feminish

I don’t like war, but I know I have violence in myself.

I do like tea, but I know that sometimes the women who picked it weren’t fairly paid or fairly treated.

I don’t like the idea of make-up, but I sometimes feel more happy wearing it than not.

I hate getting dressed.

I don’t want to be like Mum, but I also do.

I feel guilty about my privilege, but also grateful. Without it I wouldn’t have read the books I’ve read, met the people I’ve met, or had the experiences I’ve had. I want to use my good fortune for the benefit of others - but I’m not sure I’m doing that very well.

I see how, despite myself, I’m a party to the oppression of women - I sometimes catch myself thinking it matters how they are dressed, how they keep their homes, how they treat their children or pursue their careers. And yet I’m loathe to be judged by these same standards myself.

I think porn is outrageous, but I’m hesitant to speak for the women who engage in it, or to support organised ways to stop it. I want my freedoms and I don’t want to deny others theirs. But I still hate porn: I hate what it does, to the men who consume it and the women those men then consume - the women in the photos and the films, and the wives and girlfriends and platonic friends back home.

I like to read and to think but sometimes I take in too much and think too much and would much rather just lie under a tree, looking at bugs.

I feel happiest when I’m practising meditation. It calms my anger and lifts my sadness and gives me peace and clarity I’ve never experienced otherwise. I feel less feminist but more fully human when I’m really practising. Which, when I’m in that place of awareness, makes me feel truly free; and when I’m not, makes me feel very worried.

I don’t like war, but I know I have violence in myself.

I do like tea, but I know that sometimes the women who picked it weren’t fairly paid or fairly treated.

I don’t like the idea of make-up, but I sometimes feel more happy wearing it than not.

I hate getting dressed.

I don’t want to be like Mum, but I also do.

I feel guilty about my privilege, but also grateful. Without it I wouldn’t have read the books I’ve read, met the people I’ve met, or had the experiences I’ve had. I want to use my good fortune for the benefit of others - but I’m not sure I’m doing that very well.

I see how, despite myself, I’m a party to the oppression of women - I sometimes catch myself thinking it matters how they are dressed, how they keep their homes, how they treat their children or pursue their careers. And yet I’m loathe to be judged by these same standards myself.

I think porn is outrageous, but I’m hesitant to speak for the women who engage in it, or to support organised ways to stop it. I want my freedoms and I don’t want to deny others theirs. But I still hate porn: I hate what it does, to the men who consume it and the women those men then consume - the women in the photos and the films, and the wives and girlfriends and platonic friends back home.

I like to read and to think but sometimes I take in too much and think too much and would much rather just lie under a tree, looking at bugs.

I feel happiest when I’m practising meditation. It calms my anger and lifts my sadness and gives me peace and clarity I’ve never experienced otherwise. I feel less feminist but more fully human when I’m really practising. Which, when I’m in that place of awareness, makes me feel truly free; and when I’m not, makes me feel very worried.