No one is born a feminist

I was a sexist once. Or maybe twice.
I used to judge women for what they wear. And I believed it was a man’s job to make the first move.
But before you judge me for that, let me tell you a little bit about my background.
I grew up in one of the least developed states in Brazil. There, it was somehow okay for men to approach women and try to kiss them, before even asking their names. As a teenager, especially during Carnival, I was often surprised by men trying to force their boozy mouths on mine, and if I was lucky enough to turn my head in time and avoid being forcefully smacked, I was graced with a caveman-like sniff of my neck.

Not to mention the many times I had to elbow guys trying to grab my waist (or parts below it) and calling me ‘gostosa’ (Portuguese word for ‘tasty’ that’s often used to compliment women) while riding on public transport.
Fashion tips from my mum included not to wear short skirts to avoid getting fingered.
In this primitive, male-dominated environment, wearing little clothing was seen as an invitation to be touched. And naturally, the women who were brave enough to do it were seen as sluts.
And I didn’t want to be a slut. I wanted to be liked for my brain, not for my body. So influenced by what my family and school colleagues said, I stopped wearing revealing clothes.
The one day I wore a bit of subtle cleavage to my job at an advertising agency, an art director looked at me as if he was analysing the aesthetics of a double-spread print layout: “Steph, have you noticed your left boob is slightly bigger than your right one?” I was so used to this kind of comment, that I didn’t even take offense. I made sure I explained the case scientifically — most womens’ breasts are different sizes, most commonly the left one is bigger because it’s placed near the heart. I didn’t want to waste any opportunity to show them that I could be a woman and I could be smart at the same time.
But then at 21, I moved to London. And what a shock it was to live there.
There was clearly something wrong with British men.
No men on the Underground would look at me. At parties, boys would approach me and chat for hours, and they would never make a move unless I was painfully obvious — I thought — about wanting to hook up with them. I complained about their lack of passion and attitude. They wouldn’t even touch my hands. How bizarre!
Stuck in my own social conventions, I thought that they were the ones who had problems. I was wrong. They were just being respectable, as they had been taught to be since they were kids.
As for British girls: during the English summer, the ladies at work would wear the tiniest outfits. I used to get nervous seeing them strutting around the office in their short dresses. The maternal Brazilian side in me wanted to cover them with a blanket, to avoid them getting harassed by male colleagues. I couldn’t help but judge them. The same way my school friends at home would judge girls who wore cropped tops in the classroom.
It was hard to believe that they could wear anything they wanted and no men would touch them. On the bus, at parties, at work — they didn’t have to be scared of strange hands on their bodies.
After 3 or 4 years in the UK, it hit me: maybe my upbringing wasn’t ideal.
It was not easy to accept that the way I was educated wasn’t the right way.
It was not easy to accept that sometimes my parents or school teachers were wrong when they didn’t empower women or didn’t condemn misogynist behaviour.
And it was not easy to accept that this wasn’t their fault. I was fortunate to be exposed to a different culture in my lifetime, but they’re only experiencing changes recently with the internet and the spread of the women’s rights movement.
It took me a while to kill the sexism that my own culture planted inside of me.
But the good news is that feminism can be learned. I married a British man. And now I wear whatever the fuck I want to work.

