I’ve been posting on social media for International Women’s Day since 2014, the first public evidence of my appreciation for the word “woman.” This was at the beginning of my feminist awakening, when I realized that there was a reason people had treated me like shit for no reason other than my physical appearance. For some reason, I’d rented out Betty Friedan’s “The Feminine Mystique” from my local library and expected it to teach me what feminism was. The point is that feminism was finally on my radar and I still haven’t let it go.
I think about this instagram post a lot, for some reason. I think it’s because it was #1, as previously stated, my first public declaration of feminism, but also because of the picture itself. At that point in my life, I wasn’t proud of the person I was. It had less to do with my personality (since I’ve always known that I’m one funny bitch), but more to do with how my body looked and functioned in my day-to-day life.
Only a year before I’d been bullied by one of the most popular (and meanest) girls at my high school for defending my friend before swim practice. We’d been sitting in TK Burger (the most infamous lunch-time junior/senior hangout spot that had ridiculously overpriced food) before a swim meet because my friend needed to eat. She was eating chicken strips when Courtney Fox came over to us and demanded my friend give her money. She refused, saying she didn’t have any, but Courtney persisted, insisting that she give her chicken strips instead of money, as if any of us at the table owed her something. I finally pitched in, tiny freshman year me, scared of my own shadow, saying “Can you just leave us alone?” She obviously didn’t like that, being threatened by a freshman, so she glared at me, hands on her hips, assessing my potential threat level. She finally responded with “Nobody asked you, fat ass bitch.” I think my jaw must’ve dropped, but I can’t really remember. The shame, though, is still engraved in my brain, in my gut where my stomach dropped. I can remember the butterflies swirling chaotically. When I walked out she wanted to make sure I knew my place, telling her friends “Did you feel that earthquake?” This type of explicit hatred towards me, towards my body, that had been going on for years from the time I entered school, sent me a message that I was not worth anything. It wasn’t necessarily because of my gender or class, but because of my weight.
Back to 2014, the body positive movement affirmed me, reassured me that I was worth my weight in gold. I needed to hear it. That’s why International Women’s Day is so important to me. A whole day to remind women and women-loving people how important they are. How important it is to cherish ourselves, our bodies, minds and spirits.
I’m reminded every March 8th of the struggle that the women around me have been through. I think of my grandmother, who I’m so fond of, dedicating her life to raising her children, making sure that there was love in her home. Caring for me when my mom had to work or needed a break. Taking me for half the summer and giving me joy. My mom, who denied the slight possibility of becoming a statistic; who put herself through college and raised a child and worked full time; who gave up her youth to make sure I could have some; who not only taught me, but showed me what it means to be a woman.
I’ve learned that there shouldn’t be requirements to be a woman because we’re all different and that’s what makes us strong. We don’t have to be the same to get shit done, we just have to learn from each other, support each other, and listen to each other.
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