Drawing Blood: The Women Who Bled to Fuel a Lineage

Growing up, I considered myself a feminist. Much of my feminist ideology was built on the generational trauma and pain passed down through my Pakistani lineage. I grew up hearing stories of my grandmother’s unfulfilled dreams to become a doctor due to marrying young and immigrating to Canada to raise a family before she was even 16. How her father worked abroad so she and her siblings were raised by her mother, whose own trauma prevented her from showing love and affection. How she struggled as a single mother and new immigrant raising 4 children with a factory job, with insufficient time or resources to process her grief and trauma of loss. And finally landing on my mother whose cold attitude toward men is buried deep in the pain of losing her father at a young age with no one to protect her from the emotional abuse that followed. This made her fiercely protective over her two daughters, such that her strong distrust of men was passed along to us. So, of course, as a child I swore by feminism dripped in rage from trauma that was not directly my own. 

Through school however is where my feminist beliefs matured. I learned that inequalities ran deeper than “pink is for girls, and blue is for boys.” We need feminism because pink is considered a girl colour. If only it was as simple as that. In grade 4 I used to pull my lips inwards to make them smaller. At the time, I truly didn’t think anything of this. I knew that beauty standards of white skin and blonde hair did not mean that I was ugly, but I couldn’t help it. Especially when, although I felt most empowered wearing long jeans instead of shorts, I still felt ugly and weird. We need feminism because white eurocentric beauty standards impact young girls’ confidence before they are given a chance to shine. We’re getting closer. 

In high school I learned that misogyny extends beyond the limits of gender versus gender. Sure, there were the group chats with the boys consisting of degrading conversations about girls, mostly about their bodies. But I guess a part of me expected that. What I didn’t expect, however, was the internalized misogyny from other girls. I could never understand the pleasure of subjecting yourself to friendships with such obviously misogynistic boys who would smile to your face, then rate your ass in a group chat. I equally could not understand the motive behind tearing down other girls, for the sake of gaining validation from guys. Although I may not have all the answers, my anger from high school has since burnt out.

Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. Looking back, my anger toward other girls should have been replaced with compassion. I had no excuse, having the privilege of growing up in an environment that honoured and recognized the strength of women in my family overcoming adversity. I recognized the immediate disadvantage women are placed at, in a society where girls are criticized for not doing enough, doing too much, or doing exactly what they want yet still facing repercussions. Knowing all of that, the least I could have done was show compassion to other young girls who were facing their own internal struggles associated with being racialized women in Canada. We need feminism because the world has proven to be uncompassionate towards women. 

And so, here I am at age 20, still having so much to learn. My feminism is not centered around hatred towards men, or gender-neutral colours. Instead, my feminism is driven, but not dictated, by generational trauma, and implemented with compassion rather than rage. Decades of women who overcame impossible situations, unconsciously passing down their trauma. My great grandmother, who became a single mother after just immigrating to Canada, raising 5 children on welfare alone. My grandmothers, one of whom worked in a factory putting food on the table till the day she retired at age 70, and the other who sacrificed her dreams for generations to come. My mother, who took on maternal responsibilities to raise her youngest brother after losing their father at age 16. My aunt, who found strength in the darkest of days to brighten the lives of her nieces and create a life where she could raise a fearless daughter. All of these women who set the stage so that I could be here today, writing this article, pursuing my dreams and fulfilling my legacy in a lineage of courageous women who’ve sacrificed enough for a lifetime. 

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