Proud to Be a Woman

June 30, 2014: I am proud to be a woman. An empowered woman. A woman who believes that all women deserve better than what the patriarchy metes out. A woman who tries to play a part in fighting for a future where the language of inequality is rendered obsolete.

And yet it occurs to me that so much of what I associate with womanhood — what makes me proud to be a woman — is bound up in language of overcoming that inequality. I am proud to be a woman because it means, by its very nature, overcoming. It means, by its very nature, fighting. And I am proud, as most are who must look to their inner resilience in the face of hardships, that I have not given up. But I wonder if a day will ever come when the identity of womanhood can be grounded in intellect and opportunity rather than in a battle to prove we are worthy or in possession of such qualities. I wonder if a day will ever come when being a woman can stand on its own merits.

Today I am angry. On the large scale, there were five men in some of the highest positions of power in my country who said that the rights of insentient corporations outweigh those of me and my fellow women. And on the small scale, there was a man who rode by me on a bicycle as I walked down the sidewalk — sans makeup, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and tennis shoes, as I often do when I just don’t want to be bothered by men anymore — minding my own business, on my way to the grocery store, and suddenly that man believed it was his prerogative to tell me what he thought of my appearance. “Hey, beautiful,” he said in one of the more innocuous comments that men make about my body.

Though I was seething, I said nothing because there is always the fear that the encounter may turn violent. As I always do, I recalled the man who verbally harassed me outside my apartment building one evening while I was walking Ollie, and when I turned back to ask him, my voice raised in anger, if he thought his words were respectful, he literally laughed in my face, and when I rounded the block, he was still standing there, as though he were waiting on my return. I spent a sizeable portion of my evening unable to enter my own home for fear that he would see the building where I lived, and I lurked in the shadows — as though I were the wrongdoer — until he finally left and I felt that I could safely return home. I did not then — and do not now — think it far-fetched to read this scenario as social metaphor.

Like many women, I wish I could say that experiences like these are anomalous, but they are not. And on days like these, I feel especially defeated — like I’ve lost a battle and then been made into a public spectacle for my losing. There’s the original injury: foregoing how I might choose to dress so as to avoid the gaze of men. And then the injury is inevitably followed by the insult: that my efforts were futile anyway; it does not matter what I do.

In reality, it shouldn’t matter what I do, but not for the reasons that it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter because society repeatedly says that women’s appearance brings on men’s violations, but it shouldn’t matter because, regardless of what I wear or don’t wear, my body is mine and mine alone. It doesn’t matter because society repeatedly says that women’s bodies are for objectifying, but it shouldn’t matter because my beauty is not realized in the eyes of male beholders. It doesn’t matter because society repeatedly says that violations against women don’t constitute crimes, but it shouldn’t matter because being a woman is not synonymous with being unworthy of justice. It is not synonymous with being unworthy.

Today I fight to overcome inequality, and tomorrow I will get up and fight again, hoping that one day my womanhood — that is to say, my personhood — is enough to mean I am already equal.