Unfeminism.

or How I discovered that I'm not One Of Them.

Generated by Ian, using the HiDream I1 Fast engine

I reject the idea that I am powerless in the world. I grew up being told I could be anything I wanted to be, but also that I would have to work for those things to which I aspired. I see the beauty of others, too, and recognize tremendous potential in them. Mind you, I recognize there are differences between men and women. We were purpose-designed by our Creator for different-but-complementary roles that combine for wonderful outcomes for everyone.

As a member of the prototype Gen X crop, I was born into a changing world in which the popular discussion in western culture explored themes of race and gender. The “Women’s Movement” was something of which I was aware as a child, and it seemed significant, although I didn’t explore or consider it deeply. It seemed only fitting to me that women and men are equal, and that a woman should be able to do as she pleases in the way a man might. Clusters of men saying “all women are like…” and women saying “all men are like…” notwithstanding, I generally felt there was a healthy respect between the two because I was reared in a home with the ultimate care and respect between two brilliant, strong parents.

I never once in my life heard either parent make sweeping statements about the general deficiencies of their opposite gender. Perhaps that is anomalous, but my parents were respectful and even reverent of each other. For that, I am thankful. They were a team, a mighty team. The notion of conflating an entire gender with a specific set of bad behaviors is abhorrent to me. If I knowingly misbehave, the credit for my actions belongs squarely on my shoulders, and not on my ovaries. I do admit that there are some behavioral tendencies for one or the other genders, but I don’t see that as problematic. Blame for harmful or hateful behavior is the responsibility of the bad actor.

Having said that, I came of age generally (and ignorantly) thinking of myself as a feminist. After all, I believed in equality of opportunity, if not outcome. If a woman could carry her weight and then some in keeping with the physical requirements to be a fireman or Navy Seal, they why not¹? Certainly, I never believed in tipping the scales to make her more likely to pass muster, though. If you want to run in that circle, you need to keep up with the pack, rather than becoming a liability. If you have that potential, then harden up, buttercup! You can’t jump into the big pool with the sharks and then claim girl rules like barroom pool. At least, if you want to pay your dues and swim with the big ones, then you’d better file those chompers and hoist your dorsal fin. If you can swim with them, good for you. If you can’t, then best succumb to reality and own the limitations of your reality.

I reached adult age in the mid-80s. I went to concerts and worked and goofed off a fair bit, but I considered myself a feminist. I was for women having equal opportunity to men, in the same way I felt all races should have equality of opportunity.²

I’ve never wanted to be a one-issue voter, but in 1990 when Texas Gubernatorial candidate Clayton Williams made a flippant remark about sexual assault, I felt he was beneath the dignity required for that office. That’s how I voted for Ann Richards, and why. I didn’t agree with all of Ann’s policies or actions as Governor, but I did like her. She was smart, funny, and occasionally quite witty. Saying that George Bush “was born with a silver foot in his mouth” was nothing short of brilliant, and hilarious, whatever side of the aisle you were on. However, I didn’t vote for out of a bent towards organized feminism so much as a yearning towards decency.³

I bumped along through my 20s mis-identifying as feminist until one particular event in 1994. At that time, I would often turn on the TV and leave CNN playing in the background as I went about making things, cleaning, and such. One day, I was in the bedroom dusting and from the TV in the other room, I heard a voice that astonished me. I went into the living room and on the screen was Paula Jones with her Arkansas accent, telling how she had been assaulted by Bill Clinton. I loosely kept my ear to the ground at the time politically, but I thought Hillary was better than Bill. I knew so little.

On the screen was a young woman telling of how she had been assaulted by someone who was a sitting President. Among the many things flashing through my mind, I felt surely Hillary would be divorcing her faithless rapscallion spouse. It would be impossible to abide in a marriage with a man who would do such a thing.

Paula Jones’ story had the ring of authenticity to me. I felt she made a poor choice to go to his room, but it also tracked that someone famous like Bill would not conduct a job interview in a public space. The fact that Paula sounded like someone in my family made her story seem much more personal, to me. She could have been my cousin or sister. She could have been me. Surely the National Organization for Women (NOW) would intervene and demand accountability, yes?

No.

What ensued was the systematic character assassination of a young middle class woman in the public space. NOW was utterly mute. James Carville said of Jones that if you dragged a $100 bill through a trailer park, the trash would come out to collect it. Looking back 30 years later, I am struck that “always believe the victim” narratives are only invoked when the alleged assailant is of a particular political flavor.

And THAT, boys and girls, is how I figured out that formal “feminism” has been utterly subsumed into the tent of a political party. They are not about helping even a single woman who is in need of justice or protection. Turned out that even Hillary thought it was no big deal that her husband was a harpoon artist, woe betide any woman, be she democrat or republican, who fell under his thrall, willingly or otherwise.

The truth is that there is no solace or support in a political party. To me, the only answer is to first ask for the guidance of my Lord in my choices, to do my utmost to surround myself with decent people whose interests and philosophy align with my own, and to understand that no organization formed by man will be coming to save me, however feminine I may or may not be.

So here is where I plant my flag: I am for women and girls, and boys and men. We are equal, even with our glorious and complimentary differences. I deem myself to be feminine, and not just because I wear dresses most days. I am feminine in the ways God made me to be. I’m also rocking my feet of clay, so I remember to seek His wisdom, even if I am flawed in my follow-through, and despite my mistakes of the past. I am for people, and for the best and highest purpose of our kind.

If I ever slip and get caught up in something that could be called a “movement”, do, please, kick me under the table and remind me that movements eat the individual alive, and to please restrict my participation in movements to the versions which are rightly flushed down the commode.

I can’t think of anything less feminine than to be disloyal to other people and put a political principle at greater esteem than then sanctity and sovereignty of even the most humble of persons.

First, I am a Christian, and not a humanist. I’m not a Feminist, but I’m okay if you want to think of me as a personist, and that’s good enough for me.

Rita

1. In a combat situation, there are many more considerations that complicate this issue, so please do not misunderstand me. I have serious reservations about women in a combat scenario partly because men—bless them—are inclined to protect individual women, and even I recognize that a combat situation is exceedingly complex and the group/mission must be the primary focus. I also recognize that women behave differently in stressful situations, and they need to be in roles that bring out their best, rather than their worst. I don’t feel this is a contradiction of my inclination that I can do anything I ever wanted to, as I wouldn’t WANT to be a football player or to be a roughneck in the oil patch, any more than a roughneck would secretly long for a quiet cottage life washing and pressing antique lace curtains. Wired differently, and that’s a wonderful thing.

2. Not, however, equality of outcome.

3. It is incumbent upon me to report here that Mom would say that the only decent choice was for the candidate who supported the sanctity of life by opposing abortion. Of course, she is absolutely correct.