My Neighbors Can See My Nipples and Other Observations
The neighbors can see my nipples; I’m sure of this. I’m particularly convinced that they have been seen by the person who lives to the right of me, as my kitchen window looks directly into his home. I am convinced, but I am also not concerned, as my defiance is a habit I refuse to confront. I am often naked in my kitchen. I am often naked in my living room. I am often naked everywhere in my home because it is my home. My home has windows, and the windows are often open with the blinds pulled back.
Perhaps I should proceed with more caution around these open windows, to not accidentally (intentionally) moon the entire neighborhood. While it is my fault the windows are open, it is not my fault who chooses to look into them. I have a right to be naked in my home. I have a right to be naked. Although I have a right, it is likely to be perceived as wrong by some.
It’s not that I don’t want the world to see my nipples. In fact, I want the world to see my nipples. My fiancé does not worry about his frequent shirtless path past our grand living room window; his nipples are safe nipples. My nipples, although altered during a breast augmentation to mimic the perfect symmetry of quarters, are not safe nipples. His nipples can parade freely in public; mine cannot. Why is this so? I ask everybody who will listen and also those who won’t. My nipples are capable of nourishment. My boyfriend’s nipples are capable of hair growth. Mine are also significantly more aesthetically pleasing. Why must I be prohibited from sharing them with the world?
Sometimes I stand naked in front of my kitchen window as an act of resistance. I sit naked at my breakfast nook because I prefer to drink my tea in the nude. I am naked because I wasn’t born with clothes and I’d prefer not to wear them except for when I am required to.
I get it: not everyone seeks to witness the fleshy stroll of their neighbors in the morning, day, and evening. I am certain that to some, this could be considered an act of community service.
My mom warns me not to walk around naked in my home, as it could invite the attention of unwanted predators outside of it. When she says that, I feel more like a small creature in the wilderness, a chipmunk among wolves, rather than a human being who is part of a civil society. I know there is some truth to this concern. I know not all witnesses want to simply witness. I know fear of men, in public, even with my clothes on. I like to think I am safe in my own home. Still, I lock the doors and set the alarm.
* * *
The neighbor to my left has a beautiful house adorned with many windows. I have lived next to him for six years. He has four dogs that yap and look like shrunken hyenas. My dog barks at them through the fence and I tell him not to bother.
The windows of my neighbor’s house are never open. I desperately want to know what is inside his house. I dream of the inside of his home, unconsciously drawing its interior. In the dream, I see the kitchen as I catch a glimpse through the open front door. I wake disappointed. I still do not know what’s inside the house.
I make jokes about what’s inside to my fiancé: doomsday stock, dead bodies, forty more of those ugly, ugly dogs. Sometimes through the shades on the front of the house, I can see the blinking light and I wonder what he is watching.
I do not want to see his windows open because I want to see my neighbor naked (or at least I don’t think I do). I simply want to witness the liberation of his home for once, feel invited into the space as though I am welcome.
* * *
Whenever I walk past a home with its blinds drawn back, I have no choice but to look in, my eyes searching for the invitation. I am a home creeper. I cannot help but walk past homes and curiously stalk their insides.
I love seeing decor, furniture, what is or isn’t framed on the walls. A house down the street from where I grew up had a garage that used to amaze me, with every inch of wall in it covered in portraits or photographs, paintings or mounted fish. The home was always decorated seasonally, evergreen pink flamingos on the lawn donning Santa hats during Christmas time and leis during summer. Any car ride or walk past the home felt like a treat, strangers becoming less strange with every small glimpse into their lives.
* * *
Being Jewish, I have never owned a Christmas tree. This is unfortunate because I have always been a sucker for holidays and kitsch. Christmas time as an adult is a special joy for me, as I get to witness the decorations around my town that I so desperately longed to have myself as a kid. “Jews don’t decorate for Christmas,” my mom would remind me, offering me a small Hanukkah Bush to pin accessories on instead.
In December, I peek from sidewalks into the living rooms of strangers, seeking a view of That Something Grand. Decked out from top to bottom in ornaments and ribbon, topped by angel or star, the sight of someone else’s Christmas tree never ceases to fill me with a comfort I’m ashamed to admit I feel.
* * *
“Can we decorate for Halloween?” I ask my fiancé. His answer is of course.
I plan out the scene in my head starting in July: spiderwebs and ghosts on the lawn, purple lights, and on the inside by the kitchen window, a small glowing spooky village. I want people to see it, I decide. I want them to feel welcome to peer inside, witness some joy to take home with them.
* * *
The truth about looking into homes is this: you can only know what you witness. I wonder if people who live near me and frequently pass my home remember the years before this one, when my windows and blinds were always kept shut. I wonder if they wonder what this means, or if they know too, what blocking out the day does for the sadness. Perhaps my neighbor and his perpetually closed blinds mean what mine used to. Closed curtains are a way of maintaining the darkness that feels impossible to leave. I didn’t open my windows for years because I felt I had nothing worth sharing. I have been inside my home with the wrong persons. I have kept the blinds shut because I knew they were wrong and because I didn’t. It is easier to be loved poorly in the dark, where there are no witnesses. I exiled natural light in blackout shades because I didn’t want to, or perhaps didn't know how to escape the crater expanding inside my home. Was I nude back then too? I don’t remember. Depression, grief, and powerlessness consume memory the same as they do small joys. If I strolled past a window topless or fully bare, no one would have witnessed it through the shades. Could I be so comfortable walking stripped towards a window now because I am thankful to be alive?
If the neighbors can see my nipples, I think it means that they can see the me I am proud to finally be.
Danielle Shorr (@danielleshorr) is an MFA alum and professor of rhetoric & composition at Chapman University with a focus on queer and disability studies. She has a fear of commitment in regard to novel writing and an affinity for wiener dogs. Her work has been published by MTV, Maudlin House, Crab Fat Magazine, Hobart, etc.