Womanhood. I never understood my “womanhood” as a child, I had the blessing of baring a child but the sin of my bare midriff evokes society’s typical response reminding me to “cover-up.” At least, that’s what the older women would tell me. The right to bare a child was a blessing that I couldn’t afford to pass up. It was too scary for me as a young woman to even consider, “do I want children?” As a young woman of colour who identifies as non-binary, the concept of womanhood came to me as a challenge when it should’ve been second nature. Growing up, there were occasions upon occasions when the women in my life were treated less than the soil on the ground, women in media had their throats clawed at by the clutches of societal standards, and men simply brushed me to the side, when I wondered why? Beaten, raped, murdered, judged, abused, undermined, silenced. Why us? Being exposed to such extreme levels of misogyny as a child eventually led me to the thought, why be proud of womanhood? Why be proud of the very thing that I’m hated for? What good could this possibly bring me? It seemed as though women were punished for simply, being women. Men will be men, boys will be boys, unless you’re the kind of woman society wants, don’t be “woman.”
I slowly tumbled down the path of hating the femininity that simply existed within myself. I resented the colour pink, and gagged at the thought of appearing innocent or “girly.” I despised the very feeling of a satin dress upon my significantly smaller frame than my male counterparts. Why would I wear a dress? According to them, that just means you’re asking for it. I’m certainly not asking for it. I’m one of the “good girls.” Y’know, the girls that just aren’t like other girls. The ones who don’t care about looking nice or wearing pretty clothes, the girls who think crying is absolutely stupid, and the girls who can “take a joke.” I was “one of the guys,” and it seemed they only respected me if:
A. I had something to give them.
Or B. I acted like them.
I certainly wasn’t about to lose my bodily autonomy too, I had already lost my identity. With every ounce of hate, I pretended to have against femininity, came crashing waves of impending guilt. Continuing to see such violence and distaste towards women in my own community and others didn’t help in terms of healing my own femininity. The women around me never seemed to be totally free, it appeared that we’d constantly need to conform to different personalities in order to receive the bare minimum. Respect, humane treatment, empathy, compassion. I couldn’t understand why I needed to work harder to receive these things meanwhile, men were born loved. The morbid spiral of misogyny intoxicated my brain as I couldn’t live without second-guessing my own actions. Was what I wanted to do okay? What would other people think of me? Am I allowed to do this? If I present myself this way, what will they say?
Over time, I slowly began to realize how much I hated resenting womanhood. I saw women who simply didn’t care what anyone else had to say. They were powerful. They reeked of confidence and self-love. I envied that so much until I found myself at my limit, and no longer wanted to conform. I wanted to buy items in cute colours without being judged, wanted to gush about how good my makeup looked while fixing my hair in the reflection of a car window, and wanted to look at clothing and feel comfortable wearing what makes me, me. I wanted to be in the kitchen because I wanted to be there, not because my purpose as a human being is to serve and obey. I wanted to breathe. To feel the pressure relieved from my shoulders and let me fly free. I didn’t care if my nails were too long, or if I took too many pictures of myself, if I wore too much makeup, or showed too much skin. I didn’t care if others thought my interests made my character “weak” and “girly.” I simply wanted to do the things that connected me to my femininity. I spent years resenting the very thing that makes me who I am sole because I didn’t want to deal with the embarrassment that came with defending myself. These were the things that allowed me to be in touch with my femininity. These things didn’t define my womanhood and I didn’t need these things to prove I am a woman, but these are the simple things in life that allow me to love the bliss of femininity. Getting my long, sparkly, acrylic nails and waking up an hour earlier to ensure I had time to put my makeup on were the simple things I found comfort in that allowed me to cherish what I had resorted in my femininity.
There are women in the world who are killed for being women. There are too many women in the world fighting relentlessly for this same breath of air that I desired and the new perspective on femininity that I desired. I relentlessly wondered if there would ever be a moment of healing from the wrath of misogyny. If I would ever come to accept my own womanhood and understand the feminine things I enjoyed were things I didn’t need to be ashamed of. There are too many women in the world hating every inch of themselves due to internalized misogyny that is caused by the atrocities of social standards. Pale skin, skinny but not too skinny, curvy enough so that you’re still desirable. As a woman of colour, I hope every day there is some spark that heals our women from the terror of misogyny.
There are so many beautiful women in the world that contribute to what femininity means. There is no universal definition of femininity, I believe it comes from within and every woman has their own definition of what their femininity means to them. To me. femininity means power, and I learned to be proud of that power as it is something that wasn’t easily gained. Feminine power has been fought for, for centuries upon centuries and is still being fought for throughout the world.
Embrace and love your power, femininity is too beautiful to continue hating.