Whether I chose feminism or feminism chose me, I am not sure. What I am sure about is that the women in my department at the university made it easier and continue to support my journey, even those that have retired. However, it is the women academics that make me the most nervous and self-conscious to the point of paralysis. In fact, I’ve come to be happier reading their work from a distance than meeting them in person, because the experience is more often than not traumatizing.
Between a condescending sisterly ‘love’, and an abrasive dismissal of those whose ideas are seen as ‘simplistic’, I am not sure which I am more nervous about. In feminist spaces, I often feel like I am constantly under a microscope. Everything I do has to be carefully considered. Being careful is an important feminist practice. Women have endured much oppression and suffering stemming from carelessness in thought, word and deed. But when one is just trying to find their voice and has yet to muster the language of freedom, such carefulness can also feel like self-censorship. It can be exhausting and silencing. Every joke, bite of food, choice of clothing is under the all-seeing feminist radar. Feminist spaces remind me of my relationship with my mother; I’m always anxiously trying to please. So, how do we dismantle regimes of power that are oppressing and come out healthier as feminists?
Some of the pain that feminist spaces open up may be unhealed childhood traumas that the space only triggers. Many of us were raised by strong women that did not call themselves feminists, but who had to fend for us in the face of both internalized and overt patriarchal oppression. Their regimes of care may not have been the most assuring, and we often found ourselves both fearing and revering them. They were both sheroes and silencers. We want to honour them, but the fearful child inside is still finding ways of getting their approval and minimizing whatever we think may cause them to be angry with us. We revert to our childhood survival strategies of either trying too hard or keep our pain to ourselves.
Feminist spaces remind me of my relationship with my mother; I’m always anxiously trying to please.
Some of the pain that feminist spaces open are perhaps an unrealistic expectation that they are a safer alternative to the patriarchal power relations of the academy we have experienced since we entered the school system. Too often the academy overlooks women, and sets for them that horrible phallic standard that is not safe space for a person identifying as woman. One that says an imagined penis or lack thereof is the passport to success. The standard where our bodies should not bleed on monthly cycles for us to belong. The standard that excludes and bullies us if we are women that don’t get periods, if we miss our periods because of a wanted or unwanted pregnancy, or if we are menopausal. But perhaps a feminist shaped through simultaneous repulsion and attraction to patriarchy is a chronic condition, hence some of us carry anxiety into feminist spaces. Feminist spaces make me more anxious than other spaces, because I don’t want to fail the struggle!
Feminist spaces remind me of my relationship with my mother; I’m always anxiously trying to please.
Some of the pain that feminist spaces open are perhaps a reflection of my relationship with my body; a lot is expected from it, but very little is given back to it. I have never liked my body, except when I am looking back at old pictures, and thinking, wow, I was so beautiful, why didn’t I feel that way then? In my culture, you are not supposed to love your body, although it is likely to be one of the first things people comment about when they see you.
People will openly tell you that you’re pretty or not pretty, with a big or small forehead, large or small bums, tall or short. And I have not had the luck of getting positive body related compliments. Feminist spaces have their own aesthetic, somewhere between trying to hide in plain sight and making sure to be visible even in a dark room. Just picking what to wear, how much make-up, inches of your stiletto hill, colour of lipstick, glass frame, is often a feminist action. And it’s hard to get it right, because a tad too much of anything can attract well-crafted but unmistakable disapproval.
Feminist spaces remind me of my relationship with my mother; I’m always anxiously trying to please.
Some of the pain that feminist spaces open are perhaps a reflection of my relationship with my father; absent when I needed him and a real great person when I met him in later life, and when I didn’t need him as much. He left my mother as a young single woman at a time when marriage was the most important standard for respectability, and she had to carry the fear of never getting a man who would love her and accept her child. For this reason, I never had much room to just be a child, I had to make her yoke lighter by not being too much of a burden. I had to succeed to belong. And academic performance became my salvation, in a dysfunctional way; making sure I write to pass, and not write what I like, or even choose not to write at all. I could not ‘fail’. I have never really known much else except the mortal fear of failure. And even in feminist spaces, failure is not an option.
Feminist spaces remind me of my relationship with my mother; I’m always anxiously trying to please.
Some of the pain that feminist spaces open are perhaps my failure to produce that epic feminist article or book! I get excited about many topics and speak at many audiences that for some weird reason seem to like the sound of my voice. I am always multi-tasking different engagements and activities with women in my city, my country and across the world. But I am yet to pass the most important rite of passage, be known for what I write.
What worth is a feminist who has not written cutting edge feminist work? Why am I always busy? Busy doing what? Why am I always tired, have little time for my family and yet have nothing to show for it? Rightfully so, feminism privileges writing, and as an African feminist, the writing has to show a deep understanding of different strands of feminisms from the west and the global south, speak at once to local and global issues, be at once situated and resonate to wider audience. It is a mountain only a few seem to be fated to climb. It is not a space for mediocrity. It is paralyzing in its high expectations. And regardless of how much you did that we liked, one wrong turn can get you dismissed.
Feminist spaces remind me of my relationship with my mother; I’m always anxiously trying to please.
In the end, it may not be a specific feminist that’s oppressive, it could be the multi-layered and intersectional pains that one brings into the space that make feminism both oppressing and liberating at the same time.
**This is a personal introspection by the author based on their life journey identifying as a feminist. The author has been in feminist spaces as a lecturer, researcher and activist for almost 20 years. The author hopes you found the story, validating or that it draws you into a critical empathy that demands accountability as much as provides collective care and healing towards those that may feel this way, even if you can’t relate. Aluta continua.
I read this closely and can relate to the intersectionality of different feminisms and how as women we are complicit in the oppression of other feminidts can be overt or covert. It is true too that to be announted as a feminist one who have come up with a “seminal” essay. I enjoyed the article, made me to introspect!
I enjoyed this piece. Reminds of some of the themes in African literature and some African cultures where women are so complicit in other women’s oppressions as they become custodians of certain African practices such as FGM among others. I wish more women can write about their biter-sweet relationship with African Feminism(s) beyond the academy,