The post that will brand me traitor

Urrgh, now I’m doing it: I’m opening the can of worms called Feminism, with a side dish of gender fluid stuff. For the record, I’m quite ignorant of both, and the following must be viewed in that light. I’m simply having strong feelings about something I know nothing about. As per usual.

First of all, I’d like to state for the record that feminism is valid and important. Globally, there is oppression of women. Not debating that. There are problems of power distribution and violence and money and invalidating discourses and God knows what, but that’s not what this blog post is about. This blog post is about ME. So if that puts you off (and it should), this is where you should stop reading.

The thing is, I’ve never felt that what I’ve read about the patriarchy has hit the nail on the head for me. Of course, I realize that things can be true without me feeling they are, but it just doesn’t resonate. When I’m told that I’ve been hindered in my life because I’m a woman, I feel… nothing. Oh, sure, the usual stuff like not daring to go out at night because rape: yes, absolutely. But the rest? I don’t know.

I just don’t feel like that part of me – the female part – is the problem. I’ve never had to deal with people buying me drinks and expecting things, or harassment at work, or any of that stuff which is apparently so ubiquitous. Sure, this partly stems from me 1) not being considered beautiful enough, and 2) being so aggressively intellectual that people just count me out of their Evil Seduction Schemes. Perhaps that should make me moan and rave about how Men Are Afraid Of Smart Women, but… nah. My life just doesn’t corroborate that.

For many people, feminism is an eye-opener, a Eureka moment, a hammer on the head that makes you go, “So that’s what my niggling sense of unease was about!” It’s liberating and comforting. It’s a shoulder to cry on. But not for me. I read about it and I agree, but only on a superficial level. I want the world to be a better place for women, but it doesn’t hit me. It doesn’t cause a pang in my heart and a whoosh of never-before-felt feelings.

I’ll tell you what does:

 The concept of class. Whoa. When I first encountered it, my whole life suddenly rearranged itself in a new pattern, and I understood everything.
Susan Cain’s Quiet, which is about introversion.

So: I don’t feel shut out or discriminated against because I’m a woman (I probably am, but bear with me, okay?). I do feel alienated from other people because of class issues, however, and I feel extremely shut out and discriminated against because I’m an introvert. Maybe this is exacerbated by my gender, since women are supposed to be caring, social, down to earth and responsible, but that fact just doesn’t interest me. Sorry.

The thing that interests me is that the Thinker archetype isn’t really appreciated where I live and work – and I work at a frigging university. (Alright, I’m exaggerating. Some lovely people do sporadically require my critical services, but apart from that, the Thinker currency is way down there with the German mark in the twenties.)

I’ll tell you what’s worse. As a Thinker, I understand why traditionally feminine traits can be undervalued. Shock horror, straight to the gallows! I should be on the barricades for the promotion of kindness and caring, because I know on a rational level that these things are sorely needed in our harsh world, but I don’t care. Not deep down. I’m drawn to intelligence before I’m drawn to kindness. Actually, kindness can scare the hell out of me because it requires Reciprocation, and I don’t have the skill set. Instead, I tend to shine when I can discuss ideas, logic and patterns. You know, ‘male’ stuff.

You’d think I’d be overjoyed about the concept of gender fluidity. Here at last is a label that lets me be who I am, instead of confining me in a narrow definition of womanhood. But no: even that feels alien. I appreciate that many, many people are liberated by it. I’m overjoyed for their sake. But me? I’m a Woman with a capital ‘W’. I’m not fluid at all. When I was a child, I was mistaken for a boy a few times, and it absolutely shocked me. How could they not see past the tracksuit and the short hair to the utter girl in me?

Yes, I’ve fantasized about being a man, I often prefer the company of men, and I’ve always identified with male characters in books and movies (Katniss Everdeen being the massive exception), but I identify with men as a woman. I don’t feel like I’m on a spectrum, rather it’s like I am one person through and through (female), and yet the mirror shows something else (maleness, to a degree).

Impossible to explain.

And anyway, it’s irrelevant, because my gender identity isn’t very interesting to me. I see these totally understandable narratives about people who don’t fit into society’s definitions, and gender fluidity becomes their salvation, but it doesn’t help me. And it’s like feminism is this club that’s supposed to be for me, and yet when I step inside, it just feels odd. I can engage in the club for the sake of others, but me? I’m an outsider, even though I have the membership card. It’s like I’m saying the tomato is red, and feminism is saying the tomato is red, and I still feel like the red I’m seeing is a different colour.

Makes total sense, right?

I don’t even know why I’m writing this post. To whine? Well, yes, partly. Because whining is a valid hobby and I like it. But I’ve only got one accepted reason to whine – namely, that I’m a woman. In every other way, I’m privileged, ergo not allowed to throw a pity party. But I have no interest in whining about the woman stuff. I want to whine about other things.

And also, I don’t want to be bullied into calling myself a feminist. (Whooooaaaa, moving into dangerous territory here). I’m above all a linguist. An idolater of words. A person who doesn’t dance around a golden calf, but around a golden thesaurus. And if a word feels wrong to me, or the definition is so battled over that I don’t know what the other person will hear if I use it, I avoid it. I know I can contribute to creating a good meaning by using the word in a sense I can live with, but jeez… no. Just too much work to constantly have to explain my stipulative definition. I get enough of that in my PhD studies, thank you very much.

In fact, I don’t subscribe to any –isms at all, because they’re like party manifestos: even though I’m mildly interested, I just know I’m going to disagree with half the contents. And yet I agree that things need improving in the world, whether it has to do with class or gender or sexuality or race or region. But the simple fact that I don’t want to call myself a specific word can get people’s undies in a twist, and that actually scares me.

I’m just saying: let’s not turn an important struggle into the enforcement of 1984 Newspeak.

That said, I would love it if someone pulled their head out of their arse and made a movie about Margaret Hamilton. And not with some mushy love story that completely smothers the plot!