The Wonder Women in my life.
“Feminist.”
Like a logo scrawled on the highly saturated cereal box. Call it “Feminist Loops,” 100% labor free imported quinoa from an unidentified part of Latin America. Illustrated on the box is a female character that looks more like Wonder Woman than me.
If I open the box what type of prize would I get? Affirmative action? A pass? Or would I get the race card?
What I mean to say is that I’m tired, genuinely exhausted of the word “feminist.” Not the values that feminism stands for but the commercialization of feminism. I am tired of white female celebrities simply being heralded as feminist icons solely because they tweeted a trendy hashtag, as if feminism is a crown for the elected few.
Where are the women that look like me? Where are the black girl nerds? Where’s my tiara and lasso? What if I don’t want the red boots and star-print briefs that Wonder Woman runs around in? What if my version of Wonder Woman was a black, wore inflated black Glad bags and drove a jeep rapping, “Beep beep who got the keys to my jeep?” My version of wonder woman was the furthest thing from a conventionally attractive white woman. My wonder woman is unsung, caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, yet she still makes her plans happen. She’s the backbone of the community out of necessity.
I find it hard to call myself a feminist.
Sure, I believe in the white feminist staples: wage gap and gender equality. These issues are important, but we must be inclusive of issues that are intersectional. Mainstream feminism often is exclusionary and reactionary. It charades itself as new but excludes the struggles of Women of color, LGBTQIA/Gender nonconforming individuals /trans women, and women who are religious.
Mainstream feminism is very palatable these days, very endearing and welcoming. While I am glad it’s becoming more accessible, I cannot help but be a little disturbed by the commercialization. Will my liberation come from buying Etsy buttons and petra collins art? Feminism is not cute and can’t be sold. My version of feminism has always been a reflection of my foremothers, interweaving their experiences with mine. It was never colored in pastels glitter,or misandry.
Earlier this summer I witnessed Hillary Rodham Clinton take the Democratic nomination over the other potential democratic nominees. The media heralded her as groundbreaking progressive, and pushing the barriers but I caught myself asking for who?
What about all the black and brown women before, often times being called to leadership in their collective communities? Women of color are always written in the shadows of their white counterparts in textbook passages. My great great grandmother like many of the women of her time worked outside the home. My grandmother, the daughter of sharecroppers almost like a living relic, worked to support her family in her early teen years. She never received her high school diploma. She worked hard to look after a white family, while simultaneously coming home to raise her own. I never got to ask my grandmother what her dream was or even if she was tired each day.
Maternal lineage has always been at the forefront of my story, each story a passage in my feminist handbook.
My mother without a doubt is the strongest woman I know. She went to nursing school when I was an elementary school as a single mother. My mother took me with her wherever she studied. One of my earliest memories is being at the beach with her, frolicking in the sand while she studied nearby. That is the memory I look back upon during difficult times. I never recall my mother complaining about her battles, just pressing forward. She is my biggest support during my time in college, encouraging me to stay active on campus and expand my horizons. To this day, I never heard my mother claim the term “feminist.”
It leaves me to wonder if she was ever invited to the table.
The two most visible identities that my mother embodies, both black and woman, leave much to the imagination. Did her blackness make her less of a woman, her skin a shadow to the Feminine Mystique? Mainstream feminism only recognizes white femininity, but ignores class and race issues.
At my college, whenever we talk about feminism it would only be about the early suffragists, Susan B Anthony and the likes. White women with privilege. If not the suffragists, the women of the sexual revolution, white women who wanted to have the same sexual freedoms as men. When we talked about Rosie the Riveter and all the women who had to work outside the home because the war had begun, I don’t recall ever seeing women that looked like my grandmother. I often wonder about my great grandmother’s past.
In an album full of photos of yesteryear, my great grandfather was a veteran. My grandmother, as far as my memory could let me, was a very spiritual woman. She was a matriarch in her church community, so much so that those unrelated by blood would call her mother. She was part of a big local church with an even bigger heart. Alongside congregation members, she would commit herself to service at the local donation center, where they gave everything from second hand clothing to used toys. My great grandmother was an example of quiet strength, tending to her garden and serving as a mediator to the neighbors.
Her daughter, my loving grandmother, who I affectionately call “gramma” is a fireball, is a fiery woman in her 70s. If you were to look at a photo album of yesteryear, you’d see a statuesque woman with a halo of red hair. My grandma like many of the women of her time married her highschool sweetheart. They had two children but slowly things changed when she wanted to make a living for herself. Divorced in her early twenties, raising two children alone, my grandma had her own car, own house and made her own rules. She was one of the earliest example of independence, which i still model today.
“Feminist.”
I sit in classes each and everyday and talk about feminism, contemporary and past. None of these iconic women are like my foremothers, all wealthy, well spoken, and privileged. With their all white teeth and NGO endorsement, sometimes contemporary feminism feels like a catwalk. All designer privilege, a name brand activism, a country club of world renowned popstar philanthropists.
Where do I fit in?
The girls in my class said “fuck you” to their catcallers and didn’t shave their pits, but did that really change anything? A few superficial acts of justice, was that what a feminist is? What about women trying to carve a name for themselves being constantly brought down by circumstances and crippling systems? Where are their holidays, their large followings? Where is the justice for the women like my foremothers and myself who don’t have magazine spreads or large social media followings? Where are the narratives of the black women with lineages that reach to the motherland?
When I tell my mom about the issues I discuss in class, I catch myself feeling guilty. I knew all these lily white words to our very real experiences, words that were overinflated and bleached out our struggles. These terms marginalized us, but these same words and terms are supposed to liberate us. “When the only people you save look and act like you,” when feminism doesn’t acknowledge my experiences, what is it doing?
Erasure is a certain type of violence.
The women in my life, who gave me life in more ways than one, raised generations of children by blood and kin.
Where are their stories?
