What to Expect when You’re Aborting

So, being generally six months behind the rest of the pop-culture world, I finally caught up and watched Juno last night. Having made the mistake of reading feminist blogs about it before seeing it, I half-expected to see some overwrought hysterically judge-y scene of Juno fleeing in moral panic from the abortion clinic because her “baby has fingernails”. Whatever. It wasn’t that bad, but her generally awesome calmness about her pregnancy and her chill-the-fuck-out attitude about adoption made me really wish that abortion had a similarly cool heroine, somewhere. 

For a lot of women, abortion isn’t the morally fraught hand-wringing decision portrayed on Degrassi (yes, I’m dating myself). It’s not about life, or selfishness, or anything else – it’s just a necessary medical procedure. When I heard a couple months ago that a 23-year-old woman was anonymously blogging her abortion, I figured it would be the standard patronizing crap – it is, however, awesome and absolutely worth a visit. It even has helpful sections like “To The Men Who Put the Killer Kidney Beans in our Bellies: Notes on Etiquette” that you can mail to your deadbeat brother when he knocks up his high school gf. Being from the states, the blog also takes aim at the bullshit that is mandatory pre-abortion counseling - because, you know, we women are just so damned fickle.

For women who are just plain cool with getting an abortion and who are looking for resources on how to manage the crappy symptoms of early pregnancy, there’s an even more pathetic offering of info. If you google morning sickness, for example, you’re going to find a barrage of website that congratulate you on your bundle of vomit-inducing joy and advise you to eat crackers and go to bed. Not exactly helpful for women who have to get back to work and who have an appointment at the Morgentaler clinic Monday morning. For irreverent help, point your browser towards Jezebel’s totally not doctor-approved Guide to Treating the Symptoms of Unwanted Pregnancy.

Fear of Feminism

When I was not a feminist, I readily subscribed to the notion that feminists are humourless, man-hating types. I conceived of myself as progressive, so I defined myself against this vision of feminism. I always qualified my statement “I support women’s rights” with the proviso “as long as they take into account men’s rights.” I was quick to denigrate feminists as hippies, space cadets and self-pitying fearmongers. I refused to believe in systematic oppression or patriarchy; I was contemptuous of feminist activism. I hated what I called “feminist jargon.” I would say anything or do anything for a pat on the head from the patriarchy. I wasn’t “like other girls.” I now realize how ignorant I was. I was refusing to see what was always right in front of me: Women, are still seen as sub-human. Sexism is real and pernicious. Stereotypes of feminists do not reflect reality. Words are more than just words. The patriarchy will never let a woman rise above her proper place.

I now see how I collaborated in the oppression of women. One of the greatest challenges I’ve faced since I decided not to participate in my own subjugation has been overcoming my feminist-phobic ideas.

It has been particularly difficult for me to claim feminism for myself. I denigrated feminism for such a long time that I am now afraid to call myself a “feminist.” I know what others who think like I once did will call me if I say I am a feminist. I know that I will be written off by anyone who isn’t already acclimatized to feminist concepts. I know that any time I use “feminist jargon,” my arguments will be sidelined and I will be subsumed under negative stereotypes of feminism. I know that the words I have learned–the words that have been given to me that refer specifically to the realities to which I bear witness–will be used against me to paint me as unrealistic or too academic or antagonistic. I am afraid to be maligned and sidelined. I am afraid that I will never make a difference because I will always have to fight for legitimacy before I can fight for freedom.

It hurts so much to be immediately dismissed. It hurts to be swept aside and defamed simply because you appear to subscribe to a contemptible viewpoint. It hurts to be ignored, demeaned, bypassed, laughed off. It hurts when your ideas instantly are met with denial, disdain and blame. I am anguished to think that I ever hurt someone in this way. I feel deep shame and regret for how I once treated others. Now that I know how much this type of treatment can hurt, I am afraid to come out as a feminist. I know, however, that if I don’t stand up for feminism, I am helping the patriarchy. I am submitting. I will not submit. I will claim the language of feminism, I will refuse to be bound by stereotypes, and I will fight. To do any less would be complicity.

Ms. Understood? The F-word.

I am a feminist.

I don’t hate men, I am not a lesbian (although I support and love those who are), I have never burned a bra, I do not want to take over the world and create a radical feminist utopia (although you have to admit, its pretty cool in theory), and I hate it when others project their own skewed perceptions of feminism onto my beliefs, without ever consulting me on what my beliefs really are.

Every feminist has different beliefs, depending on her own personal experience. There is no single feminist manifesto that we all follow. The closest to this is each of our personal declarations of our commitment to ensuring both sexes are treated with the equal respect they are due. This declaration usually occurs around the same time that you come out as a feminist and tell the world that you care. It is hard, because it doesn’t seem to be a popular paradigm at this point, but to all the beautiful, strong individuals who are able to admit to being one when asked, or at least to being a feminist ally, good for you.

If you wish to educate yourself on what feminism is all about, talk to them. Go to the Women’s Resource Centre, there is plenty of information there. If you are interested in what it means to me personally, call me up for a coffee/beer/hot chocolate and we’ll talk. But until then, do not place your stereotypes on me.

The general perception of feminism makes it seem as though we are all militant radicals, and nothing could be further from the truth. Calling every Feminist a radical is like saying every follower of Islam is a fundamentalist or terrorist. It is completely untrue.

I am a feminist, and I will continue to work towards creating a safe, positive environment for other women on this campus, in this country, and around the world. My focus happens to be on eco-feminism, education, and creating safe spaces for victims of violence or prejudice or oppression.
I do think the world has been quite screwed up for a very long time, and yeah, the old, singularly patriarchal world order is largely responsible for the imbalance. I do not want to replace it with a matriarchy, I want to work with you to build a world where we all respect each other, regardless of being male/female/other.

That being said, I do enjoy going to university, I do enjoy being able to vote, I do enjoy cars, especially fast ones, and my cooking skills are quite limited, but I will make you that sandwich as long as you’re willing to deal with the potential food poisoning later, and I enjoy feminist-friendly men immensely. (I mean come on, is there anything sexier than a guy who respects you, and treats you as an equal? Cares about what you think/need/want/feel? Loves your body as much as your heart and mind? And is still amazing in bed!?!)

I love to dance, I love to bake, I have become quite good at knitting as well. I like pretty dresses, but I despise high heels. I love those silly romantic things that guys do, and yeah, its cute when you hold the door for me (as long as you let me open them for you too every once in awhile lol). I am actually a rather feminine feminist, but don’t be alarmed, I can still bitch you out for sexist/misogynistic/anti-feminist actions just as easily in a skirt as I can in a 3pc. suit. I do not have a vendetta against all of mankind, just those (male OR female) with archaic views towards the roles of women and men in society.

Feminism to me is about offering equal access to opportunities, especially education. The socially constructed gender roles are harmful to both sexes, as some women CAN be firefighters, surgeons, CEOs or professors and some men DO enjoy being house-husbands, teachers, and nurses. Its not about lowering standards, its about offering equal opportunity to the women who can do it as well or better than their male counterparts and vice versa. The discrimination against traditionally feminine areas of work or study is a huge frustration to me. I have nothing against stay-at-home moms (or dads), it is their personal choice. My work is to ensure that she and her daughters have enough education to make a conscious and informed decision about their life choices, and that they have a support system to help them if they fall through the areas of society that still need fixing. (sexual assault, domestic violence, equal access, pay equity and that damned glass ceiling to name a few).

Solidarity. Come on ladies, you know you like being able to vote and go to school and find a career that you love. No more pressure to just get married, have kids and give up all your hopes, goals and dreams. The world is yours. That is all because of feminists. Women like Mary Wollstonecraft, Nellie McLung, Agnes MacPhail, Eleanor Roosevelt, Gloria Steinem, bell hooks, and many, many more.

And to the boys: feminists do it better lol

But seriously, respect women and they’ll return the favour. We are not higher or lower than you. (And please don’t just assume that feminists think they are above guys. We really don’t). We are your equals, in spirit if not physical strength. We are your mother, sister, future daughters and girlfriends/partners/wives. Do your part to discredit the oppressive attitudes of the past. You will be creating a safer place for your children or nieces or nephews to be raised in.

So go ahead, tell me my place is in the kitchen. Yours is at the stove, while I sit at the kitchen table and enjoy whatever you have lovingly prepared for me to eat. I’ll make dinner next time, or bake up something delicious for dessert.

[rant over <3 ]

“Feminism has fought no wars.It has killed no opponents.It has set up no concentration camps,starved no enemies, practiced no cruelties.Its battles have been for education, for the vote,for better working conditions …for safety on the streets, for child care, for social welfare…for rape crisis clinics, women’s refuges, reforms in the laws.If someone says, “Oh, I’m not a feminist!”, I ask,”Why? What’s your problem?” :by Dale Spender ‘For The Record: The Making and Meaning of Feminist Knowledge’

Feminism: The belief that women can be fairy princesses and pro-linebackers too

Living with a Grizzly Bear

Normally, I detest writing about dreams. I also don’t really like reading about dreams.

But for today, I can’t help but write about this strange series of dreams I had last night.

Waking me up from around 5am to 10am, on and off, some keeping me awake until the next strange series of dreams.

Last night, I got to relive, in the abstract dream way, a series of sexual assaults and physical encroachments that, well, obviously I’m not over.

The details don’t matter, I think, or at least, I don’t really want to go into them. But I was trapped in a house and one of my roommates had a pet grizzly bear. He insisted the bear was tame, but I never really felt safe around it. It would corner me. It would paw at me. It’s paws were gigantic, and you know how in dreams you are not even remotely strong enough, so that was that.

Well, so, i’d go to a room in the house, and the house was never all that concrete in layout, but I’d end up in a room with a former aggressor and I couldn’t get out. And my arms weren’t strong enough, because I knew what was going to happen, and what was happening, and I still couldn’t get out.

Then I’d wake up, turn over, deeply disturbed, and half fall asleep again into another room in the house.

When I’d walk around the house, the Grizzly bear would follow me, watch me, lord over me.

Suffice to say, today I’m mostly inside myself. I lay in bed from around 10 to 11ish, poring over the feelings that came right back up to the surface. Suffice to say, I guess I haven’t ever properly dealt with such feelings. I, like most women, didn’t report anything. I didn’t go see anyone or any place about any of it. I think I should, but fear and skepticism keeps me from doing anything about it. I downplay, deny, or degrade the experiences and convince myself I’m over it. Obviously I’m not. I just don’t want to go through all the effort, whatever effort that would be, to do anything about these memories.

There, I’ve said what I’ve said. Now I’m going to try to get back to work. I’m not really ‘myself’ today, but it’s not written across my shirt that I had a bad night last night, so folks don’t really know whats up.

Fucking grizzly bear.

Rape Victim #432,534,450,654,239

his piece was written by Lia Tarachansky and performed as a spoken word poem at the Radical Vulvas show in Ottawa, on August 10th, 2008.
—

I’m sorry darlin’ if your hands are like his touch

I’m sorry darlin’ but you’ll never know how much

I’m sorry darlin’ if your kiss is sometimes bitter

If when you sleep I stay awake and remember

-

I heard an angry, big, black woman talk

She spoke of what women deserve

Her voice resonates in my mind I sit here in the dark,

Breaking my head open over being too forward or too reserved

-

After battlefields of bad breakups

Judging hip size over makeup

Being crazy with intentions

But just too fucked up to mention

Pops the question- what do I deserve?

-

As I sit here in the dark, more than fifteen years have past

From the first stab to the last

When my tiny body was betrayed

When my innocence was raped

When I started to be afraid

I didn’t deserve anything.

-

now twenty four and he is still in my mind

Darlin’, you don’t understand what it means every time

That yes, sometimes, your love in disguise

When you’re caressing my thighs

You remind me of the first touches and the cries

When my legs were forced to open

And my mind was forced to close

-

I’m sorry darlin’ if your hands are like his touch

I’m sorry darlin’ but you’ll never know how much

I’m sorry darlin’ if your kiss is sometimes bitter

If when you sleep I stare into the wall and remember

-

Support groups aren’t for me, mamma

As you struggle to understand

The impossible to comprehend

Beating yourself over where you were

Now that you know

When my thighs were ripped wide open,

Eight years old.

-

When he told me in his deep, quiet voice

Don’t shake, I won’t hurt you, with my force.

-

Big hands, big face, deep voice, for two years

-

Ended up a warning on a wall in a high school class

Don’t wear short skirts, don’t walk home alone girls

Or you’ll end up wondering the worth

Of what you deserve?

-

Sex it up because no one will like you otherwise

Sex it up because that’s the only way they care

Preposterous, obnoxious, or self-conscious

As long as those pretty little legs open up to play

-

Fighting the images of battlefields for years

Of broken hearts and screaming matches,

picking partners who throw punches

-

Yes, big, black, angry woman.

Women deserve better all around

Everywhere we’re found

So stop telling pretending with equality

Stop telling me I’m free

After all HE did to me.

-

So yes, it took these years to say it loudly

It took these years to know the source

The depth of every part he’s entered

And not just there, my mind, my consciousness, my soul

-

I’m sorry darling if sometimes kissing you I shudder

Or when you want me to hold you down I think of him

If playing rough, I sometimes start it, feeling guilty while we’re laughing

Wanting to grow up, but afraid HE might come back

-

I’m sorry darlin’ but I can’t forget it

No, It does not just go away

And you are welcome, for my sharing

But I’m sharing it in my head all day

-

I’m sorry darlin’ if I’m sometimes distant

You are supportive, wonderful, and true

I sometimes wonder, do I deserve you?

Or will you end up on my battlefields too

-

I’m sorry darlin’ if your hands are like his touch

I’m sorry darlin’ but you’ll never know how much

I’m sorry darlin’ if your kiss is sometimes bitter

If when you sleep I stare into the dark and remember

So try this one on for size…

Eventually feministinguottawa will have tags and categories, but because we haven’t had a meeting yet, I figured such decisions and methods will come after (ie. the problem of categorization)

But oh boy do I have an innaresting thought train for you! ALLL ABOARD!

File this under political thought, feministing, and critical disability.

Today Montreal’s English Language newspaper, The Gazette, contained an article about research linking anti-depressants to the treatment of, what is it called again? Oh yea, mmhehe, “premenstrual dysphoric disorder, the psychiatric term for severe PMS”. mmhehehe, put that one up there with “restless leg syndrome”

Now, let’s see what kind of ‘advice’ we get on a google search for PMDD. Ah look, the first few hundred hits are sponsored by big pharma. Factsforlife head researcher John. H. Greist is also linked to the development of anti-depressants with Eli Lilly. Small coincidence that the researchers linking “PMDD” are also linked to pharmaceutical developments and researches. Stranger still that he lends his authoritative voice in support of Eli Lilly in an article that compares GlaxoSmithKline’s product with Eli’s, as if peoples well being is secondary to the stock values of these companies. ANYWAYS, we have to move on.

Now I’m not denying the existence of, Premenstrualdysph well Im not going to call it what they call it, but, “severe PMS”. Neither am I affirming “severe PMS”. In fact, I don’t know so much about calling anything “PMS” in the first place, like, huh? Do we name breathing a syndrome? Like, air-dependency syndrome? Haha, I get cranky and anxious if I cant breathe, too, so I have air-dependency syndrome AND PMS. Somebody make me a pill so I can be assuaged of my pharma-created fears of needing air.

But the train must press on, else we will get nowhere, yes? I will move along.

Critics in the Gazette article point out that this is, essentially, Big Pharma pathologizing hormones, especially of the female-experiential variety (icky). And if you didn’t catch the philosophical gargelly goop, in short, the origins of this “disorder” come from a womans bodies disposition in relation to the social world in which she inhabits. That is to say, and I’m now picking up where these so-called critics left off, but that the mere fact of such a disorder emerging as a category in and of itself is preposterous enough, given the socio-historical-econo patriarchial assumptions running underneath such a notion.

How is it patriarchal? Let’s do some thinking.

Now, the Gazette also mentions that 64% of people diagnosed with depression are women. This also means that roughly 64% of Big Pharma’s clientele for depression are women. Plus, I’ve read elsewhere other rates that peg it at around 75%. Moving along, Big Pharma’s defenders say that the statistic correlates to gender because men are not encouraged to talk or understand their feelings, and so are less likely to seek treatment of their depression.

No mention of the historical facts and consequences of living out patriarchy there, eh folks?

Still, let’s do more thinking. If this defense is to rest, I must wonder at the neutrality of the DSM-IV. Oh dear I’ve gone too far, heck. If you know what the DSM is, skip the next paragraph. Unless you think I’m funny.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (now working on the 5th edition) is, well, it’s how it sounds. The criteria are generally laid out for all kinds of wonky disorders, like oppositional defiance disorder, which they say onsets at around the age of 2 and can last until your twenties. Then you make peace with the man. But believe it or not, children as young as 28 months have been put on deadly cocktails of drugs (that have never been properly screened for childrens’ consumption).  In short, the DSM is psychiatries’ manual to render ill all forms of human experience except that which drives capitalism. Oh, where’s the link for that statement, you say? Well, that’s an unpublished 20 page paper of mine. I’m citing me.

So, as far as the experiential neutrality of the DSM goes, we can ask a few pointed questions on this subject of depression and the disproportionate stats on how much more it affects women.

Never have I encountered anything in the DSM that is touchy feely, or feelings-positive. I am offended that the defense (re: men don’t talk) artificially renders the DSM as a pro-feminine document. If anything, it makes women confessional. In binaries that are so restrictive, as far as the politics of experience goes. You’ll see later in a sample questionnaire.

But even if it is a fellas fault for keepin his trap shut about his feelings, this is not a very good defense tactic. I mean, if someone is disputing the neutrality of the DSM on the basis that it overdiagnoses/pathologizes womens experiences, you can’t defend neutrality by invoking gender stereotypes. In short, you can’t say that the manual is neutral but men are not. Because by definition, this manual is mean to be a statistical compilation of mental disorders; it is supposed to be universal, so defending it on gender specificity… LOLz0rz. (my conclusions to paragraphs are always awesome). I mean, how do I say this? You can’t aggregate and then disseminate while trying to invent a universal category of experience.

But wait! We’re nowhere close to being done with the thinking.

After all, this is the politics of experience and the right of women to their madness I am defending. (madness under patriarchy is fair game, and the revolution will never be psychiatrized).

Here’s the politics of experience clincher: The ways in which many mental disorders are screened by the DSM are through checklists. Ordinary, snapshot checklists. Let’s look at a standard test for depression. (open as a new tab. feel free to take it, but take it with a couple, no, make that a dump truck’s worth of salt.) Crap, I’m majorly depressed. Look at the results field: “0–13: minimal depression; 14–19: mild depression; 20–28: moderate depression; and 29–63: severe depression” So, everybody on earth is depressed, just a wee bit.

But if you notice, the questions are, well, freaking absurd. Logical nightmares.

ie.

19.

I been failing more lately.
I fail a lot now.
I am a complete failure.
I am as good as ever.
Maybe or maybe not.

Haha, who the eff would ever say they are good as ever? Especially against the notion of failure.. yea, right,  I’m as great as ever, I love sex just the same, everythings just the same as it ever was, right? . . .

But alas, who, exactly, decided that your past self is more valuable than the self experiencing changes of that self?

Like, if it’s all relational, who is to say anything about whether I should be better now at making decisions? I’m only 23, of COURSE I can’t make decisions, and I get all anxious about them, and I lay in bed thinking of all my worries. DUH, I’m alive.

And again, with sexuality, as if you should always have the sex drive of a 15 year old. Frankly, the inclusion of sex drive as a serious question on depression depresses me. You know how risky that piece of information is? Can you imagine, you and your partner, and your partner is all hot and bothered, and you are saying No, and they pull out the depression card? Plus, what about all my asexual homies out there? Do we have to be sexual? Why? Isn’t that a bit biodeterministic, there, DSM?

Oh, and there are dozens of other standard tests for depression, so the mere screening process isn’t universal.

Suffice to say, this is snapshot philosophy of the self, as if “more”, “less”, or “same” has much correspondence or meaning. I know, I can feel more and less things, but whoever said the first version of me was any good? Isn’t the fact that I’m feeling or not feeling anything valuable in and of itself? Like, why mess around with my right to my experience of myself? Why steal the authorship on who I am supposed to be?

Short answer: Patriarchy.

Sigh. I am SO longwinded.

Coming back to “severe PMS”. Let’s look at one the questions they have on a screening test online.

Check the symptoms you have during the week before your period:

	Depressed mood
	Anxiety, tension, edginess
	Sudden mood shifts
	Irritability, anger
	Loss of interest
	Difficulty concentrating
	Fatigue, loss of energy
	Appetite change, food cravings
	Sleep problems (too little, too much)
	Feeling out of control, overwhelmed
	Physical symptoms (bloating, breast tenderness, pain, weight gain)
Please answer all of the following: Yes No Do these symptoms disappear during or after your period? Do these symptoms occur with most every cycle? Are the symptoms severe enough to really interfere with your life?

See? Again, yes, yes, yes. That’s mostly me. But, another clincher: who gets to decide what a “real” interference in your life is? Patriarchy is an enormous interference in my life, every stupid stinking goddamn day. The same can be said of men and women around the globe, here at home, whatever you want to say. The question really is, “what is life”?

Lets go back to some basics. And while I may seem to go into some biodeterminism of my own, bare with me, I’m not an either/or kind of thinker. Bothland is the happiest and saddest of places.

Life. Life. I was born a wee baby girl and, inevitably, my hormones did the thing and made this body into a human-making-machine. So it goes. That much I’m not, by the virtue of my regular periods, going to deny.

So, in and among the processes that happen to a womans body, I just have to ask: how could my body be wrong, and your science be right?

Now, I don’t know if I actually suffer from severe PMS. That’s because I’m bonkers off the map anyways. But still, how could any womans body be wrong in its stone-age executions of cycles, and modern-mans science be right?

More important and pressing, how, on EARTH, could this ever be inverted, how could anyone ever think to convince women that what happens to their bodies is actually a curable mental condition?

Well, now it’s time to switch to consequentialism.

What are the consequences of pathologizing hormones and womens experiences?

Without reference to patriarchy and oppression, women are being sold a way out of what happens to our bodies. I must interject and say, hey, cures for the flu are cures for the flu, but naturally occurring processes are not diseases. In short, being severely PMSsed Off is not a disease. It is not a “chemical imbalance” (don’t even get me started on that hypothesis; which it still is, and is still disputed in scientific communities). It is what it is.

The fact that it matters is only in relation to a society that is patriarchal, that has never organized itself around the principle of equality and cooperation among the genders. Feministers often joke about this already, that if men got periods they would, oh, have a national holiday about it, or have vacation time, or have competitions to see who bleeds more.

PMS blame has been around in my life even before I ever could PMS. And I took stock of what that meant, what it has come to mean over time: a moody, angry, overwhelmed, anxious, edgy, irritable, bloated, food-craving woman is an identity sans grata. These are the personality traits that are off limits to women, else we be declared PMS-ers, which sounds like code for crazay. Psychiatry is doing its best to let us women know that such experiences of ourselves are wrong, off-limits, harmful, dangerous, and problematic for the ordinary functioning of the everyday.

Now, I am almost done this long winded exposition. But I am going to leave you with a question that I myself have put a hypothesis to.

In the history of the self in society, so, the history of the theological self, and the history of the secular self, in society, among all of these historically regulated selves, which popular doctrine has abdicated interruptions of the self on the basis of efficiency?

Begging the question just a bit?

Well, that’s just another chapter in this long winded bothland world of mine. It’s also central in my 20 page paper on all of this.

Time to sign off. I leave you with a youtube video that I dont know is any good coz im in the library with no sound, but I have studied the works of David Healy and I am in debt to him and always will be.

The revolution will not be psychiatrized: or, let’s all PMS like crazy!

I am a Feminist, and so can you!

 

The question of my feminism, as the previous bloggers have set the trend, is a great way to introduce myself to this new project of ours. Like Chaya, as of recently I have been extremely eager to scream it out from the roof-tops- “My name is Amy Kishek, and I am a Feminist!” It has become a defining trait in personality, and in many instances, the defining trait. It informs nearly every decision I make, nearly every reactionary and even proactive action I take, and nearly every opinion I share and debate. It is as much a part of me as any other philosophy, ideology or belief I hold, if not more so. Why? Because being a feminist means that I like myself. I like the way I look, what I think, what I say, the choices I make, and the actions I take. It means that I am not afraid of who I am and of what I want to be. It means I am my own person despite what I am told I am or should want to be. It means I refuse to listen to a society that would label me as this, that, or the other thing. I am willing to not only take myself at face value but to take pride in that individual.

 

This is what makes feminism so revolutionary. It is the concept that we need not be ashamed of our past, of our race and background, of our sexuality, of our goals and ambitions, of our physical selves, of our mental and intellectual capacities, and of any other part of us, which society perpetually tries to make us do by defining us in ways that limit our ability to express ourselves and make our own choices- the people who define the debate as “pro-life/pro-choice”. The question of who we are as human beings, as individuals, is left up to them in black-and-white dichotomies (sexual object/slut vs. sex &/or man hating/prude). What feminism does is allows us to define ourselves in our own terms. It is a fight for equality and for a sense of self, in which we strive to shake off the shackles of oppression in a society that doesn’t recognize the true us. Imagine that!

 

I have always been a feminist, and was never afraid to say it. Admittedly this didn’t make me very popular by any stretch of the concept, but it wasn’t a point I was willing to concede. But like Chelsea, I more or less grew up thinking women were just as capable as men. Although I had a “stay-at-home” mom and other seemingly “un-feminist” upbringing factors, which I attributed to cultural differences (a post of cultural and moral relativism later), I thought that I could do whatever I set my mind to. Even on the cultural level I still had role models like Hanan Ashrawi, and was surrounding by female educators and community leaders who were more inspiring than any male counterpart. Sadly, I wasn’t aware of the extent of the difficulties and challenges faced by women like Ashrawi, or the fact that once a woman becomes the head of a school board, or a city councillor, this is more or less her class ceiling, as these are the few women-friendly sectors or offices.

 

This year, I can comfortably, if not somewhat shamefully, say that I truly knew what it was to be a feminist in the classical angry protest first-hand challenges sense. This is what defined the year for me- this realisation. It came from the 101 week Bikini Contest, the Oral Otis’s oppressive editorials, harassment from male coworkers, threatening blackmail emails, being told that the word “vagina” invaded my female manager’s “positive space”, and of course public sexual harassment. I am sure there’s more. There always is.

 

I came to many conclusions from all of these incidents. First, I now know that I am a stronger individual than I thought which is good because the odds of these types of challenges letting up entirely are highly unlikely. Secondly, I realised that the case for feminism is alive and well, and that I had more than enough personal reasons to become not simply the participant I’d always been, but now an advocate for it. And most importantly, I learned that there is a network for feminist; we are many, we are motivated by similar situations, we are passionate, and we are right! And it is through these networks, mainly of friends, the Women’s Resource Centre, and now this blog, that we will continue our fight for equality.

 

My name is Amy Kishek, and I am a feminist.

Confessions of a (insert stereotypical adjective here) Feminist

I’ve got a confession to make. I’ve been wondering for a while now what the political value is in calling myself a “feminist”. Don’t get me wrong – I am a feminist. It’s the first thing I want to tell people when I meet them – “Hi, nice to meet you, I’m a feminist”. But as it seems the time when my own definition of feminism could rise above this misogynistic pop culture noise has long since gone.

Since “discovering” myself as a feminist it took about 2.5 seconds to realize that when most people here “feminist” they do not think about the bad-ass movement I do. They think; man-hating slutty lesbo who can’t get a date (contradictions intended). I think no more family dinners where women wash the dishes while the men talk about important stuff, no more bus rides where disgusting pervs wank off and stare at me while the rest of my fellow passengers pretend not to notice, no more Disney movies where the princess has a waist the size of her wrist and habit of needing to be saved.

So I think to myself about being called a feminist. Because, I suppose if you looked at me you wouldn’t know I’m a “feminist” (especially the slutty, lesbo, man hating variety which, by the way, I have yet to meet). Its true. I skulk into the bathroom in the morning with a Lady Gillette and an eye lash curler. And I look in the mirror and I think “bad feminist”. But I wonder “who thinks I’m a bad feminist?” Am I being discounted by those furry, condescending, self-righteous “feminists” for pretending to choose when really I’m just choosing to give in? Or is lunatic right wing fringe (i.e. white, able-bodied, middle class mainstream society) who are so frustrated by my failure to play the role of resentful dyke who is only a “feminist” because it’s the best she can do.

So back to my original point. Why call myself a feminist if I don’t get to choose what that means? Because everyday I meet women and men who are too afraid to say they are (oh fawk!) feminists – that they too notice the world has been historically modeled to completely eff us womyn (us lbgtq, us poor, us old, us disabled, us people of colour) over. Because if I won’t say it, who will? Because I may not know what a good feminist looks like and I may change my mind a million times in the moments before I post this but I’d rather be thought of as some lesbo femanatzi than have them think I’m afraid that’s what they’re thinking.

Uses and Excuses

Preface: Whenever I criticize Shinerama I feel the obvious counterpoint coming on “but its charity!” Ya, its charity. That doesn’t mean you are hence entitled to use any means to your end to raise money for said charity. There is no mathematical equation that says charity + misogyny = totally okay.

So, my first and most appropriate gripe with Shine for a feministing blog comes from the way we play the alcohol soaked game that is “out-shining” the our fellow universities (i.e. raising the cash). My beef is the untouchable “Sucker Run” where we hustle as many exec volunteers off into the bar scene with the task of selling as many suckers and condoms as their hot little hands pass out. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not against selling condoms or suckers, especially to drunk people who might be hoping to get laid. But there is definitely something wrong the mantra that says the exploitations of women’s bodies is justified in the name of “charity”. You might be wondering what I’m talking about. Well, I’m talking about a culture where women are encouraged cut their Shine t-shirts and sex them up so the boys at the bar will hand over as much cash as possible (i.e. women use your body to make us cash – note the gender specific noun “women”.)

Every time we play this game we feed the machine – that patriarchy monster that tells a woman her value is in her body and not for the pleasure she can enjoy from it but from what this misogynistic culture can suck from it. So lets quit it. Let’s get creative; Shinerama and gender equality are not mutually exclusive.

Oh and ps: If charity is about helping people, how about we help the 1 in every 2 people who suffer everyday with misogyny.

Navigating the sanitocracy that is patriarchy.

Chelsea Flook
imported from goodnewseveryday.blogspot.com

A few nights ago i saw ‘young people f__cking” and hey it was funny for sure, but also entirely written by doods, very guy-centric. it should have been called “young guys f__cking” coz thats generally who the stories revolved around.

and it got me thinking about living under patriarchy. yes i know, blahblahblah the big PEEE word

just, to me “young people f__cking” would have been way different. even the “complicated” female characters were squares, cut from stone into a shape of what men think “complicated” women are.

so im wondering what a vacation from patriarchy would be like.
the thought was such a tantalizing experiment.

i suggest you give it a whirl.

anyways, so after all those thoughts im sitting here at work (blogging at work) because im writing about how womens experiences throughout psychiatry’s and psychology’s history have been neutralized, and that 75 percent of those diagnosed with depression are women, but that diagnostic criteria doesnt even ask, ‘how do you feel about living under patriarchy?”

coz that would be different

the screening questions for depression are all very materialistic and based on some kind of screwed up 1950s notions of jobs = happiness and crap

none of the questions take much female experience into account, which is again messed coz most of those diagnosed with depression are women.

which gets me thinking, HOLY FUCK we (women-identifieds) have a right to be absolutely bonkers every day, some days i get this incredible urge to go bat shit crazy at some guy for leeeeering at me

ya ya ya some folks like that, some older ladies tell me to enjoy it while it lasts, and some folks think if a woman looks nice even at all she deserves it and sure i could throw down some serious hijab fashion and say eff it you dogs will never control your peeens

but i am pretty sure that would just make me feel more bonkers, id get asked why i was wearing hijab and id say oh you know i wasnt raised on it at all or anything i just hate when men look at me in general in a certain way so this is the only hope for my sanity

then i get even more upset that i dont get visibly upset at all, i sometimes roll my eyes but i honestly feel like squatting down and crapping on the sidewalk the next time im checked out like that.

Anyways the long and the short is, the tests are designed by men the insane end up being women because the tests cannot test anything on the experiences of women. The politics of experience in our sanitocracy gets played out along the lines of patriarchy. Among many other lines.

Sanitocracy is the rule of the insane by the sane. A favorite author of mine suggests that we as a society have moved from a theocracy through a democracy into a sanitocracy.

Very convincing, if you take stock of the limited personalities women are allowed to have. The disciplinary power involved in limiting womens personalities is worth considering.