Why I'm a Feminist (Part Three): Gender Inequality Makes Me Angry

Assholes like to belittle women’s rights activists, dismissing us as “angry feminists.” Normally I bristle against stereotypes of any kind, but especially ones that try to limit who I am as a person. Just like being a virgin doesn't make me frigid or judgmental, being a feminist doesn't make me a bitch or a man-hater.

But the assholes have one thing right. 

I am angry.

I’m angry that the War on Women isn't just a political catchphrase. Republican legislators across the country, at the federal and state level, have introduced, and often passed, legislation 

• to force women seeking an abortion to undergo unnecessary procedures, or 
• to force women to carry even stillborn children to term after 20 weeks, or 
• to legalize the murder of abortion providers, or 
• to redefine rape, or 
• to force doctors to lie to patients, or 
• to restrict access to birth control while criminalizing all abortion.

I’m angry that Bill Clinton is still the Democrat’s Golden Boy. I don’t care that he cheated on his wife—that is his personal business. But how many women have accused him of sexual harassment, like Paula Jones? Of sexual assault, like Kathleen Willey? Of rape, like Juanita Broaddrick? Accusations date back to BEFORE he was even governor. So all you rape apologists who want to doubt his victims’ credibility can just stop. I thought the Democratic Party supported women’s rights…

I'm angry that my twin brother called me a slut and a whore for years, in front of all our mutual friends, and not a single one of  them stood up for me. I had committed the unforgivable crime of developing breasts, and I had to be shamed for it.

I’m angry at the number of times I had to ask to choose a famous person not on the proposed list for essays, papers, and projects. Why? I wanted to write about famous women.

I’m angry that I earned a reputation in my non-WGS history classes as the feminist. Why? I was the only one who consistently questioned gender bias, who asked about the women. In today’s day and age, what kind of history students ignore the history of half the world’s population?

I’m angry that my home church won’t allow women to serve in ordained positions. Women are allowed to be deacons, but not elders or ministers. My father is an elder, and I know he does his best to represent my mother and me, along with my brothers. I remember how proud I was when I found out he had been nominated. I cried when he told me he almost didn't accept it. He had to pray about it and talk to my mother because he wondered if it was wrong to accept a leadership role denied to my mother.

I’m angry that women are held up to an impossible standard of beauty. Be skinny, but not too skinny. Be curvy, but not too curvy. Be really pale or really tan, but not in-between. Always wear make-up in public, but never look like you’re wearing make-up. Wear the latest styles, but only wear styles that flatter your figure. Wear the latest colors, but only wear colors that flatter your skin tone. 

I'm angry that a sexual double standard still exists. My blood boiled when I first heard the comparison of men and women to keys and locks. 

I'm angry that most movies and TV shows fail the Bechdel Test.

I'm angry that so many of the twitter accounts I follow do stupid trending topics like #MyPerfectHusbandIs and #HowToMakeAWomanHappy, both of which just reek with outdated gender stereotypes.

I'm angry that I can't tell anyone from home that I'm bisexual. I'm angry that my sexuality is dismissed as greedy, or experimental, or denial. I'm angry that I have to lie to my family, to all my friends from high school, to most of my friends from college, to everyone at church. I'm angry that I can't marry a woman in my home state.

So go ahead.

Call me an angry feminist.

You are 100 fucking percent correct.

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Blogoversary: One Year of Anonymity

A year ago today, I composed my inaugural blog post, clad only in my favorite lingerie, with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me. As I write my sixtieth post, I’m completely naked in bed, the same set of French lingerie somewhere on the floor from when the boyfriend removed it last night. I’m back in the same city where my blog was born, but instead of being a few weeks away from the end of my internship, I’m starting the next chapter of my life. Moving here is my last big move, until either the boyfriend & I get married (fingers crossed!) or until I move back to France to recover from my heartbreak (not bad for a contingency plan, right?).

It’s been a good year for Confessions of a Virgin.

I wrote a guest post for Therese at How to Lose Your Virginity… and then the boyfriend & I ended up doing an interview for her documentary.

I wrote an article under my own name at Curvy Girl Guide after having connected with Meredith on twitter as @belle_vierge.

I’ve made some blogger friends, like Lauren at Our Crazy Ever After and Ashley at Chickadette. I’ve made some twitter friends, like my #bookends, @MrsJGatsby and @theycallmeivy. I’ve even made some twitter/blog crossover friends, like @Classy_in_KC

I joined Twithouse, a twitter organization of ambitious co-ed and post-grad women.  Even after the recent scandal, I’m still proud to be a member, and I still love the other women in the group.

I’ve received comments, emails, and DMs from virgins who relate to my posts. I’ve received comments, emails, and DMs from non-virgins who have admitted my blog has changed their perspective on virgins and virginity.

My pseudo-anonymous identity has given me the freedom to be raw and honest. To admit I’m a sexual being, even if I’m not engaging in coitus. To share my thoughts on sex and virginity. To write without fear of judgment. To open up about my sexual assaults. To advocate for women’s rights.

Writing a (mostly) anonymous blog has resulted in some of the most personal writing I’ve ever done. It’s so much realer than any of my previous work.

And yet it has only been a half-truth, at best.

 

May 4, 2011, I sat in a train station in London with my best friend Mark,* as we waited for our train to take us back to Paris. At this point, he and I had already had many heart-to-hearts, not just in our few days together in Europe, but over the course of three years of best-friendship.

In that moment, for whatever reason, my last deep, dark secret spilled out.

Something I had kept buried since I was 17.

A secret I just pretended didn’t exist.

I guess after two years in France, during which I changed more than I did in eight years of high school and university, I couldn’t lie anymore. At least, not to Mark.

Over the past year, I’ve told my cousin/best friend Nick, my best friends Rose, Lauren, Hardy, James, Ali, Jane, Christa, Brittany, and Sarah. Annnnnnd I think that’s it. Oh, and Ron, the guy I sorta dated in France.*

That’s it.

Until now.

Because I’m tired of hiding. Telling half-truths. Worrying. Denying who I am.

I’m bisexual.

And my family will probably never know.

“I’m also a unicorn. Or maybe a bicorn … Anyway, I’m starting to believe in my own magic.” —Brittany, Glee 

I end up in tears at least once every time I go home. Somehow homosexuality or bisexuality or gay marriage or whatever comes up when I’m home. I’m from a highly-educated, very passionate, sorta southern family, and we enjoy discussing politics, literature, current events, religion, films, everything.

Too bad both my mother and kid brother have explicitly said they don’t believe bisexuality is real.

Too bad my father and kid brother have only recently come to terms with same-sex marriages being okay.

Too bad my home church denomination has recently reaffirmed its stance that marriage is between one man and one woman.

Too bad I can’t trust my twin brother with a secret to save my life. At least he’s totally accepting of all sexualities, to the best of my knowledge.

A few weeks ago, we were discussing my church’s recent statements, not just on marriage, but also on the Bible. My parents both kept interrupting me, and I raised my voice to be heard, and my mother told me not to yell. I stormed off to my room and promptly burst into tears.

I know they all think I overreacted.

I don’t give a fuck.

I have the good fortune of being in love with a man who is everything I ever wanted and more.

It doesn’t erase the doubt deep down that if I had brought home a woman, my family wouldn’t accept me anymore.

A well-timed confession via postsecret.com

So I’m anonymous. Mostly. I think about twenty of my friends IRL now know about my blog. Friends I trust knowing the most intimate details of my life. I’m sure these friends also know that if they ever out me to anyone from high school, or university, or basically anyone in the South, we will never speak again. But if I thought there was a chance of them doing that, I never would have sent them the link to my blog. I know all my secrets are safe with them.

It’s been a good year for Confessions of a Virgin. I’m looking forward to an even better second year, a more honest year.

Bisous.

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