Now, I'm not a feminist. At least, certainly not with the definition attached by those who don't see that there are many shades. I'm also not a fan of those feminists who get the attention. Shouty, loud, assuming all women feel the same way. They're the reason I was surprised to find out that the Suffragettes were not the only ones campaigning back when. There were also the Suffragists. They were peaceful and didn't resort to violence, strangling men with their manquipment and throwing themselves around just to be heard. I wish I'd have known about them when I was growing up.
Student politics didn't support a peaceful method of protesting about women's rights and male suppression, either. The messages of the shouty were crass and not inviting. They've really tainted the name of the WI. To be honest, growing up I never understood the methods because they would segregate themselves from men in order to prove their point. This looked very much a war of two sides rather than a debate to even things out a bit. Sit down, get back to the kitchen, ladies, you might break a nail.
Such a view is probably not the expected one from a tomboy who spent childhood and teenage and early adult years watching Star Trek and grimacing at adverts for Barbies and dolls. My mum bought me a doll's house for Christmas once and I enjoyed the construction of it but once it was up, I think I managed about a day or two then got bored. I must have just resorted to watching my brother flying the world on his Flight Simulator and talking in code. That was far more interesting.
I guess as a child one doesn't really notice, or pay much attention to, the difference of treatment between male and female. Because I insisted on opposing dresses, I was never forced to wear them. Okay, maybe a couple of times. When Mother whined about me insisting to wear trackies or jeans, I didn't spot the sexism of clothing.
Of course, things change when girls grow up. The transition took me far longer than 'other' girls, I guess, because it was only when I started going to University that I took an interest in dresses and pretty, shiny things. My dress collection isn't vast but it's definitely taking up more room than previous years. Perhaps this is something to do with finally being a little prettier. In first year, I managed to lose a substantial amount of weight and walked a hell of a lot to and from Uni every day to work for this. I suppose being around other mature girls who were brought up on frills and glitter influenced a bit of this transformation, too. It's only in the last year that I've accepted pink into my life. In fact, I've accepted it in the most unusual of ways: it's now my business colour. Certainly, it makes me stand out.
After over a year of stubborn refusal, I've submitted to reading Caitlin Moran's How to Be a Woman. It's disgustingly fantastic. I wouldn't recommend that men even read page one but I would quietly encourage women to pick it up. Especially teenagers. It's got some really excellent references to literature that I missed when I was growing up. And a brilliant chapter on pornography and Caitlin's discovery of sex and all things related. I tweeted her this morning to begrudgingly congratulate her on captivating me, to which she replied within thirty seconds, which was lovely. Celebrities are real people, too.
So whilst I sip on weak Irish Coffee and watch the clock to see how narrow a time slot I can leave to get ready for work, I'm analysing what shade of feminist I'm actually accepting myself to be. I do get riled when sexist comments are made, especially in the work place. I've scalded colleagues for it a couple of times before, even if made in jest. Thankfully I look scary enough that the calm but cold responses are the right level of threatening to hit home and cease the childish chat. Who knows, perhaps my adoration of Caitlin and indeed Victoria Coren, self-confessed ungirly girl, and other admirable nerd-types will encourage further liberation without nudging me towards feminazi territory.
No comments:
Post a Comment