"Reverse" Discrimination

I'd say I'm a feminist. Not the 60s burn my bra, hate all men as oppressors, rise up and shout "X Chromosome!" feminists...I actually don't think this brand of feminism is genuine feminism at all. But that's another post for another day. No, I'm a feminist in the earliest sense of it: I believe women equally qualified should receive equal pay (which is still not typically happening even 21st century America, I might add). I believe women have the right to own property. I believe women have a fundamental, God-given right to choose whom they wish to marry when they want to marry him. I believe women are not the property of either government or man. I believe women have the right to vote as American citizens (and, yes, I'm often embarrassed about whom they choose to vote and why). But a right to voice their opinion and beliefs they still should have. I believe that woman are equally intelligent, valuable, capable, and beautiful to men. I believe men can be wonderful human beings, strong leaders, extraordinary companions and supporters of the world at large. And, in theory (since I don't know every man on the planet and certainly have met many I didn't like), I like the gender as a whole. I should also note, in that vein, that I've met many women I didn't like but still embrace that gender as a whole, too. And, while these statements may seem ludicrous in the postmodern culture we live within today, but let me remind you that they were once blasphemous and still shockingly true, especially for the women to whom they applied.

So that's what I believe. Now here's what I don't. I don't believe it's okay for women to hit men. A hard crack across the face in the name of righteous indignation is not sufficient cause for a woman to get away with what a man cannot for the purpose of the same name...especially if she uses gender as a scape goat. No, I'm not a pacifist, actually. I do believe that violence under specific circumstances and in the case of threats against the physical or mental well-being of me or my family are warranted. And I wouldn't lose sleep over that. But what I don't believe in is a woman who, offended by the verbage of a man, slaps him in the name of "ladyhood" and the offense of her sensibilites. Let me remind you that slap-happy men are hardly a welcome addition to the definition of gentlemanly behavior...nor should they be. So how come a woman can get away with a strike and a man cannot? Because men shouldn't hit girls? Well, if that doesn't offend your feminine wiles than nothing ever will...I shouldn't be protected from abuse because of my gender! I should be protected against abuse because I'm a member of the human race! And women who are ok with receiving a job because a company needs to meet a gender quota and then turn around and file a sexual harrassment lawsuit when they don't get an underserved promotion because the other quota (the one that ensures, for instance, that people of color are also hired) are surely hypocrites if there ever was a definition for them.

Now what brought all this on? When I teach my students to assess feminim in postmodern culture, I encourage them to read the "radicals" of the 60s. Some were great women in possession of incredible laurels, insights, intelligences, and passions to redefine how our culture categorizes women. But somewhere woman turned against woman and now staying at home is insulting to the working woman while the working woman has become the symbol of abandonment of self for the male machine. As for this particular choice...well, I choose a blend of both, but prioritize staying at home. I do believe it's the best choice, one I sacrifice myself to make each day; one that I will not soon regret, I'll tell you that. But if you work, work on! Do what God has called you unto, and you will find success and fulfillment.

In the meantime, let's stop slapping men in the name of boobies! And let's stop using our femininity when it suits us if only for our own selfish agendas. And when it's all said and done, let's not abuse one another in the ways history once abused us.

Because, if anyone understands what it is to be a woman, isn't it the sister sitting to your right or left?

A New Old Routine?

January is always an interesting time to me. The post-holiday lavishings of food, sleep, food, vegging, food, friends, food, family, and food have passed into the annals of one year as a new planner opens to the potentials of all the above for a new year. I, for one, am feeling refreshed this new year, perhaps more than in almost any year previously...maybe it's because I'm not pregnant as I was this time last year. Maybe it's because my husband isn't scheduled for biopsies, surgeries, doctor's appointments...maybe not living in doom and gloom lifts the spirits as much as it lifts the body.
In any case, 2009's opening feels alot like those summer days when I was a kid: I'd heft a load of soaking laundry up the narrow, steep basement stairs with my mom following behind with her giant bucket of clothespins. We'd go out to the backyard where my dad had strung what could only be called a haphazard network of heavy cording that must've appeared from the heavens to be a welcome "web" offering sheets, coats, undies, and socks to any and all in need. I can still remember the scent of Tide and Downy and the strange crispness of clothing that should've been soggy when wet (and why did Mom prefer one detergent and a different fabric softener? I used to wonder. Now, as a domestic engineer myself, such eccentricities aren't nearly as mystical; they downright jive with my common sense). We'd stretch and snap and hang and pinch that laundry. And then it would flap and flurry in the midwestern winds. And when it finally cycled into my dresser or onto my mattress, I'd breathe in that peculiar scent of the indoor washer and the outdoor dryer -- you know, that scent simply cannot be reproduced. And, in the end, I just felt cleaner. Purer. Refreshed, I suppose. That's 2009.

Probably by June, I'll look back at this post and think, "Where'd that calm go?" But I'd also like to think I'll reread that childhood memory. Then maybe I'll go hang some wash outside.