I was going to
write a dummy’s guide to feminism, but I didn’t have time last night, and it
got pretty theory heavy in the outline. Then I realized I was outlining a post
for this blog, and I went “fuck no, shut that shit down.” This all stemmed from
poor discussions of feminism on the Internet, shocking I know. Essentially, a
small group of people think women oppress men (using a gender binary, which you
know I love: sarcasm) and feminism force women to work outside the home. I’m
still not sure how any of this works. There is no reasonable logic here; and
this from a person who had to defend Dworkin in Intro to Fem Theory. I’m not a
huge fan of Dworkin, but I recognize her contributions to the movement. All of
this culminated in an attempt to engage two people on their position, which
ended very badly. Lesson learned Internet.
Regardless, I did
end up thinking a lot about why I’m a feminist during all of this, and
subsequently read this post, “On Growing Up a Tomboy” by Angi
Becker Stevens and watching this video by Courtney Martin below. Both
addressed the challenges of growing up and aspirations, and they clearly resonated
with me.
I had an
interesting paradox growing up. I identified as a feminist as a child, no
really. I’m not sure I fully understood what it meant at the time, but
feminists on television were smart, had dry wits, and weren’t concerned with
being the prettiest girl in the room. They were generally non-conformists. I
wanted to be all of these things, badly. At the same time my mother was the first head of a department in the factory she worked #baller. On the other hand, I was “one of the
guys” this shouldn’t be confused with a Tomboy because it occupies a different space. I got into fights and played
sports, but I’m not athletic, and to be a Tomboy you have to have a certain
amount of athletic ability to keep up with the hyper sport culture in Ohio. I
never got into video games (outside of Mario). I did tell a good dirty joke and
spent a lot of time explaining girls, sex, and dating to me male peers.
My desire to be
considered “one of the guys” stemmed from my socio economic upbringing, which I
was aware of even as a child. One day, I'll write about the "come to Jesus" moment working poor kids have. In junior high, all the girls in my class started
to physically develop and thus receiving more attention from males. I wanted
Joey to notice me like whoa, but I didn’t
want to get catcalled on the long walk through what the kids I grew up with
affectionately call “the hood” past two bars and a bike shop that sold drugs
out the back just to get home. I grew up in a low-income neighborhood, which in turn had low-property taxes, which creates problems traditionally seen in low-income, urban (in this case) problems. The verbal attention of 11 and 12 year boys, I
knew were harmless because they were still not really sure how sex works, is
very different that grown men harassing and assaulting women and girls on the
street. Though, obviously not still ok, and head nod to most sexual assaults occurring between people who know each other. It culminated in the form of fliers and
letters. When I was in junior high, we received our first Megan’s Letter and the fliers
started coming home from school. You see a Megan Letter is based on Megan’s
Law, which is when someone on a sexual predator list moves into your
neighborhood, and you get a letter alerting you to this; this happens frequently in low-income communities because it is cheaper to live there when you get right out of prison or jail. The fliers might have
always come home, but I began aware of them in junior high. These fliers outlined
attempts to abduct young women and girls walking to and from school by men in a
van. It was always a panel van. Always. I almost feel bad for people who drive
those who sexual predators.
The boys didn’t get
these warnings, well they did, but these warnings didn’t seem to impact their
daily lives. They had what can only be described as freedom to move around our neighborhood
without fear. I know this wasn’t the case for everyone, and we can talk about
the harassment of men of color in low-income communities by law enforcement and
gangs. But when I was young, boys had this great freedom, and I wanted it too.
But there was
another side to this too, and that is the approval of men. By being “one of the
guys,” I perceived that I had their approval. This approval afforded me some things my female
peers didn’t have. For example, my opinion counted. Wild peeps, wild, at least
I thought it did. This was in direct opposition to my feminism. Later in high school
and undergrad most of the male friends I had were also really into volunteer work and the music I was into. But there was something I very uncomfortable with all this, and it was summarized
nicely by a friend of mine as an adult, “I don’t trust women who want to be ‘one
of the guys.’ They devalue being a woman even if they don’t mean to.”
Mind blown. Obviously, there is
some merit to this. The desire to be considered “one of the guys” means I didn’t
want to be perceived as feminine for whatever reason. All the while, I
identified as a feminist. Now, you can reconcile this of course by claiming I
reject the gender binary and embraces something these specific men had to offer,
but I didn’t have this in mind in junior high or high school. I wanted to be
considered “one of the guys” because they seemed to have it better. To be
honest, this chapter of my life closed in undergrad when my best friend
demonstrated that he could call me “one of the guys” all the time, but my word
was still of less value than a man he barely knew over a sexual assault.
After a few
graduate level feminist classes later, I now know “one of the” anything is a
put down. They might as well be saying, “so close, but not quite.” Additionally,
I came to this conclusion right around the time my feminism radically evolved
in late undergrad. I watched some friends have their attempts to start a FMLA chapter shut down because they
are pro-choice by a university that didn’t meet with them and that fought us
every step of the way on the Vagina
Monologues. I also started seeing poverty and labor as feminist issues. But
this brings me to Martin’s video. Part of being involved in the movement
(social justice) is being prepared to fail and fail spectacularly. I know this
because while I jest, I’m not actually going to solve poverty because there is
always going to be someone who wants to exploit other people for their own
gain. For every victory it feels like we suffer a half dozen defeats. We get the
university to sign on to the Workers’ Rights Consortium, but janitorial and cafeteria
staff get reprimanded for discussing their pay. This yields burnout. I think the
Simpson’s Crazy Cat Lady is the
appropriate gif for this feeling.
This feeling of
burnout and disillusionment is dangerous, and seems to be an affliction several
close friends are suffering through. It is hard to succeed, hell at this point
it hard to even focus on the goals when you’re just trying to keep the boat
from sinking. I always use the example of repro rights. It was never my jam
until I couldn’t get away from it. I am a woman of privilege. I had access,
though it was expensive, to comprehensive birth control and education. I recognized
low-income women didn’t have this privilege, but raising Ohio’s minimum wage the
priority at the time. Now, we’re fighting to keep the Planned Parenthood funded
so the same low-income women can have any reproductive health care including
cancer screenings.

