I don't need Feminism

The movement is misunderstood, skewed, vilified and looked down upon by a lot of people today. I keep hearing the words 'I don't need feminism' more so today than yesterday. When I label myself a feminist, folk have  knee-jerk reaction and quickly lump me into the category that my husband has lovingly referred to as 'feminazi'. I get accused of misandry by a few and others accuse me of setting back the movement. I get categorized as a traitor because I happen to enjoy video games and don't get bothered by scantily clad characters (I am looking at you Sarkeesian).

There is just no pleasing anybody these days, really. Damned if I decide to put on make up and wear a dress, damned if I decide to wear pants and not bother beating my face. If I choose to stay at home and raise my kids I am antiquated and if I chose to be a career woman I'm denouncing my femininity.

It was not too long ago when women didn't have a choice in the matter. We had to stay home, clean the house, rear the children and have sex with our husband whenever he wanted to. For easy math, allow me to mention that it was not until 1984 in the case of People vs. Liberta  Judge Sol Wachtler stated "a marriage license should not be viewed as a license for a husband to forcibly rape his wife with impunity. A married woman has the same right to control her own body as does an unmarried woman." I  was born in 1984. That was 31 years ago.

It was not until in 1993 that the concept of marital rape exemptions became judicially declared unconstitutional.

In 1993, I was in 3rd grade.

Hell, it was not until 2013 that the state of Washington finally got rid of its own exemption to third degree marital rape. That was two years ago.

In 5th grade (That is 1995 for those of you keeping track of the math), I remember sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the classroom as Mr. H read the newspaper to us. I don't recall which case we were following that year but I do remember how he pointedly paused reading, closed the newspaper on his lap and asked us if a woman was at fault to be harassed, molested and raped because of the clothes that she wore. Granted, the question was a little unfair. While the majority of us had already gone through the sexual education class the concept of rape was somewhat foreign.

We sat in silence, confused. He asked us again if it was okay to blame Little Susie if she got robbed because of a watch she wore. "No!" we answered in unison.

Was it okay to blame Little Johnny to get drugged and beaten up because of the pair of pants? "No!" we answered yet again.

So why was it okay for someone to blame the woman if she was sexually harassed because of what she wore? How was she asking to be touched in ways that she didn't want to be touched because she was at a night club dancing with her boyfriend?

It wasn't and it isn't.

Yet, we still do it.

If I choose to have an abortion, regardless of the reason, it is mine to make. If I decide to stay at home and be a house wife, that is my choice. If I chose to be a career woman and follow my dreams of opening up a restaurant, a photo studio or a write dozens of books, that is my prerogative.   And sometimes, I like to, as the lovely queens I follow on youtube like to say, beat my face with make up, don some pearls then sit down to play Borderlands and enjoy the view of my siren's ass while I pretend to be as hot as her.

We like to talk about how we're abusing the rights our soldiers have fought for us to have. We like to discuss on how freedom in this country is taken for granted when so many, ironically, men and women have died to ensure. Every memorial day and labor day we talk about these things but we are quick to forget that both sexes have fought for women's equality. Thanks to Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady, James Mott and Federick Douglas we can vote along with our men. Thanks to Jane Roe's case and the male Supreme Court Justices who weighed in on the matter, I can end an unwanted pregnancy if I choose to. Because of women like Winifred C. Stanley who fought long and hard in 1942 to that by 1963, John F. Kennedy could finally pass the Equal Pay Act.

An example of misandry

Any time I hear a woman say that we do not need feminism spits on the work of those men and women who have fought against status quo to make things better for all of us. Any time I hear about a woman who laments that there are not enough empowering female figures, that women should not be objectified and then turns around to do the exact same thing to a man, she steps on the metaphorical flag of equality.

Not all men believe that women belong in the kitchen or should put out for their husbands no questions asked. My husband certainly does not. Neither does my father. Mr. H certainly didn't. Any woman who paints all men with the same broad brush she accuses a man of painting womankind with, is not a feminist. She's a misandrist. Any woman who claims to not need feminism because she defines herself and derives her own values and that there is no war against her is confused. Why? Because women are treated like second class citizens all over the world.

fem·i·nism

ˈfeməˌnizəm

noun

1. the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.

Feminism is about equality among the genders. Women deserve the same pay as men for the same amount of work that we do. And by that same token, men deserve to have paid time for paternal leave.

And if you're still a little confused about what I'm trying to say, let me share with you a little idiom I know: What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

What's good for mankind is good for womankind.

Silence is Golden

I have heard the phrase many times, read the lyrics to the song and have often mulled the meaning of the proverb frequently. I know that 'silence is golden' is a saying meant to instill cautiousness and tact in situations where, perhaps, not saying or doing anything at all would be the best course of action. Oftentimes, though, the meaning of these three little words gets twisted.

I was bullied a lot as a kid. Anyone could say anything to my face, I'd take it with a smile. Sometimes I'd deliver a few zingers, then laugh it off. But when it really got rough, I could feel my hands shake and my body vibrate with rage. Sometimes I was pushed and shoved but still, I wouldn't do anything. Growing up, I had been the tallest in my class, the most developed and the few times I *had* lashed out, I got in trouble. I had been indoctrinated to never raised my hand even in self defense because I could hurt someone badly. I was to turn the other cheek, keep my mouth shut and ignore the situation at hand when humor failed me. At times like these, I'd latch onto my pride and force a smile on my face even though my eyes were burning. I always took the high road.

It was sophomore year and a Friday. I hated Fridays. Fridays meant I had to wear my pep uniform and deal with the attention that got me. The year before I had wondered about in a suicidal daze that no one noticed except the girl who conned me into trying out for the color guard team.

I hated my body, I hated my life and while I had begun to make friends and learned to smile more, I was not out of the woods yet.

I have always been a curvy girl. By the time I was in 6th grade, I had grown to be a size 38C. The summer of 8th grade I'd gone up to a DDD status. I had tried to hide myself as best as I could because I couldn't handle the cat calling, the staring, the gossiping of girls, the slut shaming,  nor the strangers following me at a slow pace in their car while I went to and from school. I had also been molested by a family 'acquaintance' for several years and I was not prepared to show my body.

I was not prepared to accept myself, really. I had a war going on inside me-- am I girl or am I a boy and why does it matter? All the attention I got served the purpose to confuse me even further.

Gone were the days where I wore over sized t-shirts and jeans, my hair a mess in a loose braid and face bare. As a member of the color guard team I had to wear our uniforms and boy, where they revealing. I also had to style my hair and do my make up.


Because it was Friday, I was, once again, donning our pep uniform and my biggest nemesis: short skirt, tight turtleneck and the form-hugging top over it. My face was carefully done the way our coach had demanded and my hair pulled in a pony tail so tight it gave me a headache. I could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface as I forced a smile on my face. See, the bell had rung and I had to get to class. Since I had stayed behind to speak to my previous teacher, I didn't have the time to take the long way to my next class. I *had* to go through the main hallway, past a certain teacher's class and deal with... that.

"Big tits!"

It has been over a decade since I graduated high school and I can still hear his voice. I can still see that shit-eating grin on his pale face and that sorry, miserable excuse of a fucking haircut that made him look like some sort of albino porcupine. I hated the son of a bitch. He was a year younger than me but he'd been harassing me since I was in fourth grade. He liked to sneak up on me and snap my bra strap. He called me names. He constantly asked that I go meet him behind the bleachers and put my mouth to good use. I got no respite from the asshole even in the summer because we went to the same boys and girls club. I had complained about his behavior countless of times but I always got the same response: Boys will be boys. Maybe I should wear something less revealing and make it clear I am not interested. (Because you know, a loose turtle neck and overalls are *sooo* revealing, and nothing said 'come here big boy, I want to blow you!' like shoving a boy from his bike when he rides circles around you trying to cop a feel.)

I fixed my eyes on the opposite and pretended not to hear.

The year before had been miserable, yes, but I had at least not dealt with *him*.

"I'm talking to you."

He flicked my skirt. I ignored it. I tried to walk faster but was impeded by the sea of bodies coming in the opposite direction. He could lift my skirt all he wanted, I thought, after all, I was wearing the uniform bloomers to cover my modesty.

"Hey Chink, tell Big Tits I'm talking to her!" He was now addressing my best friend.

"Ignore him," I pleaded and shoved her ahead of me, desperate not to get her caught in the crossfire again.

He'd gotten taller since I saw him last, but no more well behaved. In fact, he'd grown more bold.

"Are you still mad about the tennis cage? It was just a joke!" Yeah.. a very funny joke, where he had shoved a stick on the handles of the door and kept us from leaving. The whole time he and his stupid buddies had ridden their bikes in circles around the cage throwing water balloons at us. All because I'd been wearing a white shirt and he wanted to know 'what kind of bra supports those tits.'  It happened in broad daylight, my best friend had crumbled into tears, yelling for help and no one came. People had actively chosen to not say anything.

I pressed on and I felt the snap of my bra. I faltered as I fought back the urge to slap him. And then it happened; I felt myself be pulled halfway around and a hand shoved into my breast. I shoved him against the lockers, hard and while he laughed, I slapped him.

The bell rung but instead of clearing out, people had gathered to see what happened due to the commotion. I heard a yell from one of the teachers and slowly the crowd dispersed. She pulled us into her classroom.

He tried telling her that I slapped him for no good reason. I bit my lip and kept my mouth shut. No point in making things worse by opening my mouth, right? Silence is golden! Take the high road! Do not make things worse by giving him further attention! If I could have just kept myself in control than maybe, just maybe, he would have gone away. But no, I'd slapped him... He'd only retaliate even more now.

"He called her Big Tits and groped her." I looked up. I didn't know the girl, it was my first time laying eyes on her. "Its not the first time either. I've seen him follow her a few times but never said anything. I mean, I figured he'd just stop if she continued to ignore him like always."

The older woman looked at us with her steely gaze, her lips pulled into a tight line. She put her hand on her hip and turned her attention to the boy. "Is this true?"

He reiterated that I had slapped him.

I focused my gaze on my sneakers. They were covered in dirt. I should wash them before I got in trouble for being out of uniform. I felt her eyes on me. I wanted to cry. I felt so ashamed.

She pulled me into a hug and said my silence said it all. She went on to say that victims of bullying tend to keep their mouths shut because we're often told its best to ignore them. She said that Silence is garbage and it yields our power to our attackers.

Before she sent me on my way, she turned to the boy and told him that in no shape or form was his behavior appropriate. He was lucky, she said, that she didn't call the police on him right then and there because his behavior had escalated from sexual harassment to abuse the moment he laid a hand on me. If he wasn't scared of going to juvi for sexual misconduct he should very well be afraid of what would happen if he had touched the wrong woman. Some men don't like it when their girls are mistreated and can enact vengeance or worse... the victim may snap and retaliate in a way he never expected. Either way, he was not only ruining the life of a victim but his own as well.

From then on, he avoided me. I never caught the girl's name, nor would I have been able to recognize her anyway. I am thankful for her interception in the matter,  but most of all, I am thankful for that teacher's lecture; Silence is Garbage.

Nowadays, I'm not so quiet anymore.

Kintsugi

Growing up, Mom told me a story using a vase as an example for a relationship. She went on to say that sometimes, relationships are broken and can be mended but eventually they get irreparably damaged and I should be mindful of my actions.

Over the years I have seen how this is true, chiefly in the relationship with myself. I have always said that I am my biggest enemy; I am my worst detractor; I am my worst friend. I often most set myself up for failure because some part of me is afraid of success. As I have mentioned before I tend to live my life in fear of one thing or another, usually without me knowing.

The last few weeks have been awful. I felt like my reality was slipping. But those of you who know me in real life, I am stubborn as hell and I don't go down easily. I may not have the same wild chutzpah I once had as a teenager (holy hell if I was a ball of anger back then) but it is still there. Sometimes I joke that I must be a masochist because I keep facing my fears because I refuse to let them define me.

Yes. I am the person who wants to go sky diving because I am deathly afraid of heights (sorry Bobby!). I want to go on a hot air balloon ride despite the fact that my palms are sweaty and I feel like throwing up at the thought. So... why am I letting my anxiety get the best of me?

Have I become irreparably damaged? Have I broken myself to the point that there is nothing to salvage?

Crazy talk.

A few years ago, I had heard about Kintsugi when I was reading about wabi-sabi (not to be confused with wasabi, the horseradish paste). And as usual, I tucked that information away and continued down the rabbit hole of encyclopedias and internet articles because... that's what happens when boredom strikes. I remember being intrigued at the notion.

Wabi-sabi is the Japanese philosophy of embracing the flawed or imperfect. It resonated with me because I *do* like the flawed or imperfect. I find perfection to be boring and the little flaws of every day life are interesting. I feel this way about every day objects, nature and people. In fact, it is because of this notion that I find it easier to get to know people, make friends... eventually fall in love. Honestly, this is why I love photography so much; I like to capture the flaws because I find them beautiful. Some people may abhor wrinkles and grey hair. I find them sexy as fuck.

Kintsugi takes this philosophy into practical application. It is the art of repairing lacquerwear with gold in such a way that it makes a broken piece whole again. In emphasizes the cracks and holes in such a way that the broken piece is not only beautiful, but functional.

The concept came to mind on Sunday night, when I found myself curled up in bed trying desperately not to cry. My best friend was sleeping on the other room and I did not want to wake her although my anxiety was starting to get the best of me. I knew it would only be a matter of hours until I could see my husband again and I'd feel better but since we had failed to come up with a time for me to look forward to, I was floundering.  I was cracking and starting to fall apart.

A part of me seriously thought I was just bat shit insane and was the protagonist of an M. Night Shyamalan  movie where it is discovered that I am a widower for several years, my husband having died in a terrible camping accident. My best friend is really my shrink and we're doing some form of therapy to get me past my trauma.

But before I could fall victim to the paranoia, I began to fill the cracks with the facts I already knew.

I am cracked and broken... but mother was wrong. As long as the vase is not pulverized, it can be put back together, the holes filled and polished.

The Mantra we should all have on reserve.

This entry is brought to you by our guest writer, Kalypso the Krow. I love what she has to say and I find strength in her words.

"I will forgive myself for the lessons I have not yet learned. I will strive to be awake, to move forward, but will with perfect peace, understand that nothing can be forced. That revelations can not be strong-armed and that the answers will come only when the time is right, not when I forced them. I will see the value in the tiny steps and revelations for they must happen before the big, permanent changes take place."

I will rise. I will fall. I will rise again. I choose to be stronger every time. I choose to be smarter. That is how you move forward. That is how you grow. That is how you learn to live instead of just choosing to exist.

Welcome, Kalypso. Can't wait to hear more from you!