Bad Words
Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to take sexual education classes ’til high school. I didn’t know what condoms were until eighth grade when i had a friend who sold them out of his backpack. I didn’t know that boys could love boys or girls could love girls when I entered public school after some time being homeschooled. I don’t resent my parents at all for this; I was their child and they had every right to raise me as they saw fit. I lived a very sheltered life and I didn’t think to question it until I started to meet people very different then myself.
Talking about sex around the opposite gender was taboo. I wasn’t allowed to audition for the school production of rent. For years, multiple friends confided in me acts of violence and abuse, things I could not comprehend. I had a vague idea of what they were trying to tell me, but all I really knew is that for some reason, girls I walked beside on a daily basis were hurting.
In sophomore year of high school, some people started saying that I had had sex with a boy. I was so angry, upset that people would think I was “that kind of girl”. Those who knew me ignored the rumors. It didn’t really matter if anyone believed it. It hurt me that it was said.
Its taken years for me to realize what was truly wrong with that situation. It didn’t matter that a rumor was spread that damaged my reputation; it matters that an account of my sex life, fiction or otherwise, affected the way people perceived me. Did it really matter in the long run WHO I did? Why did the focus have to be on who’s in the bed rather than what’s in a persons’ head?
I’ve been guilty of it. I’ve let myself be introduced as so-and-so’s girlfriend. I’ve let others make me feel guilty about my personal choices. I’ve stood in the mirror poking at my belly. I’ve talked about other girls behind their backs, the ones with rumors attached to their names. I don’t want to be that person anymore, the person who stands on the sidelines, the person who won’t speak up or against harassment and slut shaming. Why?
I want to live in a world where my sisters don’t feel guilty about the things that make them happy. I want to live in a world where my sisters would never let someone make them feel inferior. I want to live in a world where my sisters don’t feel judged or afraid to behave as they like. I want to live in a world where the girls who cried with me don’t cry anymore, where violence against women is a thing of the past. I want the news to stop being about victims in South Africa, India, and The Congo (because there wouldn’t be anymore stories to tell about violence) and start being about the people changing the world for the better.
I am a Feminist Killjoy. My ovaries are none of your concerns. I am not a sex object, public property, or any of your business. I should not be afraid, I should not be called “slut” or “bitch” like it’s something to be ashamed of. I should not be told to lose weight, or that I’ll never get a man if I act a certain way. I shouldn’t feel guilty or ashamed of my choices or my actions.
My mother is one of the strongest women I know. She chose how she wanted to live. She chose to be a stay home mother, a wife, an entrepreneur, employee, and friend. She’s the perfect example of feminine and feminist existing as one and the same, and I don’t give her nearly enough credit. She’s the one the held me when my heart broke, the one pointed out my mistakes, and encouraged me to come to my own conclusions. She pushed me to leave and become my own person, something I can never thank her enough for. Though she will roll her eyes at my piercings, crazy hair, and talk of tattoos, I know she’s proud of me and her opinions is one of a few I actually give a damn about.
This is all connected, in a hectic, chaotic train of thought. I wish I could be more eloquent to explain it better, but hopefully someone out there gets it. I’m going to live a life with my name in bold, taking up the whole page. No ampersands, no apologies, no more guilt. These ideas should not be taboo, it shouldn’t be blasphemy to be passionate about an ideal. Words like vagina and breasts are not bad words. The only person I have to impress is myself.
Insert witty conclusion here.
Em and Paper 