By McKayla Eskilson
I spend a lot of time thinking about sexism. This is not because I am a feminist, although I am. Nor is it because I am a gender studies major, although I am. I spend a lot of time thinking about sexism because I am a woman. My gender, a seemingly trivial part of my identity, is a guarantee that I will continue to be affected by sexism for the rest of my life. This fact used to get me riled up, and it still bothers me. But if I’m being honest, I find myself questioning more and more frequently whether I still have the same energy to fight for change that I once had.
I have been a self-proclaimed activist for a while now, and I like to think that I speak out against intolerance when I see it. Although, I have to admit that lately I am unfazed when men talk over me in class or really anywhere, that I have grown used to feeling unsafe on my college campus and elsewhere and that often I stay quiet when I hear a problematic “joke” or comment. I used to believe that, as a woman, I was obligated to stand up for myself when I encountered acts of sexism. That by addressing the men, or women, who objectified me or challenged my worth, I might make the world a little more bearable for other women. But I often feel that this fight is only met with feelings of alienation and frustration.
Let me be frank: it is difficult to maintain relationships when you would rather discuss intersectionality than Kylie Jenner’s latest Instagram post. Or when you call attention to a micro-aggression or an incident of bias despite running the risk of upsetting the perpetrator or “making a scene.”
I’ll provide an example for clarity. I was recently approached by a man nearly twice my age who told me that my skirt was very short and made me feel rather uneasy. However, I was with my friends in a public setting and did not necessarily feel unsafe. So, being the kind of person I am, I took it upon myself to diplomatically explain to him why his comment was inappropriate and made me uncomfortable. I thought that if I did this, he might be more careful about how he approaches women, or more generally how he thinks of women, in the future. Of course, this conversation did not go as planned. This man told me that I should “take it as a compliment” and that I “had a lot of growing up to do.” However, as I’ve stated previously, I’m a woman and these kinds of interactions come with the territory. While the results of this interaction were disappointing, they were not unexpected.
However, what I failed to anticipate was that one of my best friends would be embarrassed that I chose to stand up for myself in this situation. Although she did not say anything directly to me, my friend was clearly disappointed that I had chosen to engage with this man instead of simply walking away. We left immediately after, and she did not say anything to me until the following day when we both acted as if the whole situation had never happened.
Apathetic responses such as this one often leave me feeling more disheartened than the acts they are in response to, especially when they come from people who are so important to me. I used to think that empathy cures apathy. That advocating for a shift in culture away from sexism, racism, classism and other forms of oppression would motivate others to do the same. However, I’m beginning to believe that apathy kills empathy. That the few of us who want to work for progressive change are being defeated by the many who choose to actively disengage.
Time and again I am shown how appealing it would be to join this mass of indifference. Of course it would more fun to pretend sexism and other issues of inequality did not exist and sometimes I find myself wondering if the fight is even worth it. I worry that I am witnessing my own turn toward social apathy. I would like to think that I will continue to work to end discrimination and prejudice and that I will speak up when my own dignity, or that of others, is challenged. But it is exhausting to care so much, and see so few tangible changes; it is disheartening to work so hard for something you believe in, and fail to receive the support you need to continue. If I have to choose between my friendships and my identity as an activist, I’m not sure I am cut out for this work.