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Last night I found a cowrie shell wedged tightly into a sidewalk crack, just before I had yet another fight about feminism with my best friend.
I used to post about feminism a lot on this journal. Over the course of the last couple of months I've stopped, though. Not because I've stopped thinking about feminism, mind you - but because I've spent so much time talking about it, and fighting about it, that writing my thoughts out has become peculiarly exhausting. It reminds me of how my writer friends say that they never discuss stories before they're finished; it sucks the spirit right out of them when the time comes to put pen to paper.
This last week, my life has been a) talking and fighting about feminism, and b) writing a paper about witches as inadvertant role models in their roles as testers.
Witches are, generally speaking, not positive figures in fairy tales. When they're positive figures, we call them fairy godmothers, or white enchantresses, or sorceresses. "Witch" means villain. "Witch" means, kind of selfish. "Witch" means, disrupting the social order.
But "witch" can also mean helper or tester. "Witch" can also mean inadvertant role model.
The witch in a fairy tale has always been a fascinating figure to me when she's a recurring character, because, hey, picture being Baba Yaga. You're out there in your forest with this neverending stream of children and heroes coming to your door, asking for the foal of the Mare of the North Wind, or advice on how to get to the sea that houses the salmon who ate the rabbit who holds the heart of Koschei the Deathless between his teeth, or just for a way to relight the fire that a wicked stepmother put out. And, once in a while, you get a little frustrated and you bite someone's head off, and all of a sudden everybody's calling you wicked.
It feels a lot like being a feminist, frankly.
Because I get so damned tired of having to be the one to explain that, actually, women do not take being catcalled as a compliment, even if it would be a godsend for a guy. I get so damned tired of being called oversensitive or humorless because I don't just see the joke, but also the social context that allows for the joke, which, when you think about it, isn't all that funny. I get tired of being an apologist for my movement, because, hey, while I might not agree with every little tiny bit of feminist thought out there, I think that the basic cause is still worth identifying with, and fighting for.
I get so damned tired, and I've only been doing this for a little while, comparatively speaking.
But I'm writing a paper about witches, and I found a cowrie shell wedged into a crack on the sidewalk, and it is still worth it.
I've never set up a girlie filter before, because, well, I don't tend to have all that many barriers, but I think I'm going to set one up for feminism. You wanna visit me in my little hut in the forest to hear me rant about feminism, comment below.
I used to post about feminism a lot on this journal. Over the course of the last couple of months I've stopped, though. Not because I've stopped thinking about feminism, mind you - but because I've spent so much time talking about it, and fighting about it, that writing my thoughts out has become peculiarly exhausting. It reminds me of how my writer friends say that they never discuss stories before they're finished; it sucks the spirit right out of them when the time comes to put pen to paper.
This last week, my life has been a) talking and fighting about feminism, and b) writing a paper about witches as inadvertant role models in their roles as testers.
Witches are, generally speaking, not positive figures in fairy tales. When they're positive figures, we call them fairy godmothers, or white enchantresses, or sorceresses. "Witch" means villain. "Witch" means, kind of selfish. "Witch" means, disrupting the social order.
But "witch" can also mean helper or tester. "Witch" can also mean inadvertant role model.
The witch in a fairy tale has always been a fascinating figure to me when she's a recurring character, because, hey, picture being Baba Yaga. You're out there in your forest with this neverending stream of children and heroes coming to your door, asking for the foal of the Mare of the North Wind, or advice on how to get to the sea that houses the salmon who ate the rabbit who holds the heart of Koschei the Deathless between his teeth, or just for a way to relight the fire that a wicked stepmother put out. And, once in a while, you get a little frustrated and you bite someone's head off, and all of a sudden everybody's calling you wicked.
It feels a lot like being a feminist, frankly.
Because I get so damned tired of having to be the one to explain that, actually, women do not take being catcalled as a compliment, even if it would be a godsend for a guy. I get so damned tired of being called oversensitive or humorless because I don't just see the joke, but also the social context that allows for the joke, which, when you think about it, isn't all that funny. I get tired of being an apologist for my movement, because, hey, while I might not agree with every little tiny bit of feminist thought out there, I think that the basic cause is still worth identifying with, and fighting for.
I get so damned tired, and I've only been doing this for a little while, comparatively speaking.
But I'm writing a paper about witches, and I found a cowrie shell wedged into a crack on the sidewalk, and it is still worth it.
I've never set up a girlie filter before, because, well, I don't tend to have all that many barriers, but I think I'm going to set one up for feminism. You wanna visit me in my little hut in the forest to hear me rant about feminism, comment below.
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