By Jade de Sylva

It’s April 2022 in Paris, France. In a second-hand vintage shop that specialises in brands such as Chanel, Dior and other mid-level designers, I find an obnoxious suit that I like. It doesn’t exactly fit; I roll up the top of the trouser so as not to fall. Unfortunately, the suit costs too much for what it is worth, and all the dresses I like don’t fit either. I leave with a cheap one-piece and a stretchy jacket from The Kooples.

This experience made me question myself: do I have the right body type to be a queer girl? Although this seems far-fetched, my inner Goldsmiths student was screaming at my inability to sport an outlandish vintage piece and vogue whilst talking about class inequality in modern Britain.

Granted, I have always swayed between masculine and feminine with my clothing, hair, makeup and the way that I speak. What I mean to say is that I can come off as pretentious. I know this and can admit that I seem obnoxious from afar. However, it took me a long time to fully feel comfortable classing myself as being under the queer umbrella; to feel like I fit.

I’ve always been aware of the shallowness of the queer community. However, I managed to delay the confrontation of this issue through my heterosexual relationships. Now that I’m single and that particular shield is no longer available to me, I am face-to-face with the undeniable truth: girl, you got a big bum bum and a butch aesthetic that isn’t matching.

There’s another layer to this. Growing up with a French family, where being told that having a big arse was an insult rather than a compliment, I learned that bodies (particularly women’s) were the first thing you mentioned when you saw someone, that they were the focal point of every piece of gossip. If you gained weight, it was seen; it was concerning, and you should change it. Having that niggling thought at the back of my head added to my constant feeling of discomfort whenever I wanted to wear something that not only made me stick out but that I felt like I seemed I didn’t ‘qualify’ for.

One Saturday night ended with an afters at mine. With the sun rising and everybody ready to go to bed after a long, deep and rambling conversation, I finally admitted that I felt self-conscious about my womanly body type, that I would dread any form of stares when I walked into spaces with people who, after having worked out, were dancing and flaunting their gorgeous, slender figures.

My body decides for me that I’m feminine. Ideally, I would have the slim physique of Jordan from The Great Gatsby, boasting hints of sexual ambiguity, balanced with a piratey, bolshy persona. Having the sexualised feminine body that, even when complimented, doesn’t fit the mould of the idealised androgynous queer woman left me hesitant to truly identify as I wished.

I was neither ripped nor stocky, fat nor thin: all the extremes that traditionally (and sometimes problematically) categorised different forms of gay or bisexual women. Certain body types were often associated with them. I could do everything to justify what I represented. Get the fade, stand in a masculine way, speak crassly, have darker, meaner-looking eyebrows. I would have all these things, and my body would still let me down.                                                                                                                   

One of the people at the afters who had listened to my confession reassured me that it doesn’t matter what my body looks like. It doesn’t make me not ‘fit in’ because I have loved men or that I couldn’t fit into ‘70s non-stretch jeans without hearing the thread snap. Their wise words were: ‘You don’t have to look like you are off to Berghain every night to look queer.’

Looking back now, it seems stupid and pointless that I managed to manifest a space of exclusivity within a group that defies everything that is the face of ‘normal’. It was as though there were other criteria in order to qualify as the ones that were getting into Berghain or were photographed and used as promotional content for Pussy Palace or Big Dyke Energy. I fell for the aesthetics that pollute my Instagram feed, but it’s hard not to.

What do I conclude this article with? Well, I’ve been given wider hips and thighs, I have sailor-themed tattoos with a faded undercut, and I have the dress sense of a lesbian art teacher. And that’s it. Of course, there are other sides to me, and my body isn’t all that I am. I shouldn’t have to come up with justifications for my body to feel that I am the ideal face of this community. Queerness comes in all shapes and sizes, and I fit in just fine.