Defining Feminism

         There seem to be a lot of misconceptions about what it means to be a feminist. Some people think it means we hate all men, or are making up excuses to wear skimpy clothing, or that we are entitled whiners. There has been some disturbing buzz lately about "anti-feminism." I think these so-called "anti-feminists" are actually "anti-feminazis." What they don't understand is that feminism means something different to all of us, and all that they see are the extremists (who are loud, but few) I think if I were to sit down and talk to any of these anti-feminists, we would find that we agree on a lot of things, but only call it something different. Truthfully, being a feminist means something different to every person who is a feminist. For technicality’s sake, I have provided a definition of feminism from merriam-webster.com. This is about as official as it gets.  

     fem·i·nism noun \ˈfe-mə-ˌni-zəm\

: the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities 

: organized activity in support of women's rights and interests

To me, being a feminist means that I, and every other women, should be treated with respect and dignity, and should be given the same rights and opportunities as men. It means women are human beings, and that is how we should be treated. According to that definition, this is why I am a feminist:  

1. I am not my appearance

In society, women are constantly told that we have to look a certain way. Our makeup must cover up any scars or freckles or spots. Our hair must be straightened or curled or bobby-pinned into perfection. Our waists must be thin, our boobs must be big, our hips must be just curvy enough to make us hour-glass shaped, but no more. Our clothing must be revealing to prove our confidence or to get attention. Et cetera, et cetera. The media teaches me to micromanage every visible aspect of my body, as if its only function is to be looked at and judged based on what it looks like. As if I am a hollow shell without a personality or a brain or talent or quirky characteristics.

There is nothing wrong with wearing makeup, or doing your hair nicely, or carefully picking an outfit. Those things can even be fun and fulfilling. The danger is when you let these things define you, or when you care so much about them that more important things fall by the wayside. Likewise, the purpose of diet and exercise should be our health, not our figure. People come in a shapes and sizes, and that is OKAY.

Colbie Caillat's song, Try is absolutely amazing, and goes right along with what I'm saying.

2. I am not an object

     Have you ever noticed that in movies, television, books, magazines, and other media, being surrounded by beautiful (often scantily clad) women is a sign of success for a man? You never see a successful woman surrounded by sexy looking men. (In fact, a picture like that would bring to mind the word “slutty,” not “successful.” Do you see how ridiculous this is?!) How did women (aka human beings) become ornaments for men? 

    Again and again in the media, women are used to sell things. How many commercials have you seen where a woman is eating a cheeseburger or drinking a beer? She isn't there because she is a charismatic and persuasive salesperson. She has been objectified and cast as the part of a sex toy useful only to sell a product. 

Pornography is a pervading issue in our culture. Whether the pictures are of women, men, or children, they all degrade individuals to something less than human. People are seen as objects and images meant only to create a certain response in the viewers. That response has nothing to do with that “object” being a human with a personality.

I am not a thing to be ogled, regardless of what I wear. I personally believe in dressing modestly. I do it because of religious reasons. My body is a gift from God and I should guard it and treat it respectfully. I DO NOT do it so men can keep their thoughts pure. Whatever I wear, or whatever any woman wears, has no bearing on what goes on in a man’s head. He has his agency, and he can decide what thoughts to entertain. This does not mean I think it is okay to flaunt your cleavage in a guy’s (or anyone's) face if you know it will make him uncomfortable. He deserves respect, too.

3. No means no 

Rape and sexual assault are very serious problems. To be clear, I understand that these things are not something that only women deal with. However, it is a more prevalent issue for us. I fear for my safety every time I have to run to my car or walk home in the dark. I took a self defense class in college last semester. Most of my friends and family thought it was a smart move. A few of my male friends thought I was paranoid. This isn’t because they are bad guys. It’s just because they have the luxury of not knowing the fear I feel, because they have never felt it.  

One of the saddest things about rape and sexual assault is that women are afraid to report it, and when they do, they run the risk of unfair judgment. People will ask what she was wearing, or if she was flirting with him, and draw the conclusion that she asked for it. They will say that even if the rapist shouldn’t have done what he did, it was her fault. Hurting another person, especially in such an intimate way, is NEVER okay. If the woman said, “No,” or was unable to give consent, nothing else matters. She was raped, and it was the rapist’s choice, not hers.

4. I can be just as successful as a man

Women have been fighting for decades to break through the glass ceiling, and we have nearly made it. We have made huge leaps and bounds in the working world. I could choose to be a doctor or an engineer or a social worker, or whatever I want and work for. However, there are still a ton of prejudices against women. In politics, in sports, and in the workplace, women are constantly thought of as less competent than men, and their looks are brought up again and again as a measure of worth. This video is a great demonstration of the double standard that women face.

I'm not trying to say that we should erase all differences between men and women. Those differences are great things and should be celebrated. What I am saying is that different does not mean better or worse. Its just different. 

Women are often judged based on if they work or are a stay-at-home mom. Whether a woman chooses to have a career, a family, or both is her prerogative and her reasons are her business. She can be a powerful person in whichever case. 

Because I’m Mormon, and it has been a big deal lately, I feel like I should briefly address the women and priesthood thing: I think it’s a total non-issue. Or, rather, that the issue is people letting their pride get in the way of their faith and ability to understand. If you really want my whole spiel about it, talk to me personally. I just don’t think it’s even worth addressing here.
I would also like to point out that while in the United States, women largely have just as many rights and opportunities as men do, there are other places where that is not the case. For many women around the world, their rights extend about as far as do those of an animal. Feminism isn't just a movement for first world countries. It is a humanist movement meant to bring to light and improve the situations of oppressed women around the world. 

5.     I like being a woman

 If you have never seen this video, you need to. I love doing things #LikeAGirl. Because I AM a girl and there is nothing wrong with that. Why is being a sissy something bad and being a man something good? Nothing is wrong with being a girl, so why are words used to describe women also used as insults? 

6.     I am human

I sincerely apologize for the language in this cartoon, but it does explain feminism very well.  

            I refuse to be a victim. I am a strong adult human being who is proud to be a woman. Everyone- no matter who they are, where they come from, how they live, how old they are, or if they have even been born yet- should have the right to be treated with respect and dignity. I believe that we should show Christ-like love to all of our brothers and sisters. I believe in respect and love for others, and not judgement and hatred. THAT is why I am a feminist. 

The Significance of Today

     120 days ago I submitted my mission papers. I was nervous and excited about getting a call and serving a mission for 18 months. I hoped I would get sent someplace warm and that I would get to speak Spanish. Of course, life happens and plans don't always go the way you hoped they would.
     The significance of today is that it was my availability date. On my mission papers, I said that I would be available for missionary service on June 25, 2014. I felt so good about that particular date that I was convinced I would be entering the MTC today. When I put that date down, it seemed so far away, but here it is.
     I know that what has happened to keep me home a little longer has been a blessing. Being here still was absolutely not my plan at all, but clearly it was God's plan. He has blessed me by showing me why His plan is better. I'm grateful for this particular trial, because I can see how it is helping me grow. I will be a better person and a better missionary because of these 6 months that I have to wait and because of the reason why.
     Still. Getting to today is a little surreal. What could have been one of the biggest days of my life is just an ordinary day.

A Billion Pieces of Life

     Growing up just isn't what its cracked up to be. And life has a way of doing things that are not what you expected or planned on at all. I always thought that my life would follow a pretty straightforward pattern. Graduate high school. Start college. Go on a mission. Finish college. Get married at some point in this process. Get a job. Have kids. Get old. I also figured that by the time I was old enough to be in college, I would know what it was that I wanted in life.
     Ha. Right.
     Obviously my mission plans have been turned on their head. I'm still going to college, because I know an education is what will get me places in life, but I don't know what to study. At all.
     I'm not ready to get married yet, but the whole relationship thing is WAY more complicated than I thought it would be. And so much more incredibly painful. My heart has been so broken that putting it back together would be like doing a jigsaw puzzle. With no corner or edge pieces. And some that are warped by water damage. And some that have been chewed on by a dog. And some that aren't even there anymore, because they got left behind in someone else's puzzle box, because I thought that maybe that's where they belonged.
     Its not just my life, either. I look around and my friends and peers, and we're all in a million different places. Some are going to school. Some are getting married. Some are working. Some have a baby. Some are on missions. Some live at home mooching off their parents and doing nothing. Some are traveling the world.
     Within all these experiences are another billion pieces of our lives. The very wide emotional range that comes from interacting with other humans. How or if religion fits in your life. Physical ailments that you or those close to you have, ranging from cancer to seasonal allergies. Mental afflictions such as depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, or schizophrenia. Addictions in a variety of forms-- things like drugs, alcohol, porn, or self harm--for a variety of different reasons. The pressure to look just so, resulting in fad diets, extreme exercise, eating disorders, and hundreds of dollars towards makeup and hair products and clothes and breast implants and hair dyes. Trying to figure out what will make you happy and how to achieve it. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

     There is just so much to life.

Old Words

          I came across some old poetry that I wrote a few months ago. There were a few things I wrote that I actually feel rather proud of. I had totally forgotten about this stuff, but everything I felt back then came back to me when I read it. So I've decided to share some if it here.

December 30, 2013

Late at night after the lights are turned down and

The world is silent and it’s just me awake or alive

And there is so much solitude that it can drown you

Finding myself buried deep beneath my own doubts

And fears that I’m not good enough

The black clouds roll in and the demons that

I tried to hide in the day when

The sun shines and the shadows I cast

May be longer than they should be

But one notices anyway, so why would I let them see

What it’s really like in here

In my head where the voices get louder and louder

And my eyes get heavy with the weight of the world and

My hands that I tried to use to catch their pain

But it slipped through my fingers and I only

Got burned with the heat of my own frustration at

Failing to know exactly what to do and to say

But my heart as cold as ice with the emptiness

Of what they feel and I wish I could take it away

Because I know the feeling and I know the monsters

That crawl out of the dark and lonely places

Of the solitary night time.

      That one I wrote right around the time I started this blog. It doesn't have a title, but it needs one. A lot has changed since then, but its still applicable to me in some ways, and its still true. I'm not sure how much if it will make sense to other people, but for me its full of the intense things that I've felt before. So I'm posting it. Because its my blog. So there.

October 11, 2013

How much has been lost in the name of love?

How many sleepless nights?

How many restless, anxious hours

Wasted and worried away?

How many petals pulled off of flowers

In vain means to discover

Whether he loves me or loves me not?

As if fate written could be so easily read.

How many tears fall from red eyes?

How many scars appear

Both seen and hidden from view?

How many angry feelings?

How many hopeless thoughts?

How many lies taken for truth?

How much denial?

How many unknown battles?

How many unheard cries?

How much love without condition or sense?

They say love is friendship set on fire.

Who can stand that flame?

        This one doesn't have a title either, and its older than the first one. Mostly I included it because I think my one follower (who is AWESOME), will appreciate it. I did tweak one line in it from its original version, but other than that, its just as I wrote it last year. 

Plans

Once upon a time I had a perfect plan. A plan to go to a year of school and then immediately leave for 18 months to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

A minor heart procedure altered my plans slightly. I would have to wait a few extra weeks before I would get my call, but nothing drastic.

Weeks passed and no call came. Finally, tired of being in limbo, I asked my bishop to figure out what was happening. He did some digging and discovered that I was required to get a pre-mission evaluation because I had mentioned depression on my papers.

I can't even describe to you what the day I found this out was like. Even before the news, I was extremely depressed. I woke up every morning wishing that I didn't have to, because waking up meant feeling the ceaseless mental pain of pointless despair and the never-ending anxiety of over thinking. I hated my life. I never smiled, never laughed. I sat in silence or cried. I had finally worked up the courage to admit to my mom that I needed help, so I was scheduled to meet with a doctor the next day to talk about getting medicated. I was extremely high functioning. My grades were high and I got along well with others, but inside everything just hurt. I had started to have doubts about serving a mission. Could I really handle leaving everything behind for so long? Was I actually mentally okay enough to do it? My inner demons screamed these questions, and my resolve wilted as something inside me whispered, no, you can't. 

When my bishop called first thing in the morning to tell me I needed to get this evaluation, all I could think of were neighbors and friends who had been in similar situations and who had been told no. Suddenly the fears I had secretly harbored were brought to the surface and became so much closer to reality. My once perfect plan was now utterly uncertain.

I spent the rest of the day crying, praying, talking to my parents, and reading gospel literature until I had received the answer that I should keep working toward my goal of going on a mission. I still felt miserable, but at least I had some direction. The next day my doctor prescribed an SSRI. Within a few days I began to feel the effects. My anxiety ebbed and I felt light return to my dark mind. I arrived at the pre-mission evaluation slightly nervous, but mostly confident that I would be approved. I felt fine, didn't I?

I was told that my evaluation report would be sent along and a decision would be made in a few weeks. The therapist that evaluated me predicted that the worst-case scenario was that I would have to wait three months so that they could monitor the effects of the medication.

In the following weeks of waiting in limbo for an answer, I felt more and more grateful for modern medicine. Limbo was hard enough as it was, but the pain of uncertainty didn't constantly barrage me as it would have before. Nevertheless, in a normal-reaction sort of way, it was painful to wait and wonder.

Yesterday I got my answer. Because of the medication, and because they want to monitor the effects, I must wait SIX months and then resubmit my papers. I could tell you why this is so extremely dumb and why it makes absolutely no logical sense AT ALL. I could explain and defend my bitterness and you would nod along and realize that I am perfectly capable of serving a mission.

But that won’t change a thing, so there’s no use in rehashing my frustrations. Instead I’ll tell you why I’m okay: This morning I emailed the marching band director at BYU, and he told me that I could return to the band this fall. I'm currently working a summer job that I happen to love, and now I get to work there for the rest of the summer. I may have a TA job lined up for me for fall semester, and I'm just waiting to hear back from the professor who asked me to TA for him. My meds are still working wonderfully, and I have been able to handle the news with minimal tears and anxiety. It will be a struggle to find an apartment for this fall, but a friend of mine just told me that she is looking for place to live in the same area, so we could be roommates. And most of all, even though my perfect plan has utterly fallen apart and I have been forced to recreate it from the bottom up, I finally have enough information to make a new plan. I am no longer living in limbo. The answer is disappointing, but it is finally an answer. I will go to school for another semester and resubmit my papers in November.

Maybe the original plan wouldn't have been so perfect after all. Hopefully the new one will be.

Today is my birthday

If you want to get technical, I was born at 5:17 pm, so I'm not officially nineteen yet. I remember when nineteen seemed so impossibly far away. I thought it was such an old and grown up age to be. I thought I would have everything figured out by nineteen.

When I was little, I always had a specific age in mind that, for whatever reason, meant "grown up" to me. It was twelve for years, and then sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. I seemed to think that by the time I made it that far, I would have become the person in my head that I imagined my best self would be. I would be smart and beautiful and powerful and socially competent. I would be confident and my life would be in control and everyone would stop treating me like a kid.

Of course, one birthday passed, and then another, and I never seemed to get any closer to being "grown up." I was the same person each new day as the one I was the day before. And yet, I am absolutely not the same as I was seven years ago, or four years ago, or even just one year ago. Being more "grown up" than I used to be is only part of it.

I really am the same person as I have always been, with all the same strange personality quirks. I've learned and I've grown and I have a more developed world view. I don't think that all the things that make me fundamentally me have changed, though. I've just....adapted.

It's not even something that I notice is happening, though. I just live, and sometimes I look back and realize how far I've come.

Broken

Someone once said that there is a crack in everything, and that's how the light gets in. He was confused, because cracks let the light out. Maybe all the cracks make me beautiful and unique, but Nietzsche said that "there are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth," and I think he was right. 

People never look past the surface. They see two dark eyes peering out from long lashes, but they miss that the darkness is not simply the color of my irises. The light has leaked out of cracks in my soul and left the windows to it dull and empty. 

Did Ophelia drown in a pond, or in her own despair? Because drowning doesn't require water. You can get so stuck inside of yourself that the barrage of emotions or the absolute emptiness cuts off the air and sky and drowns you beneath the waves of your own mind. 

The cracks are like joints and old injuries that ache when it rains. Sometimes it hurts without the rain. Sometimes it rains, and it doesn't hurt. Its hard to tell why or when the ache will come, but when it does, it carves out the rest of me like a pumpkin, and moves into the hollow space left behind. 

I've learned that I'm stronger than I ever though I was. I've learned to judge others less and have more empathy. I've learned that sometimes, I should just stifle my pride and admit I'm not okay, and that I need help. In many ways, its been a blessing. 

Its true that I'm a little broken, and I guess that's okay, because we all are in some way. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less.