Engendering Danger
Digging them personal pronouns.
I wrote this piece in response to an interesting challenge from my creative writing course tutor (who is just wonderful, by the way, a refreshing antithesis to the many years of didactic teaching I received as a younger student) :
It's quite a tough exercise, but proved worthwhile. I deliberately chose a very gender-oriented, but still ambiguous, setting. It got me digging into personal pronouns (which have their own usage trends), gender assumptions and audience perception. I also started to think more deeply about gender portrayal when it's not a gender you currently possess (as well as unfamiliar cultural settings, as you'll see). What I learnt then proved beneficial for a key characterisation in my novel (my tutor's sideways approach at play again!)
You can read the ~600 word result of my efforts below. As an interesting exercise, try to answer these questions during your reading:
What gender did you think each character had when they were first introduced?
Had you changed your mind once you'd reached the end?
The long, white ceremonial robes signified the Healer’s heightened status within the village. Their apprentice, in contrast, wore a simple brown shift. They entered my family’s hut after removing their colourful feathered head-wear in which they had led the earlier dancing. The Healer was carrying a simple cowhide bag, tied shut with thongs. The villagers had not yet dispersed back to their nearby homes and were still sharing out the sacrificed meat. They remained expectant. The ritual hadn’t yet ended. I was now the sole focus. It was time.
I was already sitting, head bowed, on a mat of rushes covering the newly swept floor as they ducked into my parents’ hut. There was a silver filigree chain around the Healer’s neck, a rare thing. From it hung a small, curved symbol made of hard, white ivory. A half-moon that spun gently as they knelt down to speak to me. I looked into their yellowing eyes to see a kindly expression tinged with resolute determination. The Elders had taught us from a young age what was to happen, what must happen. We accepted it was necessary. But now I regretted listening to the stories told by those who had gone before me, newly-made adults recounting their ordeal in whispers, as we huddled around a flickering evening fire.
“You are ready to put away childish things.” A statement, no hint of a question.
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation.
My parents were there, hidden in the shadows at the back of their hut. It was their place to witness, not to reassure. Only children received comfort from the fear I now felt.
The Healer opened their bag, its wielded contents reflecting dully into the hut’s roof. They then parted my legs and I stiffened with trepidation. The bright sunlight from the hut’s entrance gave clarity to the Healer’s task. But this was not for others to see. The apprentice pulled across the threadbare canvas and moved to kneel behind me, firmly gripping my shoulders. The Healer nodded at the others and then fixed my gaze. I closed my eyes.
It was sudden, practised. A quick jab and a twist. Once, twice more. A sharp, searing pain in my loins that rose into my stomach. Nausea swept through me. A long ululation from the apprentice pierced my ears and drowned my cries of weakness. They would only bring shame if those gathered outside heard them.
It was done. The Healer stood, wiping off blood from their tools with a blackened cloth and whipped the curtain aside to an excited chorus that flooded in with the sunlight, a louder echo of the earlier masking cry. A broad smile announced another successful initiation, holding up my bloody, excised flesh in their palm for all to see. A symbol of passing innocence. My parents smiled hesitantly in return. It was done.
The apprentice let go of my shoulders and I slumped backwards onto the woven mat, rolling onto my side and curling my legs up. I felt a warm trickle of fluid where my thighs met. I hugged my knees and gritted my teeth. My parents stroked my hair and re-arrange my clothes, mumbling platitudes. I numbly refused the clay cup of milk they offered me.
Adulthood had been bestowed upon me by a simple act of mutilation. But my healing wouldn’t bring freedom. I would tell a different tale to the others around the fire this evening.