Tiny + Fearless

She sat across a little square table from me, and the light coming through the window made her eyes look like swimming pools.

“I showed up. I kept showing up. I wasn’t perfect, but I was ready. I’ve lived a long time, dear. Everything reminds me of a story now. Every word is part of a lyric. Every situation a song.”

She told me that she got into show business at age five. Her years have been full of adoring crowds, writing projects, and modeling, even into her sixties.

“I took breaks though, only for my husband. I couldn’t let him feel like a failure, so when he’d get let go, that became my job.”

Two of her sons had died, one of cancer and one of an overdose on painkillers. They both saw a lot of doctors for very different reasons. I told her “I’m sure they both fought hard,” because you can’t pretend to understand people’s battles. “I’m sorry you lost them.”

She told me she was raped when she was my age.

When she told me – and it’s been more than seventy years since – it was the first time her face ever looked empty.

I don’t know why she told me. I think she saw herself in me, and all I did was make her a cup of coffee.

I’ve been what I’ll refer to as a “half-minority” my entire life. My mother is Hispanic, born in Colombia. I have her dark features, but my father’s pale Irish skin. I’m often asked “where are you from? No, but, originally?” To which I respond, “Atlanta. Really, I was born here.” Then, there’s some commentary about my strong eyebrows or thick hair, a few laughs, but an awkwardness so tangible I bet you could slice it with a butter knife. I’m often lumped in with the phrasing “white people,” but I don’t want anyone to ignore the difference in my upbringing and my culture. My face still gets hot when someone slams a minority group or immigrants, even on accident. I am allowed to have a stake there, too. 

I was raised hearing “I grew up in a third world country; don’t you complain to me,” from a woman I would call a feminist. She started university at sixteen, earlier than most her age, and she moved to the United States by herself at eighteen. My mom tells it like it is. And she’ll tell you off; I’ve watched her do it. She speaks her mind. She speaks up. She’ll discuss her opinions openly, tell you when she thinks you’re wrong, and she freely offers advice. She mows the lawn. She rarely wears makeup because her skin is so rich and her eyes so captivating, she doesn’t need it. You wouldn’t be able to guess her age, until maybe she smiles her toothy smile, and the laugh lines on her face whisper to give it away. She was never afraid to kill the black widows that snuck onto our back porch, and she raised me to be fearless, too. Daringly fearless. Hopefully fearless. Lovingly fearless.

My point is, I know how to boldly, but uncomfortably sit on the lonely border of two things that, while seemingly polar, make up who I am.

I’m white, but also first generation American-born. I’m a feminist, I think. I’m a feminist, I hope. But I didn’t march.

So, let’s start there. I didn’t participate in the women’s march.

I didn’t decide not to march because I am opposed to the women’s march. I didn’t not march because I don’t think women’s issues are real, valid, and that progress needs to be made. I didn’t not march because I am not pro-women and longing for equality. 

I didn’t even think “I will not March,” before the fact. I enjoyed reading the posters. I found joy in friends’ posts about their positive experiences. Now, looking back and wondering, “why didn’t I march,” maybe I need to apologize. 

I’m sorry, sister; I didn’t know how.

I have never felt invited to the Modern Feminist Club. 

I love women cheering on women. I love when we choose not to compare ourselves to each other and champion each other instead. I love when we are heard, when we listen, when we feel, and then express those feelings.

It’s important to me that you know I care deeply about ending sex trafficking, which is a human rights issue, but affects mostly women. I believe fiercely in a future where everyone has access to clean water, so that women and children in developing nations can receive education and spend their time how they choose.

I have watched friends, who were victims of sexual assault, remain painfully silent, blaming themselves or shrugging off the incident because they didn’t want to “cause trouble.” I’ve hated the mindset and upbringing that lead to their assault. I want rapists to face the full extent of justice, not receive a slap on the wrist.

I am pro-contraceptives. I need birth control. I need it for my health, and I’ll go into the details of that that no one really wants to hear, but I think are important to the argument anyways. I’ve needed them long before I was married. I have endometriosis. I want to have kids some day, and I need to be healthy in order to do so. I also experience so much pain from an unfortunate hormone imbalance when I am not on birth control that I am physically debilitated two weeks out of every month. I can’t go to work. I can’t go to class. The benefit of being able to plan my eventual pregnancy is excellent. And I think that’s an important right.  

I’m also pro-life. I don’t want to tiptoe around that. I’m sorry if my saying so caused you to lose faith in me. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. I don’t mean to argue with you or to even prove my point here. I just want to be able to be honest about what I believe, without feeling the need to hush up about certain topics. I am so tired of being villainized. I’m sick of feeling uninvited to the girl power parade. 

I’m not pro-life because I want women to suffer, as I once saw it phrased in a tumblr text post. I hurt for women who experience unplanned pregnancies. I’m so sorry if you have experienced that fear. I’m so sorry if you felt alone. I want to tell you that I do not know your pain, but I know it exists. I’m not ignoring you. I care for you. 

I simply believe life begins at conception. It’s central to my faith. And while I don’t want any woman to suffer, I don’t want any baby to die. That being said, I know it’s more complicated than “we’ll make it illegal and it’ll stop.” I know it is a deeply complicated topic, and I don’t believe people who are pro-choice because they care about the mothers of unplanned babies are evil. Please hear me, I do not think ill of you. I don’t agree with you, but you aren’t apathetic; I can see that you care and ultimately want to promote what you believe is right. So, while we disagree and it is an important issue to me, I will still stand by you, my sister.

I’m not sure when feminism began to seem synonymous with pro-choice or left wing or free-the-nipple or a political stance. I’m conservative. I’m religious. But please don’t place me in a hard and fast category in your mind, as if you have me all figured out. I still believe sex ed is important. I still want equal pay for the woman who does the exact same job as a man who is favored more. Just so we’re clear, feminists before me were women of faith, too. Women like Harriet Tubman, Ida B Wells, and Maria Stewart, who paved the way for the rest of us, were women who hoped to be close with women and close to the heart of God, too. 

My favorite feminist quote comes from Ann Voskamp. “Girl, the world has enough women who know how to do their hair; it needs women who know how to do hard and holy things.” Those words rattle my bones; I want to be a doer of hard and holy things. I want to understand my sisters, rather than judge them. I want to stand up for those unlike me, not simply promote one way of life as best or above. I want to rally behind you and hold a sign that empowers you. And I want to march the earth, every day, standing tall and asking for respect. I’m powerful. My voice matters. 

But if my feminism looks different than yours, if my personal feminism promotes dignity through modesty and a traditional interpretation of biblical marriage, can I still sit at your table? I feel lonely and “shh”ed. And there are more like me, I know there are, but I’m worried that we are so scared to speak up that we’re walking right by each other. We walk the tightrope border of conservatism and feminism, and I don’t want to be silent anymore. Maybe I’ll receive backlash. Maybe your questions and my answers will create that same awkward tension I’m used to as a half-minority. But if feminism is being bold, sharing my ideas, and reaping the consequences with a straight back, here I am.