Feminism, to me, was originally unendingly permeated by the ingredient of rebellion. Any practice that resembled an assimilation to the patriarchy became an act of betrayal, of both the self and the collectively marginalized. The cross, as a symbol in fashion, is a subject I’ve introspected on heavily, since I had agnostic, feminist acquaintances who wore it but detested Christianity. Wearing the cross but not practicing the patriarchal faith became a rebellion, a fuck-you to a historical framework of organized abuse. Schooling routinely socialized me to diverge from the religion I was raised in. This was not my pussy-hat-wearing origin, however. In seventh grade, I’d adopted a role which no one asked of me: feminist informant. Maybe it was the coming Hillary-Trump election, maybe it was the introduction of social media into my life, or maybe I had simply reached the point in my developmental timeline where I became conscious of my position in the world as a woman. It cost me, socially, to be thirteen and an activist warrior, but I am notably at fault for this, as my early execution of educating my peers was, admittedly, forceful. Once I became aware of the historically transcendent injustices faced by women and the tethered struggling communities, I felt personally accountable for working toward a widespread shift in hearts, minds, and leadership. I felt ashamed to have previously been undereducated while blissfully privileged.
In fact, shame was a paramount feature of “converting” to feminism for me. Everything revolved around shame. I am a feminist because I am thirteen and feel nauseated when my science teacher rests his hand on my shoulder. I am not a feminist because the boys in my class are sick of hearing about the wage gap in casual conversation and have started calling me a “feminazi.” I both swung between identifying and not identifying with the movement through shame, because of shame, and in the spirit of thwarting shame. I felt generations of women stand behind me as I reported my internship supervisor to the police after he requested that we work on a private project in his apartment, among other unethical acts. A year later, when I would write my college application essay on this subject, I would be told by a peer that I was “lucky” to have a good story that illustrated me as a part of those who are marginalized and oppressed. I remember lying in bed, wondering if what this man did to me somehow gave me an advantage, nearly forgetting the pain it had caused me. Did I get into college because I am a damaged woman? How could I have chosen him as the subject for a piece representative of me? There is an almost universally conditioned response: You feel guilty; You are the victim, but you feel disgusted for “profiting” from a trauma. Perhaps the element of shame tucked within the original sin of a woman is not something removable by a priest, because I am not sure I was even momentarily purified of it.
The Catholic faith resonated with me initially as “not working.” I felt Christianity didn’t necessarily produce virtuous individuals, and so why would I choose to subject myself to a lifestyle of what I perceived as hypocrisy? I’m very interested in spirituality and have explored many faiths now, but I’m still finding my position within the spiritual world. My hesitations concerning organized religion did, in fact, substantially impede me in wanting to attend Manhattan University; however, I do acknowledge that prejudices still have a grip on me. Although I grew up in a spiritual household with both of my parents practicing everything from Buddhism to Hinduism—with my father having joined a Franciscan monastery for a time as well as being the author of a Christian-fiction fusion book, and my mother having been a licensed Reiki practitioner and meditation guide—I have not yet reaped the rewards of spirituality that they seemed to. Nevertheless, I have a belief in the timeless energy of the soul, and at this stage in my life, that is satisfying enough.