I have always been a feminist. I didn’t know what that word meant when I was a little girl, but I was one, and here’s the thing about that:
No one taught me to be.
In fact, there’s a lot of subtle pressure on little girls NOT to be feminists, to not think for themselves or question what feminism is. “Feminist” gets a rap as being a man-hating, angry, woman-centric movement. And people swallow it — especially women and little girls who don’t want to be seen that way. Being cute and toeing the line — that’s what girls are told they should want, and who doesn’t want to be liked? So a lot of them go along with it.
I found the focus on girls’ looks and popularity pretty annoying right from the get-go. I would always rather have been smart than pretty, rather been nice than popular, rather been listened to than looked at. Not that I didn’t or don’t want to look nice or be attractive, but it was never a top-ten goal for me. Being smart and doing interesting things — number one. And it made me mad that people in general were more keen on my pretty dress or my hair than on my smarts.
It’s been pointed out to me recently that all women should be able to be whoever they want to be, pretty or smart or both, and while I do agree with that, and do support the pretty women and the women who want to be moms, I just wish it weren’t such a trap. It never felt like a choice to me growing up — being cute and marrying a nice guy and having babies seemed like my only “real” options. And while some women genuinely want those things, I think there’s still this subtle societal pressure to move towards that, and I am suspicious of it. I try not to be suspicious of the women who are pretty, just the pressure to be pretty.
But I digress.
I get a little worked up when people talk about how to make little girls believe in their value as intelligent people. I always believed in my value as an intelligent person. I got majorly torked off by people who didn’t. Torked off and bored. If someone complimented me on my dress, I thought that was nice. If they didn’t have anything else useful to add, or couldn’t comment on the latest book either they or I was reading, I mentally lowered them a notch on the intelligence pole. No one taught me that. No one tried to teach me the value of being a bright girl. I just thought it was more valuable than being a pretty girl and pursued it.
I remember being furious at a disclaimer at the beginning of a book — “While the writers of this book value women and girls, all unspecified people will be referred to as ‘he.’ It seems cold to refer to people, especially infants, as “it,” and at this time, no acceptable alternative exists. We do not wish to offend our female readers.” I was seven or eight, and my first thought was, “You could say SHE, you idiots.” I almost threw the book across the room. I didn’t feel valued or unoffended at all.
Years later, someone gave me a copy of “Even Cowgirls get the Blues” by Tom Robbins. It had the same disclaimer at the beginning. I wasn’t any less offended by it as an adult. (I also did NOT like that book.)
You know what I love? I love the Whitewolf game company’s handling of pronouns. The simply switch back and forth between “she” and “he” in their examples. I can’t tell you how happy that made my heart and my inner child when I first encountered it. It’s not that stinking hard, and it’s not confusing, and alternating between “he” and “she” is a completely acceptable default. Thank you, someone out there, for hearing my seven-year-old-self and responding appropriately!
Overall, my decision to identify myself as a feminist was not a long, thought-out, soul-searching choice. I simply heard the definition one day and said, “Oh, that’s what you call someone like me! Yes. I think women are people. I’m pretty disgusted anyone might think otherwise.” And then I went back to reading.
Sure, go ahead and encourage little girls to value their own minds. The ones that already do will respect you for it. The ones that don’t — well, maybe we can eventually teach them a thing or two.
