The Formal Sitting Room

Victorians knew how to separate the public from the private. They had to. All socialization was face-to-face unless waiting for months to receive a letter was an option. You had to invite people into your home to have just about any interaction with them. So they created very clear distinctions between what was for the viewing of others and what was kept to themselves.

There was a well defined barrier between the two. The private space was modest, comfortable, and familiar. It was lived in. The public space was built for show - Gilded and impressive. It was the Facebook of home decoration: Putting your best parts of display to make your life seem better than it truly was.

New Orleans has mastered this concept. The decadence that is associated with the city is the ultimate public parlor, the formal reception room that you're invited into to keep you out of its private spaces. The city holds your attention so you don't go wandering off into its real life. It takes reality and amplifies it, creating a gaudy pantomime of itself to sell to the world. This is how it stays alive, by presenting a parody for mass consumption.

It's very purposeful. The decision was made for the survival of this place. The city knows what you want to see, what you expect, and it will provide that. For a fee, of course. But is it really any different from what we all do every day? We pick which traits to amplify and which to keep hidden based on the image we want to project. We try so hard to become what we assume others want us to be. The payment is more abstract - Companionship and acceptance rather than money (usually). But the sentiment is the same. In the end, we're all just selling ourselves to others and desperately hoping that someone, anyone, will buy us as is.

The Game

I always forget that leaving the house looking halfway presentable automatically means that my only reason for being out is to attract someone. It couldn't be that I wanted to see a show or even to have a conversation with other humans. It couldn't be that I enjoy looking attractive because it makes me feel good about myself - It makes me feel like I took care of myself for once. No, it's always interpreted as trying to get laid.

It puts me on the defensive immediately and I wonder what is must be like to be able to leave the house without worrying how you will be pursued and what you'll have to do to protect yourself. To be able to let your guard down without it being taken as an invitation. I suppose I wonder what it must be like to be a man.

The biggest problem is freezing up. I want to be out and socializing like a regular person so I understand that making a scene when a line has been crossed is not the best way to handle the situation. It's impolite in public. So instead, I freeze up like a prey animal in the sights of danger. It's arguably the most toxic reaction as it's usually interpreted as consent rather than fear. With each failed social interaction, I add another behavior to the "Don't" column. Don't accept drinks being bought for you - It means you owe them something. Don't show too much skin - It means you're promising something. Don't forget to bring shoes that you an run in if you have to - It means you're asking to be victimized.

I look forward to getting older because it's safer. When you're no longer in the age range that's considered desirable, it's easier to move around in public. You become invisible. When your only role in society is to be a prize to be won or a territory to be conquered, falling outside of what is considered attractive make you nothing. A non-object. Useless to the world. There's something very comforting about that. Safety through non-existence.

There's also something incredibly depressing that my only hope in this situation seems to be disappearing. Taking myself out of society by destroying anything that makes you an object to be pursued, either by age or by sheer force of will. There's no option of it changing. That hope is beating out of you very early on, usually by thirteen or fourteen. By then, you've already been hunted for years by men old enough to be your father or even grandfather. Old enough to know better. Old enough that they're supposed to be the ones protecting you instead of the ones you need to protect yourself from.

So you wait instead. You harden yourself to it, steeling yourself against the thousand little cuts inflicted every day. You freeze when it happens, making yourself as quiet and small as possible, hoping they'll give up and leave. You rope-a-dope them, letting them tire themselves out until you're no fun anymore. Until the game ends and they move on to the next challenge. You hope that it doesn't make them angry and you plan your steps if it does - The shoes for running, the pepper spray in your bag, the words to yell so someone will take notice. You wait until their disinterest grants you permission to continue on with your life. You savor that freedom until the next one comes along and the game restarts anew.