A fish in the sea

There was never just me. There were always girls, and then women, who were similar enough to make whatever good thing I had seem unimportant. When I was little, people remarked on my big eyes and long eyelashes as though they were something to be proud of. It wasn’t long before I realised that big eyes were a commonplace advantage that graced so many faces besides my own. By the time I was a teenager, even girls born without could use mascara and eyeliner to cheat. Suddenly, everyone had big eyes and long eyelashes. Maybe the point of having them wasn’t to stand out, but to tick a standard beauty box; not to win the pageant, but to be allowed through the door.

If I couldn’t count on my looks to make me distinctive, what about my intelligence? Turns out that could be just as easily duplicated. Twice, maybe three times, there was the other girl who was just as good at English, then, the other dance researcher in town, then, so many young women telling young women’s stories. I’d grown up hearing that we all had something special to offer. But the more I was out in the world, the more I saw that my every quirk could be matched, and that my offerings were depressingly similar to those of other people. I had the sensation of being superfluous —that if I didn’t appear, or speak, or create, someone else would do it anyway. What was the point of me? What could I add to all this?

I didn’t even have my own words to describe my frustration, but fell back on those of the archetypal frustrated young woman, Sylvia Plath. ‘I too want to be important,’ the poet wrote, ‘by being different. And these girls are all the same.’ On entering Smith College in 1950, Plath sensed that she could be erased by her similarity to her peers. The word too could stand in place of a sigh. Me too, another girl who wants the same as everyone else, how wearying. In some cases, the boundary between superfluity and specialness is hair-thin, and in this instance, Plath’s ability to verbalise the feeling of being extraneous enabled her to transcend the blur. There are likely so many other accounts of feeling this way, and yet, fairly or unfairly, Plath’s is the one I remember.

Everyone needs to feel distinctive, in the sense that they are known and appreciated by the ones who matter to them. Women, people of colour, and those from other traditionally marginalised groups are more likely to feel superfluous, because both the number of them in positions of power, and the ways in which they come to prominence, are limited. From what I’ve seen, women have a tendency to feel replaceable, because they are valued for a smaller range of characteristics and are visible in fewer sectors. This results in a high concentration of women striving to be appreciated in the same places and ways. It takes courage and imagination to be able to picture yourself where there has never been anyone like you. If you find yourself lacking in either, you go to where older, more complete versions of yourself have already been. Even if it means fighting to maintain the illusion of distinctiveness once you are there.

I’m not convinced that insisting on the details that make me different is the best way to reconcile my essential forgettability with a need to be seen. Mostly, because it sounds futile and exhausting, as any swim against the tide will be. Instead, I’m learning to see specialness as a mutable state, which visits me in certain contexts. It’s good enough to sometimes, but not always, have ideas. It’s not pitiable, but lucky that I can trick some people into thinking I’m pretty or interesting some of the time. By these chance illusions I’ve been able to find a place in the lives of others. And I’ve been happily tricked in return — seeing the distinction in the ordinary folks who populate my world.

People living in eras other than our self-obsessed age could better conceive that we are not brilliant suns, but moonish satellites, who are made alternately bright and dark. For example, the twelfth-century lais of the Breton poet Marie de France insist on notions of specialness and dissolve them at the same time. The lai is a sung tale, which introduces a lady of peerless beauty and cunning, and a knight of unequalled valour. When the next lai comes along, the previous pair is completely forgotten— some other dame is the prettiest; some other chevalier the bravest. Advantages bloom and cancel each other out; it’s enough that they happened and were made into songs. On a poetic level, the lais themselves are the work of several francophone women who went by the name of Marie. The idea of a consistent Marie is the myth of a male manuscript maker, who wanted a unique genius behind this prototypical work of French vernacular poetry. It makes me wonder whether an obsession with singularity is a lingering strand of patriarchy, even in women’s work. Could accepting that you are one of many be the most radical act against a patriarchal obsession with origins and legitimacy?

Two recent activities have helped me appreciate that my progress cannot be separated from other people's. The first, was the occasional gifting of green jumpers to a boyfriend who prefers that colour above all others. I enjoyed choosing shades which were both flattering and unusual — deep jade, or the colour of frost on pine-cones. One day, he put on a hoodie that was old to him, and new to me. It was a rare bottle green with a concealed zip and impeccable piped seams. In my mind’s eye I saw a former girlfriend’s touch, her good taste as well. Whereas this could have once been an excuse for - green eyes - if you like, I had to smile. The gifting of green jumpers was not my idea, but one that had started long before I came on the scene. It was a communal work, like a tapestry, and I was embellishing what had already begun. I could admire the earlier stitching, knowing that it had made him more beautiful for me.

Then, there is the group of girls I go sea-swimming with. If you think that the lido movement is by now a cliché, then remember that this is an essay that celebrates derivativeness. Anyway, I used to swim alone, and now I guess I’m part of a school, one that doesn’t stop because it’s January and the Atlantic. I thought that I went in deep, but once in the water, I saw that E and J went deeper. So I swam even deeper, and then they did.

Deeper and deeper we go, until it really is too cold. When we stumble out, laughing and shivering, the waves continue, wiping out our effort. Apart from some footsteps in the sand, it’s as though we’d never been. At least we know we've been. Our swims won’t make us special in the future, but they give us joy in the present. Even at the beginning of 2021, the future is too unstable to ‘trip’ there, too uncertain a place to defer our dreams of distinction. We have to dismantle a lifetime’s habit of having special things to look forward to and seek fulfilment every day. Make the day count, the scenes and the people in it; then, you too stand a chance of counting.