Why we still need Feminism (And why I insist on reclaiming the “F” word)

1. People seem to think feminist are angry, men haters.  Feminism is not about being anti-men, but rather about being pro-woman and pro-equality.
2. People think Feminists burn bras.  That never happened. It’s a total myth.
3. Large corporations sell T-shirts for pre-teen girls that say, “I’m too pretty for homework.”
4. Our culture primes women to be stupid: women who watch 10 minutes of commercials before taking math exams do significantly worse than those who just take the test (Delusions of Gender, Cordelia Fine).
5. We teach our daughters that if they have sex, they are dirty, used-up, immoral beings… yet “boys will be boys.”
6. Only 1 in 60 rapes result in a conviction
7. In the Arab world, it’s socially normal to mutilate women’s genitals in the name of modesty
8. When I was single and pregnant, I was kicked out of church ministry and people asked me, “won’t Baylor expel you for that?”
9. Our country has yet to elect a woman president, even though Harvard Business Review reports that woman are actually better leaders: I didn’t make that up
10.  I am a mother of a daughter, and she deserves to be a Jedi if that’s what she wants.

If you hate feminism answer me this: Do you hate wearing pants? Do you hate voting? Do you hate driving? Do you hate having property rights? Do you hate earning equal pay as your male co-worker?

A dear mother of liberty once said:

“Well, knowledge is a fine thing, and mother Eve thought so; but she smarted so severely for hers, that most of her daughters have been afraid of it since. ” 
― Abigail Adams

Part II, Save the Males

“A real-life description to me would be a rape victim, brutally raped, savaged. The girl was a virgin. She was religious. She planned on saving her virginity until she was married. She was brutalized and raped, sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it, and is impregnated. I mean, that girl could be so messed up, physically and psychologically, that carrying that child could very well threaten her life.”

-Bill Napoli, Senator for the South Dakota State Legislature concerning when rape is really rape. 

I believe that my most recent post was left incomplete.  In order to truly understand the reality of rape culture, one must address the concept of victim blaming.

I’m talking about “she was asking for it” responses.  I’m referring to “she should have known better” statements.  And I very much mean “she shouldn’t have been wearing that,” comments.  Because here’s the reality: As Jessica Valenti points out in “Full Frontal Feminism,” a 2004 National Crime Victimization Survey, nearly two-thirds of all rapes are committed by someone the victim knows: a relative, an acquaintance–even a lover.

When is rape really rape? It’s rape when a woman is alone at night in her home and someone breaks down her door and holds her down.  It’s also rape when she’s drunk, goes home with a guy, and decides he’s taking things way further than she would like.  It’s rape when she’s not a virgin, Mr. Napoli.  It’s rape when she’s a prostitute and says “no.”  If you agree with me, and you should, then why is rape such an underreported crime? Because we know our attackers.  Because he was our brother’s best friend.  Because he was a pastor.  Because women are pelted with shame and guilt, and everyone around us has one of 3 things to say: “She was asking for it, she should have known better, and she shouldn’t have been wearing that.”

The reason I called men out in my previous post is not because rape is a “woman’s issue.”  Clearly, it’s a men’s issue.  Why do men rape men? Because they are afraid.  They are afraid of “girly” men.  Why do men rape women? They are afraid of women.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, they are happy to see us serve them drinks in a bar, or even bare their children, and they are definitely okay with us cleaning up after them.  No.  They are afraid of our equality.  Michael Kimmel put it well when he wrote,

“If men are afraid of what other men will think of them, they’re also afraid of what women will do to them–just by their presence.  Supporters of the male-only admissions policy at the Citadel distributed buttons that said ‘Save the Males!’– as if the very presence of a woman on campus would dilute the mystical bonding that takes place among the male cadets.  Imagine a masculinity so fragile, so threatened, so besieged that the mere presence of a woman would make proving manhood impossible!”

The purpose of my writings are to express that feminism is not dead–that we still need activists. Duh.  But we need a movement within men as well.  What I want to see is a decision from the men around me to see women not as a threat–but as equals.  And I want them to overturn the patriarchal power structure they were born into.  I understand not all men are rapists, but all of us play our part–either in ignoring this issue or by actively contributing to a culture that silences victims.

Until masculinity takes on a new definition, I don’t believe rape will end.  And until we see rapists vividly for what they are–as rapists, victims will remain silent.

Reflecting on Rape Culture

“You know spies…a bunch of bitchy little girls”

-Burn Notice

Lately I’ve done some serious soul searching.  I’m having a Saul/Paul transformation experience, and I can almost see the scales fall from my eyes.  How could I have been so blind all this time?  I’ve been filling myself with research, writings, blogs, essays, statistics, and poetry and If I don’t get this all off my chest, I just might explode.  

I’ve tip-toed around these issues long enough, and I’m done pretending like I don’t care.  I’m done being silent. I’m also done being afraid.  I’m through with worrying that when I write down how I feel, everyone will freak out and judge me.  So what. Judge me.  Here I go…

We live in a rape culture. We live in a society where rape, sexual aggression, violence against women, and homophobia run rampant and unchecked.  I’m sick of religion pouring down ideology that does nothing but preach a hierarchical power structure that places men at the top and women at the bottom.  We need to realize that we consistently teach boys to abhor all that is female.  After all, what’s the worse thing you can call a guy? A GIRL.  

Michael A. Messner wrote, “Boys and men learn to bond with each other through sexually aggressive, erotically exciting talk that forges an aggressive, even violent, hierarchical ordering of bodies, both within the male peer group and between groups.”

Most men would never raise their hand and say, “yeah, I think rape is Okay.” But when a woman is beaten every 18 seconds and raped every 3 minutes, we need to realize that this is everyone’s problem.  And it starts with how we raise our children.  

So many people, especially country music songs, champion freedom, and applaud fighting for American freedom.  But how can we be a free society when half the population must live in constant fear of rape? Andrea Dworkin has this to say, “You can’t have equality or tenderness or intimacy as long as there is rape, because rape means terror.  It means that part of the population lives in a state of terror and pretends–to please and pacify you (men)–that it doesn’t.  So there is no honesty.  How can there be?… If you have a conception of freedom that includes the existence of rape, you are wrong.  You cannot change what you say you want to change. For myself, I want just one day of real freedom before I die.”

You can roll your eyes at me. You can laugh off this post as something that’s not relevant to you.  But if you’ve had rape touch your life the way its violated mine, you might just understand.  You may choose to adopt a different attitude when you’ve seen people you love and value and cherish ravaged by sexual violence.  When you look into a person’s eyes and know that when they were very small, someone stole their innocence and destroyed all hope of leading a sexually healthy life, then you may understand what I’m saying.  When you have a daughter and realize that she may one day be violated by someone who has decided he has the right to her body, then can you come and talk to me.  You don’t need to look far.  It used to be that 1 in every 4 women would be raped. That stat recently grew to 1 in 3.  I am one of those women, and maybe you are too.  

If you are a man, and you are reading this, then the burden rests on you.  Men have the power.  The power to change this forever.  The power to give women even one day–24 hours–of no rape.  If this is a man-driven world, than I expect for men to change it.  And since you probably won’t, I will. 

Mothering Maneuvers

While talking about different aspects of parenting, someone once told me, “don’t expect to see any character development in your children that you don’t already demonstrate.”  In other words, if you want your child to be more kind or patient, you need to demonstrate greater levels of kindness and patience in your own life first.  If you aren’t developing character, neither will your children.

I realize that kids come in all forms and very often they differ in personality type than their parents , but I’ve seen this concept manifest in my life.  I will start to whine or criticize David, and then I think, “what did Addison just learn by watching that interaction?”  It makes me sick to see how miserable I am at times, and I get scared.  How will I raise my daughter to be thoughtful, loving, independent and self-sufficient unless I can pave the way for her with some sense of grace and dignity? This is not the story of my life.  I understand that I’m a good mom, but I still see where there is so much room for improvement.  Addison will turn around and say something rude to her father, and I want to blame myself.  At this point in her life, how can I not take on full responsibility for all of her words and actions?

I was looking at toys online for children between the ages of 3 and 4.  So many of the girl items are vanity sets, doll houses, Barbie themed kitchens and Disney Princess themed make-up sets.  I thought to myself, “Yuck.  Why would I want to encourage my 3 year old to sit in front of a mirror and primp?”  But then I reflect that idea back at myself. How important is it to me to look “perfect”?  How much time to do I spent looking in the mirror? Addison doesn’t see me at work, but she certainly gets a first-row view of my beauty regimen. 

This goes even further, as everything I say about myself is something she will internalize as well.  Where I used to be able to critique my looks/body openly, I stop myself now.  I don’t want her to think that there has to always be something wrong with mommy—that I’m never satisfied or that I chronically dislike myself.  As I imagine all the things I want to teach Addison, I realize all the broken belief systems I live by every day.  

I criticize how that person dresses at work. I don’t like how that girl talks. I laugh at so-and-so behind her back.  These are all behaviors that I despise.  Still, they come up.  I know I will never be perfect, and that isn’t the point.  But I’m ever learning how I need to grow up so that Addie can one day be an adult.  I’m seeing how I can love myself more so that she can be comfortable with who she is.  I’m understanding how I can speak uplifting words so that my daughter will know how to be a true friend.  

If life is a journey, parenting is a marathon, and I can’t help but feel like I’m just getting warmed up.  

 

Swimming Pool Blues

 

 

 

I’m sun bathing by my beautifully manicured apartment pool and i cant help but daydream a little.

 

When I close my eyes and I simply listen to the running water, my mind wanders to the rushing river that flows through Luzern, Switzerland.  This is a magical, misty city that boasts ancient rocks, impenetrable mountains, exquisitely perfected food and banks that resemble a stone fortress. 

 

How different it feels to wander those twisting cobblestone streets versus the dirt roads of India. I can almost smell it- spices and rain mixed with sweaty bodies and trash.  Although different, Jaipur is just as beautiful as my Swiss wonderland. The palace rests peacefully on a hill and is only one elephant ride away. Made of white marble, the stone cold walls hide beautiful maidens dressed in the richest of colors–bejeweled and decorated with the purest gold. 

 

My mind jumps from place to place, person to person, city to city.  Be careful or you may get swept away by a rug maker in Agra, taken in by a knock-off handbag seller in Shanghai, or lost in an obscure Italian art gallery boasting an forgotten Van Gogh. 

 

Hurry home now, it’s getting dark. Maybe one day I can add to the list: Samba dancing in Rio, surfing in New Zealand, or even wandering through ruins in the ancient city of Jerusalem.  

 

For now, I’ll stay by my pool, catch some rays and wish for a new scene… A fresh start… A cup of turkish coffee served in a porcelain cup… A breath of clean air… An even fuller heart. 

Plenty More than Half an Acre

I sit with both eyes facing the sunset, and my face radiates the heat from the bonfire. I leave my troubles at the swinging, metal gate and enter Shiloh with hands lifted and my heart open.  The world may spin wildly out of control, but here I am at peace.  The smell of fresh earth and spring rain drifts up from the wild flowers and reaches me all at once with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  I thank heaven for the water that comes down with grace and force, for I lived the last 9 months in a drought and my soul is thirsty.

Come in the morning and you will see my feet–bare, with toes painted–treading along Rock Creek Loop.  I am no longer  a wanderer, but I walk with purpose.  For here I have found my home.  Here I bury the hatchet and forget the past. Here I fall in love again with the man who loved me first.  Here I laugh as my dog runs with the horses.

At home, surrounded by the Houston lights and flashy cars, I imagine that simple farm.  I drink red wine with David and eat chocolate chip cookies with Addison.  Her sweet voice drifts from her bedroom, and I hold her tiny fingers in my own.  She whispers in my ear, “I love you so much.”  I know that in her small way, she understands that we almost didn’t make it.  That daddy, she, and I were almost never a family.  Still, here we are–together.

I breathe deeply and remember Shiloh.  I long for the low pasture and ache to hold my camera once more.  So I call her name out to the wind, and my angel of peace finds me still.  Bring peace now, sweet spirit.  Bring healing, and please, above all, bring rest.

Goodnight.

The Ridiculousness of my Husband

My daughter is really into Beauty and the Beast right now. 

This is a nostalgic time for me, because B and the B was my favorite Disney movie growing up, and I get to re-live my childhood in many ways through my daughter.  One of the most rewarding parts of being a parent is having the opportunity to shape another person’s youth and all of her childhood experiences. 

Beauty and the Beast offers a perfect opportunity for Addison and me to share our love for enchantment and intrigue.  I get to be innocent again. I get to be a kid again.  Even if it’s only 84 minutes. 

The only thing that comes between my daughter and my perfect, harmonious enjoyment of this fantastically magical film is… David.  Never underestimate the ability of this man to take something precious and rake it through the mud of the most annoying satire ever heard.

For example: Having grown up with the film, David and I are very familiar with the songs and the plot.  But David hasn’t really taken the time to learn any of the words.  This doesn’t stop him from singing the theme song–”Tale as Old as Time”–in the shower. Everyday. And it goes a little something like this:

(Sung in a deep, echoing vibrato)

“Tale as old as time. Tale as old as time.  Tale as old as time, tale as old as time, tale as old as time.  This tale is as old as TIIIIIIIIIME, and it’s really as old as TIIIIIIIME, if you say it’s not as old as time, you don’t know how to rhyme, because this tale is as old as TIIIIIME.” 

This singing has happened every morning for the last 2 weeks.  And it’s annoying–really annoying.  But now he has Addison singing the same song! She thinks he is singing the real words, and echoes it all right back to him.

Here is the thing about being married to a man like David.  He won’t let me stay in my own little fantasy world of delusions.  No.  He has to rip me from my happy place into a reality where I’m married to a man who loves to sing made-up, improvised show tunes at the top of his lungs.  Still, no one has ever made me smile this much—ever. 

More to come…