brief preamble: I wrote this for the opinions section of a campus newspaper, but I never got around to submitting it in time for the current issue, and then I forgot about it (gen x cliché, that's me...) But I was searching for my resumé (as of this minute, I've finished 3 years of an arts B.A., and I'm unemployed. I told you I was a cliché...). And I rediscovered this little gem. Hope you like, it 'cause I sure do...
I think too much about feminism.
Sure, there's lots of people who will disagree with me, and say that one's position on feminism, like one's position on spirituality, is something you can never think about too much. Unlike the Cadbury Secret, which was solved years ago to my satisfaction by my mom (they pour the chocolate into a mold & then the caramel into the little wells, and then they seal it up), you can never get to the bottom of feminism as a movement, as a lifestyle, and as a marketing tool (girl power, indeed.) In fact, feminism and spirituality are the only things I feel perfectly free to obsess upon without my more practical friends calling me a silly girl. But I still think about it too much.
It's an especially contentious issue with my many male mates. Now, I love having guy friends. I love the way they see the world. I love the deeply buried frission of sex far, far below our actual platonic relationship. I love the free advice on how to relate to other men - it's like sneaking behind enemy lines. I love doors held open for me, I love being walked home, and I love getting flowers (oops...almost blew my feminist cover there.) I love talking about sex in guarded, romantic terms, which is refreshingly different from the practical, analytical way that women dissect their sex lives in casual conversation. I love it all, and I wouldn't trade the lot of them in for the world, even if the world was made of fine Hershey's chocolate and I was feeling particularly pre-menstrual (c'mon, it wouldn't have been a proper gender article written by a female without the word "menstrual," now, would it?)
But (here comes the problem) being a first-class weirdo myself, I tend to socialize with some pretty whacked out guys. Sometimes they fall in love with me, and this is usually fine, because we tend to deal with it in a healthy, open manner, and nothing gets damaged. Besides the fact that I fall in love with one of my male friends almost every other week, so I'd be some kinda hypocrite for freaking on those who love me, right? Right. We still haven't come to the real problem yet, which is When They Cross The Line.
Crossing The Line can take many different forms, but they all involve inappropriate statements about my body, most often about my breasts. A case in point: a former friend of mine was in the habit of commenting on the small size of my chest. I always let it go in the past, as it didn't seem that important...I was probably just being over-sensitive, I rationalized not-so-cheerfully. Besides, why should I let this quirk get in the way of what had otherwise been a great friendship? We probably would have continued like this for some time, if things hadn't come to a head at a party. We were blah blah blahing about some actress, and the topic of her endowments came up. I got up to get another coke, laughingly declaring that this was not a topic I wanted to discuss with him. As I crossed the threshold, he said, loud enough to cut through the party conversation of three rooms, "you're just mad because you don't have nice breasts."
Now, no one can say that I won't take a lot of shit from those I love, just to keep the peace. But when The Line is Crossed, I feel like I have no choice but to remember that as a feminist, I don't have to take it anymore. And here's the really important thing: I never declare this to any of my boys. I just use it as a quiet confirmation to myself, that it has nothing to do with "taking a joke" or any other sort of self-serving bullshit.
But what I haven't figured out if is it hypocritical of me to reach for the shield of the sisterhood at these moments, even if I just do it mentally. Am I just playing the gender card? Am I watering down what was a great and impressive social movement by letting these boys erode my self-esteem through my body, which isn't very feminist to begin with? Am I taking my insecurities too seriously?
I have only two options now: I can continue to be a silent feminist, only coming out of my silence in occasional polite debate among friends when it doesn't matter, or I can tell to the next "friend" who treats me like tits & ass, who treats me like meat, or what's worse, substandard meat, to suck my feminist ass like the cringing pig that they are.
Go, grrrl power.
- february 25th, 1998, 12:36:13 a.m.
And those of you without images can pick & choose between
{front hall} {about me} {guestroom} {library} {backdoor}You are the
th person to care since July 20th, 1998, and I love you for it.
This page is brought to you by the sisterhood &
Get your own Free Home Page, because today's pig is tomorrow's bacon. Dig it.
