In the fifth grade I began to hear the birds sing and bees buzz as I tentatively stepped onto the Yellow Brick Road leading to womanhood. I am now about halfway to the Emerald City, and I wish the house would have crushed me instead of the witch. I have never been lied to more than when our class was given the “talk”—it is not beautiful, it is not enjoyable, and it sure as hell does not feel natural. And do not even get me started on tampon commercials: I would never under any circumstances wear a white dress while on my period, and I do not think dragging myself through the hallways like a troll brought out in the daytime counts as frolicking through the flowers. I am not a grown woman, but I can tell you that womanhood is one of the largest misconceptions in this world, for fifty percent of the population is clueless. To be a woman is a terribly complex hand to be dealt: it has a few perks, but mostly it is a bloody hell.

To be a woman is to be overly excited about something and not be judged as “gay”. It is to be able to giggle and laugh and love blindly and incessantly. It is to twirl and dance and sing poorly in the car. It is to be emotional and irrational and—do not walk away from me while I am talking to you. Love me but give me space, and I already know how to fix it, I just want you to listen. It is statistically being paid less than a man. It is the assumptions of your physical inferiority: I can pick up a box, I do not need you to do it for me, but thank you so much and a sweet smile because I am not rude, just indignant. I am smarter than you—get off your high horse. It is being labeled a b**** for having the personality of a man. It is complex and frustrating and beautiful and enraging and for some reason I cannot possibly fathom, I love it.


Rest in Perpetual Dissatisfaction

Chivalry is dead—good riddance. I have heard this phrase too many times and never used in the way I wish it was: with a grateful tone. I, for one, am overwhelmingly grateful for the end of that awful plague. Contrary to popular belief, medieval times were not the glory days of the female occupation; in fact it was one of the lowest points. However, most teenage girls cannot see through the façade of lavish dresses and tiaras to fully comprehend what chivalry truly meant and still stands for today. It does not mean you are royalty. It does not mean you are a princess. It means you have given up your right to be an independent person and assert yourself.

In pre-Renaissance times, women were seen as unable to physically take care of themselves, so men had to care for and protect them. Women were not allowed to think independently because they were merely objects to woo. This mindset led to the birth of chivalry, the method of the upper class to care for their women. On the surface it seems so luxurious, but the sonnets and table manners came at a high price: thought and independence. Those unlucky females could not have an opinion that differed from their husbands. They could not have a job, own property, or obtain a divorce. They had absolutely no rights and were the equivalent of property. If you were married and attempted to break those shackles, your husband could punish you, for woman need guidance. If you decided to break those chains early then you could forget about any chances of being married, practically the only way to have had a secure and happy lifestyle. There was no way out.
Fortunately for you feminism began gaining substantial ground in the twentieth century, and now you can do almost anything you wish with little resistance—and you choose to complain when your boyfriend does not pull out your chair. You claim chivalry is dead and call for a new twenty-first century variety. You complain about pornography degrading women into sex objects, but the men of our time have nothing on your knight in shining armor. You want to be taken care of a little bit, but still be able to call yourself an independent woman. You argue it is just the right thing for him to do. According to whom? According to what principles? Yes he should do nice things for you, but you should also do nice things for him, but it should be because you love each other, not out of requirement.

Formal Lord-and-Lady chivalry is dead, but the ideals still linger, and I do not want anything in my life that might possibly symbolize my incapability. I want to be able to vote, buy a house, have a career, go to college, or scream my opinions at the top of a rooftop if I so please. I can open my own damn door.


Stop the Fire by Wetting the Match

There is one question pressing on the forefront of my mind: was it worth it? I pray for understanding and peace as I pack my things and ready my children to go to an unknown place. The only thing I know for sure is that I do not regret the weekly meetings I held to teach the women. I do not regret encouraging them to use their intellect. I do not regret spreading the Lord’s covenant of grace. I do not regret the mindset-altering impact I have had upon the lives of these women. I may be banished from Massachusetts, but the religious leaders cannot undo what has already been said.

My trial was simultaneously the high and low point of my ministry: I was called before the court for heresy, an abominable charge, for every word that had come out of my mouth was the truth. I cannot help their ignorance to these matters, and the threat they felt from a woman; however, I made a stand. They called me before a judge and anticipated that I would crumble under the vicious attacks made by the religious leaders, but I did not, for my work is rooted in scripture, and I am not foolish. They were taken aback by my intellect and were scared—-this woman, this single woman is a threat. Thousands of years of oppression and dedication to superiority will be blown away if we let this one get through. She is dangerous--these high and mighty leaders are so terrified by something they once claimed was intelligently inept, incapable of a true spiritual connection with God, unable to do anything more complex than cross-stitching—so they must know. They must know the truth, and they suppress it. They must prevent the flame from catching on because the women are kindling, and a wildfire will not be stopped. Our entire social framework will crumble, and we will descend into anarchy--we must send her away. Anne must be stopped.

The Red Flag Lost in the Hurricane

Why do women have smaller feet than men? So they can stand closer to the kitchen sink. These jokes do not bother me at all. Pigheaded comments with the sole purpose of soliciting a reaction do not bother me, and if they are witty enough I will laugh. I appreciate wit in all of its forms. What actually bothers me does not bother most: it is the little comment, typically intended to be kind. It is the unconscious remark which spills over lips below a brain that does not think twice. It is the underlying values of our society that we attempt to cover up.

Jokes are loud, and arrogant men want to be seen. There is a mass of people and one sure way to make half of them his friend and make the other half look at him, which is all he really wants—to be seen and heard. He may believe what he chants with a smirk on his face, but most do not really believe that women should not step foot out of the kitchen or should be absolutely subordinate. We have evolved somewhat. Most men just want a reaction, to be noticed by the opposite sex which he sees as so mysterious and beautiful. They just want attention, and that is fine—everyone does.

The thing that causes my head to perk up and my lips to tighten into a hard line is the comment intended for niceties or politeness. It is not the obnoxious joke made for attention; it is the woman standing before a crowd asking for some “big strong men” to volunteer to assist in moving chairs. It is “No you shouldn’t have to pay for dinner”, “Let me help you carry that”, “Girls come help me clean up ”. It is the fact that when I share my aspirations of attending medical school the first reaction of too many people is, “You might marry a doctor!” It is the derogative use of the term “little girl”, one of the biggest insults that can be aimed at a female, for it assumes that solely the fact that you are female is insulting enough. No other adjectives are required besides the emphasis of the extremity of your inferiority because not only are you a girl, you are a child.

This world needs to wake up. Quit targeting the harmless puns made for attention, and go after the comments that reveal the true nature of our society: red flags that trace our history back to times in which I would never want to live. Society pressures us to keep our mouths shut for fear of being perceived as rude, but maybe we should be rude and confront these “polite” remarks. Maybe we should not care what society thinks of us as long as the adjective is not weak.