My "F" Word

I was at a bar a few months ago talking to a guy whom I was not interested in at all- which means we were constantly searching for topics of conversation in anything that presented itself. So when a bachelorette party invaded the bar, we were relieved to have something to stare at and talk about. At one point he asked me what I thought of the bride-to-be being covered with plastic mini-penises.
I started to reply, "well, I'm a feminist, so..."
And he interrupted me, saying, "Ooooo, the F word!"
My face must have registered confusion, because he then said, "Feminist. A Dirrrrty Word." And laughed.
I felt my insides split in two- one half was very deservedly understandably furious and wanted to yell and storm away from the ignorant little fart, and the other half wanted to be desperately charming and flirt away the bad energy so as to not give him another reason to hate feminism and, consequently, women.
I took a deep breath, smiled, and said. "Now there, hold on a second, feminism isn't really a dirty word."
He didn't seem to notice that I took the road less traveled and was trying to be polite. He very rudely said, "Oh shit- you're not gonna lecture me on that crap are you?"
I could have said half a million things at that moment, but I didn't. I walked away and, as I left the bar and walked home, my eyes filled with tears and my chest started to hurt.
I have been thinking about that night a lot, and why there's so much prejudice against the word feminism and feminists. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that the same people who fight racism and homophobia take a step back when it comes to fighting sexism.
I hear people saying feminism is dated, it's no longer relevant. I hear women saying they're not feminists because they don't hate men. I hear all sorts of people say feminism is for ugly fat lesbians who were rejected by society. I hear people say they don't know what feminism really is, let alone what it's for.
I understand the apprehension and the fear, I was not always a fan of the word- or the cause- myself. But as soon as I started educating myself about what feminism really is, I felt so closely connected to it that I suddenly felt extreme pride in calling myself a feminist and embracing feminism as one of my missions in this life. As Gloria Steinem once described it, when we start to read feminist literature and talk to women about women's issues, it's like a thin veil is lifted from our eyes. We start to wonder, Why am I repressing my needs so that my boyfriend doesn't think I'm clingy? Why do I see other women as rivals? Why am I expected to get married and raise kids but not enjoy sex with as many men or people as I wish to? Why didn't my mother have a life other than being a wife and mother? Why do I try to say things that make men think I'm cool with their behavior, even when I'm not? Why am I spending more time trying to be attractive to men than say, learning French, or reading all the books I want to read, or traveling, or doing things for me? etc.
And once that veil is lifted, we can't unknow what we know.
When I did "The Vagina Monologues" in college one of the women in the cast said, "Every woman is feminist, whether she knows it or not," - a phrase I deeply believe in now. I had a dream once about a tree that lived in my heart, and when I analyzed that tree, I found it was a beautiful metaphor for Feminism, capital F. A huge tree, with lots of branches, each one holding a different aspect of Feminism- Wisdom, Strength, Love, Courage, Equality, Sisterhood, Opportunity, Motherhood, Creative Force, Energy, Faith, and Ability to Grow.
I find that a lot of women choose a few to embrace but don't want to acknowledge the whole tree they have within them. But that tree is life, and every branch is a vein in our bodies, giving our heart what it needs to stay strong.
I love my tree, I love my "F" word. It is my stability and my power. I proudly hold it in my heart. I hope you do too.


"And she gathered all before her
And she made for them a sign to see
And lo they saw a vision
From this day forth
Like to like in all things
And then all that divided them merged
And then everywhere was
Eden once again."
-From a banner at The Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art

Real Beauty

I was caught quite off-guard when, a few years ago, a friend told me I had an advantage in life because I was attractive. In fact, I laughed, thinking she was joking. But she wasn't. To this friend of mine, I was beautiful and, as far as she was concerned, I was born that way, and my life was easier because of it. In my mind, however, she was as far from the truth as possible.

As a child I thought beauty was Barbie, which meant I was very, very ugly. No one ever said so- but no one really ever said I was beautiful either. I had big chubby cheeks and I was cute, maybe, but people did not refer to me as a "beautiful child." And cute didn't last very long either, because I grew very tall, and tall children are not considered cute. In the first grade my teacher had us line up according to height once and I was the tallest kid in my class, taller even than the boys, so I knew at that moment that I was never going to be a princess. A devastating fact to learn at the age of 6.

Adolescence was not kind to me either. My hair was suddenly frizzy, I got pimples, and my boobs were huge. In a bra and behind a shirt, my boobs actually worked in my favor, but they were heavy and sagged- meaning I could never wear a shirt without a bra, not even a built-in bra, and going to the beach was a horror show. My nose was too wide for my face, I had to wear braces on my teeth, I had facial hair, and one of my ears stuck out (just one- which is worse than both sticking out).

But all was not lost. I lived in Brazil, after all. There were magazines telling me that Real Beauty was attainable, even for ugly plain girls like me, and there were dermatologists and plastic surgeons at every corner ready to help me get there.

And so it started. From the age of 12-17 I had 72 very painful facials, at 15 I had 3 very painful plastic surgeries, at 16 I underwent 10 very painful (and expensive) laser procedures for hair-removal that felt like I was electrocuting my face, from 14-17 I had my hair straightened twice a week, and for the past 12 years I have spent thousands (perhaps millions) of dollars on face creams, hair creams, and body creams. Oh- let me not forget the three years of physical therapy to fix my posture (which had been ruined by the weight of my breasts and my extremely low self-esteem), and the endless pursuit of thinness that haunts me still.

And so since the age of about 18 I have been able to look in the mirror and see my perfect nose, my well-behaved skin and hair, my straight teeth, my small breasts, etc. and yes, I guess I see something closer to Real Beauty than I'd known before.

Except nothing about it feels real.

At 18, a truly beautiful man, the most beautiful man I've ever been involved with to date, took an interest in me. He thought I was beautiful, and said so, many times. I had dated other boys, but no one as purely good looking as this guy. I didn't believe him, though, and our romance quickly ended as a result. That would not be the first time my insecurities got in the way of my dating life. When I meet a man who thinks I'm beautiful, I cringe. Deep inside, although I rarely reveal this, I am waiting for him to "discover" that I'm not beautiful at all. I know he'll see it- not exactly that I'm not beautiful- because the job was well done, I admit, I can fool anyone now- but that I was not born beautiful, I don't possess Real Beauty, and, above all, I still have an ugly plain girl within.

When that friend saw me as someone who belonged in the category of the few who not only possess, but take for granted, Real Beauty, I was surprised, yes, but I was also scared. Scared of my own facade, of its power and its sudden realness in my life. I explained to my friend what my reality was, and as she listened I saw her thinking of her own history with beauty/ugliness. She was one of those women who considered herself plain and ugly, and she was caught quite off-guard herself when I explained that the real difference between us was that I had the money and the cultural incentive to change what I looked like.

Do I think it's right for a young girl to have gone through everything I went through in order to fit into the mold of conventional beauty? No, I don't. I don't think teenagers should have plastic surgery, I don't think children should be aware of beauty, I don't think women should ever ever think they're fat.

But would I take away the image I see in the mirror now? Would I put back the wide nose, would I go back to the heavy sagging breasts, would I be okay with post-adolescence blemished skin, would I stop dieting? No, I wouldn't. It pains me to say so, but I know it's true. I rather be attractive, cost what it may have cost me (emotionally and financially), even if it never feels real.

I do wonder what my life would be like if I (and the society I was raised in) just accepted me as I was. Not only accepted, but recognized it as beautiful in its own non-conventional way. I have wondered many times; what if magazines were covered with models who had normal bodies, frizzy hair, a pimple or two? What if there was no air-brushing, what if naturally "beautiful" people were not valued more than "normal-looking" people? What would I look like now? How would I feel about myself? How many boyfriends would I have had? How many leading roles would I have been cast in? How many clothes would I have never bought? How many places would I have been ignored in?

Asking all these questions is futile, really, no answer can really be known. I share my story and my thoughts on beauty in hopes that one day, if I ever have a daughter, she will find her beauty without battling her own Self and wounding her soul. In hopes that one day, when someone tells me I'm beautiful, the compliment won't come with the reminder of my enslavement to it, and, more than anything, that I may be able to believe that what that person is seeing is the Real Me.

Nostalgia

A 24-year-old feeling nostalgic is, at best, pretentious. But it can't be helped when one goes back to a childhood place- in my case my mother's hometown, a small town built around a church in the countryside, deep in the state of Sao Paulo, a five hour drive from the city- a place where I spent all my holidays growing up. I just got back from spending five days there and, as expected, memories sat waiting for me to find them at every corner.

The first memory greeted me at the front steps into the house my grandfather lived and died in- the house we now stay in when we go back there.

A delicious memory: I'm ten or eleven years old, sitting on those steps with my little cousin, eating my favorite fruit: a peach, so ripe its juices stream down my arm, its insides matching the sunset that surrounds us. Children don't usually appreciate sunsets- in fact that time of day is associated with the end of fun and the nearing of a dreaded time: bedtime. But on this day I am happy to see the sun go down because it is unusually hot. And as we sit there doing nothing but eating our fruits and waiting for the air to cool down, I say something that I couldn't possibly have understood at the time, I either heard it on television or- and this is my preferred explanation- my older self interfered with my childhood and spoke these wise old words simply because they were absolutely true: "This is the happiest day of my life."

I recall nothing before this moment on that day or after- I don't know what we did earlier or what we ate for dinner- my memory has kept only these few minutes in which I experienced the perfection of life without knowing it.

Re-living this memory now, it is still a mystery to me how I, at such a young age, was able to appreciate the simplicity of a childhood summer in the country, and I still question if I had any idea what I was talking about. But the memory sat there on those steps waiting for me all these years, knowing I would find it when I needed it. And I did need it, I need it always- that child's wisdom and the perfect sweetness of a time that so often feels like a lifetime ago, but is actually always available to me, with its lessons and its truth, whenever I need it.