It’s only words.

I started writing an amusing (if I may say so) post about getting my legs waxed, but kept getting derailed by one that’s been swimming in my fingertips since November 8 last year.

Tomorrow the free world gets itself a new despot – the Stale Cheeto aka Fuckface Von Clownstick aka Little Donnie Diaperpants aka PEEOTUS aka The White Pride Piper aka…you know what, just go here and here.

I share the sense of disappointment and alienation with the American people; but with it has returned a jarring personal memory for me.

Years ago at uni, I was the unwilling protagonist of a skit. It had all the elements of a timeless “meninist” crass comedy. Sexism, body shaming and the kind of blind confidence that can only spawn from generations of patriarchal entitlement.

I use the non-term meninist in quotes, because it will never be a thing.

I use the term timeless, in that, all these years later, it has never left me.

The skit was about how naked photos of a girl (coincidently, her name was mine with a letter changed) were leaked, and how all the excitement was quelled upon seeing how small her breasts were.

I stood there in the crowd, between seniors, juniors and peers, between friends and strangers. I stood there in the crowd, as realisation dawned on every one and they turned to look at me, one by one. I stood there in the crowd, as eyes pried through my tee, and judgement slobbered around my body.

I just stood there.

When I finally came to, the curtains were being drawn amid loud boos – and one too many cheers. I convinced my friends that I didn’t care what a bunch of immature college nobodies thought of me.

Here I am. 13 years later. Not caring what the immature college nobodies thought of me.

Until recently, I thought it was humiliation and rage that crippled me that afternoon when my classmates pointed at an imaginary picture of me in the nude, and frothed at the mouth before agreeing that my breasts just weren’t doing it for them.

I’ve often wondered what the “creative” process was like. I imagine the boys deciding to put up a skit. I imagine them thinking of what would get the most reaction from the crowds. I imagine someone suggesting me as a subject. I imagine all of them arriving at the premise of the story.

I stop imagining when the bile starts rising.

What I thought was sheer humiliation and rage back then, was my body refusing to acknowledge hurt and disbelief at the violent breach of trust by those who had been sharing the same space with me for four years.

I’m working to find the fabled higher consciousness where you learn to free yourself from painful memories. Until then, that it happened, marks its permanency in my mind.

This is the memory that my brain picked out as the president-elect prepares to take office.

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Megan Lane: Women and Trump, by Tony Ward

Everything about this campaign has brought back how I felt that day/week/year, and I feel for what the American people (and most of the world) are going through.

That people they’ve been sharing their space with all their lives just displayed in front of the world how lowly they regarded them – their body, ability, sexual-orientation, religion, origin.

But rather than standing frozen in shock and disgust, the world is rising up; and goddamnit if it isn’t the most beautiful things that’s come out of all this.

I’m not an American citizen or resident, but I think we can all agree that this poison has seeped into every living room and work cubicle around the world. Luckily, the antidote is making its way in.

When I let that offensive skit slide all those years ago, I opened the doors for every student to pass their judgement on my whole being, and made room on that stage for the next non-conforming girl to get publicly harassed.

Never again.

As an indignant Fox News reporter wondered: Are we planning to be in a state of mass protest for the next 4 years?. Yes, that sounds pretty accurate. I’m joining the global movements against systemic racism, sexism and bullying at every level, in my own way. With it, I hope I can wash away the ugly stain on my memories.

So no, Mr Trump & co., you cannot and will not get away with “Sayin’ it like it is”, because what it is to you, is repulsive to us. These words that you callously toss around because of the podium you’ve been afforded, are validating the basest of opinions and actions. Now we will toss our powerful words around, too. Equality, feminism, respect. Basic. Human. Kindness. And the podium on January 21 at the Women’s March is far bigger than any you will ever have the honour of standing on.

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The (un)fairer sex.

HeForShe

 

I am a feminist.

Because I am a feminist.

Recently there was a douchebag espousing some douchbaggery against feminism, homosexuality and fireflies, I think. In general, I’d ignore these living-in-my-mum’s-basement idiots who call themselves kings. But I reckon we need to hear this one out.

Not because everyone has a right to their opinion (which include terms like legal rape, fat girls and anti-gay), but because this thing has followers. Men who feel vindicated and emasculated by “feminazis”.

And women who agree with them. Women who think that we’ve “taken this too far” are mocking every woman who has been verbally and physically abused by men because she’s just a girl. They’re mocking every woman who was beaten and jailed for standing up for our right to vote.

I respect that women shouldn’t pull other women down. But if we can call men out on sexism, then feminism says that we should call everyone out equally.

In these past few months of travelling and living in different parts of the world, I’ve been exposed to a comfortable bias that makes me very uncomfortable.

It started with the stares I got when I asked M to help with taking the baby to the loo, washing his bottles or with the laundry. The stares are mostly puzzled, but a few stares also reek of disdain.

At first, I was enraged with the attitude. As if it’s below the “man” to do such menial tasks. But with time – it’s pretty clear that it isn’t male superiority that’s being honoured. It’s male ineptitude.

It’s the inside joke that men can’t do a good enough job.

If I was at the receiving end of the stares, M was nothing short of a spectacle either. He did, after all, get onto what he needed to do. What I asked him to do

Because what wasn’t obvious to me through my equality-tinted glasses was that men weren’t wired to do certain things. Like care for a baby, or step into the kitchen without making a giant mess for us poor – but efficient – women to clean up, or god-forbid boyishly forget to separate the colours from the whites. We, women, should just do those chores and save ourselves the trouble of explaining it to the men or waste time picking up after them.

Would you want to be the butt of that inside joke?

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When organisations promote the hiring of women, I see how desperately we need this, but I wonder if it is working against equality? Yes, we need to see it in writing because the norm has become to look at a woman as a flight-risk, and a mother as a liability. But no, we’re not getting promotions because we wear skirts. We sometimes wear pants, too.

Women before me have spent years trying to crack that glass ceiling for the rest of us, yet, unfortunately, we still get asked: “how do you think you can do this job, given you have a 2 year old and all?”

Better. The answer is: She can do the job better (than you).

Her patience is reserved for the said toddler, so don’t push it. Her skill levels just went up 1000 points the minute she learnt how to negotiate meal times and bedtimes (even if it worked just that one time). She won’t crack under pressure; she’s seen her soft-headed baby roll off the bed, she’s calmly cleaned dinner off the floor that only took her all afternoon to make, and she’s brought down 40 degree fevers with her own bare hands.

So yes, I think she can do your silly little job.

Men don’t get asked this question at interviews. Don’t dads want to run home on time to feed their kids? Or stay home when the little person is ill? Aren’t they just as distracted when they know their baby is in someone else’s care? Between my dad, M and friends who are dads, I know they would cringe at the thought of being the inconsequential parent.

Sexism discriminates. And it doesn’t give a flying fuck as to what gender you are.

If you’re still struggling to see the need for feminism, then look at this way: The minute women and men are considered equal, it’ll be a world where “will he be able to watch the kids?” is just as absurd as “will she be able to get the job done?”

A world where boys are free to feel and girls feel free to be. Where asking for help isn’t “girly” and being immature isn’t “boyish”. Where both boys and girls feel safe to walk home alone at night. Where both men and women know they’re getting paid for their hard work and not their gender.

Where you can choose if you want to be a girl or a boy or both or neither. Or if you want to be with a boy or a girl or both or neither. Because not one of them is less than the other. Because we’re all unique, and we’re all equal.

I am a feminist. Because I am a feminist.