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Even 'feminists' often don't include all women in their feminism. Don't believe me? Read how the author calls out the hypocrisy.
Even ‘feminists’ often don’t include all women in their feminism. Don’t believe me? Read how the author calls out the hypocrisy.
Our feminism is selective.
We are reading and writing and making much noise. But our feminism is selective. We are crying and yelling and taking mutual stands. But our feminism is selective.
We celebrate women who leave abusive marriages and fight long battles. Who’ve been beaten down and gotten up and survived traumatic lives. But we are yet to forgive our mothers who chose to stay and not fight. We are yet to open our hearts to them being vulnerable and not leaving. We are yet to forgive our mothers for not being those women.
We pick t-shirts with feminist slogans and clothes that speak our mind. We make lines and stay awake to buy our favourite celebrity endorsed clothing line. We forget the women employed as cheap labour to make them. We pick “I am feminist” t-shirts that have cries of our tribe who weave them in sweatshops in conditions we won’t survive.
We praise our athletes when they win grand slams and bring gold medals. We post and repost and slam people who don’t speak about them. But we don’t want our athletes to be loud and angry. We don’t want them to be gay, lesbians and trans. We don’t want them crying in anger or being bossy. We appreciate them only when they are what we want them to be.
We follow internet celebrities who make fun videos. We subscribe and like and share and comment. We popularise videos that mock maids and “parlour didis”. We relate with the YouTuber who’s “tired of going to parlours and getting picked on by the parlours workers”. Workers who make less than 6k/pm. The YouTuber spends more than that on a bag. We relate with the youtuber because we don’t see class divide. We mock those didis because our feminism doesn’t include them.
We unite on Twitter and Facebook to teach the Delhi aunty a lesson in rape culture. We remind her that our clothes don’t define us. That we are not asking for it when we wear shorts. But we snicker in corners at office parties and judge middle aged women who wear backless blouses. We subtly remind our colleagues that it’s “too much cleavage and looks slutty”.
We consider women goddesses and witches. We have the power to change and become the change. Yet we exclude trans woman because they don’t share our anatomy. We want woman to look woman. Be woman. Born a woman. We accept nothing else as woman.
We follow body positive influencers on insta and fangirl over their styles. We tell them they inspire us with their confidence. But we pass snide comments at our overweight friends and classmates. Mock that guy about his tight shirt buttons. Giggle when we see that girl flaunt a dress at college. We want to be body positive on the internet, but to keep our jokes off the internet.
We appreciate women working all jobs. House maids and investment bankers. Homemakers and teachers. Doctors and fighter pilots. We exclude sex workers because it disturbs our morals. We don’t mention or talk about it because it’s not our territory. We subtly let our feminism run without acknowledging sex work.
We appreciate our favourite actresses who do women centric movies. We fangirl and book first day first shows. We stand with them when they talk pay gap and feminism. We also dance on their item songs objectifying women. We let them stereotype women as gold diggers in relationships subtly in songs. We like the bubble we live in.
We have become women we always wanted to be. We are yet to accept our sisters who aren’t what we want them to be. Our lens is different for different people. We pick our icons and feminist battles. We are yet to unlearn and learn. We are yet to allow women to be women.
Our feminism is selective and yet to start.
First published on the author’s Facebook page.
Image source: pexels
Tarannum is a feminist who is currently pursuing her CA. She loves to read, write, and watch movies. Cooks rarely, eats more than regularly. And is always trying hard to behave her age. read more...
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As he stood in front of his door, Nishant prayed that his wife would be in a better mood. The baby thing was tearing them apart. When was the last time he had seen his wife smile?
Veena got into the lift. It was a festival day, and the space was crammed with little children dressed in bright yellow clothes, wearing fancy peacock feather crowns, and carrying flutes. Janmashtami gave her the jitters. She kept her face down, refusing to socialize with anyone.
They had moved to this new apartment three months ago. The whole point of shifting had been to get away from the ruthless questioning by ‘well-wishers’.
“You have been married for ten years! Why no child yet?”
I huffed, puffed and panted up the hill, taking many rest breaks along the way. My calf muscles pained, my heart protested, and my breathing became heavy at one stage.
“Let’s turn back,” my husband remarked. We stood at the foot of Shravanbelagola – one of the most revered Jain pilgrimage centres. “We will not climb the hill,” he continued.
My husband and I were vacationing in Karnataka. It was the month of May, and even at the early hour of 8 am in the morning, the sun scorched our backs. After visiting Bangalore and Mysore, we had made a planned stop at this holy site in the Southern part of the state en route to Hosur. Even while planning our vacation, my husband was very excited at the prospect of visiting this place and the 18 m high statue of Lord Gometeshwara, considered one of the world’s tallest free-standing monolithic statues.
What we hadn’t bargained for was there would be 1001 granite steps that needed to be climbed to have a close-up view of this colossal magic three thousand feet above sea level on a hilltop. It would be an understatement to term it as an arduous climb.
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