With International Women’s Day coming up I wanted to share this poem a wrote as a final project for a gender studies class I took last semester. In this poem, I explore my journey as a feminist though the ways I have heard or seen the word “feminist” used throughout my life. I hope by sharing this poem I can inspire and invite others to reflect on the ways in which they think about feminisms(s). To recognize and appreciate the different ways women show strength and live their lives.
If I were to google the word feminist, the first thing to pop up would be
Quote, a person who supports feminism unquote
A simple definition, easy enough to memorize,
no need to clarify, analyze or summarize
So, imagine my 7th grade surprise
When I realize that feminism is not a given
This is not something people talk about
It’s a blight filled with spite, keep it out of sight
Learn to my bite my check and hold my tongue
So instead, I turn down the light and learned to write
The first time I heard the word feminist was in my mothers’ tongue
Vea una de esas feministas, the punchline to a joke I didn’t understand yet
I was told you’re too young to get it, just forget it
I remember asking my older sister about it
It meaning “Being a feminist”
Just cause I know she’s has a lot of wit and grit
The type of social awareness that in fairness
I must confess my parents don’t really possess
She told me about those types of feminists
The kind who are argumentative, maybe a little too sensitive
The idea of it, it meaning the idea of feminism she told me
Is not a bad one, but some take things a little too far, are always ready to spar
I didn’t want to be one of those so instead I just nod and agree
I remember, too many family reunions to count
Uncles between sips of beers and unchecked machismo
Told me laughing that, feminists don’t have boyfriends
Don’t shave their arm pits and don’t know how to take a joke
I try not to choke, sit tight and wonder
If this is all just a blunder,
My cousins have never liked how “woke” I could be,
protests fall on silent ears
Apparently, I needed to relax,
cut them some slack
After all, we are family,
clearly there is a lot to unpack
I remember in high school one of my friends told me
I don’t like the word feminist
Too much emphasis on the femaleness of the word
I thought this was a little absurd
apparently claiming to be a feminist was too political
I got used to seeing the shared looks
between classmates that read typical
Last week, I remember, my race red, staring ahead
Words at the edge of my teeth, fingers still
A voice over my shoulder, a silent classroom
Some guy, a boy really
Ranting about how feminists don’t care about men getting drafted
Feminists care about equality only to the point of their own benefit
He posits different scenarios, a series of hyperbolic what ifs
claiming that there are no feminists in this room
I think to myself now maybe he was right
There were no feminists in that room
Everyone hears, I hear, no one says thing
I sat there nurturing my rage, class resumes
I found out my ex-boyfriend called me a crazy feminist b*tch
I hate to admit it but this hurts, just a smidge
These words are bitter, threaten to devour me
My uncles’ words, in my mind flitter
I remember that words have power
I can change how they sit and fit, the way they feel,
this really shouldn’t be such a big deal
But looking back now maybe I am, crazy I mean
Crazy in the way that writers are,
Innovative and the brilliant creative
Finding new connections and ideas,
the in-between that keeps most frustrative
Maybe I am a b*tch, but not in the way that you’re thinking
I refuse to keep shrinking and sit here blinking
I am, as my mother would say, una berraca,
Not easy to make flinch
Despite everything I persist
And yes, I am a feminist.
I remember that theory is a story
As a writer, a poet maybe, potential storyteller
I remember that the best way to write is to read
To listen and absorb other stories
If someone asked me what a feminist is, this is what I would tell her
Feminist is my grandmother, my abuela
mother of eight, seven alive
Finding out what she’s made of
Leaving my grandfather so that she might thrive
Feminist is my mother
Making herself understood
Broken English and an unbroken spirit
Making a living working in other homes
So that me and my sister might have our own
Feminist is the room I sit in on Tuesday afternoon
A space and place for those ready to unlearn
A reassuring feeling, like to home I return
An uncomfortable feeling, this is what it’s like grow
Feminist is community and unity
A reaching across boundaries and the pre-defined
The steady feeling of your hand in mine
Looking beyond what has been assigned
Feminist is queer, my lover, keeping her near
A type of resistance that is hard to pinpoint
An ambiguous strength that not so clear
Objecting, rejecting, the role they appoint
Feminist is Black, a persistence, a resistance
Knowing that this existence is multifaceted
Finding uninhabited places, creating new spaces
Where we can hear a symphony of their voices
Feminist is knowing, understanding that not everyone has the same choices
Feminist is Indigenous
getting to the root of all of this
Seeking and uncovering the stolen vividness
Of the stories and traditions
A knowledge that is more than just wistfulness
Feminist is, was and will be more
than I could have ever known in the 7th grade
All its potential and possibilities, keep me dizzy on the floor
I have learned that feminist is handmade
Molded and folded for each her own
And as I sit here gasping
I know I know more than I did before
Still, I will never stop questioning and asking
Unmasking what I thought I knew
Feminist is fighting, hoping change will come, finally through