I Am a (Mormon?) Feminist

[This is one of a series of posts on Caitlin Moran’s book How to Be a Woman.   Click here for other posts in this series.]

My first official introduction to feminism came in an undergraduate class on Feminist Theory at BYU (an idea that now makes me chuckle, it seems like such an oxymoron).   I remember quite clearly the day the professor-an adjunct who was working on her Ph.D. at the University of Utah-spoke to us, ever so gently at first, about feminism.   Someone asked, in a mumbled, hushed tone, how she could reconcile feminism with Mormonism.   She said it had been helpful to her to think about which self-identifying phrase was the most accurate:   Mormon feminist or feminist Mormon.   I thought about the difference between those two phrases for many years.   Probably fifteen.   For most of those years, I felt like feminist Mormon was the correct order for me.   Now, I’m not so sure.   I know there are plenty of feminist Mormons, but it’s becoming more and more difficult for me to be one of those.   Too much cognitive dissonance.   Too much banging my head against the wall.   Too much shouting and fist shaking at the heavens that don’t seem to be listening.

While the Mormon part of that label is a sticking part for me these days, whatever angst I once had over self-identifying as a feminist is no more.   Worrying about whether to call myself a feminist in public is about as dumb to me as worrying about revealing that I breathe in oxygen.   It’s a non-starter.   Goes without saying.   Yawn.  

However, Caitlin Moran devotes a whole chapter to it.   And her chapter made me look outside my little academic bubble a bit (where being a feminist is a foregone conclusion) and think about why feminism is still considered a dirty word.   Moran says that every woman needs to stand on a chair and shout, “I AM A FEMINIST!”   She says,

If you feel you cannot say it-not even standing on the ground-I would be alarmed.   It’s probably one of the most important things a woman will ever say:   the equal of ‘I love you,’ ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ or ‘No! I’ve changed my mind! I don’t want bangs!

Say it.   SAY IT!   SAY IT NOW!   Because if you can’t, you’re basically bending over, saying, ‘Kick my arse and take my vote, please, patriarchy.’

Caitlin says she can remember when she first said, “I am a feminist.”   Can you?   I can’t.  

My undergrads are very reluctant to self-identify as “feminists”-or flatly refuse to claim it.   They feel like it describes bitchy women blah blah blah.   We did a word association exercise once where they had to write down the first word/phrase that came to mind when they saw all sorts of words (African American, immigrant, Mormon, G/T student, cheerleader, feminist, etc.).   The things they associated with feminist were quite shocking to me:   bitch, doesn’t get enough sex, hates men, lesbian . . .

And I was left scratching my head.

My kids are similarly reluctant, even though I think they would agree with everything I might include under the “feminist” umbrella.   To them, when they think “feminist,” they think of all the things that annoy or disappoint them about me:

I don’t like to do fun “girly” things like get my nails done.
I wear minimal make-up.
I don’t worry much about my hair.
I work too much.
I don’t like to wear froo-froo, frilly clothes (“dressed up” for me = black dress pants, pumps, and a button-up shirt)
I don’t wear (or care about) jewelry.
I’m totally disinterested in all the many products that are peddled to women-lotions, creams, lighteners, softeners, etc.
I don’t like to cook things and only recently learned the difference between “cooking” and “baking.”
I don’t like to make things-no painting, sewing, etc.
I don’t like to decorate.   Our house looks like we’re still stuck in graduate school mode (except we’re five years removed from grad school).

So is that it?   Does the list above of things my kids associate with feminist represent a good description of a feminist?   I guess in my mind, I’ve sort of come to define it that way.   Feminist, to me, has come to mean NOT frilly, froo-froo, not worried about physical appearance, etc.  

. . . which is why my daughters are killing me this year.  

• The younger daughter is a . . . (pauses to pray for strength and fortitude) 7^th grade cheerleader.   And she is loving it.   She loves the cutesy cheerleading uniform with the yellow and white polka-dotted “spanx”-and no, that is not porn attire, as I used to think; those are tiny little shorts that go underneath a cheerleader’s skirt bottom to cover up her underwear . . . (and yes, I do think it strange that the clothing designed to cover up the girl’s underwear seems also designed to call attention to that part of the body . . .)   She loves sporting the cheerleading jacket.   She loves the attention she gets.   The status associated with being a cheerleader.   It is taking every ounce of energy I have to support her in this endeavor that feels consummately anti-feminist to me.
• My oldest daughter and I have a running battle about the dresses she chooses to wear.   She has some long legs, that little missy, and she seems to enjoy flaunting them a bit.   It bugs me, I’m not gonna lie.   We recently had a big to-do over what dress she would wear to a school homecoming dance.   Let’s just say we did not see eye to eye.   I saw her preferred dresses as decidedly anti-feminist, meaning . . . revealing, sexy, short, pink, froo-froo, you get the picture.   (But really, what did I think she was going to wear?   A pair of black dress pants, pumps, and, gasp– a button-up shirt?)

In the end, reading How to be a Woman made me re-think what it means to be a feminist.   And it reminded me that even though it may seem like my daughters are a couple of feminist Benedict Arnolds right now, what they are doing is decidedly feminist:   they are charting their own paths.   And I, as their feminist-mother, need to give them to space to do exactly that.

[Whispering: But really, cheerleading?   Are you sure?]