When I first met my husband was the first time I remember feeling the need to explain and defend feminism to someone. I had already been thinking of myself as a feminist for some time, but until we had a conversation about it, which I’m pretty sure began because we were listening to an Ani song (or rather I was playing Ani and he asked me why I liked her), I had either been surrounding myself with other feminists, with people who were too afraid or I was too afraid of to talk to about it with.
I think at that time for people who didn’t study it feminism was defined by movies and pop culture. I know the first time I remember encountering it was watching PCU when I was younger. The feminists in that movie were “man-hating fem-Nazis”, and the love interest of the hero needs to be saved from the group’s bad influence.
My idea of what feminism is and why it is needed has grown since that conversation with my husband, which mostly centered around the need for female equality and ways that equality still didn’t exist at the time (ex. equal pay, access to free birth control, etc.) Feminism is a lot more to me now. I have learned and am continuing to learn about intersectionality and how feminism is lacking if we leave out issues of race and gender identity. Now when I think about intersectional feminism, I think of it as being about honoring and giving equal if not more value to things that are traditionally thought of as “feminine.” These changes have come from growing as a person, knowing many strong independent women, having my own daughter, and also loving the nurturing, sensitive, different men and boys in my life. Yes, living in a patriarchy is hard for us women, but it is also hard for boys (and men) who feel empathy for others, love the arts, and struggle to feel accepted for themselves in a society that has a very limited box for being a “normal” man.
We will no longer need feminism not only when women are paid equally for the same work as men, but when nurturing, care-giving, and teaching roles are valued as much or more than jobs that are about power, leadership, and destroying or killing. When careers that work for a better future are valued more than those that contribute to its destruction and when we encourage our children to follow a higher purpose rather than material gain.
Feminism won’t be as important, not only when girls can wear their hair short and women can go without make-up or shaving their legs without comments about them “not trying” or they “could be pretty if only…”: but also when boys and men can wear whatever they like including dresses, make-up, long hair or whatever without fear of being hurt or ostracized. We have a long ways to go people. Because right now our “feminine” jobs-teaching, social work, nursing, stay at home parenting… are the lowest paying and some of the least respected careers out there. So yes I will call myself a feminist until women around the world are allowed to make their own choices about reproduction, not just about abortion, but also when they can choose to have children whether they are married or not; when women receive equal pay for equal work; when there are as many women or gender non-conforming humans in politics, medicine, law and sciences as men: and also when there are as many male teachers, social workers, nurses, and stay at home parents as there are women; when phrases like “act like a lady” and “boys don’t cry” are no longer uttered to children or even thought. And even if all of these things were to happen, I would still call myself an intersectional feminist, because it will have been feminism and this fight to value all humans for their true selves-light and dark, weak and strong, loving and powerful, masculine and feminine-that made it that way.
Wrinkles
And one day, it happened. I mean, I know it didn’t happen in a single day, but it certainly felt that sudden. It was a combination of moments–seeing a picture of my face and noticing my eyes had changed, brushing my hair out one morning and finding fine, white streaks, catching a glance of my hands as I typed a note and seeing memories of my mother’s callused and lined palms. Somewhere in the chaos of having a full and lived life, time tipped the scales and I am no longer a young woman. There was panic, initially. I went out and bought a box of hair dye, only to find that it does not work the same on the faded white streaks. I bought face cream for the first time in my life. I felt the tug of hypocrisy as I tried to hide the wear and tear of life while being simultaneously appalled by actresses who have obviously had their lips ‘re-plumped’. Maybe I was one of those women….maybe I would spend the rest of my life trying to look 30. I could…
But, even quicker than I would’ve imagined, a calmness overtook me. I realized that I had this legitimacy that I had not yet been able to claim. I had the body, face, and mind of a wise-woman. I have been around this place long enough to feel confident in my beliefs, thoughts, and even outbursts. I realized that I felt more like I had ‘arrived’, as opposed to feeling like I was leaving. Instead of feeling as though time was running out, it was replaced with this knowledge that life would have more meaning and mindfulness from this point on.
I know myself better than I ever have. I have forgiven myself for many of my weaknesses and replaced it with understanding and preparedness. Yeah, there will always be the mental health, the dark days and manic nights. But, the shame has dissipated so much. This is just me. Truth be told, a lot of the early adulthood anxieties have been replaced by other worries and there is still plenty to keep me up at night. But, I have never been better at being me. And I realized that I want to work hard at embracing that.
But, I’m keeping the face cream. It feels so nice…
-K
Ramblings in June
Writing from the heart is the hardest. It exposes a rawness that most of us don’t walk around with on a daily basis. Unlike many other arts, heart writing is an art presented in a language that is not generally open to interpretation. Thus, there it is. Our inner demons, mush, scars, treasures. Laid out for the world, or at least whoever lands upon the prose put to paper….to view…judge…sympathize with… empathize with. Although there is a sense of sharing in putting it all out there, there is a vulnerability that I don’t really care for.
With a premise like that, I’m interested to see if I have the guts to continue—first with the writing itself, then with the posting, then with the leaving it.
Sixteen years ago, I said no to a friend. He had asked me to go fishing with him and, though I did so love fishing with James, I didn’t go. His “fishing” included taking a couple of chairs and a cooler of beer out to our favorite lake and setting up some poles off the dock. We never caught anything—except for sunsets, philosophical conversations, and the occasional sunburn.
So, I said no. Because I was signing divorce papers to throw away an abusive marriage that day. Because I had senior finals the next week. Because, because, because. Life for my 21-year-old self was busy. I certainly had stress and reasons. Reasons that I still understand, actually. But then, James died. Less than a week later, he drank himself into the devastating depression that was always lurking just below the surface. He shot himself, without a note or even a tantrum to leave this world with.
And I wished I’d said yes. Or at least, not no. Every year, I am filled with a certain amount of regret, a sadness, a “what if?”…. But mostly, I miss him. He was the type of human that you just wanted to be around. He was caring, thoughtful, intuitive, and deep. His laugh was contagious, his jokes hilarious. He was tough. James was born with extreme physical disabilities (his doctors didn’t think he would ever walk—but he did) and every day was a physical and emotional challenge for him. He taught me so much in the four years that I knew him. And, he loved me. For who I was. I swear that kid was one of the first friends who truly knew me. There was a specialness in his presence that even made things like working in retail not so bad. If he were here today, my kids would refer to him as “Uncle James” and he would proceed to spoil them rotten.
This week is a hard one for me, but also it’s a time for introspect. A time to be grateful. For life. For strength. And for love. Love that is surrounding me today and love that has enveloped me and hugged me and nourished me and thrown me into the living—through the fishing, the dreaming, the stargazing and the dancing.
To sum it up, this week reminds me to be thankful for certain endings (like an abusive marriage) and so, so sad for other endings. Sometimes, all we can do is take a deep breath and carry on.
~S