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Ever since I started my time at Harvard, I felt like there was a hole in my life, something missing that I deeply yearned for. A part of me that was unable to be expressed due to my choice of college. I battled with this unknown for more than a year, tossing and turning at night wondering what this feeling could be. It was not until one graceful Friday that I finally discovered what I needed.

As I left the FlyBy line (rename it, Harvard.) I opened my email, and in my flooded inbox I spotted something that almost brought me to my knees: the Signet Society was hosting a performative male contest, in three hours. At that moment, I dropped everything I was doing and ran back to my Lowell dorm to change — I just knew this event was the exact thing I had been waiting for. I could finally live up to my performative potential.

The most important part of this contest would be my outfit. It needed to be flawless, from thrifted loafers to an entirely-too-small beanie, I had to embody a true performative male. Unfortunately, as I rummaged through my closet, I was coming up empty. At the end of the day, I had to work with what I had, so I called my most performative friend to be a stylist.

The outfit was simple, yet effective. As a base, I had baggy cargo pants, a Clairo tour t-shirt (half-tucked, of course), a beige short-sleeve button-up, and a pair of skater shoes — honestly, I was dressed like the average Harvard guy. The outfit would be nothing in comparison to my fellow competitors — I predicted — so I had to turn to accessories, and this is where I shone. I boasted an extensive array of jewelry, including a pinky ring made out of a spoon, a tote bag with a speaker to play my Clairo, a carabiner on my belt loop with a heft keychain attached, a hydroflask mug with homemade matcha and, most importantly, two labubus (yes, I own two. No, I do not know why).

I frantically put the final touches on my outfit and rushed to the contest, only to be met with something that shocked me. I was weak compared to the other six contestants — I had to step up my game. A crowd of nearly fifty watched as we went through rounds, expressing gratitude for the beautiful women in our lives, acknowledging the stolen land on which we reside, bonding over our favorite classic feminist literature authors, and sharing stories of how we contribute to advancing the feminist movement on a daily basis.

The contestants dwindled, and I was doing solid, clinching a spot in the top three. The final round would be the ultimate test — I had to outperform the two most performative people I had ever met in a runway-style fashion show. I gave it my all, appealed to the crowd, lied about being an orphan after another competitor said he had two moms and six sisters, showed off my adorned labubus, and did anything I could to win over this crowd of Harvard students with nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon.

Waiting for the results was a nail-biter, and as we three finalists walked out of the Signet House, arm-in-arm, to hear the winner announced, I was met with crushing disappointment. I had placed third in the contest that I had waited more than a year to compete in, to finally express myself. I still carry that immense disappointment to this day on my shoulders. Next time Harvard hosts a performative male contest, trust me, I will be back for vengeance. This time, with loafers, a chai, a thrifted leather jacket, and the knowledge base of a dedicated male feminist.