April 19th, 2010 §
Along the Path of Healing Pt.1 : The End
I wrote Pt.1 in the second person. I wrote it as addressing other survivors, hoping it might be helpful but aware, too, of how much that distances myself from them. And I worry about that.
Of course, it is I. It is how I feel. It is my end. Other survivors might have a different experience, or they might use different language. Or they might have consequences, both physical and mental, that cannot so easily be separated from the past. Everyone’s path through this is uniquely their own. I can’t really speak for them and speaking to them sets me apart.
I sometimes feel like an imposter here in this group of survivors, because I had my end. It is a feeling very like those I had when I first started on my own journey actually; self-doubt and minimisation and thinking I didn’t have a right to call myself victim. And it is actually very hard to see so many people around me in pain when… I’m okay.
That isn’t a complaint. I suppose it is like survivor guilt, the kind the living sometimes feel when someone has died. I just try to take it as a reminder of what life used to feel like and as a way to maintain my empathy. I know enough not to accept those feelings at face value or let them weigh me down with responsibilities that aren’t mine, but I also know enough to realise that sometimes being okay can seem like a condemnation to those who haven’t reached the end yet. I remember using others to beat myself down that way. When I was trapped in the worst of it.
So… I worry.
But I keep going because while my own need to talk is gone, somewhere – everywhere – there is another small child being damaged right now and talking is all that I can do about that. Putting my hand up and saying -I am a statistic, is all that I can do about that. And somewhere – everywhere – there is yet another person just stepping into their past and thinking that there is no way out of it. So saying, -Yes, there is an end… That seems important.
And somewhere – everywhere – there are people who don’t realise, or don’t want to realise, how close to home child abuse is, how very commonplace it is, and that is what I consider one of the biggest hurdles to changing the realities of far too many children in our society. So… Here I am, Exhibit A, putting my hand up.
But really, it is so much easier not to.
Before the end, and after all those feelings of self-doubt had been silenced, when I was made of nothing but pain and anger, all I did was talk. And talk and talk and talk. I let myself be that victim and I used all the sympathy and support I could find around me, sometimes to the point of exhausting it. And sometimes I talked when it wasn’t “socially appropriate” at all because coming out and saying it made it real and I was screaming to be heard.
And that is good. And that was necessary. But there was a cost involved as well.
When you work so hard to define yourself as victim there is no guarantee that those whom you have given that identity to will be able to see beyond it when you don’t need it any more. Those closest to you had to learn to cope with your “crazy” by reminding themselves that your moods, behaviours, reactions etc were related to the circumstances of your past rather than taking them personally and that is difficult to unlearn. When you are better and you have a genuine issue that relates to their behaviour, well, your credibility is damaged. The habit of distancing themselves and deflecting, which was once necessary for their survival, becomes a real problem.
For me, that meant some relationships were damaged beyond repair. Other relationships, I didn’t even bother to stick around for because I just couldn’t stomach the identity I saw reflected. I wasn’t “her” any more.
And for new relationships? There was a desire to be understood, a desire for the history of my pain to be real to them because it was so central to who I became but at the same time I just wanted to be that person, without the baggage. It is a difficult balance to find; exposing large vulnerabilities and having someone else recognise only strength.
It is much easier just to leave the past behind.
And the same problem exists in society at large. For those who have managed to avoid being touched personally by the issue, all they have to measure their understanding against is what the media presents to them, so when you speak up you once again become defined as victim. They have their righteous indignation about it – because everyone is disgusted by child abuse – but you, as the “victim”, are simply an object of voyeuristic curiosity. You are the car accident they slow down to look at.
No. Of course not everyone is like that but there are enough who are to make continuing to speak when you no longer have a personal need to come with a price. I don’t mean this as a criticism of people at all. And I don’t want it to seem negative. For the most part, I think it is self-defense at the societal level: Child abuse is an ugliness people don’t want to let into their lives. However, when you’ve worked so hard to move from victim to survivor to person, being seen as an object, a statistic, rather than a very self-aware individual with the authority to speak is a bitter pill to swallow.
As someone whose journey ended many, many years ago, this remains a bitter pill to swallow. For long periods I have chosen to leave it alone, chosen to just have what I earned. And now, I just try to accept what it costs. I don’t like it. I don’t know that I can change it.
I guess my point is this… After the war is over, it sometimes still feels harder to remember than to forget. But putting my hand up remains all I can do.
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April 1st, 2010 §
I just can’t get my head around this one. I really can’t.
On Wednesday, the Belgians unanimously took another step toward banning face covering veils. Because that is all the rage in Europe.
I’ve yet to hear any justification for these laws which doesn’t sound like a rather blatant backward rationalisation.
(I’m going to be lazy and not bother with references because Wikipedia and Google should be able to hook you up.)
1. These women don’t wear it by choice and are obviously being oppressed.
Even assuming that was true, and I don’t believe it to be so, these lawmakers then think the answer is to deny a very small number of women who are considered “at risk” access to essential services such as medical care and public transport? To force them to either remain prisoners in their homes or risk the punishments their dangerously oppressive families would dish out to them? Oh yes. That sounds extraordinarily helpful.
2. They are symbolic of women’s oppression.
Oh. Now I get it. A bunch of fat old white men are doing me a favour by targeting a tiny minority of women and telling them what to wear? Oh yeah.. that is a huge step forward for women’s rights. I feel so grateful.
3. These clothes generate fear.
I’ll be honest. The full coverings do kind of creep me out. And I probably stare a bit too. But since when is it the job of legislators to pander to cultural discomfort? When I was younger and living in a town full of Italians I used to find all the widows in their heavy black clothes a bit creepy too. I got over it. Passing laws about what women can wear because clothes are scary? Attack of the Killer Textiles – In cinemas April 1st.
4. Terrorists might be hiding under there.
Oh, yes. Those helpful terrorists. An excellent reason to pass laws proscribing women’s clothing choices. You know, I heard there might be one living right next door to you. And did you see that guy buying manure? He looked shifty.
5. It is incompatible with a secular state.
Beleive me, I have issues with even our own supposedly secular state (which is an entirely different post) but this still doesn’t wash with me. If all the areas which have these kinds of rules in place for public employees were even-handed in their restrictions, I might actually believe they were sincere, if misguided. But they don’t. And even if we ignore the hypocrisy, I have never heard of a state which enforced either non-religion or a specific religion on its populace which I would like to live in.
Or some reasons from the article I did link to…
6. “Wearing the burqa in public is not compatible with an open, liberal, tolerant society”?
But making laws targeting a tiny minority of women on the basis of clothing is? Oh yeah. That just reeks of tolerance.
7. “We cannot allow someone to claim the right to look at others without being seen”.
In that case, I propose a ban on wearing sunglasses and caps. Oh, and clowns. I had one at a birthday party once. Turns out it was really our next door neighbour. Her daughter screamed the whole time. Poor thing couldn’t recognise her own mother. But seeing who is looking at us is an inviolable right so this legislation must pass. Oh, except if you a motorcyclist apparently. Or Santa Claus. Oh yes, there is nothing targeted or intolerant involved at all.
And just in case my sarcasm hasn’t been very illustrative of what seems like very flawed reasoning to me, let’s just take a look at where it all began for Belgium, in 2005.
“A police inspector in Maaseik said the head-to-toe covering alarmed locals. “You cannot identify or recognise someone when they’re wearing a burqa, especially at night. It’s not normal, we don’t have that in our culture,” he said.”
Yup. You read it right. “It’s not normal.”
I have absolutely no problem with making these women remove the veils for practical purposes, like checking in at airports or having ID -photos taken. Beyond that, regardless of how much I might dislike or disagree with the reasons some women choose to wear these clothes in societies where they are legally free not to, regardless of any opinion I might have on Muslim culture, can someone please explain to me why it suddenly seems reasonable again to dictate what a women wears? And what the fuck they actually think they will achieve by doing so?
These laws target women. These laws tell women what they can and can not wear, as though women’s clothing choices are a threat to the very fabric of our society. Does this all sound eerily familiar? It isn’t that long ago women couldn’t wear pants. In fact, the engineering firm where I used to work only removed the requirement for their female staff to wear skirts in the 80s.
I am not a big fan of niqābs and burqas but I do love my jeans. And although I might have had the luxury of wearing them all my life, I haven’t forgotten that women not so very much older than me weren’t “allowed” to.
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March 8th, 2010 §
Starting back on this abandoned blog with a series of thoughts on women’s issues this week. Today is International Women’s Day and also, in Victoria and Tassie, Labour Day so work seems an appropriate subject.
“Women in today’s workplace still earn less than blokes, they work harder for promotion but are often overlooked in favour of men for more senior positions, and when they retire, have far less income to retire on. If they have children, most of the childcare, or organising it, will be left up to them. They will often work in poorly paid casual or part-time positions in order to prioritise family, especially in the pre-school years. ”
— Trish Bolton, Feminism is more than a memory
THE FACTS:
- Women’s average full-time weekly earnings – 17.2% lower than men
- Women’s average, inc. part-time and casual work – 35% lower than men
- Women’s likelihood of old age poverty – 2.5 times higher than men
- Women’s average lifetime superannuation – 50% of what men have
MY RESPONSE TO THE FACTS:
Are these figures quite appalling? Yes. Are they unjustifiable? Certainly. Do I feel enraged? I simply… don’t.
As a lifelong feminist, I have always found it difficult to get worked up over the pay equity issue. Partly, it is a question of triage. If the average woman has enough money to feed and clothe and house herself and her children, then my focus will be on other issues. In the face of serious threats to women’s health and safety, for example, the question of who is getting the biggest piece of the pie becomes rather trivial to me. Will a few more female CEO’s or female millionaires – often lauded in the media like some kind of breakthrough for women’s rights – change the daily experience of the average woman’s life? Make her more free? The average woman, and even the average man, will never have access to that rarified air.
Incidentlally, the pay gap is actually at its widest in that rarified air. (Women CEOs, for example, are often earning 50% less than a male in similar positions.) The lowest paying jobs are where you will find the smallest gap. And yes, yes… Women are over-represented in the lowest-paid jobs. It kind of makes that old catch-cry of “Equal Pay for Equal Work” seem rather silly when women don’t get ‘equal’ work.
And perhaps I should be more outraged about that. Because that IS about cultural attitudes and stereotypes which inhibit a woman’s power to choose. Of course I agree that any woman who wishes it should have equitable career rewards and opportunities for advancement but the reality of this capitalist, consumerist Western society is that the majority of all people do work that is not particularly fulfilling or financially rewarding. The issue for me is not whether women should be getting more of the pie: It is whether or not that pie is worth buying into at all.
Can we measure someone’s societal value by their earnings, or by the prestige of their position? Should we? Yes, I know we do… but should we?
What exactly is wrong with those “low-paid” jobs anyway, apart from the fact that my telly might not be as big as my next-door neighbour’s? Would I somehow feel more important and valued if I was an accountant than I would if I was answering an accountant’s phone? Would I actually be more important, or are we really just talking emperor’s new clothes here? Can my paycheque really define my value as a member of this society or, after a certain point, actually improve the quality of my life, not just its appearance?
I might sound facetious but I am actually serious. Our society places a lot of emphasis on work (in that old male ‘public sphere’ anyway) as identity and it grades identities with a rather ridiculous scale. Doctors sometimes save lives. But garbage collectors do more to make my life livable every week.
Isn’t there the danger of actually creating another yoke around women’s necks with the pressure to be ’successful’? Isn’t this simply another double-edged sword for women, like sexual liberation, where more is expected and less is given? (Not that I’m knocking sexual liberation, but any number of conversations with women worrying that making a phone call after sex might be overstepping the bounds tells me there is some power imbalance there.)
I would suggest that this social pressure already exists. Over the last decade several older feminists have come out and said, “We got it wrong: You can’t do everything. That Superwoman thing was a big mistake.” And we know what the crux of the Superwoman problem is, and it is a significant part of the problem with pay disparity: Motherhood.
In a brief discussion on Facebook earlier today, it was pointed out to me that because of lower earnings, often women are dis-empowered in the negotiations at home about who will work and who will care for the children. If women earn less money, they will obviously be the ones who will stay home, or do flexible, low-paid work to supplement the family income. This does take some choice out of the equation, it’s true, but I am not by any means convinced that even with equal work and equal pay there would be equity in those negotiations anyway.
And this is where the way we value work and the way in which we assign social value really comes to the fore: Even when both (heterosexual) parents are working full time, the majority of housework and childcare falls on women. The vast majority of all unpaid work has no (acknowledged) social value and continues to be “women’s work”. There will most certainly never be equal pay for equal work while this division of labour remains so firmly in place. And while perhaps some legislative action and governmental changes might improve a woman’s pay cheque, and even her social status, the price is the expectation that, if a mother, she will have two full time jobs and will often feel that both of them represent a failure.
As a single mother myself, one would think that I might sometimes wish for the support of a partner, and perhaps if I had one my finances would be less of a worry, but the feeling I most often get looking at perfectly happy relationships is relief.
“The cost in human terms of feeding him, grooming him, humouring him and financing his recreation is way out of proportion to the contribution he makes in return, even if he is a sensitive and attentive lover.”
– Germaine Greer, The Whole Woman
Equal pay for equal work? How about just getting paid? Yes, now I am being facetious, but if anything is to change in the experience of work for women, there needs to be a societal shift in the way all work is valued and it can’t be measured in cash. For all the achievements of feminism made in the last century – and they are enormous, and I am exceedingly grateful for them – we still live in a society of irrational hierarchies and I’m not sure that climbing the ranks is the solution.
Women should have choices. Affordable and accessible childcare should be a priority. Longer and paid parental leave should be a priority. And I am in favour of equity in the workplace and at home. I am all in favour of women having career goals and financial goals above and beyond the necessities of life, if that is what they want. I truly am. I simply can’t find in myself the feminist urge to march in the street for it.
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March 8th, 2010 §
Okay. So I’m guessing there are still a few people who have me in their feedreader. Your hopes were not in vain. Of course, some of you probably just kept me there so you could get those claws out as soon as I posted again and blast me for being the Queen of All Disappearing Acts.
So get those nail files out because here I am.
I’ll be writing something about International Women’s Day sometime very late tonight. You’ll probably be in bed.
But don’t expect this return to be without interruptions – I know. You weren’t actually foolish enough to expect that! – because this Wordpress version is hopelessly outdated and I’m not even sure I remember how to fix it. And I find this theme quite loathsome now so I’ll be fiddling around with the stylesheet sometime in the near future too.
Also, there was so much spam in my comments folder that I just did some wholesale deleting. If something you wrote, that I never read, got lost in the fallout… Well, you probably don’t remember writing it anyway.
Love you all. Missed you all. And I will be dropping by your places for a visit sometime in the near future too.
Until then, here a some repostings of poems which seem somehow appropriate for International Women’s Day…
— Prenuptial –
When the time comes, I will quietly press God’s jaw
And bite at the tendons of his stiffening neck.
I am disoriented.
When the time comes, I will face East.
Bedlam is the home of women with tangled hair
And I have no hair.
This is my home.
Men wear white when they visit me;
They are bridal.
I pick flowers from the fields to earn my keep.
No. That was in another place.
I’ll tell you a story.
When I was a girl, the grass grew.
Oh, I know the grass grows still
- I am not crazy -
But then it grew in the fields I grew in
And I raced to grow faster than it,
Taller than it.
But I fell and it defeated me.
A snake entered the pit of my womb
And planted there a seed
Which grew round and downward.
My woman’s body was not built for movement
So I lay still.
This is the meaning of the story.
The teaching.
When the snake enters,
When his fangs are poised,
Do not interrupt. Lie still.
Talk to the grass for whom you raced and fell.
You belong to the grass.
This is an old, old teaching.
My bridal men stand poised with syringes
While I murmur to you.
I have another story.
When I was a girl I wore a crown.
Now I have no hair and God is coming.
199?
— You Begin –
When your soft fingers
flex against the walls
of my deep cavern,
you begin.
Or is it sooner?
When you first feel
the pulse of my hot
blood in your own veins,
is it then?
Or is it when
I feel him still
beneath me, still
enclosed by flesh,
but still.
Is it then
that you first move?
Almost you.
Or when I run
screaming
to my own mother,
blood on hands,
wanting to swim
with the bloodless girls,
already ashamed
of my blue bra?
Is that you then,
new, impatient?
Or is it when
my own fingers
flex against the wall
of her deep cavern
and further inside
I drum life patterns
into waiting rooms
and you begin.
— The Pitch –
I love men.
I love the stillness of them
Their lack of agitation
When they shake off
Their workaday
Clothes
Their ability to not
Talk, to not repeat
Their thoughts
Over and over again
Their lack
Of doubt.
Men are peaceful.
But there are times
When they need
To think beyond
Their words
Beyond
Other men’s words
Times they need
To see the
Queen trapped
In the corner
Of the chessboard
While they laugh
Albeit humourlessly
At another joke
At the Queen’s
Expense
While she shrivels
Beneath the gaze
And turns to ivory.
Women talk
But men hear
Men’s voices
Like dogs
It’s all
In the pitch,
Bitch.
When they
Are not funny
Why won’t you
Snarl at them?
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April 22nd, 2008 §
I mentioned in my first history tutorial notes over in my egregiously behind study blog that I didn’t find the small group discussions very productive, but when I finally went again last week (I’ve missed tutorials due tothe ovarian cyst), I was expecting something a little better than what I got. Yes, we were put into small groups again and, not knowing anyone, I just joined those I was closest to.
We were given questions to discuss. Did anyone talk about them? Not at all. Even when the tutor sat with us they didn’t stay on topic. It was so bloody annoying that I eventually got up and moved to another group. (Way to make friends, eh? Chalk me down as another obnoxious mature-age student.) The second group were not talking about history either, but at least they were discussing another university subject and not football.
For philosophy I have only missed one class and that tutorial is fairly quiet as well. I have to give them credit though, because Plato is pretty difficult to engage with as well as being somewhat daunting. I’m think that when we start on Nietzsche next week, they’ll have more than can relate to and more will be said.
But this brings me back to my sexism. I’ve actually spent some time talking to my female tutors and I like and respect them both but while we (okay, it’s only me) are in sexual stereotyping mode I’ll just say that there is one teaching style I like which seems to be fairly rare amongst the women: The Martinet.
I like The Martinet. He gets down to business. He knows that you’re in class for one reason and one reason only. He expects you to talk, and he expects you to do your reading. And so you do. Because if you don’t, you look like a dick.(If you can’t imagine the kind of person I mean, think of The Nazi on Grey’s Anatomy and remember me kindly because I have provided a female, though fictitious, example.)
Captain Slusher, an old teacher of mine that I’ve mentioned before, was a perfect Martinet. He came into class for the very first time, towering over us all, and gave us a lecture about his expectations; about what he would and would not tolerate, about what constituted an excuse and what did not. It’s pretty hard (for me, anyway) to dislike someone who is up front about where he stands and then applies those principles; who is hard but fair. And it has the added benefit that when you’ve done well, you know that you have done really well.
Perhaps that is a weakness on my part – wanting an external impetus – but I like to be pushed. If I can just breeze through a subject with high marks, I guess that’s okay, but I’d prefer to be stretched. I like having to earn every last percentage point.
Incidentally, I have only received one mark so far, for a 500 word answer to a weekly question for philosophy. I only wrote 350 words and I thought my answer was fairly shite. I got 95%. Don’t get me wrong: I was really chuffed (and surprised) by that and I probably did a happy dance for two days straight. It was the first mark I’d received in over a decade. Who wouldn’t be chuffed?
But I’m looking forward to getting marked harder and getting whipped into shape as expectations rise over the course of my degree. (Don’t throw that in my face if I don’t get an HD for my first history essay next week. Just let me cry.)
And I’ve been wondering… What will I be like when I start teaching? Will I be a soft touch? Or will I try out The Martinet style and have it come across as though I have some repressed, chip-on-my-shoulder issue with my womanhood. (Another pretty awful stereotype.) Because, you see, the beauty of Captain Slusher was not only that he was uncompromising in his standards; he was also bloody funny.
And I’m not. Funny, I mean. I’m too serious, too intense, too everything. And my sense of humour is obscure and personal. Whatever game face I decide to go with, it’s going to need a lot of work.
[Btw, there was an interesting review of the movie Smart People which discusses the stereotypes of academics. I might be biased, because I have a blog crush on Jake Pure Pedantry but it's worth a read. It might even be worth watching the movie. 
]
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March 24th, 2008 §
I’ve been unwell. Well, not unwell, but in pain. I have an ovarian cyst that has been haemorrhaging which is just not pleasant. I even missed a day at university on Tuesday. I went to my Thursday classes but I was in tears by the time I got home.
I got my first ovarian cyst when I was 14 and by the time I got a diagnosis and treatment I had two, one in each ovary; a grapefruit and a golf ball, both extraordinarily painful while menstruating. Luckily, they cleared up with medication. My sister, who gets them as well, had to have her first one surgically removed.
The cyst isn’t a big drama but the treatment is The Pill. At 14, years and years before I was sexually active, I was put on Microgynon 50ED, a “high dose” oral contraceptive and I was told I had to stay on it for the rest of my fertile life. I prefer to let my body take care of itself. I can always tell when I have a cyst because the pain is quite distinct from normal menstrual pain but I only get a really bad one every 2 or 3 years. I have a rule that if the cyst hasn’t flushed itself away through 3 cycles, then I will resort to medical intervention. But 3 cycles is the most they ever last.
I don’t like being on The Pill and decided even before I became sexually active that I would use it for contraception when in a relationship only. I had side effects at a young age due to the dosage, the least of which was significant weight gain at the time when a young girl’s body image is probably at its most fragile. And if I had stayed on it as instructed, by now I would have taken about 7,500 tablets. By the time I reached menopause, if I had continued as instructed, I would have taken over 13,000. I find that idea untenable. While I love and respect science, that level of screwing around with the body’s natural functions should be avoided unless absolutely necessary, in my opinion.
But anyway, that’s where I have been. In bed and in pain. My computer was switched off while I laid curled up in a ball watching Smallville. I’m still not 100% but at least I don’t feel like I’m in labour anymore.
However, my usual posting schedule is not about to resume because, basically, the shit has hit the fan next door, where Big Sis’ boyfriend lives. The upshot is that he needs to move out, and soon. With me and Cas living here in big Sis’ place, there isn’t room for him (he has 3 children on the weekends) so we’re trying to orchestrate a somewhat dramatic shuffle to make sure we all have a bed somewhere.
It looks like he’ll move into my derelict house, temporarily at least, which is probably a good thing for me because the help I’ve needed will be given more urgent attention but there are a lot of logistics to sort out in the coming weeks so postings will (continue to) be a little sketchy.
In other news, my first assignment is due tomorrow and I haven’t started it yet. It’s only 500 words so it shouldn’t be a drama, but with all the financial, residential and health issues rearing their heads right now, well… You get the picture.
Love and kisses to all. And apologies for my inattention of late. That will continue for a little while longer.
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March 13th, 2008 §
I’m trying to put my finger on it.
I was disappointed to find that both my subjects’ tutorials this semester are being led by female academics. What is that about? I’d love to be a female academic myself, so why do I think I’m somehow getting less out of them? To a certain extent, perhaps it has more to do with who I relate to rather than stereotypes. Then again, just saying “who I relate to” in such a way (ie; meaning males) is stereotyping. Isn’t it?
Can some of it be excused by personal experience? I prefer male doctors, for example. My experience with female doctors have been that they are either to emo or in-my-face or trying-to-connect when all I want is bald science, or too snarky or chip-on-their-shoulder or sour. Now those are some awfully destructive, endemic stereotypes. Perhaps they really were like that, but perhaps my perceptions were influenced by the culture I am surrounded by.
My current doctor, incidentally, is female and I really like her. She’s Chinese. Does her different background effect the way she relates, or do I relate to her differently? (That’s an even more concerning question!)
I have similar “experiences’ with females in wide range of roles. Even traditionally “female” roles. Like nurses. I loathe most nurses with a passion.
And even just generally, I prefer the company of men. With the exception of my blogging pals, I have few female friends. Occasionally, I love a “girly” get together – I’m a fairly girly girl and I have 7 pairs of pink shoes – but too much female company and I begin to dislike my own sex. I can only take so much.
In part, I think it is because I have a “masculine” mind and, statistically, more males than females think and interact the way I do. (Yes, I do think that there are statistically significant differences between the sexes, even though that tells us nothing about any single individual.) I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that I also like to be not so much one-of-the-boys, but the woman who runs with them. Because I “fit” very well, but I also have a point of difference and therefore get special treatment. That’s not a very admirable reason for what is essentially prejudice.
Or is it prejudice? Where is the line between prejudice and preference?
There is no self-loathing in play here. I share the “flaws” of my sex which irritate me in other women and I have no desire to be other than what I am. My “femaleness” informs everything I do and think. I experience the world through my female body. It generates meaning. I find it valuable.
Perhaps it is the complementary nature of “sex” differences which attracts me to the company of men. There are characteristics I admire which I find more frequently in males than I do in females and don’t think that is uncommon. (This applies in reverse as well: There are many men who prefer the company of women.) Still, I find it problematic.
Because I’m a feminist.
I’m not a “feminist, but…”: I’m 100% pure, unadulterated. So how does that compute with my “sexism”? How do I resolve those two leanings? My feminism is obviously not a female bias. It is a combination of broader principles and my female experience.
I think this post is opening a very large can of philosophical worms. I think I need to define my feminism again. It isn’t something I have intellectually considered for a long time. Is it a label that I have worn for so many years that it is no longer meaningful?
It’s time to make this area of my social conscience conscious once more.
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