Category: Feminism

Gumption

MissMLeave a comment

Today would be my second wedding anniversary if I’d stayed. 2 years since I said “I do,” but actually didn’t.

My mind can’t help but wonder from time to time what my life would look like now if I hadn’t ran away. Would I still wake up a little early every morning to carve out some peace for myself, emptying the dishwasher ever so quietly and making coffee for two? Would I still restlessly pace the house back-and-forth in the evenings, praying for the sun to set so I could pharmaceutically induce sleep and get another day under my belt? Would I still cook dinner once a week and end up eating alone because I didn’t want to be a disruption?

I was unwanted. Unliked. Undesired. I shrunk and shrunk and shrunk, and somehow would never be small enough. He needed more space from me than our modest house allowed, so I’d go for drives. Wander around a town that I could never call home and have a cryptic phone call with my mom, trying to force a smile through the phone while I told her that I’m doing fine.

There was no intimacy – physically, emotionally, or otherwise. Our king bed felt like a continent with nothing but an impassable ravine between us. The first time I expressed my despondence with our situation resulted in a tornado of harsh words, threats to leave each other, and me collapsed on the kitchen floor, choking on my own tears. I waited another year to bring it up again.

We were incompatible in most respects, but especially in the conflict resolution department. The cold shoulder was a frequently-deployed weapon in our home, injecting a heavy, hot stream of tension into the air for hours, sometimes days. I’d scream and yell and he’d throw things and fantasize about bashing my head against the wall. More than once, our fights took place over email – both of us typing furiously behind our keyboards, not even 20 feet away.

My first ever suicidal thought occurred on the 1.5-hour drive home from our quarterly Costco excursion. We’d been arguing in circles and the noise of it all had me in dire need of an escape. From the passenger seat, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the door handle, I thought to myself, “tuck and roll, you coward.”

He overnighted me a handwritten letter a few days after I’d left him and stopped returning his messages or phone calls. He was ready to hear my needs and do something about them. We can move back home, or go where ever I need to be. “Please don’t give up on me yet”, he implored, with all the love in his heart.

I may never understand why he wanted me back. I can’t speak to whether he ever loved me, but I know that he certainly didn’t like me for an overwhelming majority of our 14 months spent in holy matrimony. As for me, I loved him deeply until I simply couldn’t. I spent 2 precious years of my twenties in a town that I didn’t understand with a husband that didn’t understand me. I was starved for familiarity, intimacy, and companionship. There was no space or consideration for these needs, and I’m not convinced that there ever would have been.

I hold no resentment in my heart, nor doubt about my decision to sever this relationship for my own sake. I don’t even think I regret it. I grew in ways that would be hard to attain otherwise, and know for certain that I’m too resilient to be broken down entirely or permanently. What an empowering truth.

-M

Connive

MissMLeave a comment

Today I present to you: three stories that illustrate why I do not and will not ever trust a middle-aged white man ever again (not that I need any anecdotal reason. Just open a history book and read like, a header.).

    1. The Dance Teacher

    I’m a freshman in college, and objectively the best ballroom dancer on my team. The Dance Teacher is highly esteemed as both a coach and a dancer himself, even at his advanced age. I couldn’t be more honored that he’s selected me as his prodige. He is going to give me the competitive edge I need to bring home a trophy at the upcoming competition in Vegas.

    He offers me free 2- hour private lessons on Saturdays. We meet at an LDS church building to use their gym as our dance floor. Our first session is a smashing success, and I can tell that he’s impressed with my skill and technique. I am proud and I am driven.

    I am stretching on the floor in preparation for our second private session, and he tells me my legs are tight. He’s right – I’ve been getting cramps in my calves and feet lately due to my rigorous practice schedule. He takes my dance shoes off of me and massages my feet. My calves. My thighs. My cheeks flood with blood and heat. I say nothing and we start dancing. He holds me close and firm and doesn’t let go.

    But he knows what it takes to win, and I know I can be a winner too, so I attend a third lesson.

    His phone rings just as we’re about to begin. “I have to take this,” he says and he walks into the hallway and speaks into the phone. I wait patiently, but can clearly hear his side of the conversation.

    “Hi, honey. I told you I’m picking up some mulch and bringing it to Dave’s to help him finish up his yard. I’ll be home in a few hours. Okay, love you. Talk soon.”

    That was our last private lesson.

    2. The Professor

    The Professor and I have great rapport. Healthy banter. I’ve been in several of his classes before and genuinely enjoy his lectures and teaching style.

    We are nearing the end of the semester, and I am extremely stressed about my capstone group project. Let’s just say that not everyone in the group has my vigor and drive for perfection. I’m visibly distressed in class today – my chest is red and my breathing is shallow.

    The Professor dismisses class and looks at me with concern. “M – swing by my office in a few minutes if your schedule allows.” I’m perspiring through my dress. Was my group project that inadequate? Will this tank my GPA? I’m on track for Cum Laude and can’t bear falling short.

    His office is down a long corridor, and the surrounding rooms are unoccupied. “Thanks for swinging by,” he says genuinely as I enter his office and take a seat on his couch.

    “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked a bit distressed during my lecture today. I want to assure you that you’re getting an A on your group project, but I unfortunately can’t say the same for the rest of your peers.” I take the first real breath I’ve taken all day and feel all of my muscles release, the heat from my cheeks dissipating.

    “Can I show you something?” He asks. I nod and he stands up and motions for me to do the same. “You need some breathing exercises to manage your anxiety. I can’t have you panicking in my classroom.” I give a half-hearted giggle. He walks behind me and says, “May I?” as he puts both hands on my diaphragm, not bothering to wait for a response.

    “Now, breathe deeply. Deeper than you even think you can.” I obey, watching his hands expand with my abdomen. “Good, good. Another one.” I breathe again. On the third breath, his hands ascend to my breasts. I can feel his hot breath on my neck and we both realize that it’s time for me to leave.

    3. The Mediator

    We’re conducting our 1:1 mediation evaluation via Zoom. I join the call and see that The Mediator is sitting in his car, spooning a milkshake into his mouth. Am I in the wrong place?

    “Sorry for eating in front of you, but the lower my blood sugar is, the grumpier I get.” I give a confused chuckle.

    He begins asking for reasons that I am seeking a divorce. I’m unsure as to why this is relevant to his role in mediating my case, but I answer his questions as vaguely and matter-of-factly as I can. I have no idea how any of this works. He asks if I’m dating anyone and says “If you’re f*cking 10 black guys, I need to know about it. I want to be prepared for whatever I’m walking into for your mediation session.”

    The conversation continues, and he mentions that he would totally hook me up with his son if his son weren’t already married. He offers his nephew as an alternative.

    “Let’s get me back on the market first,” I say, as light-heartedly as I can muster. He is finished with the evaluation now, and the call ends.

    A few days later, on a Saturday, I receive a text from him. “Hey M, this is The Mediator. Can you send me four or five of your favorite pictures of yourself?”

    “Hi Mediator,” I respond, “What will they be used for?”

    “Remember that nephew I was telling you about? And I was only kind of kidding with you.”

    I fired him and got my deposit back, but not without being threatened with legal action.

    All 3 men were of a very similar demographic – white, much older than me, and in positions of authority. I was perhaps a bit naive in my earlier years, but my distrust, defiance, and confidence grows each time I land in a situation such as the ones I’ve illustrated here. I pity the next one, as I know that there will be more.

    -M.

    Enervated

    MissMLeave a comment

    *TW: Rape*

    “Your Body, My Choice.” The anthem that young men are already splattering all over womens’ online content – a mere 2 days after the election. The fear burning inside me is the same fear I felt the first time I was sexually assaulted, nearly 10 years ago. I write to cope, and the narrative below serves as a sort of emotional bloodletting. Please do not read further if you feel that this content will be harmful to you at this time, and know that extend my deepest compassion and support. I see you, I feel for you, my heart breaks alongside you. There is no happy ending or silver lining to this story.

    Me: “Okay fine, I’ll come over. But JUST to watch a movie. Promise nothing else will happen.”

    Him: “Of course not, cutie!”

    His house is nice; well-kept. The couch is made of that fake, cheap leather. Sleek, but not the type for watching movies on. I’m wearing my favorite Victoria’s Secret PINK jacket with a black bra underneath and yoga pants. He guides me to the couch and offers me a drink. Crown Royal Green Apple and 7-up. Not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. In 6 months, I’ll be old enough to enter the holy temple of the State Liquor Store and select my own libations. He pads to the kitchen to fix me a cocktail while I browse the DVDs shelved on his entertainment system.

    He wants to watch Transformers. Again, not my first choice, but maybe the buzz from my drink will help me enjoy it more. I sip.

    My head is spinning. I shakily set my empty glass on the side table. My arm is heavy and stiff as a brick. I lay my head in his lap and vigorously fight my heavy eyelids. I lose.

    Some time later, he hoists me over his shoulder in a fireman carry. I am jolted awake, my head hanging low. I notice I’ve been drooling. I mumble something.

    He has a creaky metal bed frame. He tosses me on the mattress like I’m weightless. Rips the zipper of my jacket down. Exposes my bra. I whimper.

    My vision is blurry. He violently peels my yoga pants off of me. His thumbnails scratch my hips. I can’t breathe.

    He sticks his head between my virgin thighs and my heart stops beating. Why am I not fighting? Flying? What’s the 3rd option again? Freeze?

    I freeze.

    He’s on his feet now. He cracks open the door and a sliver of light slips in. I feel my eyes widen.

    The crinkling of a wrapper. He slides himself into a condom and slides that into me. I yelp. A tear rolls down my temple. I wonder how much longer this will take.

    He grunts and moans in my ear, and then pushes himself off and out of me. “It broke,” he gasps.

    My brows furrow. What. broke.

    Now he’s the one with panic in his eyes. He disappears again. Bathroom, I presume.

    It takes all of my strength and focus to pull my yoga pants back up over my hips. He left them around my ankles.

    He lays down next to me and slings his arm around my waist. He kisses me on the cheek. I hate spooning.

    My eyes defy me once more. Hours pass.

    It’s 5:02 AM, according to the harsh, green light emitting from his alarm clock across the room. I’m alert – clear, even.

    I delicately slide out from under his arm, which is still slung heavily around my waist. He’s snoring. I pinch my jacket off the floor and slide my arms into it and then close the door so gently the door knob barely clicks.

    I zip up my jacket and frantically search the dark living room for my phone and purse. One last door knob to safety. I grip it.

    “Don’t you want to stay for breakfast?” My cheeks turn red hot.

    He pulls me in by the waist and rests his chin on my shoulder.

    -M.

    Remedial

    MissM1 Comment

    I recently became a volunteer advocate at the Rape Recovery Center, a local nonprofit that provides counseling services, a crisis hotline, and hospital teams for survivors of sexual violence. In order to become an advocate, one must complete a 40-hour intensive training program. I’m at the midpoint of my training now, and while my experience so far has been one of empowerment, solidarity, and fulfillment, it’s also forced me to re-examine and really process (for the first time) my own rape.

    I’ve come to realize that due to many contributing factors, I have yet to take the time to really process what happened to me, and how it’s impacted me physically, cognitively, and spiritually even now, a few years after the fact.

    My initial response was one of damage control. Immediately after regaining control of my body, I sped to a pharmacy to pick up a plan-B pill, inquired a private feminist Facebook group that I was a member of about STI testing, and took the proper steps to ensure that my perpetrator would not be able to contact me again.

    A member of the aforementioned Facebook group took it upon his (or her)self to notify my father of what happened to me. This member screen-shotted my original post about inquiring about STI testing, and emailed it to my father, which gave me more damage to control.

    I’ve been floating around from day to day, somewhat numb, ever since. I’ve always been kind of a distant person, but since this occurred, I’ve been even more withdrawn, even less in-touch with my emotions and my ability to connect with people, especially men.

    A guy that I’m not personally friends with DM’d me on Facebook the other day, and asked me if I was a rape victim.  I responded in the affirmative, and he proceeded to tell me that I’m so much stronger, and my spirit is more alive since I was raped.

    I found this response both appalling and offensive, for a handful of reasons. First of all, this man does not know me. He didn’t know me before the rape, and he doesn’t know me now. How, then, can he feel confident in making such a statement? Furthermore, I was strong before this happened to me. Nobody needs to experience sexual violence in order to become strong. I had the strength to cope with this trauma before it even occurred, and I refuse to credit this incidence for giving me any such thing.

    As for my “spirit being more alive,” I have felt quite the opposite. This incidence swiftly changed me into the cynical, numb person you all know and love today. I struggle with my emotionality every day of my life. I don’t know how to connect with people. I don’t even know how to process my own emotions without enduring a full-fledged panic attack. My sense of security has been breached, and I’ve realized that there are infinitely many things that are completely out of my control.

    The man who made these comments did so with good intent. However, he does not know my experience, and therefore should refrain from telling me what it did to me. Perhaps I’m over-reacting, but I don’t feel like anyone is qualified to make such bold statements about an incident that had such a severe impact on my life except for myself.

    Anyway, I am sincerely honored and excited to become an advocate in my community, and hopefully be the support that I so desperately needed when this happened to me. It’s going to be triggering, difficult, exhausting work, but I feel like taking it on will be a healing experience for me, overall. It will, however, force me to rely on others for support when the burnout inevitably hits, and discouragement sets in.

    So I’d like to thank my amazing support system in advance, for helping me through this.

    M.

     

    Denunciation

    MissM1 Comment

    I’ve heard a lot of bullshit regarding the ousting of sexual predators disguised as prominent and powerful men (i.e. a lot of hoopla from dudes exclaiming just how scary it is to be a man nowadays, The War On Men, etc.). I’m not quite sure which I find most disturbing-the sheer number of celebrity men finally being called out for their sexual offenses, or some of the reactions to these allegations from normal, everyday dudes.

    I get it, you’re shocked. You don’t want to believe that someone as likable as Louis C.K. (your favorite comedian!!) ACTUALLY masturbated in front of numerous women. Or maybe you can’t believe that these women finally spoke out. Or worse, maybe you can’t believe that actions like his could potentially result in consequences.

    I don’t speak for all women, nor would I ever attempt to, but I personally was not shocked, because I know that these things happen. And I know that oftentimes, the offender is someone you would have never expected.

    You see, it’s scary being a woman every day. As girls, we learn very quickly where our place is in society, and that it’s safer and smarter to submit to the men who have power over us than to fight back or speak up. The brave women who have spoken up against their abusers over the past few months gain nothing from doing so, except for possibly allowing their perpetrators to victimize another woman.

    And don’t give me that nonsense about “false accusations,” because only 2% of rape cases turn out to be false, which is no higher than any other alleged crime, according to the FBI. And if you ARE worried about facing a false accusation, why not just ensure that you’re conducting yourself in a manner that could never be misconstrued as sexual harassment? It’s not scary to be a man nowadays. Y’all still hold the majority of systemic power. It’s scary to be a sexual predator. So make your life easier by just not being one. Problem solved.

    Finally, we’re being listened to. And furthermore, action is being taken against these malicious men. And if that’s not reason to rejoice, then I don’t know what is.

    Frankly, if you’ve ever sexually assaulted another human being, I want you to be afraid. I want you to be looking over your shoulder all the time, anticipating a consequence that could ruin your career even, like you ruined your victim’s sense of safety.

    In a perfect world, we’d identify all these perpetrators and put them behind bars so that perhaps one day, women would be free to explore their world without the constant, inhibitory fear that we could be harmed, raped, or killed at any moment by someone who can easily overpower us. Maybe one day, we can go for a jog at night, after the sun sets, and not worry about the possibility of our own 20/20 episode.

    M.

    Me, Too.

    MissMLeave a comment

    Recently, survivors of sexual assault united in posting the simple words “Me, too” to their social media platforms in order to raise awareness of just how widespread the issue of sexual violence really is.

    I’ve read the statistics. I’ve listened to countless stories of survivors tell their stories. I’ve sat through numerous lectures on how to avoid rape, which, by my avoidance, turns another into a victim.

    All indicators of the alarming likelihood that it will one day happen to me.

    And it did. And then it did again. And again.

    The first time, it was Halloween. I didn’t dress up that year. I wore jeans and a sweater, and went to a friend of four years’ to celebrate. The next morning, everything hurt, and I was groggy and disoriented. I passed out in my grandmother’s kitchen, where I was living at the time, falling into her frail arms. I reported him to the Sheriff’s office, tears streaming down my face as I retold the events that occurred on my favorite holiday, and the cops showed up at his work to interview him. But my friend of four years refused to speak to them, so there was “nothing they could do.” We haven’t talked since.

    The next time, it was a Tinder date. He was charming, blonde hair, blue-eyed, big muscles. We went to Fuji Sushi and then saw The Revenant for our first date. The next time I saw him, he invited me to his place to watch a movie. I warned him that I was not open to anything physical, and after being assured that he would not try anything with me, I accepted his invitation. He mixed us each a drink in his kitchen while I flipped through a Cards Against Humanity deck placed on his coffee table in the living room. Hours later, I couldn’t move my limbs. “CONDOM,” I tried to bellow, his body forced on top of me, my toneless arms and legs dangling off the sides of the bed. It was 5 AM when I finally came to, and I tried to sneak out of his house without him waking. Just as I had my hand on the doorknob, I turned to find him behind me. He wanted to know why I wasn’t staying till the morning for breakfast.

    Round three started with a young man I encountered at the mall. I was walking, by myself, in broad daylight, and he stopped me, grabbed my face, and kissed me. We were complete strangers, but I found it somewhat charming at the time. We started seeing each other regularly, and one day, he came over when my roommate was out of town. I exclaimed that he was hurting me, and after he was finished, he tapped me on the arm and said “sorry for abusing you there” and left.

    And then there was the time at my formerly favorite night club. My roommate and I were there for a friend’s bachelorette party. We entered the dance floor, bopping to the rhythm, and found a group of girls to dance with. A man in perhaps his mid-twenties burst into our circle, grabbed me around the waist, and turned me around. My roommate motioned for us to leave the dance floor, but as I was trying, he lifted my skirt up and grabbed my ass. He then spun me to face him, put his arm around me tighter, and proceeded to kiss me. I couldn’t shake him off of me until he’d stopped kissing me, and by that time, my roommate had successfully exited the floor.

    I’ve dealt with sexual harassment at work. I’ve had men catcall horrific things at me while walking around downtown, sometimes men double and even triple my age-their malicious stares looking my body up and down as they lick their lips in preparation to tell me what they’d like to do to me.

    Ever since that first encounter, I’d received the message loud and clear: my body was not mine. The words “no” and “stop” and “you’re hurting me” were a waste of breath.

    I’m not telling you all of this to compete with the numerous brave survivors who came forward to publicly share their stories. I’m not telling you all of this in pursuit of sympathy. The damage has been done, and I am coping with it the best I know how. No amount of sympathy can reverse it.

    However, I am adding my story to the record in order to provide examples of behaviors that lead to assault, so that we as bystanders, or even potential perpetrators, can begin to recognize them, and intervene before someone’s body gets violated.

    Sexual assault happens to all demographics, so this isn’t even a lecture at the men to pull their shit together. It will take a societal change to eliminate rape culture, and replace it with consent culture. But it starts with recognizing concerning behaviors, and then DOING SOMETHING about it.

    No amount of “rape prevention tips” will prevent a rapist from raping. We as a society must stop tolerating non-consensual sexual behavior.

    I am not entitled to anyone’s body, and NOBODY is entitled to mine.

    Say it with me.

    M.

     

    Irascibility

    MissM1 Comment

    I thought I was over my self-proclaimed “angry feminist” phase. Boy was I wrong.

    I am a sucker for a good podcast, and I scrolled upon one this morning featuring the topic of feminism, which naturally peaked my interest. The discussion participants included a male host, and a male political science professor at a notoriously problematic university (I won’t name names, but this particular university can’t make it into the Big 12 due to their some fundamental, problematic issues in the way they run their institution). You can listen to this podcast for yourself here.

    Anywho, I was expecting this professor to advocate for feminism, and to support the progression of gender equality within society. You can probably guess from the title of this post that this was not the case. This political science professor spent his allotted interview time defending traditional gender roles. The take-away message he presented was that perhaps some of the things that feminists have (and will) accomplish are categorically good things, but come at a devastating cost to society.

    Professor Bigot’s argument was that yes, women should obtain Bachelor’s degrees, in agreement with the counsel provided by the leaders of his church. However, if women choose to continue on to develop themselves academically, they are delaying childbirth, and neglecting to fulfill their divine roles in the home, even if they have no desire to become a housewife. He feels that a woman should spend the “prime of her life” reproducing and raising the resulting offspring. Ring, ring, the 1950’s called. They want their societal norms back.

    He then later in the interview expressed that if it were his daughter that had a more “brainy” predisposition, he would support her in cultivating her fullest potential(presumably after she’d taken full advantage of her child-baring years).

    This professor, full of contradictions, argued that one of the many problems with feminism is that feminists view women who choose to be housewives as inferior, and this makes housewives feel unfulfilled and consequently unhappy with their decision to become housewives in the first place. To the contrary, the feminism that I’ve come to advocates a woman’s right to choose for herself what her life will look like, whether that be a life of motherhood and domesticity, or that of scholarly study and professional development, or anything in between.

    Because this man obviously knows what the female experience is like, he explained that women who devote their prime years to academia and professional spheres tend to experience a crisis at age 30 because they did not devote themselves to motherhood when they had the chance.

    However, I have plenty of anecdotal evidence to suggest that perhaps it’s the ones who did not pursue their interests because they felt obligated to give up what they really wanted out of their lives to set aside their desires and dreams to adhere to traditional gender roles. Multiple women that I know personally have shared with me that once they become empty nesters, they feel a sort of crisis in which their primary role as a mother has been fulfilled, and she is presented with this newfound free time in which she begins to contemplate the “what if’s” and feel remorse for not choosing an alternate path.

    That, my friends, is my worst nightmare.

    Now, let me make one thing VERY clear. I have no objections to a woman who willingly chooses to abide by traditional gender roles, so long as it is a conscious choice, made after years of serious contemplation. Additionally, I am the biggest advocate of education for all genders. This is an issue that I am extremely passionate about, perhaps due in part to growing up in a community where traditionalism was emphasized, and nonconformity was regarded as disobedience.

    I have not been this upset in well over a year about the issue of gender roles, but this podcast tore open some wounds that I thought I’d partially mended.

    I guess what it comes down to is the issue of control and power. I refuse to allow anyone, especially men, impose their myopic worldviews and values on the lives of women. Men of this type seem to think that they are entitled to control the opposite sex, and that their opinion on what women should be doing with their lives is somehow significant.

    If you think about it, societal norms were implemented by men, and for men. I’m no history expert, but I am not aware of an active form of consent to traditional gender roles by women. Nobody asked us what we want for ourselves, they told us. And that makes me physically ill.

    I will not be controlled by anything or anyone. The only thing dictating my life is my own cognitions. Women, what you want out of your life matters. In fact, what you want out of life should be your priority. We only get one shot at life, and there is simply no time for regret.

    My views on feminism can be summed in one simple statement: Everyone deserves to live authentically and everyone else should mind their own damn business.

    Enough with the pressure to conform to some silly, arbitrary role. This burning anger I’m experiencing this morning has revamped my drive for accomplishing my academic and career goals, none of which include any kind of adherence to a “predisposed” role that some have decided is a one-size-fits-all, but in reality has no consideration for individual differences.

    I typed this entire post with shaking hands and burning cheeks, and my first draft had a much more colorful vocabulary, which I have censored for the children.

    I know I’ve beat a dead horse here, but until society eases up on dictating peoples’ life decisions, I will not be at peace.

    Down With The Norm, indeed.

    M.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Dubious

    MissM5 Comments

    I think it’s really important that when discussing women’s issues, we keep a safe space for men to express their concerns, as well. Don’t get me wrong, with some issues, I stick with the motto “No Uterus, No Opinion,” but in the interest of making the feminist movement as effective as possible, it only makes sense to get as many folks on board as we can.

    In order to contribute to this idea, I have taken the liberty of interviewing a couple of male feminists to get a feel for what they find problematic in regards to the Church.

    I am so blessed to have not just one but TWO feminist parents in my life. The first male feminist I interviewed is my dad, who, unfortunately, has not developed this viewpoint until recently, which meant that I suffered some blackmailing in order to attend and participate and comply with YW stuff as a teen.

    The prompt I provided my interviewees is as follows: “As a father (or father to be) of a daughter in the YW program, what themes, if any, taught by the program strike you as problematic, and what will you do as a parent to ensure that these themes are not absorbed by your daughter?” 

    “The first thing is how limited women are in the church. We are taught that a woman’s role is in the home raising children. Women who chose a career are guilt-ed into thinking they are being selfish for wanting a career. They are guilt-ed by the GA’s, local ward, friends and family. It is a cultural problem created from the top down. Women are being taught to be subservient to their husbands and that they can’t obtain eternal life without one. Our lesson manuals teach that and it is taught all the way up to the temple. Women can’t talk to God directly or covenant with God directly. They must do it through their Priesthood holding husbands. The problem is that most of these women are more worthy than their husbands in terms of keeping commandments, serving God, and being Christlike, but when it comes to rank in the church, they are not considered equal. As long as he [the husband] pays his tithing, he’s in good standing. But a woman who stays at home to raise the kids can’t have a recommend if her husband doesn’t pay tithing. Keep in mind this housewife has no income and cannot pay tithing, yet is punished because her man doesn’t pay tithing. Where is the equality in that?

    “The church needs to teach that women can be anything they want to be. They should strive for education, strive for success professionally. They have so much to offer than this male-dominated society. Women are capable of amazing things but we as men are afraid of that, of losing control, just like the church is so they try and keep everyone in their little boxes and roles. I teach my kids they can be anything they want to be and should strive to be anything they want to be. God wants us all to be the best and most we can be, not just men. Women matter.”

    My second interviewee is a colleague of my father’s who is married but has not had children yet. He had some insight to share on how he intends to raise his (hopefully) future daughters.

    The first, focusing on a very specific role to define a women’s divine purpose, makes a young woman feel that if they aren’t wired with these exact traits or desires that something is wrong with them in the eyes of God. Even when a women has these desires, it makes them feel that this is the only thing essential to their happiness.  I do not wish the devalue the importance of being a mother and bringing and child into this world but I do NOT want my daughters – or anyone’s daughter- to feel that their eternal worth and overall happiness in this life is intrinsically linked to motherhood. If you want to have a career, you can still be an incredible mother. If you do not wish to have children or cannot have children for whatever reason, you still have the same divine purpose and value. If you do devote much of your life to being a mother and a homemaker, there are still other things you should seek after as well. Whatever makes you, YOU is your divine worth and using that to make this world a better place and enrich the lives of those around you is what makes you worthy in the eyes of God.  It all seems very simple but I hope to instill this in my children by encouraging them to find who they are and develop all the goodness in them into whatever type of individual that may be.

    The second, which I think can be even more problematic, indirectly teaches women that they lack a fundamental connection, and have to rely on their husbands, fathers, brothers, bishops, or other “worthy” male influences in their lives for some divine inspiration and guidance. I hope to teach my future daughter(s) that she has a personal connection with God that is just as strong as mine. He will give her as much personal inspiration, guidance, and power to make decisions as he will to me or anyone else. Pray and receive inspiration. Ask your heart and your soul deep questions and God will direct you. The questions you have in this life, the inspiration you receive, and the decisions you make never have to be filtered through any sort of male counterpart. This ties back in with divine worth. Your worth in the eyes of God is equal no matter who you are or what path you decide to follow. Embrace all the goodness in you, develop who you are, make decisions for yourself, and know that God will empower you with as much inspiration as anyone to make this world a better place.

    The most difficult part of your question is how do you teach these things in your children. My wife and I actually disagree on this because sometimes she thinks it isn’t possible. I try to remain optimistic that it is. Maybe we have trouble answering it because we haven’t experienced parenthood yet. But how am I going to  get my kids to believe something differently than what they hear in Sunday school and what most of their peers subscribe to? I would hope the answer lies in my ability to connect with my children and the trust they will have in me. I would also hope that I can always provide them with an environment that really encourages them to focus on developing into a unique and inspiring individual.  Be who you are and I promise there is as much happiness and divine worth available to that person as there is to anyone else in the world. I have to hope they can live that and find it for themselves.

    Not that women’s issues require acknowledgement from men in order to be validated, but it is definitely encouraging that these issues are being recognized by more than just the oppressed.

    Special thanks to my interviewees for contributing to today’s post. You guys are number one.

    M.

    Insouciance

    MissMLeave a comment

    Yet another method of misogyny was brought to my attention the other day.

    My family and I were nibbling on complimentary popcorn in the office of a car dealership while our salesman went to fetch his manager because he could not satisfy my mother’s terms of negotiation.

    The manager shook my dad’s hand and explained the unwillingness to budge on the terms of the sale, and then went behind some desk to carry out managerial tasks. I inferred from the way he spoke that he was not from around here originally.

    About fifteen minutes after leaving our presence, the manager returned and approached my mom. He shook her hand and introduced himself.

    He said, “Hi, I’m Brett. I’m not from around here, but I’ve noticed that Utah tends to ignore their women. Just the other day, my wife and I were at a restaurant, and she pulled her credit card out of her wallet and paid for the meal. When the waiter brought back the check, he returned the credit card to my possession, even though my wife was the one who provided it. I just wanted to apologize for doing the exact same thing to you earlier.”

    The manager didn’t let us leave the car dealership without shaking my mom’s, sister’s, and my own hand and providing us each with a self-introduction.

    I’ve been thinking a lot about what the car dealership manager said ever since he said it. It’s true, especially in business transaction situations, women, when accompanied by their men, are often overlooked and unacknowledged. Fascinating.

    Why do you think that is? Do folks just assume that the guy is the one with the bucks? I get that the whole objective of the sales guy is to get money from his customer’s wallet to his company’s bank account, but come on. Completely ignoring a man’s wife when they’re in the market to make a big purchase? My mom was literally right in front of this manager guy, and it took him 15 minutes to even realize that he’d completely ignored her.

    Sexism. It’s problematic and it’s everywhere.

    M.

    Innominate

    MissM2 Comments

    Due to a series of unfortunate events and frustrating assumptions being made about me, I’ve decided to become faceless here. I feel that right now, removing my identity will keep my blog a safe place for me to therapeutically express my feelings without backlash that will inevitably affect my personal life. Cowardly, maybe, but thou hast no right to judgeth me.

    For my own sake, I am now going to put an assumption or two to rest. I used to share new posts on my Facebook and Twitter feeds, which granted access to both friends and foes, simultaneously labeled as “followers” on the Internet.

    One individual, whom I can only assume was a dedicated reader of mine, concluded rather falsely that I am “struggling,” (in my faith, perhaps?) and felt the need to share this conclusion with a mutual peer. Because people talk, this got back to me and honestly, it angers me deeply that someone whom I haven’t spoken with in over a calendar year would have the audacity to assume that I am “struggling,” and then proceed to share his/her false conclusion with others.

    Like I said, for my own sake, I am going to clear the air here. I am not struggling. If anything, I feel that I am becoming my most authentic self. I feel that I am approaching a place in my life where I am beginning to make peace with all of my contradictions and inner conflicts. If anything, I am flourishing! I am happy, truly happy, for quite possibly the first time in my life. I am accepting the pieces of me that make me different than most others, and embracing them. I am building a mature belief system by consciously deciding what I do and do not believe, what I am and what I am not, and am maintaining my integrity by not allowing anything or anyone to change me. I am in a good place. A strong place.

    So, if you’re new to DownWithTheNorm, and have the time and/or interest, you can read my personal introduction here.

    I’d also be delighted to receive an introduction from you! If anything, the purpose of this site is for me to be understood, and to understand differing viewpoints and learn from the diversity of humans.

    If you’re a returning reader, it’s still me, and I am so grateful to all who take the time to read.

    M.