Walking the Hedge

I am a bad feminist, downright lousy in fact. I might even be viewed as a traitor to my own sex (if you’re militant enough to see it that way)

I’ll tell you why.

I like men more than women. I prefer the company of men over the company of people of my own sex. I trust men more than women.

Can you imagine that? I know, I know, how terrible is that?

There are many reasons, feelings and experiences that cause me to be a lousy feminist. Please allow me to explain in my own rambling way.

I suppose the main reason is that unlike most of other women I’ve met, I have been neglected, mistreated and abused much more by other women than by men. Even when I have been neglected, abused and mistreated by men, often there was a woman involved.

Punch for punch, insult for insult, hair pull for hair pull women take up a significantly higher amount of the pain brought upon me by others than men.

As a child and teen I was mercilessly bullied by the other girls at school. Both physically and verbally, as well as just emotionally jerked around. I’ll spare you the details, (why rehash all that?) but suffice to say that every day at school was a nightmare of humiliation and abuse at the hands of my peers. I was ugly, stupid, scattered brained, had thrift store clothes, poor parents, frizzy hair, pimples, spoke funny, big glasses, either too skinny or too fat, a bitch, a whore, a prude … you name it. I can count on one hand the number of girls who I could call friends during the whole of my school years. And many of them abandoned me in an attempt to gain more popularity.

The boys on the other hand couldn’t care less about such things. Even long before boys start to get interested in you in “that way” my friends were always boys. I spent much of my childhood climbing trees or sitting on the playground equipment, practicing my spitting and swearing techniques.

The boys didn’t call me names, they didn’t push me into the mud, they didn’t throw things at me, they didn’t pull my hair, they didn’t pretend to like me one day and hate me the next, they didn’t spread lies about me. They didn’t try to flip up my skirt either.

In fact, they treated me like an equal; I was just one of the boys. Even in high school, when I wished more of them would see me in a different light, I was juts one of guys. They encouraged me to climb higher, spit further, hit harder and run faster. They taught me how to hit a bully in the nose and make her cry and cheered when I did it.

With two brothers, many uncles, and more than one Dad (step-fathers) I grew up in boy-culture. I went to the tomboy academy of learning. I can confidently change the radiator hose in a pick up truck, but can’t tell the difference between pillow cases and pillow shams, even when they are placed under my nose by an annoyed and frustrated woman. I can take a hard fall off my mountain bike and keep on trucking but can’t interpret the message behind another woman’s hair flip and eye roll.

I flatly refused to wear a skirt or dress until I was 14 years old. I had no desire to identify myself with my abusers. I liked being a girl, I just FUCKING HATED other girls and I rejected the expectations put on me by other females to be “properly female”. The men and boys in my life rarely ever told me that I should do or not do something because I was female, they did however try to teach me the proper way to toss a football. They also forgave me for never perfecting the technique.

Now don’t think for a second that I have unrealistic romantic notions about the males of the species.

Amongst my earliest memories is the image of my 6 foot tall father hitting my petite mother so hard that he broke her glasses and sent them flying across the room to land at my 4.5 year old feet. He then stormed down to the basement. My Mom grabbed her purse, my bay brother and I and we snuck out of the house. We hid at a local car dealership waiting for my grandmother to come and get us, watching my Dad’s car drive up and down the hi-way looking for us.

I learned before I could write a complete sentence what a violent man can do to a woman.

I also remember how Mom went back to him, bringing us with her, for a few months more anyways.

Mom’s second husband (common-law anyway) used to smack me now and then, he also was bipolar (undiagnosed until he made a suicide attempt when I was twelve) and his behaviour was strange and erratic. He would stand over my bed at night and watch me as I pretended to sleep. He was a substitute teacher and would force me to stay up late, often all night, re-doing my homework again and again. I grew to hate the nightmare that was school even more as a result.

Mom had her own issues and while I understand many of the reasons why she stayed with this man, and why she often took her own hurts and fear out on me, I will not excuse them either.

The day he finally laid a hand on my brother (the favoured son who always got straight “A”s) she finally threw him out. But the verbal abuse and the hair pulling from her did not stop until I grew larger than she was.

The women in my family failed to protect me, they were even amongst my abusers. The other girls at school were my tormenters, while the female teachers looked the other way or were at a loss as what they should do about it.

In adulthood I have struggled to make and keep female friends. I often do not have the same interests, goals and lifestyle. I don’t socialize “properly”. I miss the crucial subtle social cues that are such an integral part of female communication. I am too blunt, straight forward and open. Women are complicated, they are emotional, they are demanding, they are judgmental and impossible to please. I rarely receive their approval, let alone their acceptance.

I like men more than women. I prefer the company of men over the company of people of my own sex. I trust men more than women.

I know where I stand with men. With other women I feel like I am walking into a potential trap.

Men are like big dogs, they raise their hackles, they give you a warning growl, and they might nip once before they bite (usually). Women are like little dogs, the attack comes from behind, unexpectedly (usually). A big dog might be able to bite harder but the pain of a little dogs’ bite is much sharper and the wariness you learn from it lasts longer.

I don’t turn my back to little dogs.

As such, I am a lousy feminist.

I know how to not tolerate mistreatment from men; I learned it from the men in my life. The ones who taught me to fight, to climb trees, to spit and swear, to fall down and get back up again, to walk for miles on a sprained ankle, to not cry at the sight of blood.

I watch other women struggle to stand up to a man and I struggle to wrap my head around it. Perhaps because I have yet to fully forgive my mother for staying with and going back to men who hurt us.

I don’t need feminism, the goddess, or other women to tell me I am equal to men. It was men who taught me that as a child.

It’s the women in my life who have never treated me like an equal, not the men.

I have gone to women’s rituals and been pulled aside, given heck for showing up in a motorcycle jacket and combat boots. How dare I show up with such masculine energy?

I have gone to women’s circles in a floral print dress and make up, and been told that in order to a respected, a woman much not be pretty, thin, attractive and wear bras or make up.

I have seen feminists who venerate the Mother Goddess turn around and attack another woman for choosing to be a housewife and stay-at-home-mother.

I have seen Dianic Wiccans call themselves warrior women, and then be grossed out when I rub dust into my hands so I can better grip the handle of a fighting stick.

I have seen women get into arguments over whether or not it’s properly feminist to wear a mini skirt.

I have seen women treat each other poorly over something as stupid as whether or not other women’s towels hanging on the rack in the bathroom match each other.

I have been looked at like there is something wrong with me for having a patron god, rather than a matron goddess.

Men describe my personality as strong; they call me things like “an unstoppable force” and say so with respect. Women call me arrogant, a bitch and intimidating for the same traits, they pick on me for it.

I am not a very good feminist because I can’t figure out what the hell other women want from me?

I’m starting to wonder if feminists know what it is they want and if they know how to achieve it?

I am a bad feminist, downright lousy in fact. I don’t mean to be, that’s just what they call me.

I’d love to have more female friends, to gain that acceptance and love.

I’d love to show other women, those who are more timid and such, how to strap steel on their spine and face the world with head held high.

I’d love to see women focus less on bringing each other down, focus less on how all men are horrible evil abusing pigs, and work on learning how to get along.

(Note this is the first part of a series, I promise to get more positive towards my fellow women as I go!)

Related posts:

1. Ramblings on Womanhood and Feminism Part Two
2. Parlez Vous Français? (Part One)
3. Skinny Girl