Pink is My Empowerment Color

Have I become Shelby Eatenton?

For those unversed in the Louisiana-set world of Southern belles and strong female friendships that is Steel Magnolias (you should watch it immediately), Shelby Eatenton is the “Pink-is-my-signature-color” character played by Julia Roberts (in her first Academy Award nominated role). 

I am very comfortable with pink these days. It has become a very significant color in my life after the color blue, which holds the top spot because it brings out my eyes. But not so long ago, I was threatened by this palest tint of red.

Back in 2011, I decided while getting a manicure in Provincetown, Massachusetts, to get the nail on my left index finger painted blue. It was different. And if I desired anything while growing up in my small Kentucky town it was to be different. But I digress. I liked the color on the single nail. I found it interesting and unique; a somewhat stylish fashion statement.

I continued to paint that one nail myself for years. I acquired bottle after bottle of nail polish. So many shades that I risked the polish drying up before I could possibly use it all when only painting that one nail. Eventually, I decided to add the middle finger on the left hand to the polished party. And you know what, two was better than one. I liked the pair. They added something a little avant-garde to my style. They also multiplied the questions from those enquiring minds that wanted to know: “Why just two nails?” I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but “I like it” was the answer my therapist told me to give. So I gave it. It was the truth, after all.

Then came the moment I painted those two nails red. I know this is a pink story but the red came first so just stick with me. I painted those two nails red and they shined. My inner queer felt like he was channelling a 1950s movie star or maybe even Joan Crawford in The Women. I quickly noticed, however that I was hiding those two nails more than I was letting them bask in the light. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t figure it out. Blue nail polish didn’t bother me. Neither did brown or gray or green. Even a dark crimson red didn't affect me. But the bright red shade I had chosen shined a spotlight on me with an illumination that I just couldn’t handle.

I thought maybe it was a red thing without bothering to explore why it was a red thing. So I decided to give pink a try. (I told you to stick with me and I’d get back to pink.) I had the same reaction. I loved the color, felt fabulous with it on my nails, but only in private or around friends. I was hiding those two pink nails the same way I had hidden the red ones.
What was I so afraid of? It was just a color. But pink, like red, commanded too much attention. For some reason I felt exposed…and ashamed.

Then it hit me, pink (and red) is a feminine color. At least in my mind when it came to nail polish. So this went much deeper than exposure. It went much deeper than being ashamed of being a man with painted fingernails. It was about my feminine shame.

Oh shit.

I had to face it.

But not immediately. That’s not my way. I hid from it just like I hid those two nails from those prying eyes and enquiring minds.

Sometimes we’re afraid of the things we want the most. I was. I wanted all ten nails painted and wanted them to be painted red or pink. But I didn’t want to be exposed that fully. I had hidden myself most of my life. Too much exposure allowed too many people to see the truth. Different is nice, but…

Finally, I felt courageous enough to do something that I hadn’t known I really wanted to do back in 2011, the first time I got that one nail painted. I got all ten of my fingernails painted. It was September 12, 2019. It was a major step for me. One that had been building for more than eight years. The shade of color I chose was a deep slate gray. It had to be a dark shade for me at that time. A dark shade I could handle. I had to ease myself into it. But it was amazing. I loved having all ten of my nails painted. It was freeing, if that makes sense. As if by not painting them, or by only painting two of them, I was holding my other fingers at bay, keeping them prisoners devoid of the joy that color can bring.

As with anything one does repeatedly, having painted nails got easier to flaunt, to the point that I felt naked if they weren’t painted. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when the theatre industry in NYC—my industry—was shut down for 18 months, I even learned how to polish my own nails. As a right handed person, I even got pretty good at polishing the right hand with my left if I do say so myself.

I have been on a journey of self-discovery for so many years that I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t trying to give myself permission to take a step forward and be myself. There is freedom to be found in expressing your true self, exposing, if you will, the person that you might hide from the world.

The true me is feminine. I have always been feminine. I have loved that about myself in private and hated it about myself in public for way too long. I shouldn’t fear my femininity, yet sometimes I still do. But just like everyone else, I am a work in progress.

I have now added so much pink to my life that I rarely go a day without it. It’s an unconsciously conscious choice. My nails are almost always pink. I alternate between three or four varying shades every two weeks, much to the dismay of the owner of the nail salon where I get them done. She often questions why my color is always pink. The truth is, I love it. It makes me happy. 

Pink is feminine. Pink is masculine. Pink is me.

The medium to deeper shades of pink that I like are vibrantly beautiful and alive with energy. I have found confidence and power in their hues. I have found vitality.
It amazes me to think back on the fear I once had about two pink nails when I now see how fabulous I feel with ten.

So, what was I so afraid of? The simple answer is: the truth. More specifically, I was afraid of my reaction to me being myself and that of others to me revealing myself. I have always loved being a feminine person when it didn’t cost me anything: no hateful words, no threat of physical violence. But if the truth does actually set you free it can only do so when you admit it.

I love my pink nails, my pink clothes, my pink earrings, my pink rings, my pink shoes, my pink lipstick, etc. 

The color pink is important to me. Whether it has become the signature color in my life, I don’t know. It certainly has become a signature color. But all signature color talk aside, it has definitely become my empowerment color.

I may not be Shelby Eatenton, but we are definitely kin.

Another Coming Out: I’m Non-Binary, My Pronouns Are He/Him, But I Also Respond to Hey Gurl.

LGBT Foundation, a United Kingdom-based charity whose roots date back to 1975, defines non-binary as “people who feel their gender cannot be defined within the margins of gender binary. Instead, they understand their gender in a way that goes beyond simply identifying as either a man or a woman.” 

It can go deeper than that. Some people identify as both male and female while others identify as neither. Some feel that their gender fluctuates with fluidity between the two. 

I am that. That is me.

I have written more than a little about my young life in small-town Kentucky. As early as three- or four-years old I discovered my mother’s shoes. Specifically, a pair of white platform sandals. I loved those shoes. Who knows why? How often do we hear that children like playing with the box better than the toy that came in it? All I know is little boy Michael loved those shoes. 

What I also know is that I always got in trouble when I got caught wearing them. I know our memories can cloud and change as we get older. What was once just a statement can become a stern reprimand. But I do remember the words always being a stern reprimand to take off those shoes.

I will always believe that this is when the seed of my shame was planted. And that it has been growing since before I understood what shame was or that I was feeling it.

I’ve written about when my foot had finally grown to the size of my mother’s and what pure joy I felt when her high heels actually fit my feet. I loved getting to stay at home alone while my parents were away grocery shopping or running other errands. I wore a pair of her heels from the minute the car was out of sight until I heard it pulling back into our driveway. Of course, I always made sure to put them back where I found them because I didn’t want to get caught. And I sure didn’t want the reprimand (possibly in the form of a spanking) that would follow.

Fast forward to 40-something me living in New York City. I was dying to paint all ten of my fingernails, but afraid to do so. I allowed myself just one at first, then two. I professed them just a part of my style. I always felt like I needed an answer for why I only painted the one (eventually the pair). My therapist at the time said my answer need only be that I liked it. I tried that for a while. 

Eventually I felt brave enough to let my inner female show herself. But not on my hands.

I bought a pair of Gucci platform heels and I felt fabulous while wearing them and supported by those around me. Jewelry followed: cocktail rings, jeweled bracelets, earrings. It was baby steps in the coming, these outward expressions of femininity. 

Eventually I got all ten nails painted—September 12, 2019. I felt complete. I was nervous to be seen…a man with painted fingernails. But I loved them. I had been denying myself this happiness of expression out of fear for way too long. The color was dark slate gray. A very masculine color for fall. Masculine. I remember thinking that. As if the color being masculine would somehow be a distraction from the fact that I was a male with painted nails.

The gray was fine and the reaction was positive. But what I really wanted was pink. 

It took a while to get there. I had tried pinks and reds when I was still painting only one (or two) nails. The color made me uncomfortable. I found myself hiding the nail when coated with one of these shades. I was embarrassed by it. I had no idea why? Maybe because I saw pink as feminine?

Eye shadow, lipstick, perfume, and a white asymmetrical Halston jumpsuit joined list of feminine expressions

Eventually I succumbed to my desire and got all ten nails painted pink. It was life. It was empowering. Pink is so vibrant and alive. It has energy that no gray will ever possess. I became a pink-nail queen. I almost feel incomplete when my nails are not some shade of pink. I do allow other colors to live on my nails from time to time, but it always comes back to pink.

All of these things are mile markers on my journey: questioning myself, discovering myself, revealing myself, accepting myself (if only in small increments).

I’ve been questioning my gender for some time now, though I would always conclude I’m a cis gay male: assigned male at birth and living as male. However, the questioning began in earnest one day when I approached a person on my subway platform wearing pearls. I was curious if this person felt nervous and guarded like I always do when wearing categorically feminine attire and/or accessories. We got on the same train and as we rode into Manhattan we talked. She was a trans female and younger than I. She was kind and generous. She let me ask questions and she answered. She posed questions. After that conversation I couldn’t stop examining myself. I know there are a lot of people who hate labels but I wanted to figure out where I fit. I wanted a label to help me understand, accept, belong.

I did a lot of thinking. 

I thought about how when I was a child I always liked to be the wife or girlfriend when I played house with my male cousins. If I could be pregnant in our make-believe world I was even happier. And I loved being a bride.

I thought about how I often feel pretty not handsome. 

I thought about how I often feel female not male.

But I didn’t feel as if I was in the wrong body. One of the questions I asked the woman on that subway ride was: “When did you feel like you were in the wrong body?” She said she’d never felt that way. Her answer was a revelation. 

I couldn’t get there until I got there.

I don’t feel like I’m in the wrong body either. I like my penis. I don’t want breasts. I just don’t feel like I’m wholly male. I truly feel I am both male and female, yet not exclusively one or the other. I definitely feel more feminine most days but the male side of me comes out to play sometimes too.

I admitted the truth: to myself and others. It's been there all along. I finally feel brave enough to admit it.

On October 3, 2023, I finally had the courage to say that I am non-binary. At the time of this writing I feel happy. I feel light. I feel as if I might be even closer to understanding, accepting, and loving myself than ever before. I feel like admitting this out loud to my friends makes it even more real to me. As if admitting it has allowed me to breathe in my skin for the first time in years. Maybe now I will finally begin to dispel the shame.

My name is Michael Rohrer. I am non-binary. I am human. I am gay. I am queer. I am a person in progress. I am on a journey and my most recent discovery is “huge,” to quote my friend Mandy.

I am.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put on some lipstick then change the sheets on my bed.

The Time I Realized It’s Me Who’s Ashamed Of My Femininity

“Another round of bullets hits my skin.” 

That lyric from the song “This Is Me” from the film The Greatest Showman is really resonating with me at the moment.

I’ve come to believe that the bullets hitting my skin are from a gun being held in my own hand. I’m pulling the trigger. The question is: Am I trying to commit emotional suicide or am I trying to keep myself just wounded enough so that I don’t have to face the reality of my own emotional prison. 

I rarely give myself the permission or the freedom to do all the things that I want to do in my life. Instead, I give myself fear, anger, frustration, shame, and regret.

I’ve spent many years thinking that it was other people who were ashamed of me for being homosexual or feminine or whatever other disparaging word one could use when belittling. But honestly, it’s me who’s ashamed...of me. I hadn’t even realized how stagnant and toxic my internalized shame had become? 

Lady Gaga reminds me that I was “Born This Way,” and I know that’s true. I’ve been a homo since I can remember. But it’s my bend toward femininity, which in terms of outward expression I like to call gender-expansive, that brings with it a special cloak of shame that I can’t seem to fully abandon no matter how much I grow and change and understand about myself.

I’m so tired of being afraid of the reaction of others at my outward feminine expression. I believe this fear is the root of my shame. I’m embarrassed to be the fabulous, stylish, flamboyant, feminine man that I am. 

I recently published the piece My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life. In it I pointed out that I have always felt like I was my father’s biggest disappointment, his shame. That examination, and the questions I posed in that piece, have led to more questions, but also a deeper understanding that it’s me who is ashamed. I love who I am in the safety of my own home. But when I leave the confines of that sanctuary, my joy goes to hell. 

A few days ago I found myself in exactly that state of mind. I was in my living room applying a finishing swipe of lipstick before leaving for work. I took in my reflection. I loved what I saw: black jeans double rolled to fully reveal my silver Louis Vuitton boots with 4.5” heel, which I had never worn so exposed before; the green, gray, and black patterned short-sleeved jacket with a pink, jeweled set of lips dangling from the zipper pull. My eye makeup was bangin’; my jewelry the right amount of sparkle and pop. That man reflected in that mirror felt fabulous, was happy. 

Then I walked out my door. As I was turning the key in the lock I could feel a change coming over me. Literally feel it. My chest felt heavy, my face fixed itself into resting bitch. By the time I'd walked down the short hallway and through the two doors separating me from the sidewalk my joy was gone. It had been replaced by a heaviness that I soon realized was anger. I was angry. Mere moments before I had been happy and joyous and basically singing, "Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!” from Bette Midler's “I'm Beautiful.” Damn it! I still looked fabulous but the bliss was gone. 

The best way I can describe this anger that came over me is thus: it was the guard I so often pull up around me for protection mixed with my frustration at being afraid of expressing myself.

Two days later it finally sank in: I’m ashamed of my femininity! 

Christ! I’ve been blaming—or trying to blame—other people and specific situations for my fears when it comes to expressing myself for longer than I care to say. But it’s me. I’m the one. I knew I was firing the bullets. I just didn’t realize how deeply I was wounding myself.

But you know what? Just because I can more clearly see my own self-sabotage doesn’t change the fact that being bullied in my youth fed my fear and stunted my growth. Just because I more clearly understand the huge part I play in my own shame doesn’t change that fact that my father did indeed point out what he perceived were my flaws (mostly my feminine traits) as I mentioned in the above referenced piece. The seeds were sown.

When we’re young we are so susceptible to the words and actions of others. Not that we aren’t susceptible as adults. But in our youth we are still forming and becoming. We often aren’t yet mature enough to form our own opinions. We don’t often understand what we’re feeling or why something brings us joy. We just know we like it or we’re happy. My life seemed rife with mockery, from my love of singing to the way I walked to my fashion choices. It wasn’t a constant barrage of negativity, but it was often enough that I went inward, felt ashamed of what brought me joy, found safety behind closed doors.

My shame was instilled in me but that makes it no less my shame. I let that negativity take root in me and flourish into the gnarliest tree, which continues to thrive on my self-doubt and self-hate…products of my shame. That tree has a far-reaching canopy of leaves that represent my fear. And those leaves don’t provide shade as much as they block my light. Every time I was mocked, laughed at, ridiculed, I internalized my shame and gave the roots of that tree the nourishment they needed to get stronger and to more deeply anchor themselves. That tree must be riddled with bullets.

I’m damaged. But I survived my youth. And I continue to survive every day.

I have a co-worker who unknowingly gives me strength every time I see him. He’s gay, paints all ten fingernails, wears makeup, wears dangling earrings, has pink hair. I don’t know if anxiety overtakes him as he leaves his apartment. I don’t know if he’s afraid as he walks to the subway station. To me he appears happy and alive in his gender-expansive expression of femininity. Seeing him nourishes me and fills me with the desire to get over my shame of being who I am, loving what I love, and just BE. He inspires me to be the brave and courageous person that others think I am. 

My mom has always said I march to my own drummer. She’s right. Nobody else marched in time with me where I’m from. But the little feminine boy inside of me has always been afraid to just BE. Even still, there are those who see me as brave and courageous while I see myself as holding my breath until I reach safety. 

I recently heard Rupaul say, “To watch a boy play with feminine things, in a society that is so masculine, and come through it, and find their fire and their own voice is a very powerful thing.” 

I have not come through it, but I have definitely found my voice, and a shard of power. I am replacing that gun with lipstick and putting on a fabulous pair of heels to pour positive poison on the roots of that tree.

“Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in.” I’m working on it.

My journey continues…

I Dared To Be Me And I Feel Like A Bird Set Free

"The hardest part is being afraid. Afraid that people are going to find out the truth. [But] once you stop being afraid you're free." Steven Carrington, Dynasty circa 1987

It's amazing what a little honesty and eyeliner can do for one's psyche. I'm not talking about covering my face up "with lots of MAC makeup" as Jennifer Hudson sings in "All Dressed In Love." That’s not my thing (but if it’s yours…do it!). I’m talking about a little eyeliner to accentuate the eye, add a pop of color, help me express myself.
 
Since publishing “The Woman In Me” a little over seven weeks ago, my courage and confidence has grown by leaps and bounds. Admitting my truth and embracing myself has been so powerful. It's freedom. Being brave enough to be myself on the street when I'd only previously done so (without fear of judgment or retribution) behind closed doors has been life changing; liberating. I've noticed that I face my life differently. It's as if I take a breath and react in a more grounded less frustrated manner than previous. If you can believe it (because sometimes I still can’t) I'm less hard on myself.
 
I don't think any of us realize how much trauma we cause ourselves with our secrets.

When I embraced myself and started wearing eyeliner in public it was scary. That first step outside the door I would compare myself to a cat whose hackles are raised in a posture of defense. I was on guard -- prepared for even the slightest negative reaction -- even with sunglasses on to hide the liner. But the glasses had to come off and the eyeliner had to be exposed. I'm not Anna Wintour. Sunglasses are not an acceptable accessory at work. Within days of little to no reaction it began to not matter when I stepped outside of my apartment whether I was wearing sunglasses or not. I became less self conscious about wearing the eyeliner. It was merely a little paint on the canvas, an expression accentuating my style. The ease of incorporating a feminine bracelet, ring, boot, etc., followed immediately. And I become less self conscious of those items also.

I soon became aware that I was happier with me; less critical of me. Don't be fooled: I'm still my harshest critic, but I accept that I'm not perfect and never will be. That's hard for a perfectionist. I just have to be the best me I can be. What I've realized is that my courage to show myself with confidence has changed the way I face the challenges that life presents on a daily basis.
 
I first began to notice this difference by the way I reacted to the corrections my personal trainer would give me at the end of an exercise. I have long carried a pot of anger inside of me that boils over any time I feel vulnerable. And let’s face it, doing something new can be a very vulnerable situation. Before "outing" my authentic self in public I would get so angry because I wasn't able to execute an exercise perfectly. Even if i’d never done it before. That pot would boil over, and I would be angry, almost always, for the rest of the training session. Now I seem to accept his assessments less as failure's and more as challenges. Then I attempt again to execute properly a kettle bell swing, a single-arm press with squat, or the ever challenging Turkish Get-Up. It was a shock to me the day I realized I wasn’t getting angry in a situation when I would normally get angry. It began to sink in that by accepting, embracing, and exposing my true self to the world I had become more relaxed in navigating the ups, downs, twists, and turns of my life.
 
I had released myself from my self-made prison of fear and shame. Gilded as it may have been inside with all its pretty things (art, champagne, high heels, and shiny pieces of jewelry) it was still a prison. I had to get out of my own way, spread my wings, fly. I could no longer be contained behind the wall of my home.

On a recent Friday I paid a visit to the Gucci store on Fifth Avenue. It proved to be quite a positive experience. I don't know how many of you have seen the new studded leather navy (or red) and white striped platform pumps from Gucci's SS16 collection, but I have personally been obsessed with them since I first laid eyes on them in the pages of Harper's Bazaar and Vogue. They’re art -- sculptural; stunning. Said visit was about seeing the shoes in person in all their beautiful, full-color, 3-D glory.

When I stepped off the top step, having arrived at the third floor of the Gucci store, I saw them sitting on a table. All the available color options from tan to green to silver & black to the aforementioned striped, which has pointed studs and a feline head detail. They were inviting me to come over and look at them, touch them. Never one to be content with admiring beautiful things from a distance I walked myself straight to that table and all but Carrie Bradshaw'd a "Hello Lover" at them all. Is it cheating if you've got hearts where your eyes should be and you've yet to truly commit to loving one more than the others even if you already know you like one more than the others?
 
Anyway, there I was in Gucci and a sales associate, Sherice, was asking me if she could be of assistance. Instead of just admiring the shoes I told her I wanted to try on a pair. She didn't blink an eye as she asked me what size I wear.
 
"I wear an 8 in men's," I responded.

"That's a 10," she replied quickly, which translates to a European 40.
 
I told her I was particularly drawn to the navy and white striped platforms. She promptly went to the back in search of my size.

Sadly, they didn't have the navy and white striped in a 40, but they did have the red and white striped. From the display we took the shoe for my right foot. I tried it on while she went in search of its mate. It fit perfectly. I was Cinderella...without the prince (as I’d put the shoe on my own foot). I bobbed up and down around the shoe salon admiring the reflection of my foot in that shoe in all the mirrors. Then I noticed that all the sales associates in the room were admiring too. They began to remark overwhelmingly with positive comments. Not "to-make-a-sale" comments either. Just positive, uplifting, judgement-free, comments.
 
Ava, another sales associate, chatted me up while Sherice was in the back searching for the mate to the shoe I had on my foot. I began to tell her about my current journey, about the above mentioned piece I had written and the favorable response to it. She listened with total interest then told me if I decided to buy the shoes I had to wear them out into the world. She applauded my co-workers for their support and applauded me for doing that little ol' thing of finally being myself in public.

Those shoes nearly screamed "I belong on your feet! Buy me!" Every sales associate I encountered in Gucci that day was so supportive of me and thrilled when I chose to make the purchase. I couldn't have felt more at ease in a group of strangers.
 
Even more interesting was the fact that I initially wanted the navy and white striped (which was more subdued), but it was the red and white striped that truly made a statement. There was no other option. The navy and white striped could have been ordered for me, but I knew, as did everyone else watching me walk and smile and laugh, that it had to be the red.
 
Ava was right about wearing them out into the world. They're too beautiful to keep hidden behind the walls of my apartment. I didn’t know when I’d find the courage, but I knew I would, just as I’d found the courage to walk out into the world wearing eyeliner. I had to. I wanted to.

Two days later I was wearing those shoes at work.

It was a beautiful spring-like winter Sunday. I wore those shoes for every hour of my 6 hour shift. I opened myself up to the possibility of stares and laughter and even name calling. My hackles were up. I was prepared…and I wasn’t.

What I received was a generous outpouring of positive support. Comments ranging from, “Beautiful” to "How can you walk in those?” to "You are giving me life right now!" resulted in a dialogue of sorts, with no conversation or question shaded negatively. I knew I had chosen a safe space in which to experience my grand initiation of wearing unmistakably women’s shoes in public, but I wasn’t prepared for the feeling of joy that flooded my heart. I received hugs of encouragement and watched as faces masked with astonishment transformed into smiles. I can't begin to express my gratitude for the support of my co-workers. I thankfully work in an industry that embraces all of us -- human beings. And I have a set of core friends who support me no matter what. I basked in that encouragement and support; breathed it in; let it fill me up.
 

There were a couple of obvious (to me) straight men that I passed while walking through the building. I heard them laughing behind me. I'm not sure if the laughter was about seeing a grown man in a pair of women’s platform shoes or if it had nothing to do with me at all. I wasn’t necessarily the punchline to a joke. I just presumed I was. Regardless, I kept my shoulders back, my head held high, and walked, with nary a teeter, back to my office. If they were laughing at me then that's their own insecure shit rearing its ugly head. I rocked those shoes with ease, grace, and style.

I don't need to tell you how important it is to surround yourself with supportive people. What I may need to remind you of though is how important it is to be supportive. We're all in this life together. We have a choice: stand together or tear each other down. "United we stand, divided we fall."

The title of this piece comes partially from the song “Bird Set Free” from Sia’s new album This Is Acting. The album is filled with songs and lyrics that empower me, feed my courage, and make me want to be even more brave. It has become the soundtrack to my current journey. My walk has become a strut of confidence and her album is punctuating every step with positivity.

I’m still afraid but my fears are weakening. I'm freer. I’m supported. I dared to be me and it’s paying off. I’m surviving my own demons. You might even say I'm kicking them in the ass. I love myself more.

Remember that line from The Goonies, "It's our time down here."? Well, “down here” is right now, and it’s my time right now. It's all of our time right now. Be yourself...confidently. I dare you!

I'm here. I'm queer. I'm gay. I'm homosexual. I'm gender expansive. I'm feminine. I'm masculine. I’m pretty. I’m handsome. I'm alive. I'm a bird set free. I'm unstoppable. I'm me.
 
My journey continues.