Rotten Little Girls

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A cursory, shameless self-promotion: If you don’t already know who I am, my name is Dolly. I blog at Dolly Speaks. I started visiting Rotten Little Girls after I read their top 10 reasons for disliking Girls Gone Wild. Consistently high-quality, feminist blogging following that led me to becoming a regular visitor and commenter. And now, upon invitation from Dollface, I’m proudly guest-posting. I can only hope I live up to the greatnesses of RLG’s bloggesses, who I thank profusely for hosting me.

Shortly before this past Thanksgiving, I thought I was going to collapse from exhaustion. Homework was piling up with the semester rapidly coming to its end, my family and I were constantly bickering with one another, and I was increasingly feeling alone and insecure. This, of course, wasn’t helped any when a series of events took place in and outside my classes that reminded me I’m probably the only-self-identifying feminist on my college campus.

It was sexist boys in my Chinese class; it was a girl who actually pondered over the question of whether sexism is a problem. It was the guy in my brit lit class who tries to get the upper hand in class by conveniently sharing his antifeminist views with the class after I’ve shared mine. It was the other guy in my brit lit class who completely used me just so that he could spend four pages telling me why he thinks feminism is stupid. It was me walking away from sociology feeling like a loser because I became angry and outspoken when discussing violence against women.

You know, I’m not the kind of person who believes I have all the answers. I’m constantly questioning myself and my ideas. But I think in these past few weeks, I’ve been taking the fact that “I’m a feminist” for granted. I’ve started assuming feminism is true and forgotten why I became one.

I started taking the things that brit lit guy wrote to me seriously. Stuff about men and women really just having natural, biological gender roles. I thought to myself, y’know, maybe guys really are just more active and headstrong and born-to-be-leaders. Maybe women really are more nurturing and gentle and born-to-be-helpers. Maybe society got so screwed and gendered because cavemen were killing the meat and women were collecting the berries. I even started doubting myself. Maybe I wasn’t the undefeatable, powerful feminist I thought I was. Maybe I wasn’t really even as intelligent as I thought I was. Maybe I should give up dreams of ever really making a name for myself and just go into teaching or nursing and hope I get married like every other girl at my school.

And it was all this that made me re-realize that while I may have been born a woman, I wasn’t born a feminist. I suddenly remembered that it was the assumption that stark gender roles existed that pushed me towards feminism in the first place. Because I have never been feminine, girly, or conventionally woman-like in anyway. So, sit back and grab a beer and brace yourself, because this is the story of how I became a feminist.

When I was a little girl, my hero was video game Sega legend Sonic the Hedgehog. Yes, I had Barbies and I played with them, but nothing to me was more exciting than that speedy blue demon. I dreamed of going on adventures with Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles and fighting to defeat Dr. Robotnik as a team. I had a Sonic backpack, Sonic dolls, Sonic audio books, Sonic stationary, Sonic socks, everything Sonic. I don’t think it ever really mattered to me whether Sonic was male or female; I just wanted to have adventures and be fast and defeat the bad guys. Of course, some part of that dream was flattened during the first grade. As I was riding the bus home from school a boy hackled me over my Sonic backpack until I burst into tears. His qualm? Sonic was for boys, not for girls.

When I was in middle school, I prided myself on being a tomboy. I tried to hang out with the boys, play sports, and be a star. I forced myself to play football, even though I hated it. I really got into soccer, even though my mother wouldn’t let me play on any teams. Eventually, I settled for the community girls’ basketball league, which was headed by all male coaches. I roller bladed, I tried to skate board, I claimed my favorite store was Foot Locker, and I wore Adidas and Nike as if they were the last brands of clothes on Earth. Yet, one day at lunch while I was proudly proclaiming my tomboyishness (at the boys’ table) a peer of mine laughed and said, “Nah. Not really. You’ll always be a girl.” The way he said it made me feel painfully and necessarily inferior.

So, in late middle school, early high school, I gave up the tomboy act and tried to be a girlie girl. I wore skirts everyday, I stayed in an emotionally abusive relationship for the sake of having a boyfriend, and I plastered my face in makeup. I was also, believe it or not, a Fundamentalist Christian and conservative Republican. I chanted Merry Christmas alongside Bill O’Reilly, prayed for the sins of women who got abortions, and condemned homosexuality for the ugly “choice” it was. And, despite the fact that guys reminded me daily while I was in school that I was ugly, unhawt, and unfuckable, I dreamed of a knight in shining armor, romance, and finding true love.

But somewhere along the way in late high school, I fucking gave up. I got sick of all the acting (which I would later learn was termed “doing gender.”) As valedictorian of my class and a National Merit Scholar, I wanted to be respected for my intelligence. I didn’t want to have to fight my face every morning in order to gain the admiration of guys who couldn’t add positive and negative integers together correctly. I didn’t even want the awe of the guys who could. I just wanted people to respect that I was smart and talented… without all the other things that go along with a woman being both smart and talented: arrogant, intimidating, and unlovable.

And, you know what, somewhere deep down inside of me, when I made this decision to be who I was instead of a vagina constructed out of Play-Doh, I realized that I’d always been a feminist. That even when I was Bible thumping and scolding my Wiccan friend for her politics, I didn’t want to have my happiness depend on a guy who probably thought other girls were prettier than me. I’d have these freak fantasies where I was a loving devoted housewife with a cheating husband and I killed myself in attempt to steal his happiness and bring public disgrace on him. Of course, at some point I realized that while my gendered fictions eventually vindicated the woman, in reality this wife’s death would have been blamed on her hysteria, her reproductive organs and/or their functions, or her actually being a burden on her husband.

It was the little things too, that added up over time. When I asked a boy out in eighth grade (secretly by letter), his friends got hold of it, read it out loud at lunch in front of both of us, and laughed hysterically over it with one another. Needless to say, the boy didn’t go out with me. Then, when I was actually dating a guy, he made sure to remind me regularly that while he thought I was pretty, tons of other guys in the school thought I was the ugliest bitch on the planet. Or the other guy I pseudo-online-dated who told me that while I was pretty, in all honesty he’d seen way hotter girls.

Or maybe it was all the times when my mother seemed more excited about getting my hair done and buying me clothes than my academic achievements. Maybe it was the fact that whenever I criticized something sexist I saw on television or questioned my parents’ traditional gender roles, she’d interrupt and silence me to talk about how much hair the dog left on the rug, how long before the pie was ready, or when her next hair appointment was. Maybe it was because every time I saw a super model in a magazine or a bill board, I felt this incredible sense of inferiority. Maybe it was because the first time I saw a female porn actress, I was torn between wanting to be sexually desirable and not wanting to be objectified and dehumanized. Maybe it was because I didn’t think I needed to have DD tits to be sexy.

Maybe it was because I didn’t notice women had breasts until I started developing them (honestly). Maybe it was because I got my period when I was ten during a school day, and thought somebody kept leaving red paint on my chair. Maybe it was because I thought pads were fucking annoying to wear when I started my moon time, but the fear of toxic shock syndrome and tampons as “virgin purity” stealers was even worse. Maybe it’s because until just a few days ago, the only other way I really knew to refer to my moon time were menses, menstruation, cycle, and being on the fucking rag. Maybe it was the first time I heard the phrase, “that takes balls.” Or was it “dude, you’re a fucking pussy?” Maybe it was because I questioned whether my pussy labia looked the way they were supposed to. Maybe it was because for at least 99.9% of my pre-adolescence and 99.8% of my adolescence I thought I was fat. Maybe it was the 18 years I spent hating the way my face looked instead of accepting it, loving it. Maybe it was because I couldn’t see that I was more than a face.

Maybe it was the fact that my father never gave a damn about any of my accomplishments unless they were related to his interests. Maybe it was because the time I told my fifth grade teacher I wanted to be president of the United States, he told me in one breath that he thought it was fantastic and in another that his sons laughed when he informed them of my aspirations. Maybe it was the fact that my eighth grade history teacher laughed at me when I accused him of saying something sexist in class (he had been telling us that when girls are in middle school they are beautiful and skinny, but when they got to college they got fat, ugly, and their underarms flapped). Maybe it was the time my seventh grade teacher would put his hand on my thigh when I sat down with him at required class conferences.

Maybe it was because the first time I heard the word “rape” and learned what it meant, my body melted and I just wanted to crawl and huddle myself in a tight space. Maybe it was because when I started masturbating, I felt shame for betraying God and my “future husband.” Maybe it was because when I thought about forced clitoridectomies (which isn’t a word, according to Microsoft Word, BTW) it made me shove my legs together, close my eyes, and feel both squeamish and repulsed. Maybe it was because I didn’t think “Wanna know why women have smaller feet than men? So they can stand closer to the sink” was funny.

Maybe it was the time at Subway when I showed off my blackened nails to impress my boss with my hard work, and he assumed I was complaining about a ruined manicure. Maybe it was the time I worked at my local mall and the clerk next door came in, threw staples at me, and called me a cunt (the first time I’d been called one in my life) for not noticing a small crystal was missing from a watch. Or maybe it was the time that my gym teacher in sixth grade grabbed my ass as I was doing jumping jacks and smirked at me. Or maybe it was the time in middle school when a guy grabbed my ass to make it look like another guy grabbed it in an effort to humiliate him. Or maybe it was the time in ninth grade when a senior convicted of rape grabbed my breasts and fondled me in front of an entire cafeteria of people – I’m assuming nobody stopped him because I was smiling out of my intense anxiety and nervousness.

Maybe it was because as I got older, I realized that all my video game heroes were male, including Mr. Sonic the Hedgehog. Maybe it was because as I watched movies, I realized that women were more like plot devices than actual characters. Maybe it was because I didn’t like the way guys would use the word bitch and slut. Maybe it was because I didn’t like the way girls would use the word bitch and slut. Maybe it was because of the anger that bubbled in me when I stood up to a group of preadolescent guys who were antagonizing animals on their way home from school and they mocked me. Maybe it was because of the insecurity I felt when I told a guy friend I felt hideously ugly and he didn’t say anything at all.

Maybe it was because of this, that, and a million other things.

Maybe it’s because every time I reread this essay, I think of another reason to add to the list.

I was raised with the best conditions in the world to be an antifeminist. Two conservative parents with traditional gender roles, white skin and a Christian faith in a world that loves delicate, Caucasian Christian girls, and a wealthy home where clothes, makeup, and all the things needed to “being” a woman were readily accessible. I was never raped. My father never physically abused me. I was safe and protected all my life, just as patriarchy dictates a world good for women should be. All I can think that would have made a difference is if I’d been a little prettier and a little less smart.

But the fact of the matter is I have and always will be more than the product of this world’s gender roles. I am academically gifted. I am (and have always been) a writer, a thinker, and a dreamer. I am artistic, creative, thoughtful, and hard working. I am serious, but kind, unrelenting, but empathetic. I am loyal, honest, and a person of integrity. I am strong, powerful, confident, and persistent. And even if I hadn’t been any of these things, for every example above I gave, for every example I didn’t give, and for every example I can’t remember, the essence of my humanity had been in question simply because of my reproductive organs.

And that is why I am a feminist. Because I am more than a schema laid out for vaginas. I am more than the sum of my reproductive organs, cultural standards, and conservative parents. Even if gender roles were completely biological and natural, then I am a freak of nature because I can’t sanely live by them. And it is because the part of me that claims existence in this world rebelled so much against social scripts, even before I knew I was a feminist, that I am now a feminist.

Of course, these are all the personal reasons why I became one. Later on, as I learned and read more, I realized how much worse so many women have it off than me. The stories of transnational women who were suffering genital mutation, rape, and child separation. The tales of girls at my school who were sexually abused and assaulted. The legacies of women who lived before the right to vote was granted. And while I was never hurt in any of these ways, their stories aligned with my own. The pieces fit together, and I saw a world that worked both in little ways and big ways to keep women oppressed.

That is why I became a Buddhist. That is why I decided to fight against racism. That is why I decided to speak out against heterosexism. That is why I came to abhor ageism, classism, and size/weight discrimination. That is why I came to join the battle against sexism. Even when it seems like I’m all alone in a huge world, there’s no way I can’t be a feminist. I’ve tried. Unless you’re satisfied with half-autonomy and a conflicted existence, it’s impossible.