Bad Feminist
What makes a good Feminist, anyway?
I’m not sure when I started using the word Feminist to describe myself, but I know that at one point, it felt like an old-fashiony kind of word. A word for black and white photographs, for bra-burners and stern, serious women in the back pages of Ms. Magazine.
I’m a bit old-fashiony myself now. And a stern, serious woman—at least sometimes, say, two to three days a week. These days, I wear the word draped over my shoulders like a cape. I wave it, like red satin to a bull.
Come at me. I dare you.
It’s in my bios and my social media handles. It’s part of my identity.
That doesn’t mean I’m always a good Feminist.
I leave things out of my story. I skirt around them because maybe they don’t fit with people’s ideas of Feminism. Or maybe they don’t fit into my ideas of Feminism.
Those black and white photos portrayed a specific image, and I don’t always match those shapes line for line.
I’m married to a man. I am a mother. I earn money as a writer, but it’s not enough to make a living. The things that require money in life, roofs over heads and food on the table, those things are provided for by my husband’s income.
Even now, I feel dirty writing that. Dependent. I always earned money, enough to contribute, until we moved abroad. And now I don’t and…well, it’s hard to reconcile sometimes.
At times, I’ve felt like a Feminist cos-player, like I’m betraying the collective sisterhood. Have I set a terrible example for my sons by not going “out to work” and earning half their keep? By not slapping down coin to pay for the broccoli that went with their chicken?
Once, when asked by a teacher what I did, my son told her I shopped.
Ha, ha, he probably meant food shopping, I laughed nervously when she told me. Which made it fifty times worse.
Will they respect women if “all” I did was take care of them and write furiously while they were at school?
There are times I feel like a bad Feminist.
And guys? There’s this, too.
I use guys to mean everyone because I grew up in the 1980s, and it’s seared into my brain, and sometimes, between you and me, I just don’t care all that much.
I get it why I should use a different word, I just don’t care that much.
Maybe that makes me a bad Feminist.
Once, I threatened that if the group of women I go away with every year didn’t stop calling it a ‘girl’s trip,” that I was going call it a vagina vacation. Eventually, I gave up. It’s too much work for a tiny linguistic reward, and let’s be honest, girls’ trip sounds more fun than women’s weekend, doesn’t it? Even a killjoy needs to drink margaritas every now and again.
I use a lot of words, but not always use the right ones. I overuse the word women and only sometimes remember to say pregnant people.
Maybe those things make me a bad Feminist.
I have a complex relationship with my body. Ha ha. That’s funny. I have a completely fucked up relationship with my body.
Inside me are two wolves. One wants to be a Rubenesque goddess who delights in cake. The other wants to fit into the pair of jeans from the late ‘90s that have moved countries with me, the ones that used to sit perfectly on my jutting hipbones.
Both wolves are assholes.
What do you expect when a generation’s bildungsroman was Cosmo, diet cottage cheese recipes, and an entire era known as heroin chic?
They are scars I’ll carry for life.
Maybe that makes me a bad Feminist.
I try not to judge other women by how they look. I do not always succeed. I shave my legs because not shaving my legs is just weird now. I use the word ‘just’ as a modifier too much. I shave my upper lip in the shower every day, swipe, swipe. I care, sometimes desperately, about the jowls that make me look like Deputy Dog. I like clothes. I have too much jewelry and sparkly sequin things that hang in my closet. I read People magazine online. I know the names of all the Kardashian children and grandchildren. It’s shameful.
Some days, I want to age gracefully. Some days, I want all the Botox and the filler and maybe just a tiny, little nip. Just to pull the jawline up, mind you.
Maybe those things make me a bad Feminist.
I read romance novels, and sometimes the main character chooses the guy, and maybe it doesn’t bother me as much as it should. I like cheesy teen movies that end with a kiss.
I find pockets of satisfaction in looking after my family, in keeping them fed and watered and vaccinated.
But it’s not what I thought I’d be reading or watching or doing, so maybe I’m a bad Feminist.
When I read Roxanne Gay’s Bad Feminist, I sighed in relief because “Blurred Lines” is a catchy tune, even though my Feminist heart objects to the rape-y lyrics.
I’m no Roxanne Gay, though.
I don’t use any of the adjectives we use before the word Feminism now. The order of waves or degrees, like Feminism is a hot sauce.
Is your Feminism mild, spicy, or knock your socks off?
We put racial and cultural identifiers in front of Feminism now, and I get that because phew! White women on the whole, right? Way more than two asshole wolves in that pack.
I’m part of that pack, by default, or at least the beneficiary of it. Which is probably why I don’t like to say White Feminism and also probably why I should.
That probably makes me a bad Feminist.
Sometimes, there are too many rules, and the rules are complicated with folded instructions that I have to refer back to.
I don’t want to play Catan, I just want to live in a world that values women as much as it values men.
Feminism should be messy and complex and imperfect, just like women, just like life.
Feminism should contain multitudes.
But no rule book.
Good Feminist. Bad Feminist. Who gets to decide, anyway? Is there a tribunal or a council of elders? Will my Feminism be weighed on a scale at the end of my life, and if so, what’s on the other side? Phyllis Schlafly’s shriveled husk of a heart?
Because I’d feel pretty good if that’s the case.
Buy, hey, you guys…what if all of this is just another way women internalize misogyny? Like, we’re worried we’re not even good enough at Feminism? The no-frills kind that just argues we deserve to have all the nice things even if we know that Stormi is one of the Kardashian clan?
It’s bananas and cottage cheese for thought.
I might sit with one of the asshole wolves and ponder for a bit. Definitely the one with the cake, though. I’m never fitting into those jeans again.
Hey gorgeous Feminist, thanks for being here. If you like what you read, please consider liking, sharing, or subscribing if you haven’t already. And, if you’re a paid subscriber to American Woman, check your inbox for some bonus Women’s History Month stories coming your way. Yours in neutral Feminist solidarity, xx dmh
I love this so much…I’m older than you, but each generation of women has its complex struggle with womanhood. I remember Virginia Slims cigarettes (special skinny cigs, just for us!), the horribly thin models in ads, and feeling the need to maintain a certain body weight, while also feeling compelled to hold up the feminist flag and go braless. I too, love a beautiful pair of shoes and have enjoyed my white privilege. The most fucked up thing about all of it is that ‘feminism’ shouldn’t have to be a thing. It should just be a normal, accepted part of our culture that women and men are equals across all facets of life. I hear you, as I reread this, I roll my eyes at the idealism. And in spite of all that, I’m glad I was born in my female body.
Another fabulous dive into our lives as women. I was born into that time when up until 10 years old it was all about writing “Mrs (fill in the blank of latest boy crush)” on a school notebook and then it was all “You’re gonna make it after all” Mary Tyler Moore actually getting an important JOB and being an independent, single gal. Whiplash. I didn’t fit into the norm of what a “ladylike” girl was supposed to be but I wasn’t a “tomboy” either. There were a lot of mixed messages and confusion which continued up until MENOPAUSE! And then - clarity, oh clarity. As for my favorite music…. Well… as a Generation Jones/Boomer I’d have to ditch my entire playlist to be a “good feminist.” I mean, have you listened to the lyrics of The Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb”… yeah… I know- it’s only rock and roll, but I like it. 😸