But I am Amber
Table for two. A couple, from what I can tell. There’s a pretty, slim woman, Amber. And a man, Kevin. Amber wears a dress with flowers and pastel colors. Her hair is pulled back and makeup done. Kevin wears a maroon sweatshirt. She orders the breakfast burrito and an iced americano. He chose the Turkish eggs and sugary chai latte. They find their table for two against the wall.
They are quiet at first. But not the awkward quiet of a first date. This quiet is more like they have been together for a while, where the moments of quiet are comfortable. Comfortable for him at least. Amber is never quite at ease; she doesn’t get to know true comfort. When they sit and look around to see who and what is around, he is able to do just that: observe. But Amber is not allowed that luxury today. When she looks to take in her surroundings, it is laced with fear and worry. She may not even realize it anymore, because this is what Amber has been taught since she was a young girl. Look pretty for the gaze that will fall upon your body and look out for the danger that follows it.
Amber sits slightly turned, so her back is towards the wall. Her back as straight as the wall, but never rested against it. She was taught to hold her chin high and shoulder back, eyes wide and mouth shut.
Her glances around the room weigh with worry of the judgment that comes with the wandering eyes around. Has her performance today been done well enough? Is she seen as small and quiet, weak and lost? Is her body today the right shape? Her stomach hidden in the flow of the dress, arms not perceived as manly? Is the person Amber plays today a character that meets the ever-changing wishes of the wandering eyes? Because this person, the one who ordered the black americano, she is not really Amber.
The true Amber wants the iced vanilla latte with whole milk and an extra shot of espresso. She wants the greasy bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on an everything bagel. Amber wants to be the one able to wear a maroon sweatshirt and gray sweatpants when she goes out for brunch on a rainy Sunday morning.
She did not ask for this burden. To be judged by the male gaze and held to a standard she didn’t set and can never meet. She did not ask to learn these ways, but this is what she was taught. The burden of this unconsensual weight is suffocating. The version of Amber that is aligned with nothing but her own soul, can hardly breathe under the pressure of the ever-changing character that must be played. With each missed sip of air, the true Amber slips farther and farther out of reach.
All while the man who wears the maroon sweatshirt sits slouched in his chair, reading the recap of last night's basketball game. Without a care of who is around. Without a worry in his head about the way he looks or the space he occupies. Without an awareness that the true Amber before him actually sits so far away.
But I am Amber. And there may not be a Kevin in front of me, but they are always around. Telling me what to do and what to eat. Trying to train me in how to breathe while holding the weight of their demands.
I already know how to breathe. Deeply and softly, I breathed before I was forced to live my life as this actress, each day a new scene and always listening to the opinions of the critics.
I do not want to be an actress anymore. I do not want to be Amber. So, I will unlearn and unlearn, in hopes that one day my own soul will again shine through from right behind my eyes.