Why should I be a Feminist?
Unshaved legs and armpits, period blood stains, resting bitch face, endless shouting. Angry shouting. Specially angry shouting. Anger was what defined feminism when I was a child. As I grew up in the artistic bubble that is my family, however, I would connect feminism with ideas of opinionated women and the powerful imagery of Nancy Spero’s red bright stencils, Alice Neel’s fleshy bodies, and Cindy Sherman’s slogans ‘Your body is a battleground’. I liked them. I admired them. I respected them. I was aware of their fight. But I did not relate to them.
My body was not a battleground.
I was divided by the rage of inequality and the images of feminism provided by the clichetizised lenses of the media, where the second wave of feminism became a parade of sometimes intellectual, sweaty and unappealing female bodies filled with anger. Bodies that would shock, bodies that would be laughed at and, ultimately, bodies that remained foreign to me. There were them, and then there was I. Forever apart, they fought a fight I knew little about.
After all; my body was not a battleground. It didn’t need to be. Not yet.
I did not want to consider myself a feminist if it meant being categorised under the umbrella of the loud — angry — hysterical woman. In other words, I looked at feminism through the patriarchal frame that dominated the media. I refused to be a ‘feminist’ even before knowing what it actually meant.
“I am writing this because building on the fight of our women predecessors is more than a choice; it is a necessity.”
The reader may wonder why should I write this in a feminist blog. Let me firstly say that I do not take any pride in my former, childish, and ultimately ignorant, dismissal of the fight of my female peers. I am writing this nonetheless because retracing previous assumptions, as a child, a teenager, or as a woman, allows me to clearly state, shout out loud even, why building on the fight of our women predecessors is more than a choice; it is a necessity.
I will share my own experiences, reader. I’ll be clear: these are not what made me a feminist. What led me to feminism happened before, via the simple (and cruel) realization that a violent, tacit, unacknowledged struggle between the sexes takes place worldwide, combined with the hope and certainty that women will change the order of this hierarchic world. But sharing experiences makes facts more approachable, relatable, or so I was told. So if these allow us to better engage with the masked realities and biased assumptions that keep systems of patriarchy and toxic masculinity intact and which are being constantly re-enacted and justified, so be it.
Let me start in chronological order.
As a child, I did not see myself as a feminist because, although I admired them, I did not see the need to be one. Growing in the most liberal of environments, my voice was heard within a domestic bubble that, in fact, was a privilege, one that many young girls could not enjoy. At the top of that, I belong to a generation that has benefited from the results of multiple waves of feminism. At school, I could take on the same activities as my male peers; as an adolescent I was encouraged to pursue a career just like the rest of them. I did not engage with this fight, I just took its results for granted. And yet, I could still perceive so many shades of active differentiation, complex and apparently unimportant. Those were visible in tiny everyday remarks, expectation and assumptions.
Want some examples? Raise your hand if you relate: I spent hours arguing against being forced to wear a dress for a birthday, ended up in the principal’s office as I refused to wear the mandatory uniform skirt (which was an act of common sense, it was too damn cold to wear a skirt), and fighting with the boys of my class so they would let me climb a tree (I couldn’t because ‘I was a girl’… I still made my way up, for the record). Although I would see these disparities, I would keep my fights separate from those of my female peers, particularly older ones. Doing so was a genuine mistake and I was far from knowing that there was something larger behind. What I would wear or do was limited by my gender. Unfair. But I mistakenly thought it was my own personal fight. It’s hard as a kid to question what is presented to you as a norm.
My body was still not a battleground. It didn’t need to be. Not yet.
As a young teen, feminism intimidated me, why should I consider my body a battleground? Growing up was painful enough in exposing that changing skin and fleshy envelope of ours to further trauma. Meanwhile, I addressed everyday fights related to my body as best I could, always thinking that it was my fault if someone criticised my femininity — or lack thereof, since I was still a kid. I was unaware that what made me struggle with myself was not only the painful fact of growing up (which is –let’s face it– painful), but the fact that I was expected to grow up to pre-established stereotypes. Now may I ask; whose parameters were those?
Because I could not see this larger reality, I kept seeing my struggles as independent personal fights: I just wanted my breasts to be bigger so I could better fit the stereotype and stop being teased as to why my body was so child-like. I just wanted those baggy trousers to hide my lack of curves. I just wanted to hide my period as I was scared of any comment. And so it goes….
This refusal most and foremost came from the fact that I wasn’t aware of the need to claim my body as mine, since no-one attempted to directly and overtly violate its integrity yet. If it was about clothes and climbing trees, I could find my way around it. My body still had some way to grow and the rest was up to sheer genetic luck. So I thought I could get on with my life, simply thanking the thousands of feminists who already paved the way of future generations and took care of that battle.
My body was still not a battleground. Not yet.
As a teenager, the bubble in which I was living slowly started to burst. Feminism may did not intimidate me any longer as I grew aware of the daily brutalities suffered by women worldwide and embraced the strength of many of them. I still remained outside the struggle, observing it as a contemporary fact that I needed to be aware of. One fine day, while discussing the lack of possibilities for women in the fifties with my brother, he told me –for the first time– that I was a feminist. Puzzled. Childhood images of angry women, period blood, Spero and Sherman came back to my mind.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes’ — was his answer, ‘you just never felt the need to act that very same way. Besides, things have changed’.
My body could be a battleground.
“Equality between sexes has manifested itself in terms of laws, yet assumptions, attitudes, a priori considerations and expectations do not depend on laws.”
The idea stuck to my head until the point where, during my twenties, the following reality slowly came clearer to me: Equality between sexes has manifested itself in terms of laws. In law we theoretically have the same access to education, health, care and so on and so forth. And yet assumptions, attitudes, a priori considerations and expectations do not depend on laws, so that a woman’s body is still a depository for aggression, privilege, and toxic masculinity. A reality that most –or all– of us have experienced in one way or another. A reality that comes in small doses; sometimes through physical and/or psychological aggressions, microaggressions, as well as statements of superiority. A reality learned through the years, one aggression at a time.
Besides witnessing everyday acts of aggression, shouting at my computer and crying while reading the Ford-Cavanaugh saga, or simply seeing how my friends struggled after obscene remarks about their appearance, I learnt how to look straight at this reality because I, too, experienced aggression, learning first hand how fragile the trust afforded to women is.
I think often of the evening, four years ago, in which I did not drink, I did not act recklessly, I did not dress inappropriately –although I have my qualms as to what that may mean. All of those things that place us at fault. It was a freezing cold evening at 5pm; those who have lived in Chicago know what I’m talking about. It was the evening when I felt my arms grabbed and twisted, my body pushed towards a wall, my face smashed against the bricks. I often think of that evening because nothing happened, my aggressor released me to run away as soon as a shout resonated at the other end of the street. For those who think I was lucky; yes, I know. For those who wonder why I should recall this: being lucky is not the fucking norm. Here are two lessons from this episode:
n. 1: As if being attacked wasn’t painful enough, what makes it really unbearable is knowing its recurrence, the general lack of support for survivors, and, above all its normality (we’ve all been attacked one way or another, right? Well that obviously makes it all right, let’s turn the page…). Those wondering what the big deal is should probably go read another blog.
n. 2: In such cases, women are expected to react. Granted, reacting is an act of bravery that may help society at large. The truth is, it takes more than bravery to act. I didn’t. I ran home instead, crying and ashamed of crying. I did not act because I did not want to recall the experience. I wanted to forget it. Get home. Believe that there was some safety within a city that I barely knew. However, if a woman doesn’t speak up immediately, chances are her word won’t be trusted. I am fairly sure that I am not the only one who was afraid of not being taken seriously (maybe I should have branded the bruise on my face to make a more credible statement?). The Ford-Cavanaught trial has clearly proved that the credibility of Ford’s statement faded as the years went by. Obviously, trying not to think about being attacked and carry on with our lives jeopardises our word.
My body is a battleground.
Power relations are unfortunately not limited to the body, they take place through the body, which also implies the individual’s mind. Have you ever heard of gaslighting?
Before you google it:
Gaslighting = manipulate (someone) by psychological means into questioning their own sanity (Thanks Google)
Not that long ago, I was brought between the devil and the deep blue sea by a former partner; compelled to admit that because of issues of self confidence, I couldn’t see the situation clearly. I was also pushed to admit –and ultimately, to believe– that my closest friendships were wrong and that my attitude was at the core of our differences, no matter what I did, whether I try to reason, stayed silent, waited for hours for him to respond, or unquestioningly admit everything he said. This may not seem like the end of the world. However, it is something to worry about when the value of your judgement is dismissed and justified through such an assessment. That perspective, in this case my lack of self-confidence, defined me, made whatever I had to say worthless, and there was nothing I could do against it, no matter how much I would insist.
In this frame of cognitive tyranny, the tears of frustration sneaking out of my eyes only further validated his point: I was mistaken and he was right. And I was a crier, that too. In this scenario, he asserted I was the complicatedly angry individual while he was the hero patiently bearing with me. I was convinced that either I was turning mad or I was being manipulated; both claiming to be the victims. Lessons learnt?
n. 1: Gaslighting requires mastery of a psychological game of pure subtlety.
n. 2: Psychological manipulation is a particular kind of power game. It has little to do with physical power and, vitally, interferes with your own approach to self. If you feel like crap, even though you know there is something amiss in the reasoning as to why you feel that way, you know who won.
Let us be clear: this is not a phenomenon that excludes women. We can be absolute assholes. Limiting women to the position of only victims of physical or psychological violence would be as wrong as saying that gender equality reigns.
There is a lopsided power balance that I still must question: how does victimization work out in both sides? Here is when assumptions play a big role. In general terms, women’s tears are commonly seen as a set of things: weakness, normal “She is a woman…”; or hysteria –I’m thinking of tears of anger and despair– and meanness (Mean Girls reference anyone?) [Note to the skeptical reader: yes, there are other ways such tears can be interpreted, but, the fact that these are the most common interpretations itself says something]. Either way reader, I’m tired of repeating this, chances are the results won’t be positive.
Your body, your mind, your sensitivity, are a battleground.
This lopsided balance was at the forefront of the Ford-Kavanaugh trial. Ford was the victim of sexual assault. Kavanaugh the victim of what he declared Ford’s false accusation, one that could ruin his career, his family, his life. We are now facing the psychological battle of the sexes: whose tears would work better? Whose would be more trustworthy? What we know is that she faced this fight by keeping her head high, by stating the facts. He did so by stating how sensitive he was (remember the tears?), how much pain he was going through; he was crying for God’s sake, the poor guy is clearly sensitive, right?!!? He just may or may not have made a mistake. He succeed in gaining the empathy of many (… especially and unsurprisingly conservative males…) because, if he was the victim, she was obviously at fault, she was the manipulator. So let me ask: if he wasn’t exercising the power of physical domination, wasn’t he exercising a different kind of power?
“It seems so long ago when women were fighting for common tangible rights. Today’s struggle, our struggle, also addresses the psychological, the realm of tacit expectations and assumptions.”
The case destabilised the common frame of the strong male hero versus the over-sensitive female victim, bringing forth the multilayered complexity of power-relations at stake nowadays. It seems so long ago when women were fighting for common tangible rights. Today’s struggle, our struggle, also addresses the psychological, the realm of tacit expectations and assumptions. This includes themes of emotional labor (can we talk more about this in the future, please?), manipulation and, of course, big ones such as objectification…
So why should I be a feminist?
Whether statistically men exercise and search to exert power over women is not my point here. Again, I am aware women can equally be mistresses of manipulation. One may think that, having had bad, even cruel experiences such as aggression is biasing my vision; ‘of course she is a feminist, she is angry at what happened to her’. Yes, I am angry but, like many of my peers, I have also dedicated a lot of time to putting things into perspective. If you judge a woman’s view by the fact that she is hurting BEFORE asking what was done to her, then your opinion should be dismissed. Do better.
It is because I experienced those events, shared and reflected upon them, that I can see so clearly how the structure that judges women operates. It has shed a bit of light on the complex dynamics of power that make our bodies battlegrounds. A choice we didn’t necessarily make.
I am a feminist because assumptions and expectations do govern in a male-female scheme.
I am a feminist because, while I am also at risk of falling into generalisations, I have also seen how these have turned against us.
I am a feminist because tacit assumptions still limit our voices, our potential and actions.
And us, women, we are not faultless either. We turn against each other, seeking the approval of the majority, dismissing healthy boundaries that should be kept. Ask yourself: how much do you give in? How much are your actions defined by someone else’s desires and expectations? I should be a feminist because if it helps to look at what has been discredited, then it will be one step forward towards asserting that we, too, can be angry, unshaven, crying, silly, beautiful and powerful beings altogether, fine as hell from head to toe.
