The women who made my a woman – Part IV
March 8th, 2021
Being grateful is the least difficult thing one can do. You list things, you acknowledge their hitherto presence and impact on your life, put down the pen, go back to status quo: ingratitude. Simplicity, Ignorance. The blissfulness of being unaware, Who doesn’t love being a pawn who just sometimes, every once in a while, every so often there is an international holiday such as 8th of March where we smile harder than usual, come up with a cliché that we abide by 24 hours, and try to remember people that fall in this category. Holidays are interestingly wired: you make almost the entire population of Earth believe in the same mission for a full day. Today, it’s appreciating women. Tomorrow, we are back to questioning them. And I say we, as a woman, because I mean it. Now, I love women. Tomorrow, I will hate them and therefore, myself.
What I want to write about this year is something I touched on when I first started by blogging business 5 years ago: the paradoxical equation of women. There are times where the internet is bewildering – a sea of useless and priceless information abounded scrolls away. And ever since the May-June George Floyd Protests, infographics are suffocating every social media channel. You see it, you nod in understatement at the screen, repost it, hoping or not even caring at this point, that someone from your list will repeat your moves. A few months ago, I stopped sharing these things. Not because I do not agree with them – I do. Moreover, because it helped no one, I only knew 20% at best! about the topic, and I preferred to get more knowledgeable about a topic that actually interested me than following the herd. It worked for a while. However, there are some feminist posts that have always got me thinking. Today, I will focus on them.
I do appreciate powerful women. Ambitious women. Hard working, immigrant, first-generation, low-income women. I love womxn. But that is not to say there are more time than I care to admit when I fully despised women. Gorgeous women. Rewarded women. Successful women. Questioned womxn. It is a shame to even say it out loud, but think of this as repenting. You: the priest. Me: scribbling in the confession room.
I was thought to believe that women cannot be both conventionally attractive and downright smart. They had to choose. I was told that women who are comfortable with their sexuality are everyone’s playground and they probably hate their parents. No one taught me that hypersexuality came from trauma, rape or assault. Until I experienced it myself and a tweet told me last summer that it is normal. I was taught that women who are overachieving have high-pitched voice and are annoying to the rest of the group. The rest of the group doesn’t have the same credentials as the annoying woman, but apparently her voice tonality mattered. I was taught so many things along the line I have forgotten what is the truth or not. I catch myself judging, denigrating, envying, and more. I see a girl full of spawned hatred rather than adoration and admiration. This girl is the product of society. Of turning women against one another and for one day a year, we pretend that isn’t our reality.
Women die every day at the hands of men, at the hands of injustice, at the hands of inequality. They are muted 354 days a year and for one day, the volume is turned up only a line so that the complementors can hear a mere thank you. Women are at risk every time they walk down the street, unaccompanied, without their key in between their fingers. Women cry themselves to sleep every time they scroll down Instagram and witness “perfect” bodies lingering from post to post. They punch their belly, chew their food less, crave for validation more.
For one day, we believe that this isn’t the case.
I cannot celebrate the idea of womanhood when more often than not, is a threat. to exist as a woman in the world. It is an insult to the men out there. It is a question mark for the society if woman can do this or that… are they allowed? Can they think on their own? Should they be equals?
The frustration and hate I have dwelled in for the past years have only brought me unhappiness. Has only brought me to the therapist over, and over, and over again. For a time, it felt like I lived there. I spiraled in depression and anxiety like an ice-skater in triple axel, winging in the air. It seemed infinite. No one heard me scream, no one heard me cry – how could they? My life was plastered perfectly over social media.
I don’t want to hear your wishes. I don’t want to accept your compliments. Today, pain has taken over. The sun is melting in Waban. I have eaten a pretty decent meal. I drank my coffee. And I will silently pray that all women – be they strangers or lovers – will go on, regardless. Today, I am a woman.