Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of women who have a really hard time. A really hard time - take, for example, Meriam Yehya Ibrahim, sentenced to death for her faith, women who are raped and sexually abused, women who are the victims of domestic violence etc, etc, etc. (And yes, I do feel bad ending that sentence with 'etc's...)
It's also undeniable that we live in a nation which really should know better when it comes to the idea of accepting that women can be really good at stuff and have important things to say - Caroline Criado-Perez and Mary Beard, as the representatives of many, many others, can certainly bear testimony to that.
And I don't doubt for a moment that there are also women who are regularly forced to deal with unwanted and intimidating attention from men.
And let's face it, choosing - as a woman - to be part of an evangelical church tradition can be to invite overt and explicit discrimination. Yes, I've been on the receiving end of the 'I'm afraid I need to limit the scope of your involvement in our church community because of your gender' conversation and it was painful. Really painful.
All of the things I've listed above need to change, and they need courageous women (and men. Lots of men. And women.) to work really hard to bring about that change.
But I just wonder whether there's a sense in which us women need to get a bit of a grip and get on with being...well, women.
I've blogged before about how grateful I am to have grown up surrounded by strong, capable women, some of whom did everyday amazing things with the odds stacked against them. They modelled to me the importance of taking responsibility, they told me I had choices and they created spaces in which I could explore what it means to be a woman.
Although I don't have children of my own, I do have a nephew and two nieces and spending time with them has made me reflect, consciously and subconsciously, of the responsibility I have - along with the pretty incredible collection of other adults in their lives - to model being a woman to them. I'll hold my hands up and admit to being one of 'those' aunties who refuses to buy pink clothes and Disney-related products for my nieces, and I'll indulge in an internal high five when we play catch or stick football stickers in their Rio 2014 album.
I'm also very aware of the role I have to play as a single woman as they find themselves seeped in Disney happy-ever-afters, and I know the conversations, challenging as they are already, will only get more loaded as they get older.
But I also know that by embracing opportunities and dealing with challenges, by being good at the things I'm good at, by speaking out as and when I see or hear things that place limits on who someone can be or become, by understanding, and helping others to understand, that being a woman is great - by just getting on with things - I can do my bit to push back against the cultural, religious, historical, traditional, outdated perspectives and ideas that seek to place limitations on women.
Maya Angelou died this week. I can't claim to be a fan - I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings is sitting, unread, on my bookcase. But I heard her poem Still I Rise on the PM programme on Radio 4 a couple of days ago and I think it sums up my frustrations with what I'm feeling surrounded by - here's a woman facing up to the reality of a tough life and refusing to allow it to bury her...
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
No comments:
Post a Comment