Immaculate Conception

by Ling Ling Huang

Anyone who got too close was in danger of falling into her orbit. Or maybe I was just so insecure that anyone with a strong sense of identity could destabilize me.

I watched the possibilities of my life and self shrink to fit the algorithms, governed by these new limitations. The internet stopped being a place to connect to others or to exchange knowledge, and became a way to perform belonging in the world you had inherited.

It never occurred to me to be competitive or even jealous of men. For a long time, I’d worried that it was internalized misogyny before I realized that the only artists I respected enough to envy were women.

There was a cultural obsession with the possibility of multiverses, but to me, social media was proof enough of their existence. With a flick of a finger, you could see every life you could have had if only you’d been born smarter or luckier, or made better choices.

I was almost disappointed, upon meeting her, to realize her ability to control the world was just the usual combination of enormous wealth, privilege, and power.

“It’s funny. People respond to jealousy in so many different ways. Some people use it as fuel or ammunition. They get more competitive, and they can become very successful with the engine that jealousy gives them. Others aren’t so lucky, and they get mired in pettiness and toxicity. These are often people who feel a good amount of entitlement. There are also those who can’t handle it at all. They withdraw slowly, depressed, unwilling or unable to find a space for themselves. In actuality, there is room for everyone, but the market benefits from an illusion of scarcity.”

“I’ve always felt that I wasn’t as gifted as other people.” “Ah-ah. Like I always say in my first lecture to every new class, there is no gifted. Only the gift of being fully oneself, and expressing oneself to the utmost.”

I’m repulsed by his display, yet jealous that he’s able to feel so deeply and so publicly. I’ve always wondered if my aversion to this kind of performance is why I’ve never been a good enough artist. I hold back, possessed by self-consciousness, which erects a barrier between me and my audience. But when have women been allowed to be hysterical? Especially in public?

Why had I lifted it? What Gunter said about Mathilde’s mind being the most exceptional had brought on a moment of baseness, a primal jealousy. I hadn’t lifted it. It was some monster I had watched from inside my body.

“Mathilde, please. Let me do this for you. I promise we’ll do everything together. I won’t go anywhere in here,” I say, gently touching a hand to the side of her head, “without your express permission.” She blinks at me for a few seconds as my smile strains my face. “You promise.” “Yes,” I say, trying not to sound exasperated.

Liar

All my life, I’ve choked on the bitterness of having a mind that doesn’t feel equipped to do what my soul wants.

The article reeks of an all too familiar misogyny that has been leveled at Mathilde since the beginning of her career. Unless her art is one of visual vulnerability, positioning herself as a victim of men or the church, or something erring toward sensationalism, people are not interested.

Everyone is jealous, but they find a way through it. In the coming days and months, I realize how right Mathilde had been. I had placed her high, making myself necessarily low. To me, she was the moon, and I, the tide, alternately lapping at her bright milky feet and receding toward the dark shore.

The SCAFFOLD, like everything new, promised I would know her completely, but to know is to cease wondering.

Peace, I think, as I’m surrounded by singing friends and family, about to blow out the candles. Their eyes shine with happiness, something unattainable to me now. A continuation of this peace is all I wish for. All my life I had chased after it, thinking it was something I needed to find or earn, instead of something to receive and accept.