A Public Apology

I'm not above admitting that I am wrong. Here goes. I was wrong. Distancing myself from feminism was horribly wrong. Even though I believe the same things (Women are entitled to equal rights, equal pay, and equal respect whether they work in or out of the home) and I have not waivered in those beliefs I have found it distasteful to include myself in their ranks. I think, however, there is a lesson in just WHY I was wrong. You see, when I fuck up, I fuck up big and for really bad reasons.

What turned me off feminism was other women. Individual women I love. Women as a group, as market consumers, and as fork tongued mistresses of cruelty I despise. In particular, 16-24 year old feminists turned me off the movement completely. I admit, my views were formed when I was that age and even though I knew the facts about how the movement started and what it was all about it seemed to me that it had been hijacked by bitchy little girls who wanted nothing more than to add my sob stories to their rallying cry for mandatory male castration. I know now that they were young and stupid and did not represent the feminist ideal. Turns out I was young and stupid, too.

Like most girls I grew up with my share of battle scars from dating. I'm certain that I had caused a few doozies in my day as well. I was thankful that none of these boys had used me as an excuse to become some poor trod upon statistic in some man-club. (Maybe they did, I never heard about it) But my experience was that these girls were rooting for me to become a statistic. One in four. One in four. One in four. Another voice to cry out RAPE!

Now, I must interject at this moment that rape concerns me to the greatest degree. I do worry that the objectification of women makes the world a more dangerous place for everyone. Rape is one of the most brutal, terrifying, and deplorable tresspasses that can be made on another human being. However, when I was growing up it seemed that rape had a very broad definition and that a young girl could change her mind after the fact and retroactively say "no!". I admit that for a brief time I was one of those girls. Not because I had truly been traumatized by what had been a very poor decision on my part but because everyone else was sad for me. Maybe I should be sad for me, too? Maybe I was taken advantage of! Maybe I was totally helpless and unable to fend for myself and that boy should be demonized and burned in effigy for having seen an opportunity to be intimate with his girlfriend who- though impaired- was clearly saying "yes".

Where was my responsibility in all this? Wouldn't the true idea of feminism be that I had a responsibility to myself and my own safety? Wouldn't true feminism say that I was capable of making my own decisions? After all, I did dearly love this boy. But the pull of the peer group can be so hard to ignore and the role of victim so dramatic and enticing. After my flirtation with drama I began to feel that this was wrong. The injustice of my claim made it all the more difficult for other real victims to have the credibility they so deserved. But the girls needed a story. They needed another story to prove their point. Men suck.

I heard that boy put his hand through a window and after his initial emergency room visit was placed in the care of doctors in the psych ward. He was there for a few days. Years later I would apologize but really, how good is an apology when someone is so roundly rejected and libeled to boot?

No. I can't blame feminism for that. It has taken me a long time to recognize that. I made the decision to ignore my true feelings and be welcomed and accepted by other young women instead. Even though I told them initially that I was confused but not upset I kept seeing the skeptical looks and hearing the constant refrain, "Are you sure? You can tell me, I'm your friend." It seemed that everyone wanted me to play the role of victim, everyone wanted me to cry, everyone wanted me to have deep wounds and- always the actress- I obliged.

I have only myself to be angry with, but for many years it was easier to be angry with the girls who poked and prodded me for feelings that didn't exist.

Then there is my irritation with women in general. I want to have some sort of meaningful connection with my own gender but I don't want to talk about how fat you are. I don't care about jewelery. I hate most chick flicks and I love men. Not in any lecherous sort of way (but I never say no to a cute pool boy!) but in a motherly sense. For as much wrong as any man has ever inflicted upon be I have felt the deeper stings and lashes from my so-called sisters.

So why the turnabout? Why now? If you can't tell, I've been reevaluating lately. Thinking about myself, my patterns, who I've become and the choices I've made. Particularly in relationship to my role as mother. Two incidents in my childhood best illustrate where I was coming from and the direction I think I am headed.

When I was in my early teens my parents had a black lab named Cricket. Cricket was very high strung and had this jumpy manner. It got much worse when, one night, Cricket was attacked by some wild dogs. (This had been the first and last time I had ever seen or even heard of wild dogs in the area of my home.) During the attack, poor Cricket lost one of her ears and part of her tail. She was, understandably, quite shaken by the experience and her nervousness increased. My parents questioned the vet about this and they were advised, "If you have an uppity bitch, breed her and she'll calm down."

That could just as easily have been said about me.

Second, I remember very clearly a moment with my mother. I must have been about 10 or so and I was waiting for her to hand me a check to bring to school for some field trip or something. I remember that she would always sign Mrs. (My father's full name) as her legal signature. This particular day she stopped writing the check then tore it up. Then she looked at me and said, "My name is Eileen." She then wrote out a new check with her own name in the signature- and she had dropped the Mrs.

That was the only time I can remember my mom really declaring herself as a separate entity from anyone else. She was always my dad's wife and our mother. It really stands out in my mind because I remember being so proud of her at that moment. I wish she would have taken more for herself because now she cannot. Though that moment is raw in my brain what I have swallowed has been her sacrifice. What I have taken has been her model of consummate caregiver, enabler extraordinaire, and fierce defender of her children. I wish she would have valued herself as highly even if it had meant that I would have never been born. As she has loved and sacrificed for me, I would have gladly done the same for her.

So now I sit and wonder what my child would want for me. He wants me to be happy. He has recently taken to telling me as I wake up and as he goes to sleep, "Let me see that smile, Mommy. Keep smiling." I want another child. But I don't want to be tamed and I don't want to watch my spunkier self disappear. Mothering is a lonely profession. I look at the women I love, those with children and without, and I realize that I don't want them tamed, quieted, lied to or disrespected. So, it is with great humility that I request to be let back into the fold.

Of course, you know, I will be loud, boisterous, opinionated and sometimes very, very wrong. I know you wouldn't have me any other way.