Written by Laney Lenox
It is in the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow that I first begin to think of my daughter.
It’s the type of museum that most cities of a certain size in the UK have—a free public space filled with contemporary art, historical artifacts, and whatever else has been acquired over the years. I stand in a room filled with medieval swords, many of which were wider than both of my arms put together. There are men beside me, looking at these swords with a glimmer in their eye. They imagine what it’d be like to wield them, to feel their hard power.
I imagine wielding them, but I can’t quite conjure this image of strength. It wouldn’t have been me wielding these ancient swords when they were fresh-forged and used to cut and kill. These were the swords of men, strong ones, and no matter how strong I could conceivably become, they were swords I’d never be able to wield. And that was the point—they were made to cater to a type of strength I will never possess.
It’s at this moment that I think of my daughter, who will likely always be nothing more than an abstraction. Would she, like me, be skinny and tall, and have small hands? Would she have people tell her from an early age of this commodity, of the necessity to protect the delicacy of her figure? How would she feel here in this place, surrounded by these reminders of her smallness, of her frailty?
I imagine her at thirteen or fourteen—the age I can first remember doubting myself. I didn’t doubt myself and the world around me in the exploratory ways that young people should. I doubted my body—was my nose too big for my face? Was I as beautiful as some people said?
And what of these men and their swords? How would they look at her? Would they tell her she is beautiful? Would she think this was important?
What I fear most is not what these men will think of her—what they will tell her; what I fear the most is what I will teach her, of her value, of how the world dictates she should be as a woman.
My daughter, by virtue of her non-existence, is an utterly sacred thing. She is strong. I never taught her to internalize misogyny. She is a woman of the new world, capable of everything and anything.
If I ever have a daughter, this is what I hope I can tell her: don’t ever assume that because you are small you are not powerful. The physical manifestation of strength is only its most overt form. The world will tell you that your particular kind of power is a weakness. Don’t listen. They say this because they fear what you’re capable of with such small hands. The world will tear you apart for being yourself. It is normal for this to scare you, but you can always sew yourself back together. Show the world these imperfect seams. Some will hate you for it—this is how you will know who is not worth your time.
When you look in the mirror for what you need to change to be beautiful, know that you already are. But more importantly, know that beauty is a lie. It is a construction of the world designed to oppress you—it has no truth. For those that will matter to you, it will not matter. Dare to be ugly. Dare to know that you are enough just how you are in this very moment. Remember that being fragile is not being weak, for there is a different kind of strength that comes from showing the world your imperfections.
First published in Cinders Magazine
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Laney Lenox is a researcher and writer from Louisiana living in Berlin, Germany with her husband. She has an interdisciplinary PhD in anarchist political theory and memory studies. Writing featured in Ghost City Review, Salvation South, The Mersey Review and elsewhere. Learn more about her work here: https://linktr.ee/laneylenox. Follow on social media: Bluesky, Instagram, and Substack @laneylenox