Frida Kahlo, and those who do not dive into the wreck

During this last trip to Mexico City, I visited Frida Kahlo’s house for the first time. To me, the trip felt like almost a pilgrimage, and so I was naively surprised by how crowded it was. It seemed weird to have hundreds of seemingly conventional people, waiting in a two-hour line to learn about the life of a queer, communist, bohemian artist. 

Although perhaps unfair of me, I resented these people. They seemed like the kind of people who may admire Frida dead, but would have never advocated for her while alive. 

My love affair with Frida began at 26, when I watched the Salma Hayek film for the first time. I instantly felt a powerful desire to have the all-consuming, creative life that she had. Watching the film felt like a plea to myself to make space in my life for things I had neglected: focusing on creativity, exploring my bisexuality, living something closer to a passionate life. During a time when I questioned how highly I’d prioritize those things as I moved deeper into my late twenties, watching that film felt like a secret vow to myself to not let them go. 

Keeping that promise, of course, was fucking hard. As I joked with a friend recently, no one throws you a wedding-sized party congratulating you for failing to be normal. There is no gift registry for quitting your nine-to-five job with benefits, or coming out as queer. And behind Frida’s seemingly glamorous, bohemian life, was a chronically depressed, disabled women, never taken seriously until close to her death.

Perhaps that’s why I’m admittedly bitter towards those who only dabble halfway, the fans who flock to Frida’s house but don’t grapple with what she challenged; those who admire adventurous women from a distance, but don’t double-down on living by their example. 

I think of the famous poem by Adrienne Rich “Diving into the Wreck”:

the thing I came for:

the wreck and not the story of the wreck

the thing itself and not the myth

As I watched each tourist walk through Frida’s home, maybe this was the distinction I worried about: those that came for the story, the myth — but never wanted to witness the wreck itself.

Maybe this moment feels particularly relevant now right after attending Pride, where so many straight people (and corporations) come out in similar droves to celebrate queerness — while meanwhile often happily maintaining a cis-heteronormative system that makes life extra difficult for queer people.  So often, I see our culture voyeuristically admiring those living authentic — yet socially unacceptable — lives, while simultaneously not doing anything in our own lives to change the status quo. 

At Frida Kahlo’s house, I wanted to ask them all: who are the Frida’s in your own life right now who you are currently shaming? Who are the women — queer and childless and alone — whose stories you admire from afar, but whom you are too afraid to follow into the wreck?  

That day at Frida’s house reminded me of this quote from Women Who Run With Wolves: “She began to carry a kind of archetypal presence that others were afraid to carry for themselves. They cheered on her rebelliousness, as though she freed them by becoming wild for them.”

I have especially found this dynamic problematic when dating cis men. Whenever I’d speak about my travels and adventures on dates with cis men, they would so often quickly turn me into their idea of “manic pixie dream girl.” On one date, a man told me “You’re igniting something crazy in me.” On another: “Something about talking to you makes me want to drop everything and go somewhere.” Another (verbatim) (on just a second date!) : “I’m the kind of guy who holds my delicate candle in a protected shed, guarding the flame, and tending to it. But when you come in, suddenly I’m a pyromaniac and want to burn it all down.”

In many ways, this was flattering, but in other ways, it feels like a whole lot of unsolicited responsibility. I’m not sure I always want to be the person others use to “ignite” their own life, to kick them out of their own complacency. I’m not sure I ever wanted to make someone “burn it all down.” I’m not sure I wanted to carry wildness for a partner who was not courageous — or level-headed — enough to carry it for themselves. 

As Women Who Run With Wolves warned: “A woman is not strong enough to carry a longed-for archetype for everyone else without breaking.” When I think of women like Frida, I wonder how often they felt burdened by what they had to carry in order to clear the path for everyone else. 

And of course, in the end, these men were rarely serious anyway. They rarely left their jobs, reconsidered their values, or left anything behind. Whatever fire I had allegedly “ignited” seemed to die out fast.  I remember once I spent many hours with a former love trying to explain all the nontraditional beliefs of the kind of life I wanted, as he listened semi-incredulously. Years later, after we had broken up, he would write me a love letter, reminiscing about our moments together and write: “Only with you do I believe in these things.” 

But I didn’t necessarily find this romantic. I didn’t want to be with someone who believed in these things only because of me. I wanted someone who believed in them regardless of me, on their own. I didn’t want to only be someone’s whimsical muse introducing new ideas. I wanted a partner in building a life from the ideas we both already shared.

I had spent so much of my twenties diving into the wreck. I didn’t want someone who only listened to my stories. I was still searching for someone who would dive along with me.