Unsolicited Testimony

There’s a specific kind of rage that lives in my chest, and it wakes up every time someone tells me to smile.

It’s usually a man. It’s always unprompted. I’m walking, or waiting in line, or just existing, and someone decides my face isn’t doing enough for them. Smile! It’s not that bad. You’d be so pretty if you smiled. C’mon, give me a smile.

I will smile when I have a reason to smile. My face at rest is not a problem that needs solving. It’s just my face.

Telling me to “smile” is a command, not a friendly suggestion. It’s someone telling me to rearrange my face for their comfort, to perform pleasantness, to be more decorative. Nobody walks up to a guy mid-errand and critiques his resting expression. This is a tax that only women pay.

And there’s a trap inside it. If I ignore them, I’m rude. If I fake a smile, I’ve confirmed that my face exists for their approval. If I say something back, suddenly I’m the problem — the one who can’t take a joke, who’s too sensitive, who should’ve just smiled.

My face is doing exactly what it should be doing: whatever it wants. I’m allowed to look tired. I’m allowed to look focused. I’m allowed to look like I’m doing math in my head, because maybe I am.

If you see me and I’m not smiling, congratulations, you’ve witnessed a human being at rest.

I will smile when I have a reason to smile.