10: How Feminist Writing Changed My Life
Image by Sophy Rickett from series “Pissing Women”
I sometimes find myself wondering why I am continually drawn to read such anger-inducing, paradigm-shifting, psychologically challenging analyses on patriarchy, misogyny, and sexism.
Why all the big, scary books?
Why don't I opt more often for a simpler, more fun read like a romantic comedy or thriller, or dive into some fantastical fictional world in which I can laugh, smile, or escape into? Is the world not scary enough already? But that’s just it, I find that I’m not scared (anymore), I am instead empowered.
I wonder why I can feel isolated by feminist works and their subsequent realizations, why more women around me don’t feel as innately drawn toward understanding our position in the world, why we want men to love us, why we get married, why we shave our legs, why we do anything deemed “normal” by a patriarchy that enforces a harmful heteronormative binary ideal that hasn’t been in fashion for a generation or more (at least in the context of the Western world/specifically the United States). Ever since I was a child, I have incessantly and to a spirited fault, asked “why?”
I have only recently realized that while books specifically on feminism often evoke emotionally visceral responses as I read, they also reframe the world as I know it, name the harms that have been perpetrated against me and my female body, the misunderstandings, the confusion I often feel in the face of flawed logic meant to keep me in line with the historical precedents of social expectation. It is in that naming that I find a kind of solace; putting words to my frustrations is empowering.
I realized that it was while reading an early feminist work that I finally accepted I had actually been sexually assaulted and/or r*ped many times, times that I previously thought didn’t “count”, did. That I could be r*ped by a boyfriend, that yes, that still counts. That assault doesn’t just happen at the hands of some scary anonymous man lurking around the corner of an alley, it's overwhelmingly statistically likely that it’s actually the men you learn to trust. For me, it had always been white, middle-to-upper class, charismatic “good” guys that people admired, that wielded a certain amount of insulating social capital. And I understood how that made it all the more likely I would never tell a soul, because where would that get me?
It was while reading feminist literature that I finally understood how all of the wrongs that I previously tried to sweep under the rug, forgive, and move on from, rightfully haunted me. That “the body keeps the score”, as it were. It was while reading feminist works that I finally understood why there was pain, mistrust, and tension that lived in my body, especially the parts deemed sexual domain; why I couldn’t relax under the weight of a man on top of me.
It was while reading feminist works that I realized why I often felt belittled by men in my sphere, mansplained to, or just deemed less credible by virtue of being a woman. I realized that the three times in my life I’d felt compelled to contact the police about men scaring me, I spoke with an officer who didn’t seem to understand why I was afraid; that officer was (you guessed it) another man. Why was I afraid that a man threatened to end his life by jumping off a local bridge if I didn’t remain his girlfriend? Was it my responsibility to judge whether or not his threat was real when the police spent time and effort finding him alive? Why was I afraid when a man tried to give me a car by leaving it outside my home he’d never been invited to as leverage to hold over me after I ended things? Why was I afraid when that same man years later harassed and loudly accosted me in a local coffee shop to the point that heads turned and I was shaking, because I no longer acquiesced to his repeated advances or requests to sit and talk to me? Because I had the audacity to say “no, I am busy”? Was I not credible in being afraid? Was my fear “dramatic”?
Were their reactions to my rejection not dramatic?
It was in reading feminist works that I also understood why I had only involved the police when I had tangible evidence that these men were harassing me (i.e. phone calls, texts, witnesses), and that I did so more out of fear of what they would do next. It is just that brooding, fuming-alone-in-a-dark-room-type of male aggrieved entitlement that historically turns the most dangerous. It’s the reason there are pdfs online you can download and fill out titled “If I go missing”, with a neat little section dedicated to listing potential suspects (for women, it is usually overwhelmingly past boyfriends/partners). Because there is a prevailing idea that hetero men are owed something that only women can and should give them. I accepted long ago that for the other, arguably worse wrongs committed against my body, I would never find justice in a legal system based on the “he said/she said” model, so I never tried. It would be futile and likely hurt more than help. It’s also important to note that in those cases, the men got what they wanted (albeit by force), whereas for the cases I involved the police, the men did not get what they wanted (which made them all the more threatening).
It was while reading feminist works that I realized how much I censor myself around men so as not to hurt their feelings, be deemed annoying or undesirable--or worse--a bitch.
It was while reading feminist works that I realized how much I gave, how much time, effort, domestic labor, “mothering” I performed for the men I had loved, how it was so ingrained in me to serve from an early age that I didn’t question its inequality until it was presented to me that way. How much had I given with little to nothing in return? Had I really once taught a man I dated how to use a washer and dryer only for him to later r*pe me after a frat party? “Come on, I’ll be quick.” Patriarchy is one hell of a brutal spin cycle.
It was after reading feminist works that I finally felt confident using the “a” word (as I trepidatiously deployed for the first time only after being physically attacked twice by a long term boyfriend), the “a” word being abuse. I was so used to belittling my pain for the sake of men’s reputations and feelings that I didn’t even feel correct in using the objective dictionary definition of what had been done to me. It made me uncomfortable to acknowledge that I had been abused when I was thrown and dragged around a house for minutes on end while being screamed at as I cowered on the floor in fear. I didn’t even try to fight back. I had been conditioned all of my life to just take it. I didn't want to call it abuse, because that would make it real, and because I knew others had it worse. I didn’t want to call it abuse, because it didn’t leave any physical injuries or noticeable bruises, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if that qualifier would ever be followed with “yet”. When I showed up to my parents a day later, my mother knew just by looking at me. She just knew. And of course there are enduring injuries of a type that remain invisible.
It was while reading feminist works that I grieved, cried, and sympathized in solidarity with the countless women who have experienced far worse than I have. Those in different racial groups, different class statuses, different time periods, those in the throes of war, those in different countries, those under strict patriarchal regimes. It was while reading feminist works that I realized all that had been fought for on my behalf as a woman was done so with years of sacrifice I can’t begin to fathom. Those things I take for granted--my education, my freedom (hopefully both figuratively as well as reproductively), my ability to vote, etc.--were fought for and only recently gained. And that even still, some of my rights as a woman are debated in a supposedly modern country by a lot of old men interested in retaining a semblance of the whitewashed patriarchal order of unearned advantage and control they grew up knowing.
And so that is why I read all the big, scary books. Or more accurately, the big, empowering books. Because that knowledge has given me the words to articulate what I’ve experienced in my 26 years as a woman, and why I sometimes feel a little crazy (spoiler, it’s because the patriarchal order is crazy and hurts everyone including men). Because that knowledge has made me less afraid, and more empowered. It’s helped me recognize that more often than not, the call is coming from inside the house. And that righteous anger can turn into progressive action.
10 Feminist Book Recommendations:
Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny by Kate Manne
Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation by Silvia Federici
Entitled: How Male Privilege Hurts Women by Kate Manne
The Scarlet Letter by Nathanial Hawthorne
Women, Race & Class by Angela Davis
The Seven Necessary Sins for Women and Girls by Mona Eltahawy
Know My Name by Chanel Miller
The Five by Hallie Rubenhold
Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde
We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233
National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673
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