feminism

I must not be a good feminist. I don’t know what I am – and I don’t generally worry about those labels – but occasionally I’ll find myself in conversations that just make me shake my head. It doesn’t matter to me if women choose to work or choose to stay at home, as long as those things are choices. I don’t feel empowered by knowing that there are women out there making obscene amounts of money any more than I feel empowered by my mother’s choice (and ability) to stay at home. I get angry with feminism in the same way I get angry with people push-push-pushing affirmative action. I don’t want to get a job just because I’m a woman. I don’t want to be looked at differently because I’m a woman. I don’t want people to make special caveats for me because I’m a woman. It’s bullshit. I guess what I’m for is equality – not elevation, not reparation, just equality. And maybe I’m an idealist for hoping for those things.

But feminism for me, I guess, is more of a personal choice than a public statement – just as my stance on abortion is a personal choice rather than a public statement. I can’t make decisions for others. I’m not angry with men for keeping women in the house for centuries. I’m happy to live in the time in which we live. I’m happy that I have the choices that are presented to me, and I hope that things continue to get better for women in the days to come.

Or maybe it’s just that I don’t understand militancy, in any form. Militant feminist, militant lesbian, militant (insert cause here) – maybe that makes me passive, maybe I’m just different. I don’t know.

This post isn’t going anywhere, so I’ll leave it at this. I support women’s rights, but I’m not going to deny that I have decidedly un-feminist bents to my thinking. I’m just – me.

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