We should all be feminists — but not for ourselves
I am a closeted feminist, writes I am afraid of people knowing I am one. I am afraid of being labelled with a word that many have attached negative connotations to. And I am afraid of others critiquing my feminism.
In the words of comedian Deborah Frances-White, because everything is more palatable with a seasoning of humour, I am a guilty feminist. But me aside, I’ve had a pretty cushy incarnation in this life — I’m white, I’m able-bodied, and English is my first language. My feminism isn’t about me.
The only trouble my gender has ever got me in is a verbal dig here and there, like being told as a kid to be more ladylike. There was also that teenage boy who ripped mine and my friends’ tent apart one summer night, while telling us to go to Weight Watchers.
It was the moment I became acutely aware of any semblance of a muffin top. It was the moment that I started to police my own body for flaws, so that no one would ever again get there before me — self-censoring as a pre-emptive form of defence/protection.
But me aside, my feminism isn’t about me. It’s about the two pre-pubescent Filipino girls who cuddled up to the two middle-aged European men in a rural airport in the Philippines, with their false hopes of escaping poverty, soon to be violently dashed.
It’s about the mother-of-one/two/three who happily made that choice to work at home full-time, but whose valuable work is not valued by society at large. It’s about the mother-of-one/two/three who happily made that choice to work at home full-time, but who’s paranoid that “working” people judge her for it.
It’s about that mother-of-one/two/three who never really wanted to leave her paying job, but economics and nurturing were going head-to-head and something had to give, and it just happened to be her career.
“She’s very into her career,” they say. Or: “Oh, she’s a real career woman,” they also say.
The subliminal message inferring a deeper, perhaps judgemental meaning. When really a career means independence — financial independence. And don’t we all want our children to grow up with the ability to be self-sustaining?
Another thing I hear about women is: “She’s very aggressive.” I hear this about politicians especially. Would we say the same about a “mouthy” male parliamentarian?
Women, while also censoring their bodies, must multi-task and censor their emotions. “Try smiling” — is a piece of advice a formidable female judge was given early in her career. Suffice to say, smiling was not her face’s natural resting position, and she went on to have a stellar career, while having children too. A high-powered executive in a large multinational was talking recently about her childcare arrangements, it emerged that her husband was the one at home full-time. This became a talking point. “He is the lead parent,” she explained, while going on to explain what lead parenting was all about.
It is hard to imagine a working father explaining the novel concept of his wife being at home full-time. To a father who co-parents, we so often congratulate him for being a “hands-on dad”. I’ve yet to hear of a woman being commended for being a “hands-on mum”.
To women, who empathise with someone in suffering and maybe even cry, we say they are sensitive and caring. To men, who act similarly, we call them weak. There is nothing weak about being brave enough to be vulnerable, and courageous enough, to be honest.
Societies have so often seen women as the weaker sex when, if we all spent a bit of time in a labour ward, we would know this couldn’t possibly be anywhere close to the truth.
My feminism isn’t about me, it’s about the kind of society we might have, if men, women, and other, did not have to play up to prescribed gender roles.
My eyes need to see more so-called “mouthy” female parliamentarians. I need to know that women can, and are, allowed to be angry too. Their being angry is not a sin. It’s a normal expression of human emotion.
My ears need to hear more so-called “weak” men cry, when they see immigrant children cross borders in nappies, only to be locked up in cages. Their being empathetic is not a sin. It’s so badly needed.
In the Oscar-winning movie Roma, the main character, the housemaid/cleaner/nanny, becomes pregnant. The father of the baby does a runner. From an exceedingly poor background, the maid has nowhere to go except to her employer, utterly and understandably petrified that she is out of a job. Her employer, a middle-class Mexican woman, whose doctor husband has also done a runner, steps into the breach. They will do this together.
That is feminism in action, but it also basic human kindness and decency in action. And if her boss is a feminist and that’s what we call a “rabble-rousing radical”, then sign me up and get me a T-shirt too.
Writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie said “we should all be feminists” and, as maligned as the word is, we should all be.
President Michael D Higgins talked about the “building of an environment where men feel comfortable and empowered to identify themselves as feminists and as champions of women’s rights.”
But it’s not just men, who need to feel more comfortable in that identification process — I do too. In writing, and admitting that, I fear the criticism of others.
But we are all works in progress, with infinite room for improvement. And we need to gift ourselves, and others, that room. In terms of improvement, as we mark International Women’s Day, there are people to celebrate.
There is a man and a woman, who reared two boys and two girls equally, and a grandmother who made sure that no matter the cultural or economic climate, her daughter would be as educated as her son. These people were feminists without ever using the word.
See, it’s not really that I am afraid of calling myself a feminist. I’ve simply been scared off by those who have maligned the word, because they were afraid of the equality and justice, that feminism in action, can bring.
We should all be feminists.
