When I was in college and even through most of grad school, I was all about feminism. Being a good student was important to me, so I devoured anything I could get my hands on about the subject. Though I never hated men, I was pretty angry at the world. I went to rallies against rape; I played open mikes in coffee houses and talked about being a woman in the music business; I talked about politics and feminism all the time. I was a young, gay woman in the male-dominated fields of academia and music; I had plenty of fuel for my fire.
In a way, I’ve moved on since then. I don’t feel very angry, though I am still very much interested in social justice. My mantra now is love—not anger. If someone brings up politics, I don’t participate. And my days of reading fist-clenching polemics are over; I am back to novels. I feel like I have matured beyond that phase, and can’t really go there anymore, but I don’t ever want to deny that experience to younger women if that’s what they want. It got me to where I was today.
I thought of something the other day, and I wanted to throw this out there for other women to think about.
When I was in college, my whole family went to my aunt and uncle’s house for Thanksgiving. I was in rare form that day. Before I went to visit them, in my Women and Sociology class, we had been talking about women’s roles and holidays. I went there on a mission. I was going to stand up against the patriarchal society and refuse to be relegated to my “natural” place as a woman—the kitchen.
So, here’s what I did—nothing. I didn’t help cook; I didn’t help serve; I didn’t help clean. I did exactly what the men were doing—nothing. I lay on the couch and watched football. I was very vocal about what I was doing. They were used to it anyway; I always spoke my mind a bit too loud for my traditional southern family.
