Beyond Feminism, Part I
Let it be known:
I am done with feminism. I’m finished participating in a movement that largely ignores anyone who is not white, middle-class and cissexual. I’m finished participating in a movement in which transgender people have to march at the back of the parade, a movement that places our needs and our lives at the bottom of the list, if it makes it to the list at all. I’m tired of being scorned by lesbian separatists and radical feminists as an impostor, a man, a freak, a living tool of the patriarchy. I’m tired of being told that women’s spaces are not my spaces. I’m tired of being defined as an evil interloper, set on ruining the lives of other women with my male privilege.
I’m tired of being defined by my past, by an accident of birth, by an errant chromosome.
I am more than my abusive childhood. I am more than my biology. I am more than the warped half-human image portrayed by the prejudices of a narrow minded, misanthropic, fucked up set of theories and dogma.
I am a woman. I have as much right to that identity as any other woman on this planet. If you can’t deal with that, I really don’t care.
I will not apologize for who I am or what I am.
Epilogue: I’m adding this epilogue a day later, while feeling a little more grounded and less angry. This post is a snap shot in time. It represents the depths that my feelings toward feminism can sink.
There’s a lot of good in feminism. There’s no denying that. Nevertheless, there are heaps of problems too… enough problems that I no longer care to wear the label of “feminist.” I wish that feminism was as truly inclusive as it purports to be. That doesn’t seem to be the case, and it saddens me.