Trigger Warning.

 I don’t understand “feminism”, only that I am inherently one.  I grew up believing we were all created equal. No one had to tell me this. I just believed it. As I got older, I realized… maybe we aren’t.

The women in my family are strong. Strong is a relative term, and in today’s age a ‘strong woman’ is an even more relative term. What is the criteria, per say, for a ‘strong’ woman? Is it that she can bench press just like a dude? Does she solve crimes by day, cook and clean for her family by night? Is it that she wears tight leather spandex, catches the bad guys with high kicks to their faces, and falls in love with her nerd-boy side-kick? Does she have to like boys?

On my dad’s side, my great-grandmother, Memaw we called her, ran a hospital cafeteria until she fell ill. Type 2 diabetes sucks. An occupational hazard.  People still talk about how good her food was.  She lived with it until the age of 92, needle pointing all the way.

Her daughter, my grandmother, Ma we call her, “equally” shared a whole-sale business with grandfather for nearly 40 years. He was the salesman. She ran everything else. Her favorite smell? Cigars.

On my mom’s side, my great-grandmother, Little Thelma we called her, used to garden in her bikini so she’d get a tan. She took a shot of bourbon before bed every night. She called it her ‘medicine’. She wore pinky rings because pinky rings signified you were single and wanted to stay that way. She still got married, but… that was the times.

My grandmother, my mom’s mom… is crazy… but tough. Her first child died of “SIDS”. As in, doctors could never diagnose what the fuck happened to her baby for it to die. It just died. Under her watch. You’d be crazy, too.

My aunt, my mom’s sister was a single mom. Worked her ass off to pay the bills, earn the proper education, and works in administration at the VA hospital.

My mom is an RN, and her favorite sect of nursing? Hospice.  Because in her words, “It’s where I can do real nursing”. Her favorite place in the world? Lowes Hardware.

Our housekeeper, and my best friend growing up was Martha Sue. She had worked in our family since my dad was 11. Before that, she was in jail. Why? Because she caught her husband cheating. So she grabbed her shotgun, and shot them both. She repented for her sins, and asked the Lord to save her. 

These are the women who raised me. Strong. Workers. Tough as nails. Don’t take no shit from nobody. Fighters of disease. Bosses. Smokers of cigars, drinkers or bourbon—neat. Crazy. Raisers of your babies. Rulers of Roosts. Hold your hand while your dying women. Shoot your husband because he disobeyed you women. Go to prison, find Jesus, women.

I don’t understand ‘feminism’. I don’t understand  “equality”. Because if we are all equal, why are women so much better than men? Why are we the ones carrying your babies, birthing your babies, raising your babies? Why do we let you make more money than us? Why do we laugh at your jokes? Smile when you tell us to smile? Sit when you tell us to sit? Spread our legs, open our mouths wide, and moan for your pleasure. Why do we let you speak, let alone breathe? 

I am female, born of Eve, the original sinner. 

We know what we did wrong. Do you? 

I say, we’ve paid our debt. It’s your turn.
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I am 5’2”, 100 lbs, and I hope to god one day I am as strong as I feel angry. I am so angry.
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I wrote this in January of 2015. I am still 5’2”, 100 lbs. And I am still angry. Angry as fuck. But I am as strong as I feel angry. I have to be.

I was raped at 22. I never came forward. It haunts me, the idea that he still could have, or still continues to not listen when a girl says No. Or Stop. Or Please. But I choose to believe he has. Because it is harder to make people change, to make people listen, than to just move on within yourself. I want to believe it was just a miscommunication. That alcohol collided and neither of us were really caring for each other or what the other needed, which is what should be taught in sex education. We should be teaching communication, rather than abstinence and guilt.

But now I’m speaking to you… You know who you are. You read this blog. I see you. Know that. The second you over step, I’ll come forward. And the sad thing for me? Your life won’t be ruined. This is the lamest of threats because it is not your name that will be dragged through the mud, but mine. My actions – which have not been pure or holy or lady-like in the very least will come out, too. I have never been and will never be a “Virtuous Woman”. My name will be done. And your name will live on as a “Well…. he MAY have done this ….” But another man will redeem you. Because that is our world. You stuck your dick down my throat while I was unconscious and your name will live on. You told me you were wearing a condom when you were not and your name will live on. I punched you in your face, clawed at your neck, and asked you to stop and apologized the next day for being “crazy” and your name will live on.

This is our world.

You could one day run for office. And I’d have to stand before a court,  I would have to speak out, because you should not be in any form governing a country. It would be my civic fucking duty. But me coming forward? Ever?  Would only be a hell of a week for you.

So. Here I am. Asking you and anyone else with questionable character to own up. And fucking change. Be a better person, not a better man—because the toxic ideal of what a man is has to change. I’m not asking what it means to be a woman anymore. I’m asking, what is it to be a man. What does it take for you to feel secure? To feel whole? To feel good about yourself? Because all I’m seeing are sad broken men, raging just as much as women about this changing world. What is YOUR problem?

I was never taught to be, nor am I, a man’s ear. I was never taught to be, nor am I, a man’s support. I am mine. And you, are your own, too. This is your chance, your time, to take a step back and fucking listen, and think. Go to therapy. Figure it out. Because women? Obviously… we’re done with helping you along. You have to be your own, and be what’s right. I am not asking for your power, or wisdom, or heart. I’m asking for your integrity.
 
My mother taught me integrity. She fed it to me in my pop tarts at breakfast, my PB & J's at lunch, and my meatloaf’s at dinner. Your mother, I guarantee, taught you the same. Integrity is not a man or a woman’s role. It is a human role, but somehow… most men have let it slide to continue their search for power, success, and their “rightful” place. It’s asinine, and cowardly. Give up the search. Join the struggle for peace hope and love like the rest of us. It’s not as easy, but it’s far more rewarding, I promise.

I recognize almost none of what I said is filled with peace, hope, or love. And many of the women who have raised me would be disheartened by my bluntness, my “cruelty” to my fellow man. They’d ask me to calm, to stick to my lane. To continue being the neck instead of the head. But that’s where I come in. I am no neck. The women who raised me, the world I have lived in, created a monster.

They made me a head.