I come from a family of strong women.
I married one, too.
This isn’t to say that the men in my family are any less fortitudinous. No, exactly the opposite as a matter of fact. But I’m not here to boast on them.
I’m not here to offend, either. So if it’s in your wheelhouse to color your armpit hair or teach your young daughters swear words in the advancement of “women’s rights”, then by all means, go nuts.
I’m here to relate my observances of the women in my life. The ones who I want my unborn daughter(s) to emulate and trust. The ones in which I see not only the best that women have to offer, but the ones that offer the best of humanity.
I suppose my outlook on feminism stems from a college course I once took which sought to explain and give dividends to this movement. At first, I must say I was intrigued. And yet, once fully submerged in the grand entirety of this fascinating movement, I found myself wholly disgusted.
Yes, I’m a man, but not of the Archie Bunker variety (Insert misogynist comment here.)
This hint of nausea came to me after I ingested a bit of Third Wave Feminism. If you’re unaware, as I was, this movement had its beginnings when one woman became fed up with the abuse and mistreatment of women (like many others).
Great.
I was onboard with that.
It wasn’t until I read further that I felt the underlying tones of this movement rise to the surface. It was not a movement bred out of love and betterment. Rather, it was one based on lime lighting and entitlement—a movement advanced with profanity and distrust.
And no, I’m not a woman-hater.
I’m fully for the equal treatment and pay of women around the world. The UN speech Emma Watson gave, brilliant. I love the idea of women leaders and have served under a select number that inspired and pushed me to aim higher and perform better. From none of these women, though, have I felt any hint of resentment or dissuasion for being a woman in a man’s world.
My sister is the mother of two beautiful kids. She cooks, cleans, and drives to baseball practice like a 1950’s housewife. She cares for her husband, and gets her hands dirty tending chickens that lend their eggs to her (and other) kitchen tables. In her “off time”, she fronts her own photography business, while working on her writing. She’s published stories and written books. She drives four-wheelers and I’ve seen her pull her shoulder back into place.
My wife, raised by an old-school generation of grandparents, is an ICU nurse with more certifications under her belt than I can forget to remember. She keeps people alive and comforts those passing into death. She works even when she isn’t working. Not because of my bidding. No friend, quite the contrary. She loves deeply, never quits, and is tougher than me, even after my morning coffee and a Rocky movie marathon. In this house, she’s the brick and mortar; I am the curtains.
Never once have I heard these women say “It isn’t fair.” Never once have I heard them take into account their shorter urethras and curvier dispositions as reasons for their successes or failures. Never once have they grandstanded and flaunted their ovaries as a catalyst to their triumphs.
They simply do what needs to be done, and you had best not stand in their way.
They’ve never needed a slogan, handout, or crutch. They’ve never needed feminism.
Because, frankly, they’re better than that.
. . .
The world owes women (and men) absolutely nothing.
The best women I know don’t care.
They’re too busy excelling.
Writing Intangibles 