Feminists

Every since the days of the Suffragettes chaining themselves to railings, setting fire to mailboxes and smashing windows to gain the right to vote, us women have fought to be equal.

Equal rights. 

Equal opportunities.

Equal with men. 

Though we are from Venus and they are from Mars, we desire to be just like them, work just as hard, be just as tough.

If it’s possible for men, it is possible for women.

Watching ‘The Apprentice’ either stateside or in England, the longest surviving females are either

the most ruthless (backstabbing anyone on their team)

or

the most risqué (willing to pose half naked on a bed for a men’s clothing advertisement).

While listening to Destiny’s Child ‘Independent Women’ and reading the Feminine Mystique, we have bought into the lie that we have to do it all.

Have the A* in school.

Have the glittering extra-curricular activity list.

Have the degree.

Have the princess-themed white wedding.

Have the businessman husband who modeled through university.

Have the career we dreamed of before we are 30.

Have the beautiful children who everyone positively comments on.

Have the hot body that makes other women jealous.

Have the fresh bread baking in the oven.

Have the beautiful house in the suburbs of the city.

We want to have it all.

We don’t want to be equal.

That is obvious because we reached that goal long ago and yet we still desperately strive to achieve.

We want to be more than equal.

We overcompensate putting in the long hours at work, home, with friends. Our calendars are bursting at the seems with coffee dates, lunches, parties, weddings, business meetings, after-school activities, extra-credit reports, volunteer opportunities…

As I sat on the bus between Birmingham and Oxford earlier this week (driven incidentally, by a woman) I enjoyed watching the countryside, the beautiful fields, and reading my magazine (it may or may not have been ‘Closer’).

And I felt guilty.

I felt guilty about relaxing. Enjoying life. Looking at the scenery. Taking time our to think. Being inspired by creative surroundings.

When people have asked me about my job situation, I have felt ashamed describing how I’m not employed and spent my days writing, babysitting, teaching English, spending time with friends, and seeking volunteer opportunities. I feel as if I should be a professional cake baker and my house should be immaculate and I should be picking the best of the seven offers of work I have received.

Continually people ask about when the first (and potentially only if labour is as painful as everyone says) Miller baby is coming along. I am fully aware of how hot and amazing this child will be, and feel that pressure that if I’m not working, then I should start churning the babies out, justifying my staying at home status, feeling (re)productive.

One of my favourite sociological concepts to discuss is ‘body dysmorphia’. Seen painfully in those who suffer from eating disorders or have had multiple cosmetic surgeries, it is when there is a perceived defect in our physical appearance thus we are unable to see ourselves the way we truly are.

We don’t know who we truly are.

Unmarried at 27 or {gasp!!} at 30 and granny is frantic with worry that we will be a spinster on the shelf with a house full of cats.

Disney repeatedly projects the notion that there is something wrong with women who remain unmarried and childless, turning them into the baddies (think Cruella de Vil, or Ursula).

Not on the fast track at work, or not getting enough promotions and we panic that we have wasted our life and have nothing to show for it.

We don’t know who are we.

We don’t know that we are beautiful.

We don’t know that we each have an individual life plan.

We don’t know that we have a purpose far beyond what we can even dream.

We don’t know that we are shouldn’t compare ourselves.

We don’t know that we are free from judging words.

We don’t know that we aren’t expected to do it all.

We don’t know that we are loved by a heavenly Father ordering our everyday steps.

We are intelligent.

Let us not be dumb.

Dumb enough to be fooled by the modern lie that

we are not a complete woman

we are not enough

we are not equal

until we are working 12 hour days at the office, with straight hair, a Vogue wardrobe on a shoestring budget and a house out of a Victorian magazine, all while home-schooling our perfect children.

Be who you are.

Happily working part-time.

With one child at home.

Single and loving it.

With curly hair.

Unable to cook.

Teaching difficult kids for love not money.

Creating your own style.

Whoppi Goldberg said this morning: “Take a little time today to enjoy the view”.

Because maybe,

Just maybe,

That’s what it means to have it “all”.