Rotten Little Girls

This an essay I posted originally in December 2008. It still stands true. I’ve been getting asked a lot lately “why are you a feminist?”. Here’s why. [Original post can be found here]

By becoming a feminist, I found my voice.

Why am I a feminist?

It’s a dirty word these days. When you identify as feminist, people perceive you a certain way. Instead of others understanding that I am passionate about women’s rights, I’ve received various responses ranging from “Why are you so worked up over this? You can vote and you have the same opportunities as men in this country” to “Women are equal now, I don’t see the need for feminism.” Hey, I’m the first to admit that women in the United States are better off than women in say, Afghanistan, where several girls recently got acid thrown in their faces for attending school. Yes, I can vote and I do have many opportunities in life. Yet, there is still so much work to be done to improve the lives of women in this country and in others.

When I was little, no matter how progressive and open-minded my parents were, I still saw the world as white-washed. I had no idea the Gulf War was going on, and when Princess Diana died, I was shocked. That memory stands out to me as the first time I really understood that life isn’t always pretty. When 9/11 occurred, my entire world was shaken up. I was only thirteen at the time, and when I watched a man hurtle himself dozens of stories to the ground all I could do was cry and look at my mother helplessly. I realized that no one has all the answers.

Around this time I was a complete tomboy. I shunned the frilly dresses of my early childhood and wrote essays about how much boys “suck.” I scorned the notion of dieting and thought to myself that I would never succumb to such silly ideas. The idea that skinny women depicted in magazines negatively affect women’s body image was laughable to me.

So, imagine my dismay several years later, when I looked at myself in a mirror and thought, “My thighs are too big. I wish I was taller. I hate myself.” Where were these thoughts coming from? How had I been sucked in by society’s standards of beauty when I’d been ignoring them all along? I’d been saturated by unattainable (read: photo-shopped) images of beauty just like the rest of my generation, and I was finally aware of how inadequate I felt.

I felt pretty betrayed. How come my mother and father never told me that women are so thoroughly objectified? I started thinking that this was some secret that I’d stumbled upon, and my parents just didn’t know to warn me. Of course, now I realize we’re all in on the secret – but not everyone thinks it’s a problem. To a certain extent, we all accept how society is. Boys like cars and trucks and girls like Barbies and make-up. A woman’s looks are more important than her brains or personality. Men can be assertive and ambitious, but the same qualities in a woman are perceived as abrasive and conniving.

Think I’m making this up? Here are a few quotes from the (much-loved) men in my life:

My father: “You can’t be a pallbearer for your grandmother’s funeral, you’re not strong enough.” (I insisted and we found out quickly that my “lack of strength” wasn’t a problem).

My uncle to his daughter: “I’d rather you’d be gay than fat. But really, I hope you’re neither.” (Two years since writing this post, my cousin came out and he was more than supportive.)

My boyfriend: “Women’s bodies are just more beautiful than men’s are.” (Context: this was said in the middle of a conversation of why women are more objectified than men, and why half-naked images of women are far more pervasive in television, ads, and so on).

Here are my responses, some of which I said to them, some of which they would just never understand:

To my father: “This is completely unfair. Just because pallbearers are typically male, the coffin will not be too heavy for me to help carry. This means so much to me and I can’t stand that you are refusing to let me do something like this merely because I’m female.”

To my uncle: “Your daughter is beautiful, intelligent, and charming. I know that you love her, but you shouldn’t base that love on sexual orientation and body weight.”

To my boyfriend: “I see that women are beautiful, but I am a bisexual woman who happens to find the male body to be equally exciting and arousing. Don’t I deserve to see images of attractive men too? Furthermore, are you saying all women are beautiful or just the skinny, tanned ones on television? Should the price of our beauty be objectification and hyper-sexuality?”

These are three men that I trust and love. It’s just so warped that they can be so blind. Through their own male privilege, they cannot comprehend the effect their words have on the women they love, nor do they realize that this is just a microcosm of the problems women face today. I must also admit that even though what they said may have hurt me or women close to me, they are products of society. The root of the problem is society. It’s the men who perpetrate violence against women. It’s the countries who deny women the right to an education or equal rights. It’s the governments who oppress half of their population based on gender.

This is why I’m a feminist. This is why the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes is reading Elizabeth Wurtzel on a rainy day, and feeling like she’s reading my mind and putting it to paper. This is why I write this blog and read others. I can’t live in this society any more the way it is, but it’s not like I can move to another country and make it all better. I am female no matter where I go. No matter how I dress or who I date. The world treats me and the other 3 billion women inhabiting this planet as the inferior sex.

That’s fucked up.

There is hope, though. By becoming a feminist, I found my voice. I discovered an entire canon of female writers who argue passionately for the feminist cause. Feminist thinkers such as Catherine A. MacKinnon have become women I look up to. Before I discovered feminism, I was raised to think women can be anything and do everything. After feminism, I realized that women should be able to be anything and to do everything, and when they are denied the right to self-determination and freedom from discrimination, someone has to speak out on their behalf. As a marginalized group (the largest in the world), women are not afforded the same opportunities as men. That has to change. We can make that change.

I know that sometimes it seems like all feminists do is bitch and moan about how unfair living in a patriarchy is. To a certain extent, yes, I do complain. However, I do believe there is a time and place to speak out for the feminist cause. When someone makes a misogynist joke, you don’t have to stay silent. When someone makes a disparaging comment about a woman’s appearance, you don’t have to pretend you didn’t hear. Why should we stay silent when we have been silenced for centuries? Even if you don’t call yourself a feminist, if you believe women deserve equal rights, equal opportunity, the right to self-determination and freedom from discrimination, guess what? You’re a feminist. So why deny that fact? Is it because feminists are “angry”, “stubborn”, and “aggressive”? Or is it because you know that feminists are actually passionate, opinionated and outspoken, but because of their gender are labeled “angry”, “stubborn”, and so on?

I’m a feminist and I’m not afraid to stand up for what I believe in. If that makes me “angry,” “emotional,” or “man-hating,” then so be it. That’s the least of my problems.

So why am I a feminist? Because I see hope in the feminist cause. Because I’m frustrated by society’s values. Because, at the end of the day, I feel that I can make a difference in the world if I am true to myself and my beliefs. I will not be a bystander in life, and I urge you to find your voice as well.

- Kelly

—-

The “Why I Became a Feminist” series is open to anyone who identifies as feminist and wants to share their story. Please email me at rottenlittlegirls @ gmail.com and I will consider publishing your piece in this series. I’d love to have a broad range of voices and experiences.

Part 1 of the series.

Photo Credits