Why I’m Eternally Envious of Men

My younger brother was the first man I envied, but certainly not the last

Photo: Christine Jerian / EyeEm via Getty Images

The first time my younger brother received a dollar on New Year’s Eve, I was the typical green-eyed monster. There was a not-so-silent rage bubbling up in my six-year-old body. You see, there was an old New Year’s Eve tradition that came from gods know where, and it stated that the first boy to walk through the door that night was good luck. That such boy would receive a dollar. I had entered the door of my grandparents’ house first, but it made no difference. My younger brother followed me in and he would get the dollar. I wanted that dollar so very badly.

Desiring that thing I could never have because I was not the right type of person was an early lesson in jealousy and envy. My younger brother was the first man I envied but certainly not the last. I am jealous of you as well — my current lover, my friend, my acquaintance, and the man I don’t know.

I’m jealous of your freedom. The way you can walk down the street and they will never notice what you wear. They will never try to grab your arm when you pass. You were walking ahead of me that night and didn’t see. I didn’t tell you because it happened so fast.

You can decide whether or not you want me. I only have the right to say no. And there have been times I didn’t even have that. Not with you. I’ve never had to say no to you because all I want is for you to say yes to my humble requests to see me, to see this broken, bumbling, half-disaster of a sorta-person. But in this world, you don’t have too. My love and my desires are secondary, only half-met. The world tells us what I want is of small consequence.

You will never worry that time is running out, or that your clock is ticking away. I don’t count years; I count months. Each one that passes is a last chance gone. What do you know of this pain? Very little I suppose and I am jealous of that.

When I stare this envy in the face, I wonder: Is it misplaced? It is not your fault you were born one way and me another. Ursula K. Le Guin’s famous (or is it infamous) essay on being a man rightly notes that women were not invented when she was born: “I predate the invention of women by decades.” Her words serve as a sly commentary on the use of “he” as the default pronoun for much of literary history. You even get the default pronoun.

I am jealous of everything you have in this world because you are a man. I wonder if I should’ve tried harder to be a sort-of man. Le Guin tried:

And then I look back on all my strenuous efforts, because I really did try, I tried hard to be a man, to be a good man, and I see how I failed at that. I am at best a bad man.

The world is changing, of course, as it will. We have more pronoun options now than when Le Guin first wrote her essay. It is less and less acceptable to only use “him” as a default. “They” is an option now, or you can alternate between “he” and “she.”

Even with those options, my envy percolates. My curves, my hair, my love of bright nail polish and sparkly accessories give me away as a woman. I can’t leave them behind, the marks of the beast that warn you of the rage and anger inside, of the envious thing that I am. And you, man, are free, free in love and life. You are free in a way I will never know.

Along the way, a strange thing has happened. That envy has become a desire for you. If I can only get close enough, I might get a taste. I might know that freedom. This is foolish, of course. You sense what I am after and keep it to yourself. I almost understand and I think I would do the same if I were you, fearing that they would take my freedom and not give it back. It doesn’t stop me from wanting it, from wanting you against my better judgment. The beast may be tamed but my greedy heart wants what it wants.

Perhaps it is time to resign myself to being a woman with all the pain and heartbreak. Good fortune may never follow me through the door on New Year’s Eve, and there are those who will still grab me on the street. But if I try, if I try really really hard, just as envy turns to desire, my womanness may fade to humanness in good time. I would be a person. You could be the last man I envy and we could be free, together.