It's What You Believe, Not What You Know

Last night, the husband recounted a conversation he had had with a friend who mentioned that she does not consider herself a feminist. Given that she definitely doesn't believe in gender roles, he found that sort of surprising and said as much. She replied that she's not anti-feminist - rather, the reason that she doesn't call herself a feminist is that she hasn't studied the movement and, without that academic knowledge, doesn't really feel she knows what the word means, and therefore doesn't feel qualified to call herself a feminist.

My first response was to tell him about Sarah Bunting's amazing essay "Yes, You Are," and to suggest he forward it to her - it's a wonderful piece that I think perfectly addresses people's concerns about what feminists are supposed to be, look like, or do. That said, while I am nowhere near as eloquent as Sars, I found I had a few more thoughts on the subject.

Feminism does have a history, sure, and it's sort of complicated, but I would argue that knowing that history is not required to be a feminist: it's what you believe, not what you know. After all, you don't have to know details about Jim Crow laws to be a racist, or be able to recite facts about the crusades to be a Christian.

Sure, it might be handy to know some of the history if you're trying to state your case. For example, just three generations ago, women were not legally allowed to own property, and may have been considered property themselves... and today, just outside Chicago, the town of Aurora has been doing its damnedest for months to keep Planned Parenthood from opening an abortion clinic which would also provide much needed information about contraception and general health issues. But those are just facts. They're not beliefs.

Beliefs come from the confusion you felt at age 9 when someone told you girls couldn't be doctors, girls had to be nurses. Beliefs come from the anger that boils up when someone mentions Hillary Clinton's fat ass and you just know no one gives a damn about McCain's ass. Beliefs come from the defensiveness you feel on your brother's behalf when people smirk upon learning he's a stay-at-home dad. Beliefs come from your being told, over and over, that girls should just smooth things over, they shouldn't stir up trouble or raise their voices. Beliefs come from your amazement at the sheer number of rape cases which still address the alleged victim's sexual history, or what she was wearing. Beliefs come from your own shock, even years later, at how badly you allowed your high school boyfriend to mistreat you, because you thought that, as a woman, hanging onto your boyfriend should be among your primary goals. Beliefs come from the fact that you can't bring yourself to be friends with one of your husband's friends because it just makes you want to cry that he has said, flat out, he does not think he could ever work for a female boss.

At least, that's a little bit of where my beliefs came from. And sure, I took several women's studies classes in college - and some of them were great, and some of them sucked, but they're not what made me a feminist. You don't need women's studies classes to be a feminist. You don't need a college degree. You don't even need a high school diploma. You just need to look around you and decide that the jokes, the stereotypes, the behavior that you see just might mean that, despite all the important strides that have been made over the last several decades, there's still more work to be done to attain gender equality. And it's still incredibly important work, too.

It's what you believe, not what you know.

Drunken Shenanigans (Not Mine!)

So the husband needed new pants prior to our leaving for vacation tomorrow. He also had a credit to use up at the menswear haven that is Jos. A. Banks. Two birds, one stone, we headed downtown around 11:15 am to pop in, buy pants, grab lunch at Hannah's Bretzel (so delicious!), head home. Easy! Except...

Question: Who's a bad Irish-American girl?
Answer: The one who forgets to account for the freakin' St. Patrick's Day parade when making her plans.

Yeah. We parked on lower Wacker, and, upon climbing the stairs to the surface world, were greeted with green antenna headbands, green hats in the shape of beer mugs, green feather boas. And, of course, we were immediately filled with hate.

But we would not be deterred. We made it the six blocks to Jos. A. Banks (the husband had the genius idea to cut through the Chicago Cultural Center for one of those blocks, providing a blissful respite from the idiocy outside), met Bob the sales guy, found a great pair of pants, realized they needed to be hemmed, left them with Bob the sales guy to complete that task, and headed over to Hannah's.

After lunch, as we returned to pick up the new pants, the parade had clearly just broken up. The crowds had dispersed, and people were heading west, back to their cars, the L, whatever.

And one young green-sweatshirted woman was, it seemed, heading west directly into Jos. A. Bank. As we walked in the door, she was just a few feet behind us. Later, the husband and I discussed the fact that we both found ourselves hoping, "Maybe she's shopping for someone, or asking directions, or something else legitimate!"

That hope was proven futile when she began to weave past the suit display, brushing up against the sport coats, and then stumbled right into a wall. Unfazed, she picked herself back up, and continued on her journey... beelining right into one of the dressing rooms, slamming the door shut behind her.

So the husband picked up his pants, and then mentioned to Bob that we had seen a reveler stumble into one of the dressing rooms, and that perhaps he should check on her. We didn't stick around to see the outcome, but we like to think that, at best, we saved a young woman's life yesterday. At worst, we saved a dressing room floor from being painted with vomit. Either way, we like to think it was a mitzvah.

And with that, we're off to Florida for five days.