Feminism and a big, uncomfortable word.
I’ve always identified as a feminist. It sort of fell on me in high school, when I realized that demanding my own course in life (minus husband, minus traditional gender roles, as an independent lady) had a delightful epithet attached to it.
In middle school - when I was a burgeoning teenager and just up to any trouble I could muster as a church devotee - I made my first feminist tracks protesting the Church of Christ’s treatment of women. I wanted to know why we couldn’t be pastors, or lead prayer, or were always required to do all the cooking for every church gathering. The concept that it had anything to do with my gender rather than simply Southern culture really blew my mind. It was a major factor in why I stopped attending services. I couldn’t believe in a God that didn’t believe in me.
And now, luckily, I’ve figured out that generally all the ludicrous bits in Southern Protestantism stem from inherently gendered cultural nonsense, and less from the faith itself. There’s certainly a lot less hostility in my perceptions of religion; I’m comfortable believing that the holy whatever accepts me only as my true self - a liberal, book-loving, bohemian feminist.
Regardless! My identification with feminism was spurred by several factors, largely as a rebellion against my conservative Southern upbringing. This developing sense of self fostered some interesting fashion trends - including ties, men’s clothing (for a precious year of hilarious goth foolishness), and in a final burst of bizarreness, a year in which I dressed solely like a housewife from the 1950’s.
But what does this all have to do with feminism? I personally feel that feminism supports and cherishes the development of girls (and other minorities, transgendered, queer, and racially oppressed folks). My devotion to women’s rights has manifested out of the development of my own self-confidence.
As heavy punctuation mark on my adventure through the feminist spectrum, earlier this week I picked up a book with a provocative - and, dare I say it, playfully antagonizing - title: Cunt, by Inga Muscio.
Talk about a heavy-hitter. This book is a must-read - not just for feminists, or people who consider themselves feminists. It’s radical, and the sort of book that will leave a dent on your brain the size of a crater on the lunar surface.
I personally read the extended version, published in 2002. It’s a wee bit out of date, as Muscio refers continually to the Bush administration, both senior and junior. Being of the 90’s generation, the first president I actually remember in office was good ol’ George W. - so perhaps some of the wit was lost on me. But, in general, this book is wide open for any audience receptive to some serious mind-bending.
Buy it - seriously.
Muscio charges through her topics with all the power and spirit of an activist while simultaneously crafting an argument rife with statistics that prove the inequalities so ever-present in our society. She conquers the uncomfortable nature of the word, its roots, and all the “mystique” surrounding their existence.
Perhaps the most fascinating concept she presents is the fashioning of the preconceived “dirtiness” of the female body. She posits that there is a reason women are uncomfortable or ashamed of their ladybits - and it’s because we’re exposed daily to an industry plugging perfumes, gels and products tagged with keywords like “sanitary” and “hygienic.”
Um, hello? I’m no physician, but I’m pretty sure privvies on either sex are about as reg-u-lar as elbows or eyelids.
See what I mean? And she quotes some terrifying statistics on what women actually are expected to pay for these products - upwards of seven to eight dollars a pack per month equals about a hundred dollars a year. That’s a pretty significant figure, considering men aren’t having to worry about purchasing doilies for their contribution to the anatomical spectrum.
I can’t speak any more highly of Inga’s book. I loved it, and consumed the whole thing in the matter of a night and a pot of coffee. Go find it and read it on the train. Scare some conservatives. Be radically awesome - and in the spirit of author Inga Muscio, cultivate some serious cuntlovin’.
Purchase Cunt: A Declaration of Independence from an Austin local bookseller (BookPeople) here. To check out other books by Seal Press - “books for women, by women” - see this website. Happy advocacy!
