i need, i need

SZA perfectly details what it's like to be a woman in "Pretty Little Birds." but, being a Black woman is vastly different from being a white woman.

lyrics from: "Pretty Little Birds"

“You are but a phoenix among feathers

You're broken by the waves among the sea.

And they'll let you die, they'll let you wash away

But you swim as well as you fly.”

As SZA says in the beginning poem of "Pretty Little Birds," it seems that SZA uses this to communicate to me, that like a phoenix, I am immortal. Even though women--signified as birds--may appear like a bird, they are still a phoenix at their core. Birds, knowingly cannot swim, so while others try to break the bird down and let them suffer, the phoenix “still rises.” In my interpretation, as a woman, it seems like she is inspiring me to overcome hardships that seem impossible, because–at my core–nothing can stop me. This poem, and the meaning extracted from it, frame the rest of the song as I experience it.

She tells me that it's okay to be any kind of woman I want to be: one that falls between the lines of heteronormative and an individual. Being in the gray area of a category can be scary, but identifying with a vernacular that isn't for me, is also scary. However, both challenge me to lose control, take accountability, and find myself for the better. I love being a woman, and I guess a bird. And a phoenix. But, if I am said "phoenix," then I really I hope I don't live forever, because I hate being a woman.

Understanding where I stand in society as a woman is something that I am still discovering. I read rich literature on intersectional feminist theories, immerse myself in gender and health courses, empower women around me, and work for various reproductive justice organizations. However, I still think about what men think of me, shave my body hair, wear makeup, and watch demeaning reality TV shows.

I don't think I ever thought about what it means to be a woman. Or what it means for me that I am a woman. When I try to write about being a woman--how I feel, the complexities of it, and my identification with feminine characteristics--nothing seems to flow well. It feels inauthentic and an inadequate description of my experience as a woman.

I learned that women tend to experience more anger, but suppress it more. They prefer intimacy, love, affection, warm feelings, and vulnerability. When I was younger, I felt a lot of anger. Whether it was kicking the back of my mom's car seat on the way to therapy or screaming at the doctor's office, I consistently lashed out. I was in pain and feeling emotions that I couldn't express. My mom always said it was because of my stomach and mental health that I was so angry. I had no reason not to believe her. But, I don't feel as much anger anymore, and I still have those things. I try to guide my days with happiness and positivity. Perhaps I was socialized to internalize this anger, because women are expected to suppress their emotions.

“I wanna be your golden goose

I wanna shave my legs for you

I wanna take all of my hair down and let you lay in it

Spread all of my limbs out and let you lay in it”

I could detail stories of when I felt most like a woman, labeled myself as a feminist, and countered typical gendered stereotypes, but none of those experiences feel like they encompass what it's like to be a woman. I see how SZA appeals to the "male gaze," embraces her desire for a fairytale romance, yet still defines her own version of womanhood in "Pretty Little Birds."

I love being a woman

My legs are so soft.

My long hair perfectly caresses my shoulders

I embrace the curves of my body with my long manicured nails

I hate being a woman

A guy spoke over me in class today

My hair is a knotted mess

Nothing looks good on me.

I like being a woman

I have a brain

and a body and a pretty face.

I wish I had a brain.

I hate being a woman.

I'm a slut who can't get an abortion

I'm a virgin who isn't sexy.

I'm a slut and a virgin

And I still don't have a boyfriend.

I love being a woman!

I scream, because not enough of us do

But I don't know if I believe it.

how can I use a song where SZA professes body insecurity to validate my internalized fatphobia?

lyrics from: "Garden (Say it Like Dat)"

I think I always pitied my older sister, Elena. Is that what happens when you’re perpetually made to believe you’re better than someone? Elena has always struggled with her weight. I can still close my eyes envision the curves of her stomach and soft arms that I used to compare myself to. I know she can too, but she won’t look at any old photos of herself.

Elena was two years older than me, so I modeled my behavior after her. I watched my mom cry next to Elena, as she confessed that she was sneak-eating a bag of candy the night her “friends” excluded her from their first ever high school party. Her timid demeanor spiraled into a pit of insecurity and depression. She changed her clothing, claiming a “grunge” look, filled with oversized flannels, baggy pants, and big t-shirts. “Elena, those clothes just make you look bigger,” my mom would say. She covered the supple, pale skin that I studied so intently. She tried to hide the shadow of others that were better than her. She didn’t want others to see the insecurity oozing through the pores of her oversized clothes. The skin flaked off of her lips from habitual anxious peeling. She slowly peeled away at the layers of the body she hated so much.

I hate that I’m going to say this, but Elena was a standard that I always exploited to increase my security. “Julia, don’t you think those clothes make her look bigger?” my mom would ask. “Yeah, E. Those are really schlumpy.” I would regurgitate. I loved that my mom validated that I was better than her in that way.

She never got mad at Elena. Or, at least I rarely saw it. My younger sister, Carrie and I were always in trouble, because we tested our mom. We got on her “last nerve,” induced screaming and slammed doors, and often received her signal of utmost anger (a bitten, folded-under tongue). When her teeth sunk deeply into the thickness of her textured tongue, we anticipated an amplified bout of reprimanding words and strict “suggestions” on our behavior.

Sometimes, she surprised us and withheld her words. The signal usually was enough to make us stop. Truly a thrill. She always used to tell me “I know you think you’re cooler than Elena” or “I know you’d rather have someone else as your sister.” This pressure to suppress a feeling towards Elena that I was arguably conditioned to feel was overwhelming.

When no one else liked her, I couldn’t understand why. I neglected that I could be like one of her friends, who made her hate herself. But, I never made her feel good in her body. I would applaud her weight loss alongside my mom. I stood paralyzed as Elena shamed herself for hiding candy, when she wasn’t allowed to eat it. I envied and resented her at the same time. She manipulated her ADHD medication too, but we never talked about it. We never really got into the deep stuff. I wish she knew how beautiful I think she is. And, I don’t know why I’m so afraid to tell her. I think I fear it will make me less beautiful. How fucked up is that?

Carrie came to visit me for my birthday freshman year of college. She bought me a cute crop top that I wanted to wear out that night. When I tried it on, she said, “OMG, Julia. You’re so skinny. It’s almost scaring me.” She genuinely seemed worried. And, it felt amazing. It felt so good to hear. I was never the mark of “skinny.”

At the beginning of the pandemic, we were told that we were going to be sent home from college. We had just a few days left, so I let myself eat a slice of pizza. I indulged in the crispy crust, warm sauce, and gooey cheese that I hadn’t tasted since junior year of high school. This was at 4 pm. Then, my friends and I decided to go out for sushi for dinner. I got two rolls and a salad. This was at 6 pm. I did the caloric math, and I couldn’t handle it. I felt a thick bulge in my throat. I ran to the bathroom, shoved my fingers down my throat, and threw up everything I had just eaten. The sushi. The crispy crust, warm sauce, and gooey cheese. I stared at the pile of regurgitated food and swirls of guilt. It felt so good. I hurriedly wiped off crumbles of single-ply toilet paper and vomit-induced tears from my face. I completely recognized myself in the mirror. Which sucked even more. I didn’t have an eating disorder, because I didn’t look like it.

"Open your heart up

Hoping I'll never find out that you're anyone else

'Cause I love you just how you are

And hope you never find out who I really am

'Cause you'll never love me, you'll never love me, you'll never love me"

Do you think I'm a bad person now that you've read all this information about me? I'm scared that you won't like me, and I don't even know who "you" are? If an imagined audience can't even like me. Then I'll-- in theory-- be all alone. And, I'm scared I'll never love myself enough. My therapist says I have catastrophic thinking.

She also says that I'm not the same person that I used to be. I don't need to keep apologizing and holding onto past versions of myself that I no longer identify with. I'm not the same ignorant person. I don't choose to be naive. But, fuck, I am so afraid to be alone.

“I need your support now (now, now, now, now, now)”

I continued to manipulate my ADHD medication through junior year of college. I was feeling so anxious. I wanted to throw up and cry all of the time. I felt like no one liked me, and all of the friends I thought I made were not my friends anymore. I was disgusted with myself. I hated seeing those people that I desperately wanted to be friends with. I was afraid to socialize. But, my mom shamed me for staying in, saying I wasn’t making the most of college. I perpetually fed the growing ball of guilt in my body.

Shifting my mindset from guilt to gratitude and shame to curiosity is something I am in the process of working on. After Connor emotionally traumatized me and made me question everything about myself, I didn’t like who I was anymore. To clarify, I didn’t like who I thought I was at the time.

This past summer before coming into senior year of college, I lived alone in Ann Arbor. No one was going to hold me accountable for going out, for what I ate, for who I was. This was the most free I had ever been. And, it was the worst feeling in the world.

I was lost, with no guidance and completely out of control. I increased my anxiety medication dosage. I read self-help books, journaled, meditated with crystals, turned to therapeutic social media accounts, and immersed myself in therapy. I was forced to sit with the worst thoughts about myself and the only person that could do something was me. I was forced to take control over my own life.

I am so grateful for the support I have to find myself. I am reframing my mindset to appreciate the incredible people in my life who remind me of the best parts of myself. I forgave my mom. I forgave the friends that hurt me. The boy who rejected me. My dad who perpetually let my mom take the blame. I am actively countering fatphobia and eating disorder triggers. I work in therapy and in progressive, brave dialogue to account for my privilege and counter systemic oppression. I need the guilt to go away. I need to forgive myself and believe it.

With the resurgence of Ctrl in my life (since I've started writing in copious amount about it), "Garden" has moved to the top of my list for songs. I have a favorite line from the song, where I feel like I become SZA:

"You know I'm sensitive 'bout having no booty, having no body, only you buddy
Can you hold me when nobody's around us?"

Even as I read these lyrics, I imagine myself in my head shaking my finger to the imaginary person that has pissed me off. I think it's her ability to work with "booty," "body," and "buddy" that literally allows me to transform myself into SZA. It's intoxicating.

Regardless of how I consume this song, I think it's fascinating that I would choose to use lyrics from my favorite song--and a song in which SZA references insecurities--to understand my internalized fatphobia. Perhaps it's because I feel like we both feel like we're not enough. Or, we feel guilty about not knowing who we are. Or, disliking a part of who we are.

The relationship between Black women and their bodies, however, is vastly different from my relationship with my white body. Research shows that Black women bodies face hypersexualization, medical exploitation, and stereotypical categorizations far more than their white counterparts. SZA's relationship with her "booty" mirrors an experience that many other Black women may face regarding bodily expectations placed on Black bodies specifically. Again, I know this through research. Through learning. Not, through experience. So, how is it fair for me to compare our experiences? Or allow her song to speak to me when my relationship with my body is subject a vastly different set of expectations?

I think this is when I wonder most why I don't turn to songs by white artists who more accurately depict my experience with my body. When we're subject to the same standards of bodily scrutiny. When our experiences are more similar. Why don't I let them speak to me?

SZA slaps Travis Scott in the face during the music video of "Love Galore" and I'm a wannabe femme fatale.

lyrics from: "Love Galore"

You can ask anyone that knows knows me this. And, they'll tell you that I wish I was a femme fatale. A femme fatale is a stereotypical way that women can be portrayed in the media, where they are known for seducing men with evil intentions. They make men fall in love with them only to demonstrate their power over them. I never really analyzed why I want to be a femme fatale. It's probably because I am the exact opposite of that in a person. I am (self-acclaimed) charmingly awkward.

I think I just want to feel better than a man. Or maybe I just want a man to like me. To lust after me. And, these are feelings that seem so pathetic to articulate in plain English. But, the way SZA sings about the tug of wanting to be loved, while not trying to be desperate for a man in "Love Galore" makes me feel validated in a way. Even though I have never been in love. This was also my "most listened to" song for two years straight, so I clearly resonated with "Love Galore."

Her feature artist, Travis Scott opens the song with the repetitive "I need, I need" in a melodic, vibrational tone. The vibration of the beats is so familiar to me, because this was a song I listened to all the time when working through shit with Connor. I wanted him to be in love with me, without wanting him anymore. I was claiming that I was "so over him" while laying in my dark bedroom with this song blasting. So femme fatale. SZA comes in and sings "love" after Scott's repetitive "I need, I need."

"Promise I won't cry over spilled milk
(Ooh no, I won't)
Gimme a paper towel."

And, it's not that I want to do a lyric analysis of SZA's stanzas for you all. Because I don't. Trust me. But, I want to go through this stanza, because when I was working through things with Connor, I obsessed over this song. Trying to find as many connections to the "chill, confident" woman that is SZA. I explicitly asked Connor to be friends in October when we returned to our respective schools. The shame that I felt whenever I would talk to him--knowing that my friends and family all disapproved--was all-consuming. I made everything seem like it wasn't a big deal, because I thought everyone was sick of hearing me talk about him. Promise that I was over him. But, like SZA who contrasts, "Promise I won't cry over spilled milk" with "Gimme a paper towel," my actions were speaking much louder than my words. I have catastrophic thinking you know.

I can't lie. I knew Connor had a new girlfriend before he told me out of courtesy. He had stopped talking to me the way we used to and would send me random pictures of girls. Absolutely toxic. I stalked his social media and found a comment on his social media from another girl. With enough digital stalking, I knew her name, among many other embarrassing facts. The familiar bulge at the base of my throat formed, and I was ashamed that I knew his girlfriend. But, I really was more ashamed that I still liked him. Even when he treated me like that. I still believed part of him deep down still loved me. Part of my clung to the "wish" he made for us to be together someday. So, my response to his courtesy was characteristic:

"aw, yay I'm so happy for you :) hope we can stay friends too!"

Bullshit.

"But see Solána, if you don't say something
Speak up for yourself
They think you stupid
You know what I'm saying?"

Being so afraid to not be liked, I think I'm stupid. But, SZA's embrace of her stupidness is what allowed me to feel my feelings. Without judging them. And, I think that's what finally allowed me to let go of Connor. But, I still can't shake the feeling of wanting to be loved.

Her performance in the "Love Galore" music video makes it my favorite music video of all time. Even though it's just SZA grinding on Travis Scott for the majority of the video, she slaps him at the end. But then she leaves him tied up, when another woman comes in and beats him to death with a bat. It feels like we entered a portal to her deepest, darkest thoughts that you're not supposed to tell anyone. That's femme fatale.

am i doing enough?