I am not a feminist, or maybe the lady doth protest too much.
I joined the feminist ranks kicking and screaming all the way. For the last couple of years, I’d preface statements with, “I am not a feminist, but…” My daughter and sisters would roll their eyes and say, yep, she’s a feminist. Why did I fight it? I could proclaim lofty and noble goals and state that I hate labels, although that is true, in this case I don’t think it’s relevant. Trying to emerge from your previous roles can be unsettling.
Up until recently, I was a traditional wife and mother. I lived in a beautiful home, with a rolling lawn amid neighbors who all looked like me. I was never going to stop shaving my legs, arm pits or go braless. My Lady Schick razor is still in my shower and I put on a bra every morning, but I am a feminist.
I despise (not my) President Trump. My heart races, my stomach knots, palms sweat, my hair gets grayer every time he unleashes attacks on all I hold dear. His rise to the highest office in our land is the number one reason I have become an activist. It’s a role that I wear reluctantly. I’ve said many times that I am not built to hate. I protest because I love.
There was a rumor that (not my) President Trump was going to be the keynote speaker at my niece’s college graduation. I promised to honor her accomplishments and to behave myself at the event. But I couldn’t quell my desire to take a stand, even if it was undercover. So I went online and purchased protest underwear with “Vaginas against Trump” printed on the derriere for my sisters and other female relatives in attendance.
The “V” word…
I will admit it; sometimes I suck at my new role as a feminist. The word vagina made me uncomfortable. That very unease made me purchase the undergarments. When one twenty something relative received her underwear in the mail she said, “vagina is a gross word, why couldn’t they say pussy”. I thought my unease with the word was a generational issue, but her reaction made me realize that our unease stemmed from centuries of body shaming women, keeping women in their place by making them feel dirty, less than, impotent.
The day of the graduation arrived and when I went to put on the underwear, I found they were incredibly uncomfortable. All but one of us decided to pass on a daylong wedgie. I couldn’t let them go to waste. Yesterday I attended a pro-choice rally and my underwear were center stage. I admit it, I covered my signs as I travelled on public transportation and only revealed them when I was in the thick of the rally. I broke out in a sweat, my heart was pounding, and I might have even broken out in hives, when I unveiled my sign.
I may be a clean-shaven, bra-wearing feminist but I held my protest sign proudly.
