A mother. A daughter. A topic.
Me.
I consider myself to be a feminist but I honestly don’t think about it very often.
It’s just a part of who I am.
When I was a teenager, the fight for the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) was in full force. My mother was an adamant supporter of the ERA and attended public rallies and marches to push the cause forward (with me in tow), but the movement took another turn toward public policy, instead of a constitutional amendment.
Even so, the effect on our family was dramatic.
Until then, we had been a pretty traditional family. Dad went to work. Mom stayed home. The kids kept quiet.
And then my mom started listening to the Gloria Steinem’s and Jane Fonda’s of the movement, and soon after…we all became feminists. My dad, my mom, my brother and me.
It changed the way we thought about traditional roles and responsibilities.
We adopted new ways of thinking and new ways of acting toward each other. As a consequence, the stereotypical roles of women and men in a family, in business, in politics and in life in general, began to explode wide open.
And for the first time, I was told – OUT LOUD – that as a woman…I could do anything. Be anything. Want anything. And from that…my potential – my future – was blown wide open.
So to me, a feminist is someone who:
- Thinks a woman offers value to the world, as a woman.
- Doesn’t believe a woman must compete to BE a man…because BEING a woman is perfect as it is.
- Believes women are fully capable of doing anything they want to do, assuming they are willing to work at it to become proficient.
- Believes that compensation should be paid fairly for the quality of work done…regardless of sex.
- Strives to be tolerant of others and expects tolerance in return.
- Believes there is no such thing as inequality between the sexes…just lovely differences that offer value and fullness to both.
Being a feminist is a part of who I am. I don’t think about it. I don’t feel I have to fight for it. But I have spent my entire adult life trying to honor the gift of feminism that was given to me by my parents and by the times.
I don’t take it for granted. I guard it with my life. And I raised my children to be feminists so that they would be the type of people who tolerated others, believed in equality and realized that they could do anything, be anything and want anything, regardless of their sex.
So far, I think I’ve done a damn good job with that one!
I have my degree in Women and Gender Studies from the University of Colorado. I didn’t choose that as my major because of the crazy amount of career opportunities (obviously). I chose it as my major because I loved it. I loved studying people and society, and the things that we all do that we don’t even think about. I loved looking at the world through a different set of lenses. A pair that’s more attuned to the rights and wrongs that we all commit. A pair that sees things differently than most people.
That lens, most of the time, was Feminism.
Being a Women and Gender Studies major got me a lot of shit. I heard every joke and rude comment in the book.
“Oh really? I studied women in college too.”
“So is that, like, sewing and cooking and stuff?”
“Does that mean you’re a lesbo?”
I think that the term “Feminist” scares a lot of people. I met lots of people in college who hated that word, for a variety of reasons. Some hated it because, in their mind, it was too radical. Some hated it because it was too “hippie”. Others wouldn’t use it because, originally, Feminism (First Wave) was incredibly racist. And some held the idea that Feminism was something to hate, to look down on, to not take seriously.
I learned dozens of definitions of types of Feminism (most of which I forget because I loathed my Feminist Theory class… I am in no way claiming to be an expert). And I learned what “being a Feminist” means to me.
And there’s a big, huge point I’d like to make about Feminism.
I truly believe that it’s about more than just a definition that somebody else makes for you. It’s more than a one-size-fits-all label.
It’s what you make it.
Of course, I believe that there are certain things that Feminism must include. Most notably the belief that women and men are created equal.
(NOTE: I’m not saying women and men are the SAME. That’s an important distinction.)
The other thing that all definitions of Feminism must have, I believe, is the belief in a woman’s right to choose.
Now, I’m not JUST talking about abortion, here. I’m talking about Choice for everything.
Which brings me to my personal definition of Feminism.
I believe that women have the right to choose anything that they feel is right for them. As long as that choice doesn’t hurt others (and let me be clear that I do not include “fetus” in the definition of “others”), then I believe that women have that right. (I also believe that men have that right, but I feel like we rarely deny (straight) males their right to choose.)
If a woman wants to have babies and marry her high school sweetheart, that’s her choice.
If a woman chooses NOT to have kids, or to never get married, that’s her choice.
If a woman wants to join the army, become a teacher, a lawyer, or model, that’s her choice.
If a woman wants to dye her hair, pierce her nose, go barefoot, or never wear a bra, so be it.
And, what a woman does with or to her body, is HER CHOICE.
When it comes down it, THAT is feminism.
Treating women any less than men is inherently NOT Feminist. Believing that women should strive to be men is inherently NOT Feminist. Hurting women is inherently NOT Feminist. Judging women because they are women is inherently NOT Feminist. Being racist, homophobic, or classist is inherently NOT Feminist.
Of course, it’s much more complicated than that. We can debate whether or not a woman can actually choose to be in adult films, or get paid for sex. And we can debate whether or not a Feminist can be a conservative Christian or stay in an abusive relationship. There are even theories that one cannot be a Feminist and eat meat.
(Me and my salami sandwich tend to disagree with that one, but still…)
But I’m not here to debate.
At least not right now.
I grew up in a household that never overtly defined itself as “Feminist”, even though we all are. My personal definition of Feminism includes components and beliefs that I’ve been taught my entire life. Equality. Choice. The right of every single person to live in a safe environment.
I never had to question those things. They were the rules of my world. It wasn’t until I got to my later years of high school, and then college, that I realized that everyone isn’t raised with the same values. That there are (lots and lots) of people out there who are AGAINST all of those things. I think it really hit me when my family and I (plus Mike) went to D.C. for the March for Women’s Lives. Walking through the capitol, having very angry MEN yell that I was a horrible person, really made it clear to me that my family wasn’t the norm.
And I think that’s why I gravitated to Women and Gender Studies. Because I wanted to know why people fight so hard against those things that I think are basic fundamentals of humanity. Why people hate.
(In case you’re wondering, I never found those answers. I found clues, but the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out.)
But I did learn why it’s important for me, and others, to stand up and believe in equality, choice, safety, and everything else that Feminism stands for. Because it’s important. It’s important for women AND men, little girls AND little boys. It’s important for everyone.
Topic: What gives with women’s shoes?
{ Topic submitted by Brian K. (Uncle Buddy) }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it…but when I watch the commercials for DSW my heart begins to race and I find it a bit difficult to breath. I don’t know if it’s that jazzy/Latin style music they play, or the flashing of various styles of shoes appearing on my TV screen. But I truly begin to hyperventilate.
It’s not something I’m proud of.
Maybe I’m sick.
Maybe I’ve developed low blood pressure due to shoe intoxication.
I don’t know…and I don’t care. I just want to rush out to DSW (or any other store selling shoes) and see what magical shoe wants to jump off the shelf into my arms for that day.
But that is now…and it’s important to know that I wasn’t always so excited about shoes. When I was much younger, I cared about boys, not shoes (I had no idea at the time how incredibly linked the two were), and…I didn’t do outfits. I did jeans and T-shirts and usually grabbed whatever shoes were closest to the front of my closet so that I didn’t have to exert much energy to find them when running out the door.
Then I got a job.
And, I began to interact with people who seemed to get up in the morning and put their clothes on in a “meaningful way”…including their shoes.
I was fascinated.
I remember shopping for my first grown-up work clothes in catalogs such as Newport News and Spiegel and they would show brightly colored two piece suits with matching colored high heel “pumps.”* A turquoise suit with turquoise pumps…a peach suit with peach pumps. It was a virtual sherbet sundae of working woman clothing…and I couldn’t wait to eat it up.
(For those who are unfamiliar with the classic “pump” style…it is a simple design that has endured over decades, promising to elongate the leg, slim down even the thickest of ankles, and guarantee any number of foot ailments due to years of squeezing five toes into a narrow pointed section of leather at the bottom of a 45 degree angle.)
I quickly learned that shoes came in other styles besides turquoise or peach colored pumps and couldn’t seem to get enough shoes into my life (or into my closet). I started buying shoes in every combination of shapes, heel heights and colors. Some worked. Some didn’t. But through it all, I began to develop a knack for figuring out which style of shoe would best compliment each piece of clothing in my close and how to build an “outfit” using shoes as the anchor piece.
I was in heaven! I was struttin’ down the street in classic loafers with rolled up jeans, or wowing business associates with subtle yet classy pumps (no more turquoise for this lady!) or tempting my man to take me out (and back home for a “lovely” night) with a pair of drop dead stilettos that made my legs look like they came out of my shoulders.
Each pair of shoes had a specific purpose that was expressly stated when combined with the appropriate outfit. As I walked into a room, you would instantly know what I was saying…like, “take me seriously at work” -or “I may be a mom, but I’m still a sexy momma!” – or – “let’s walk on dirt”…you get the idea.
It was a great system and I loved the challenge of figuring out what shoe would best express the purpose at hand.
And then…I developed bunions.
On both feet.
And had to stop wearing 99% of the shoes in my closet.
I experienced my first ever serious shoe slump. Following surgery on both feet at the same time, I was relegated to a pair of large, clunky, foam filled, Velcro closing, open toed “bunion boots”…for 6 WEEKS!
As I sunk into a deep shoe withdrawal depression, my doctor explained that at the end of the 6 weeks, I should have at the ready, a pair of …(it’s hard for me to say these words) … “sensible shoes.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. It took me the full 6 weeks to figure it out. Finally, I found a pair of shoes I could walk comfortably in for the next year.
And, they were kind of cute.
No…not really.
They were wide, and brown, and flat and boring. But they didn’t hurt.
It took 12 months, 3 weeks and 4 days before I was able to get my feet into a new cute shoe.
You would think that during this time (including the years of pain leading up to the bunions and resulting surgery) I would have been cured of my serious shoe addiction. But no.
Instead, it taught me an important lesson…that with both patience and perseverance, I could search out new styles, heel heights and colors that could still be DROP DEAD perfect, but…with a bit of moderation (that would mean no more 4″ heels), they didn’t actually have to cause any more bodily harm.
I WAS FREE AGAIN! Free to once again start buying cute (and sometimes still comfortable) shoes. Free to re-embrace the challenge of building great outfits while allowing my shoes to state the purpose of my day as I walked into a room.
And free to let the joy and excitement creep back into my life as a new DSW commercial aired on TV.
I have a love/hate relationship with shoes.
I love cute shoes. Pretty shoes. Ridiculous shoes in ridiculous colors with ridiculous pointy toes that cost a ridiculous amount of money.
I love to put them on and look at them on my feet, see how they peek out underneath extra long skinny jeans, make my extra large feet look tiny.
I love to paint my toenails a pretty pink and see how cute they look against my favorite pair of black strappy sandals.
I love shoes with heels that are 3-inches, I love wedges, and I love adorable flats in fun colors and patterns.
The love stops, though, when I actually have to stand up in those ridiculous shoes and, you know, walk somewhere. Suddenly, those adorable shoes with the pointy toes go from things of beauty to horrible torture devices.
When I was a kid I always thought I’d grow up and be able to walk in heels. I’d hit a certain age and it would be easy. It’s in my genes, for god’s sake! But alas, here I am, 25, an “adult”, and I still look like some disabled duck waddling around when I put heels on. I don’t look like some confident, sexy woman who could strut around New York City with Sarah Jessica Parker.
I blame this on the fact that I outgrew my mom’s shoe size at a very early age. When I could fit into her size 7 high heels, I had no interest in shoes. By the time I wanted to practice walking in pretty shoes like my mom wore, I couldn’t cram my size 9 feet into them. I can only assume that I missed some vital point in my adolescence that has left me lacking in this department of my “womanhood”.
(Though, now that I think about it, it’s not a skill exclusive to women. Have you seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” recently? Tim Curry dancing in those stilettos puts me – hell, most women – to serious shame.)
I try to be pickier about what shoes I purchase. (Not having a steady income really helps with that.) I try really hard not to get shoes that are even slightly uncomfortable when I try them on in the store.
(Sadly, I totally still fail.)
Part of me wants to say “fuck it” to all of the annoying and uncomfortable shoes in my closet. “Screw you” to the ones that gave me blisters that required me to shell out 4 bucks for 3 Band-Aids at the hotel gift shop while on a trip earlier this year. “See ya” to the ones that caused me to sit on the side of the bathtub, weeping after an evening out, pouring warm water over my sore feet.
But, alas, I can’t let go. They sit there, strewn across the floor of my closet, hanging on the back of my bedroom door in one of those organizer things from Target, or underneath my bed. They stare at me, and I just can’t get rid of them. Yes, they hurt, but that incredibly irrational voice in my head says “But they’re SO PRETTY!!”.
(Yes, that voice sounds a lot like my mother.)
So I save those shoes until I forget how bad they’ve hurt me. I save them because at some point I’ll put on some clothes and realize that those devil shoes are required to make the “perfect outfit”.
When all is said and done, it’s tough for me to decide what my philosophy is when it comes to shoes. Either life is too short to wear shoes that cause you pain, or life is too short to wear ugly shoes.
That voice in my head (Hi mom!) tends to scream the latter at me.
I’m all for them…within some seriously defined boundaries of moderation.
I have my ears pierced, in two places (close together in the “normal” part of the pierce-able bottom ear lobe…none of that top ear lobe cartilage stuff). Honestly, I’m not sure why I ever got the second holes put in. Most days, I only think to put one set of earrings in my lobes, but I think I like the option of putting two sets in at one time…especially when I have the time and/or energy to search through my mini earring supply and find a set that would look smashing with another fabulous pair on hand.
I also had a belly button ring for a while. I did it with Ally when she turned 16. She asked if I would go with her, and as any mother of a teenager will tell you…if your 16-year-old kid actually WANTS to do something with you, even if it means poking a long sharp needle into your inny or outty…you DO IT!
I remember the two of us leaving the piercing “salon” and walking down the street feeling all cool…while holding the top of our pants down below our hips so that the waistbands wouldn’t rub against the newly stabbed portions of our belly buttons. Unfortunately, after the initial “I’m such a cool mom” phase wore off, and the healing process ended (which took an abnormally long time for me – being that it was an older belly button), I realized that the whole belly button ring thing was an absolute bitch to maintain.
I would spend an inordinate amount of time during my daily grooming focused on my naval. Honestly, it had never really been that big a part of my cleaning routine before, but it definitely took a whole lot of time to clean it and would take even longer for me to change the jewelry in it! I swear it took HOURS to wrangle that ring, or little jeweled barbell in and out through the two little holes in the upper lid of my naval. And, after all that work, nobody could see how cool it made me, or how well it went with my outfit, because it was…HIDDEN!
Seriously…what was the point!?!
So I took it out and never looked back, or at my belly button for that matter!
Even though I would consider myself pretty open minded to most things centered around personal adornment, I have to admit that I’m not crazy about piercings on lips, eye brows, noses, nipples or pretty much any other body part that sport a ring or dangling piece of jewelry. Those cute little dots of jewels that women wear in the soft fold of their noses? I think those are OK. But when they hang a ring through their nostrils, or through their eyebrows, or God forbid in their lips or tongues…I want to pull on them. I want to flick them. I want to yank them out.
When it really comes down to it, though, I think it’s less about the piercings per se and ALL about the Jewelry. Simply put, piercings provide an opportunity to wear body jewelry. And I take the coordination of jewelry, any kind of jewelry…really seriously.
I have visions of a future where I’m in an old-folks home and all of my peers are covered in silver studs and tattoos. I figure it’ll make bingo more exciting.
I think some people get piercings as a form of self-expression. Others get them because they think it looks good. I also know people who do it because they like the pain (I’m not here to judge). Me, the only body piercing I have I got because my mom made me.
My mom wanted her belly button pierced. I was almost 16, so she told me we should get them together. Even though every girl I knew was practically begging their moms to let them do it, my mom had to convince me. For whatever reason I didn’t have any desire to have a gigantic needle shoved through my stomach. But I did it, and I still have it, though it hasn’t seen the light of day since I was a size 2. (It’s been awhile.)
When I got my bellybutton pierced I was trying (unsuccessfully) to be friends with my ex-boyfriend. He was 100% against it because he thought if I got my bellybutton pierced (even if it was my mom’s idea) it would lead me on a path to sex with strangers and heroin benders. (Did I mention he was a strict Mormon?) I figured if I was going to hell, a bedazzled belly button was the least of my worries.
Other than that, I have 3 holes in each ear lobe, but rarely wear anything but simple silver balls in them. I used to have two holes in the cartilage of my left ear, but it never healed, so after a few years of not being able to sleep on that ear, I took it out. (There’s only so much pain a girl can take before she gives up on looking cool.)
As far as seeing piercings on others, I don’t really care. I think those teeny-tiny nose studs are cute, but other facial piercings don’t really appeal to me. Have you ever seen those piercings that are surgically implanted under the skin? People usually get them on the back of their neck or on (in?) their chest. Those hold a sort of morbid fascination for me. The first time I saw one I was sitting behind a girl in a sociology class in college. I couldn’t tell what the hell I was looking at (are those glued on? just stuck in there?), and I totally had to hold myself back from reaching out and poking the back of her neck (which, I assume, would be fairly awkward).
Personally, I have no idea what drives people to shove rings through their nipples or baby makers… but I guess I’m just missing something there.
I guess I believe that as long as nobody is coming at me with a needle, I figure people can do what they want. Then again, if I was a mom and my baby came to me with a ring shoved through some part of his or her body… I might have a problem with it. And I’d probably have to blame his or her Grandma Cindy.