Former Teenage Girls in Conversation
Nelly
“Hoooo…” Nelly exhales slowly, lyrically, when asked to characterize their high school experience. “A hot-ass mess.”
“Eighth-grade me had these really big expectations of being known for something,” they muse of their hopes of high school. And in a way, they were known: as an “art kid” at University High School Academy, a prestigious math and science high school, Nelly certainly stuck out. “I was the girl who wore a bunch of beaded bracelets and had the side of her head shaved,” they recall, admitting that their outward appearance blinded their peers, often overshadowing their authentic personality. “I was known for things but they were never things that were about me.”
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The ways they experimented with their appearance within the strict confines of University High’s dress code—dyeing and cutting their hair, wearing bold jewelry—was less about making a statement and more about feeling in control. “Having my colored hair and the side of my head shaved was probably one of the first points in time when I felt like I was in control of my style,” they reflect. Still, this surface-level control felt somewhat futile to Nelly, who was dealing with some heavy questions about their own gender identity and expression. Feelings of gender dysphoria began early in their teenage years, and they came out as non-binary during their sophomore year of high school. Although personal gender expression was constantly on their mind, “it never occurred to me, at that point in my life, that my style could help me alleviate some of those dysphoric feelings with my body.”
Instead of focusing on authentic outward expression of their identity, Nelly settled for band-aid tactics to help them avoid dysphoria.
“I was just thinking about how I could look as masculine as possible because I didn’t like the idea of being clocked as a woman in any way, shape, or form,” they explain, describing the makeshift binder they wore under their uniform: “a way-too-tight sports bra and a way-too-tight cami.” Absorbing limiting, yet normalized, images of androgyny—the thin, white models Nelly identifies as “two steps from [masculine]”—forced them into a box that didn’t feel right, a standard they couldn’t meet. “I wanted to be that,” they recount, “but I don’t have an ‘androgynous body.’”
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In a media landscape where larger, curvier bodies are coded as “feminine,” and femininity is coded as a deviation from the male “norm,” Nelly’s jump from “I don’t feel like a woman” to “I need to present as a man” is understandable. This debate is ongoing within both fashion and gender non-binary circles: if gender-neutrality only reinforces the “default” (i.e. masculine presentation), isn’t androgynous fashion just one more way of reinforcing gender stereotypes? In a short reflection on the lack of diversity in ready-to-wear androgynous fashion, SHEI Magazine reporter Phoebe Danaher asks the same questions posed by Nelly’s teenage experience: “Are the curves of breasts and hips so irrevocably feminine that they have to be covered up? Why must they be disguised by baggy, shapeless clothing that merely mimics the dressing strategy followed in men’s clothing?” Since high school, Nelly has confronted some of these difficult preconceptions about gender expression and now has a much less restrictive sense of style. This year, they have entered the local drag scene, allowing them to explore new, more performative aspects of their gender fluidity.
For Nelly, a lot of the gender discomfort they experienced could have been mitigated by better media representation.
They admit that their media consumption was mainly a form of escapism rather than an opportunity for self-reflection: “I had nothing to do when I got home, and instead of, like, doing any soul-searching, I sat on the couch and watched Chopped with my dog.” However, when they did look to movies and television to provide them with some relatable content, they found their options for accurate enby representation dishearteningly slim. “[Media representation of] people that identified as [non-binary] was making me feel dysphoric and horrible about my body, but, also, if I were to watch anything with women that looked like me, it would make me feel dysphoric about my body.” These two media depictions—the male-passing enby and the curvy cis woman—left them feeling stuck between two boxes they didn’t fit into.
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Fortunately, they found a safe haven in Steven Universe, a Cartoon Network animated series lauded for its inclusive gender, sexuality, and racial representation. They cite “Alone Together,” a 2015 episode in which the character Stevonnie is introduced, as a formative moment: “Stevonnie was a non-binary character that looked like me.” After being bombarded by so many depictions of thin, white, androgynous enbys, finding a character that accurately represented Nelly’s lived experience was a breath of fresh air. “I know I can watch an episode of Steven Universe and feel… whole again.”
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When it comes to Nelly’s teenage music taste, the song is the same: the music they consumed at the beginning of their high school years left them feeling limited and contributed to their dysphoria instead of alleviating it. “I did have people I looked up to and idolized, but none of them looked like me,” they observed, citing artists like Pete Wentz and Gerard Way as major sources of inspiration during that time. Music can be very formative during adolescence, aiding in the development of aesthetic taste, peer socialization, and personal identity. Listening to the “holy trinity” (My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, and Panic! At the Disco) shaped Nelly’s outlook, self-concept, and even their wardrobe: now four years into college, they still regularly wear their Fall Out Boy crewneck.
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While the lyrics of their favorite “emo” songs genuinely spoke to them, they also recognize that “internalized anti-blackness” contributed to their consumption of music by white male artists (and the shunning of “black” music genres). A 2008 study identifying teen musical genre consumption trends in relation to racial demographics and socioeconomic status describes rap as “the music of choice for low attainment students,” exploring “the close relationship between [rap music] and subcultural delinquency.” This conclusion echoes the unfortunate stereotype that music predominantly made by African Americans garners an audience of delinquents, freeloaders, and social deviants. For Nelly, a high-performing student at an academically-challenging high school, the deeply ingrained social correlation between “black” music and these negative identifiers prevented them from exploring new genres.
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They eventually found a bridge between their beloved emo bands and more diverse music through Straight Line Stitch, a hardcore group with a black female lead. From there, with the help of music recommendations from trusted friends, they began stepping out of their musical box. Their taste in music now spans decades and genres, and it includes far more artists of color: “Now I listen to The Internet and SZA and Steve Lacy… but also I love Rico Nasty and Meghan Thee Stallion!” Thinking back to their teenage years and all the anti-blackness they’ve unlearned since entering college, Nelly swells with pride. “High school me would have freaked out at the idea of ever listening to somebody like Rico Nasty,” they laugh.
“It’s such a departure…
in a good way.”
If they could go back in time and speak to their high school self, Nelly would want to be the representation they needed back then, the representation they lacked. “At that point in my life, I just needed one person that looked like me and identified as me to just sit down with me and say, ‘I am proof that things get better.’”