I’m a shitty feminist
It wasn’t always this way, but I realized somewhere between the presidential election and the inauguration of Donald Trump that I’d lost my way and taken a figurative, and perhaps literal, step back from social justice. In an effort to root out the cause of my apathy, and in the spirit of New Year’s resolutions to be come better people, I began to take a look back at my relationship with the feminist movement and figure out where I’d gone wrong.
I grew up the middle child of an entrepreneurial family in small-town western Minnesota. And by small I mean small — a town so tiny that my mom cried when my dad moved our family there in the 1970s, fearing that her life would be virtually over. (It wasn’t, quite, but that’s a story for another time.) The town was perhaps 2,000 people and a wonderful place to grow up, in retrospect. We walked to and from school a few blocks away, rode our bikes all over during the summers (sans helmets, of course!), and forged friendships over exploring ravines, swimming at the community pool, and — this being the eighties — making choreographed music videos in our backyards to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna hits.
My mom was quietly feminist, in the way that moms always want a better life for their daughters, but kept her opinions mostly to herself. She wasn’t political by any stretch of the imagination, but her experience was informed by growing up with a single mom after her father passed away. My steely maternal grandmother made it through that and had high hopes for my mother going to college and achieving more; which as it turned out wasn’t in the cards for my mom. Instead, she and my dad married young and began a family, moving every couple of years to where the work took my dad.
As such, education was put at a premium for me— and I took on the challenge wholeheartedly. Our public school wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of educational standards; looking back, I can only imagine that it was impossible to attract talent to the middle of nowhere in rural Minnesota, hours away from the nearest city. But as early as grade school I took it upon myself to broaden my horizons. I spent entire summers devouring books in an effort to learn as much as possible from the likes of Nancy Drew — in her, I saw the independence and spirit that formed a prototype of feminism in my mind before I even knew the term. We both explored our towns, and while I didn’t have a sweet convertible or a license, we took charge of our own days and our own futures.
In high school my interest in academia grew to the point that I began designing my own reading curriculum, as I felt that we weren’t exploring enough of the classics in English literature. I remember talking to my guidance counselor about preparing for college and his opinion on the kinds of authors I wanted to read on my own — and him laughing at me for wanting to read A Farewell to Arms. Given the fact that I was already taking distance learning classes in college psychology, it marked the first time I realized that I was going to be in charge of my own education and that teachers, men in particular, didn’t necessarily have our best interests at heart.
At the same time, my parents were going through a rough patch. I can’t imagine it had been easy to start a business and raise three kids, but at one point my mom asked me for help writing her resume, and being crushed when she learned that the degree she never finished would have helped secure the job she wanted so badly. It was an object lesson in how the choices we make as young women determine so much of our futures, and it was her wistful regret that colored my own choices after that time.
There never seemed to be any question about our going to college, despite the fact that my older brother and I were the first to do so in our immediate family. We both aced our exams and he chose a state school for business, while I chose a women’s liberal arts college because I craved the camaraderie and close-knit campus. It was there in the confines of the College of St. Catherine that I met incredible women, learned about feminism, and was introduced to the social justice of Catholicism via the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet, who founded the college in 1905 and remained fiercely protective of women’s rights and educational equality. No men were admitted as students, and the few men in our classrooms were either professors or the smattering of exchange students from nearby co-ed campuses. Feminism and social justice were the twin streams underneath every course, every conversation and every activity, and the messages of equality rang like a church bell through my heart — these were my people! Women deserved equality! We were incredible in our own right! We didn’t need men!
Feminism was openly discussed but also pounded into our brains in practical matters: When I got in trouble for making an unauthorized art installation in a campus building, I stammered an apology before being cut off by a professor: “Don’t you ever apologize, for anything!” Later I would be coached to ask for forgiveness and forge ahead, rather than asking for permission from the powers that be. It was those daily lessons in feminist ideals by incredible women that formed my idea of what feminism was, and gave me the guts to make my own path. When we wanted better funding for the art departments, we formed a coalition. When we needed a way to communicate across the campus, I founded an arts newsletter. When we wanted better studio access, we lobbied directly to the chair of the department. And when we wanted a film festival to share our work with the community, we started our own.
Looking back, it was an incredible environment for young women, and I wouldn’t be where I am now if I hadn’t attended college there. I left with a firm belief that I had the power to shape my own future, carve my own path, and be anything I wanted. I knew I was a Feminist (with a capital F), I was well versed in our history, and I was an evangelist for women’s rights in everyday life — even if that simply meant protesting the gender divide in my parents’ household.
Somewhere along the line though, things changed. As I fought my way up the corporate ladder, dealt with sexism in the workplace, counseled friends out of abusive relationships, and explained again and again to acquaintances why I didn’t need to have children to have a purpose on this earth, I got beaten down. It wasn’t about the debate between radical and lipstick feminism anymore — I’d long since decided that feminism is more about giving yourself the permission to do whatever the fuck is right for you than worrying about whether your love of mascara makes you subject to the patriarchy. Sure, I walked through the protest lines at Planned Parenthood and led in my own way with people I knew, met and loved. But I’d never been one to protest out in public, and I’d never felt so safe as when Obama was in office.
That cocoon of complacency has been shattered with the inauguration of Donald Trump into office. While I’m tempted to soothe myself with the idea floating around in certain liberal circles that the President doesn’t have that much power, the reality is that intolerance and hatred will infuse not just his cabinet nominations and legislative power but the entire political system — and, by extension, the entire country. The ramifications of policy changes will be immense, but more insidious are the hate-filled ideas and rhetoric that will seep into our entire society and potentially bring out the worst in us all.
We must stand up and act today. We must not lie around and bemoan our fate while Trump takes control of the highest office in the land and unravels decades of progress.
And so, today we march in cities across the nation. I urge you to turn up, show up, and make your voice heard. If you can’t attend the marches and protests today, or even if you can, find another way to contribute, and then another. Volunteer at a local women’s shelter, donate to Planned Parenthood, offer your time and wisdom to a girls’ education and empowerment program. Most importantly, share your activities and your stories to encourage other women and men to take action.
Together we can show the world what women are made of, and take back the political and personal power that is rightfully ours to wield.
