It’s no secret that I am a feminist .
And every time I say that, every time, I feel like I need to give the whole “not-a-bra-burning-man-hating-feminist, but the radical, believes-woman-are-different-from-but-equal-to-men-and-should-be-afforded-the-same-rights-responsibilities-and-freedoms kind.” I mean, I love men. How can you not? Men are fantastic and capable and sexy and different. We women are not the same as them, but we are equal to them -and our society’s legislation, pay, and view of our bodily autonomy ought to reflect that.
I mean, that’s the goal, right?
Sometimes this perspective makes me feel that I am somehow personally responsible for upholding some sort of women’s code. I feel that we should look out for each other. I have incredibly close relationships with the women in my life. And there are aspects of my life that only other women could truly understand.
So when you see a tipsy woman being led out of a bar by a stranger, you get her in a cab and make sure she gets home safely. If you see someone being harassed on the street or in the subway, you speak up. When there is only one other woman in a predominately male workplace you empathize with her. You meet the eye of the woman whose newborn is having a hysterical screaming fit in the grocery store line up and you smile broadly and make conversation. You lighten the load, however you can, whenever you can.
It is as though I feel like my behavior is somehow reflective of all women, so I do my best to be strong, kind, compassionate and respectful. For the greater good!
But then…then there are those times when we let each other down. This my friends, this is one such story. And beware, I will be using language.