What Changed

I come from a politically divided family. It’s just about split down the middle between liberals and conservatives, it always has been. I used to think it made me more tolerant. I was always around people who disagreed with me. I had to love them anyway.  

I had the luxury of largely avoiding the subject in my youth, but things slowly began to change in high school. My friend Chris started the Gay Straight Alliance. I supported the cause along with several other friends, but there was pushback. Chris surely took the brunt of it, and I greatly admired his bravery because he felt he could not come out to his father at the time. I was touched that he wanted to help others even though he struggled with support in his own personal life. 

My senior year was also when 9/11 occurred. I remembered the mix of panic, horror and confusion that overcame many Americans. There hadn’t been a foreign attack on American soil since Pearl Harbor, and think it shattered the safe little bubble so many of us thought we were in. And a lot of what should have been unity got turned into mistrust and hatred towards Muslim communities. I saw the ugly side of patriotism. 

I grew up thinking wars and the civil rights issues were behind us. But I saw first hand that wasn’t the case. I was proud when Obama was elected because I felt like we were moving in the right direction again. 

And then experienced the profound backslide with Trump. 

My father, ever the skeptical realist, has a favorite quote when it comes to politics: “What changes?”. It’s something that he likes to say to remind you that little about your personal life is effected from administration to administration. And honestly, most of the time he is right. But he said it to me again a while ago and I’ve been thinking. A lot has changed.

I remember going to bed early on the election night in 2016, assuming that the only obvious outcome was that Hilary Clinton would win. I voted for her although I wasn’t thrilled with my choices. I thought a Trump presidency was absurd. I remember waking up to the news in disbelief, but more than that I remember two of my LGBTQ friends heartbreaking post on Facebook about how vulnerable they felt. It was the start of that painful realization from high school creeping back in again. 

Over the past four years I’ve watched his unbridled misogyny and ignorance everyday. The disregard for those most in need, the brutal mistreatment of immigrants, the stripping away of healthcare and protections for the LGBTQ community, the insane Muslim ban and continued disregard for the Black Lives Matter movement. My friends. He was deliberately hurting those I cared for. It made me furious. 

I donated to the American Civil Liberties Union. I wrote every goddamn representative I have multiple times. I consumed information about the racial inequalities rampant in my country. Things I am embarrassed to admit I did not know. Things I was never taught in school. 

I cried a lot. Cried for the suffering I was ignorant of and had gone on for so long. I cried over the resurgence of white supremacy. Cried over leaders who did nothing. Trapped in my home due to the gross mishandling of the pandemic with horrific police brutality breaking out all over the country. 

The lack of comfort has been one of the most obvious and persistent things I’ve had to adapt to. Not being able to visit or hug friends has been tremendously difficult. Often in the past four years I’ve found I’ve relied heavily on the affection from the children of my best friends. I miss them terribly. Even the simple reassurance of meeting up with the fencers at Gators or the carefree nights of Swing Dancing. I miss the comforts of my favorite activities and my favorite people. I miss the things that made me feel whole. 

The divide within my family seems to have only grow wider. The conservatives have dug their heels in and committed fully to racism and bullying. I’ve had so many difficult conversations but my compassion is treated as weakness and my education is viewed as a bias. I’m not ever going to let anyone make me feel bad for protecting my friends and equal rights. I keep having to remind them that we too are recent immigrants to America. 

The death of Ruth Badger Ginsburg was particularly heartbreaking. She was a fighter to the end and she lead a truly remarkable life. She made it possible to have a job without being discriminated on the basis of gender, to have a bank account without a male co-signer, and to have a mortgage without a man. All things that have had a monumental impact on me. I am grateful I have control over my own path. It is astonishing to think how different my life could have been. This is why it is so important to fight for equality.

So many mourned her not just for her legacy but what horrors could occur in her absence. That burden should have never been placed on her but it was. So many people shouldn’t fear for their rights because she was the only one who would have protected them. We should never be at a point where we are removing peoples rights. That is the sign of a country in decline. 

I missed how happy my friends were when they felt protected. I miss having the Post Office run smoothly, I miss when this country was proud to be a melting pot. I miss having leaders who believe in science. I miss having the freedom to travel. I miss being able to hold my loved ones. I miss sleeping peacefully.

A lot had changed.

I’m burned out and exhausted from fighting for every little thing. From fighting my own family. From trying to be strong all the time. I want so badly for us to come out of this better than what we were. Please keep fighting. 

Feminist: Part 2

Back in 2015 I wrote a piece about being a feminist. I feel like it’s a good time to readdress the subject.

One of the points that I brought up in my original article was that I felt some ideas about feminism were outdated. I thought we had progressed enough as a society where it wasn’t as much of an issue anymore. Unfortunately that was very naive of me. 

Maybe it was a combination of being sheltered and a healthy dose of luck that I didn’t encounter as much bullshit in the first 32 years of my life as I did in the most recent five years. 

At first a lot of it came in the form of ridiculous advances from horrible men. After my last break up I was treated to an almost constant parade men that were aggressive, careless, or inconsistent. But what stood out as particularly unfortunate was the treatment I received was from two female coworkers when I became concerned about a customer who kept trying to pursue me after I told him no. They both said that I shouldn’t be so picky since I was single. At this point I was already accustomed to being treated poorly by men, but I didn’t expect my female coworkers to be perpetuate the stereotype that any attention was good attention. I felt truly alone but I went over their heads and got it resolved. The whole experience was exhausting. 

When the “Me Too” movement came to light I felt a mixture of comfort and horror. Comfort because there was a collective sense of acknowledgement but horror due to the prevalence of the abuses. How men cover up for each other and women are still seen as “asking” for it. The sickening rise of the Alt-Right an incel communities that thrive on hatred and misogyny. The belief the women owed men their bodies. Watching Christine Blasey Ford’s heartbreaking testimony and seeing Brett Kavanaugh getting sworn into the Supreme Court anyway. 

I have members of my own family who mock the “Me Too” movement every chance that they get. Even after they knew about some of the battles that me and my sisters have been through. It’s always minimized, brushed aside. Those same people love to support a president who brags about grabbing women. They think it’s funny. But it is frightening when you are on the receiving end. If you let it happen then you must have wanted it to happen but if you fight back you’re overreacting. You’re either not enough or you’re too much; but it’s always your fault. 

Men will love to tell you that they are not as emotional as women, but no man who ever says that has a problem expressing rage. It’s aways a cop out instead of acknowledging more complex and nuanced emotions.

When I went to the British Library in London I was blown away by a book by Christine de Pizan. She was a poet and author in the late 1300’s and early 1400’s. She was the first professional female author from Europe and she was a great defender of the intellectual and moral character of women. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of her before that day. It’s amazing to see a woman fighting like that so long ago. It makes you wonder how many other fascinating woman were written out of history or just plain forgotten. 

I helped my parents clean out the garage a while ago. My dad came across a box of things from his childhood home in Wisconsin. He found an old metal tin filled with his mother’s recipe cards. She passed away when my father was twelve and we don’t have many things that belonged to her. The recipes were from the 50’s and she had them organized alphabetically. Most of them were in her own handwriting. 

I asked my father if she liked to cook and he said yes. I knew she was a house wife but I wanted to know if she enjoyed cooking or did it because she had to.

I don’t know much about her but I know she was already married and divorced before she met my grandfather, which was rare at the time. I don’t know anything about her first marriage or why it ended. I don’t know what it was about my grandfather that made her fall in love with him. 

My father remembers that they would fight sometimes but didn’t recall why. I met my grandfather a few times and knew that he could be fiery and stubborn, but I’ll never know if she was fiery and stubborn to match. Was she defiant, passionate, opinionated? 

I am sure they loved each other but the way two people argue can tell a lot about them. Maybe I’m just looking for a way to know people who feel elusive. My grandfather dated a few people in the years after she passed but he never remarried. I’ve always wondered who she was beyond being a housewife with diabetes. Who would she have chosen to be outside of those limitations? There are so few things of hers that to have have some cards with here handwriting seems like a treasure. 

My grandmother on my mother’s was also an accomplished cook. She lived longer but passed away when I was two years old and I didn’t get a chance to know her either. Both sets of grandparents had children later in life because of World War II. Both of my grandfathers were drafted. My maternal grandfather was station in the Philippines and my paternal grandfather sustained a pretty serious injury when a gun backfired in training. He was meant to be stationed somewhere in Europe and ironically that injury probably saved his life. 

I’ll never know how my grandfathers mentality prepared to fight in the war. I’ll never know how my grandmothers coped with their absence. 

Both of my grandfather’s were children during the Great Depression. They remained cautious and frugal until the end of their lives. 

I was a senior in high school during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. 

I’ve lived through two “once-in-a-lifetime” economic crashes before I turned 37. 

Knowing how the Great Depression and World War II affected my grandparents I often wonder about the effects of 9/11 and the economic crashes of my own life will impact me in the long term.

I grew up middle class and with a happy childhood. I think it was easy to feel removed from a lot of the daily struggles. America has always been my home. 

But I support immigrants because I am descendant from immigrants.

I believe in increasing the minimum wage because I have seem my family struggle.

And I have never fought for my country but I won’t glamorize war. I have always been proud that my grandfathers fought for America but know what kind of impact war carries even on the winning side.

I think Covid-19 also pushed a lot of ugly truths front and center. About how more than anyone else the essential workers are all too often taken for granted and undervalued. How badly this country needs Medicare for all. 

One of the most deeply disturbing things I saw was during a photo of a protester with a sign that read “Arbeit macht frei”. “Work sets you free” written in German. A slogan that was plastered at concentration camps in World War II. 

The photo wasn’t some relic of the past. It was a modern photograph, in full color. It looked like any normal person you would see in a grocery store or around town. I audibly gasped when I saw it. That was no accident. 

The protester wasn’t fighting for their desire to go back to work, but fighting for others to work for them. The idea that others only exist to serve and they are expendable. It’s ok for other’s to put themselves at risk for haircuts and economy. 

I remember learning about World War II in school and how distant it felt. It infuriates me that does not feel so distant now. The same with rampant racism in this country. There are stories everyday about the mistreatment of minorities. I thought we came so much farther as a nation. 

I am aware that as a middle class white woman with a happy childhood my struggles are minimal in the grand scheme. It still hurts to see how backwards everything is now. 

It was rough reading my words from only a few years ago dismissing some aspects of feminism as outdated. 

A while ago in the midst of a fight with an ex boyfriend he ask me what our future children would think if they saw the way I argued with him. 

“I HOPE THEY SEE HOW I STAND UP FOR MYSELF AND FIGHT FOR WHAT I BELIEVE IN!”

I wonder if my grandmother ever said anything like that to my grandfather. 

I do not yet have children of my own, but in the years since that break up several of my best friends have had children. My unofficial but much loved nieces and nephews. I never shied away from holding them when they were moody or screaming. I loved to see how they tried to communicate before they could speak. Excitedly looking for hints to their unfolding personalities. 

So proud of all their parents who encourage boldness and sensitivity in equal measures for the boys as well as girls. 

One of the things I learned over the last few years was to be an individual as well as fight for others. My feminism never felt radical or imposing until I had something to fight for beyond myself. I saw feminism through an individualist lens for so long. If felt outdated because I wasn’t held back much personally. 

I’ll never know about a lot of the other woman who fought before me. So many of their voices lost to history. Or even my own grandmothers, are so are close but remain frustratingly elusive. I’m not the first person to have been in a bad relationship or be mistreated at work. But I am here and healing matters. 

There is so much left to fight for. The fighting is necessary. 

Feminist

My best friend, who is a man and strong supporter of women's rights, ask me if I was a feminist.

"I don't know, I guess so"
He was a little shocked. "What do you mean 'you guess so'? You're a woman! You are supposed to be a feminist!"

Being woman can be perceived in two different ways: biologically and through society. There is always going to be a difference between the sexes and that starts with biology. As far as humans are concerned you need a male and female to procreate. The female will carry and nurture the child, and in order to do so her body and her emotional attachments will be adapted differently. There are differences that exist between genders as a result of biology. That is the world we in.

Society, on the other hand, is the world we create. Society tells us how we should look and how we should act. Society tells me that I should wear certain clothes, be a certain weight or wear certain kinds of makeup to be perceived as feminine. But I have always identified more with the biological factors.

I like being a woman and the inherent power that comes with it. And I'm not talking about dressing pretty so he can buy you a drink. That is the opposite of feminism. What I'm talking about is the endurance and fortitude, the physicality of it all. I love my curves and softness. It has nothing to do with makeup and clothing. Those things don't define who I am. When you walk through museums and you look at most nude sculptures of women they look more like me than the models you have been accustomed to seeing. I'm not exactly sure when society decided that a work of art should fall out of favor, but I'm here as proof that good things don't go out of style.

To me being a feminist is about where you put yourself between biology and society without anyone else defining it for you. For example, I love to cook and I believe in the power of a home cooked meal. But I've got goals that are more ambitious than making you a sandwich. My mother, who is the most loving and nurturing person I know loves to tell me that it's not lady like to swear. To which I reply "Well that sounds like bullshit."

Every woman has had to deal with some form of discrimination. Being a feminist allows you to set the terms of your own life, which is a privilege that was offered all to rarely to the women before me.

I remember a college class I had where we were discussing a piece of feminist literature. I was only girl who didn't raise her hand and my curious professor called on me. "What did you think?"

"Honestly, I think it's outdated"

I could feel everyone staring at me.

"I'm sure this piece was important when it was written but we've come so far since then. There is always going to be bias and discrimination but what I have now is the ability and education to fight it. At a certain point it has nothing to do with gender, biology, or society. What ever you are up against is just an obstacle and I have everything I need to move it, get around it, or destroy it."

To my best friend who asked if I was a feminist: "Yes, just not the way you were expecting."

I love who I am. I love that I can take control of my life. I love to be the force they don't see coming. If you are only seeing me a just a woman then you are missing the point. My definition is bigger than that.