutes of rubbing, her eyes widen. “Holy shit, those are real!” she whispers. I smile widely, giggling.
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“Hey, you’re a boy, right?” a girl asks, her voice loud and her eyes narrowed. A friend with her stares with the same face, looking me up and down.
I squirm under their gaze. “Umm…yeah.” I answer.
“Then why do you wear mascara? Are you gay or something?” the girl asks accusingly.
I smile. “I don’t wear mascara; I just have naturally long eyelashes.”
The girl raises both eyebrows then rolls her eyes. “Yeah right, there is no way those are real. Just admit you are gay.”
I knit my eyebrows together, my smile unwavering. “I’m not lying to you. People have been telling me this my whole life. What makes this time any different?”
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During my childhood, people would always comment on my eyelashes, most of which were compliments. No matter where I went, I could almost always count on someone to notice my abnormally long eyelashes, whether it was relatives, strangers, backstage managers, peers, or old ladies. The compliments would vary: they’d comment on how beautiful they looked, how long they were, how brightly they shined, how pretty they fluttered, etc. Of course, the ones I always loved hearing was how it made me look like my mother.
From the two of my parents, it’s no surprise that I associated more with my mother. My father was loud, rash, impulsive, assertive, low-tempered, stubborn, and was either too goofy or too serious at times. My mother, in contrast, was compassionate, gentle, kind, and understanding. She was someone I looked up to, as well as someone I wanted to be. When people said I looked like her, I took a hint of pride in this and thought maybe one day I could be like her as well.
My lashes also put me in a zone of androgyny. At times, people wouldn’t even be able to tell ‘if I were a boy or a girl.’ This lead to an interesting experience, as I was too young to be affect by typical gender roles, and could explore either side of the spectrum. Kids of either gender would treat me as their own, leading me to develop my own sense of seclusion from identifying as either.
I usually associated my lashes with being feminine, and did so with great pride. Since I was a child, there was no pressure to fall under traditional gender roles, so my behavior was never frowned upon. That all changed in middle school. The mix of puberty, society, and pressure to grow up all in an environment of immaturity created an adolescent hell. In this new world, if you weren’t manly, then you were ‘gay’, puny, pathetic, or some other adjective with a negative connotation. Suddenly my beloved lashes ceased to be wondrous features, and became a target of ridicule. The whiplash of such contrasting views lead me to some of my worst years.
However, years and years of praise and pride could not be washed away so easily. Never once had I lost my pride in what I identified as an important part of myself, and although it took me a few years to figure out, I regained myself. I take pride in my lashes, as they were, at the time, what most defined me.
