Raising Hell! (...And Dahlias Too)

I have a secret.

What, you ask? Is she addicted to cocaine? Does she lead a double life as a dominatrix? Does she secretly hoard York Peppermint Patties in her bra??

Sadly, no. I hate to disappoint. I’m not that exciting. I barely like blowing my nose, so cocaine is definitely out. I’m not even remotely coordinated enough to be a dominatrix. And in my apartment, my roommate is the hoarder. (Although, to be fair, she keeps her Tootsie Pops on the top shelf of her closet, like any good food hoarder would.)

No, my secret isn't as thrilling as all that, but it’s something I haven’t told anyone except my nearest and dearest. Because even as I think it, I feel like a creep. But here goes: I think I might be a crappy feminist.

OHMYGODNOSHEDIDN’T.

I know. I know. It’s terrible. It’s the worst thing a 21^st century woman could ever, EVER admit out loud. (Unless, of course, you think 50 Shades of Grey is quality literature, in which case you’re in a class all your own). But really, I think I might actually be a terrible feminist.

Not in a disturbingly scary, Anne Coulter kind of way, though. Before you call the National Organization for Women and report me for lady-hating, I should clarify that I’m probably one of the most outspoken and openly indignant women you've met since the limp penis ascot blouse went out of style. I’m little, I’m loud, and I've got Irish fire coursing through my blood. I’m basically a one-woman Rush Limbaugh coronary waiting to happen. I may be a shitty feminist, but I still want women to have the right to vote and leave their houses in pants and read books written with multi-syllabic words. I ain’t into the barefoot and pregnant thing. Unless you decide that’s what you want to do. (And then, by all means, do you boo boo. Do. You.)

Honestly, though, I sincerely and ardently believe women are intelligent and capable and deserve every damn cent of every damn dollar for every damn hour they work. I’m into birth control and sex education and single parents and little girls and boys playing with whatever toys make them shut up for the longest amount of time. I’m conscious of what I wear, and I think about what I say. I am single-handedly keeping The Vagina Monologues running. I’m with women (and men) all the way.

That being said, I think I suck at feminism.

It’s a tricky thing to confess, especially since I have a degree in Gender Studies. You’d think a woman like me would be a Grade A, free range, 97% fat free feminist. But I’m not. I studied gender, and with that came a major emphasis on queer theory. For those outside of the academic circle, gender studies and queer theory aren't quite as LGBT-centric as they sound. (Although I do spend a good deal of my time in the company of those who practice the love that dare not speak its name. And it’s awesome.) Queer theory is, in actuality, mostly concerned with interrupting a culture which naturalizes white, Christian, middle-class, hetero-normative culture at the expense of – well – everyone else. Suffice it to say, queer theory hasn't exactly made it to the streets yet. It’s predominately significant to a small group of scholars who actually like to write twenty page essays and present them at conferences and wear monochromatic pant suits. Like me.

What’s most important about queer theory and gender studies is that a whole generation of twenty-something men and women (and me) grew up post-feminist movement and right dab smack in the middle of a whole new mindset. Not just post-second wave, big glasses-wearing, frizzy-haired, Gloria Steinem feminism. We’re post post second wave feminism. So post that most of us aren't old enough to remember 1992’s “Year of the Woman.” Why? Because we were all more excited that we had learned how to flush on our own. Given our life spans, feminism seems almost – dare I say it? – dated.

Please don’t shoot me.

But think about it. If I’m specializing in issues of gender and sexuality, and even I think feminism is beat, there have got to be a few more people out there who have been feeling this way for a while. Maybe it’s because feminists couldn't foresee a future in which a study of gender might stretch beyond just women’s issues. Maybe they were SO DAMN PISSED for being drugged up and impregnated and shellacked with department store beauty products that they went too far the other direction. Whatever the reason, I've got to say, our second and third wave feminist

friends (an extremely valiant group of women, don’t get me wrong) handed us 21^st century ladies a hard narrative to follow.

Don't misunderstand me. Betty Friedan was on the money when she said, “No woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor.” I don’t. Never have. And unless Swiffer gets really creative in the next few years, I doubt I ever will. But sometimes, I've got to admit, being a Strong Feminist Woman is really damn exhausting. I’m not doubting myself or undermining my own badassery. I am begot from a line of women so strong they make Lou Ferrigno seem like an asthmatic four year old. I come from a woman who moved 14 hours away from home when she was twenty-three for a job in a place she knew jack about. She’s the same woman who subsequently had a breast removed, stared cancer down with a stony eye, and worked out after every round of chemo. This heifer ain’t no joke. This is my blood people. Sia don’t know shit about titanium.

But there’s a flip side to this whole Strong Feminist Woman business. Our fore-mothers gained a tremendous amount of ground in a short span of time, and those women made it possible for me to even study gender in the first place. But, BY GOD, did they leave us twenty-something women (and men) with a lot of damn baggage. We live with an incredible number of social rules regarding what it means to be a strong woman (and possibly even more about what it means to be a man who respects strong women).

So, here’s my quandary: I’m vulnerable, and I’m not sure if that’s okay.

I don’t know if modern women even have a script for how to be strong and vulnerable. The whole notion had a brief shining moment in the late eighties, but somewhere along the way, our mothers were scared off. Maybe Olympia Dukakis was just too damn awesome. And Greek. Whatever the reason, a vulnerable, emotional feminist seems to be a cultural taboo these days. Remember when Hillary Clinton cried on the presidential campaign trail in New Hampshire? She faced considerable backlash (from both sides) who claimed her emotions were calculated or that she was doing female politicians a disservice by pandering to stereotypes about femininity. She was accused of trying to win over voters with a “human touch” – as if, at their cores, strong feminist women are all black box hearts and haphazardly crossed wires.  Clearly, we’re only programmed to show emotion when it’s advantageous – you know, when holding babies or petting kittens or trying to win the Democratic bid for president. Moments like that.

Whatever the reason, the Strong Feminist Woman in her twenties trying to be hip and socially conscious is, under no circumstances, allowed to admit that sometimes, when she’s sure no one will catch her, she reads romance novels for the love story, not just the sex. And she absolutely cannot own to watching Sabrina and sighing a little wistfully because Audrey Hepburn wore the most ridiculously gorgeous clothes ever donned or because Humphrey Bogart was clearly her soul mate (only he died 25+ years before she was born). And she definitely, definitely can’t admit that sometimes men hurt her feelings. Because she’s a feminist, dammit.

Well, fuck all that noise. I have this new theory I've been working on for Strong Feminist Women looking for something perhaps a little more…21^st century.  It goes something like this:

I’m a feminist. I cry. Deal with it. 

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

Single in Public: A War Story

On any given day, I feel as though I’m trudging through a minefield. Metaphorically speaking, of course. There’s no danger of actually blowing myself to bits. I am, however, one of the sundry masses currently living in the middle of a cultural war zone, trying desperately to avoid getting my ass nicked in the crossfire. If you’re single, you know what I mean. And if you’re a single lady, you especially know what I mean. This isn’t a war of guns and cannons and unspeakable horrors. (Well, maybe a few unspeakable horrors here and there.) This isn’t a war of the roses, or a war of the worlds, of even a war between the sexes. No, this is a different kind of war. This is the war between the two-by-twos and the single-filed, the date nighters and the eating alone in my pajamas-ers, the cuddle at home folks and the knocking back mixed drinks at 2 AM crowd. This is a war between the couples and the singles.

Let’s be clear, though. This war wasn't instigated by our happily-in-love brethren. Love is grand, and those in love deserve their happiness (regardless of race, religion, or gender). Most of my dearest friends and both of my siblings are doing the peach-faced lovebird thing. I’m not even one of those people who desperately seeks coupledom 364 days of the year only to suddenly despise the very notion on Valentine’s Day. Mine isn't a diatribe against love or couples at all, actually. They’re just pawns, the poor saps. Nope, this is straight up, low down, so dirty you have to say Hail Mary’s for a month social combat.

What the hell is the point of this monolith, you ask? Allow me: this is about couple culture.

For those of you twenty-somethings who were lucky enough to marry your high school sweethearts and be each other’s firsts and lasts, I envy you. And you know why? Because being Single in Public is absolutely the worst conceivable thing a person in his/her twenties can do – aside from admitting to friends that s/he thinks The Office is overrated. That’s actually sacrilegious, and thus goes against Jesus. The rest of us though, us schlubs who are obligated to drink our way through dating and awkward sex, we’re not so fortunate.

This ain’t a world for singles. That’s right, mass media. I said it. Our cultural set-up favors couples. Think about it. The whole social system is designed around the idea that people will, inevitably, couple up. What’s the narrative we’re all told from birth? Go to school, get an education, get married, have babies. BOOM. We barely even have to think about it. And, really, we go through an enormous amount of effort as a culture to ensure that coupling up seems like the normal path. There’s jewelry for couples, there’s music for couples, there are frames for couples. I mean, when’s the last time you went to Target and saw a cute frame with “Rocking the Single Life” embossed on it? Let me answer that one for you: NEVER. The message here is that it obviously isn’t socially acceptable to hang pictures of yourself pimping your Friday night best and tossing back vodka cranberries. But get married or find a significant other and you can cover your walls top to bottom with Cute Couple Pictures, and Target will be more than happy to offer you an affordably charming decorative frame just for the occasion.

Now, I dare you to walk into your local bistro and have a meal by yourself. The host will, without a doubt, first ask you if you’re meeting someone, but in a way that makes you seem as if you have the bubonic plague. Something like, “Just you tonight?” Yeah, hooker, just me. Sometimes I’m hungry ALL BY MYSELF. Then, when you’re seated at your table for six, looking like the loneliest loser on the planet, the other patrons will begin shooting you that really sympathetic look that says they’re really sorry you got stood up, which is in turn followed by the uncomfortable shifty eyes when you don’t run for the door in tears. Since, clearly, the only reason you’d eat alone is because your date decided you were, in fact, not cool enough to spend an hour with or you’re suffering from early onset dementia. And don’t even entertain the notion of going in if you’re extremely hungry. More than one plate (and/or glass of wine) equals unparalleled social suicide. You might as well cut yourself a mullet and pull out your third grade fanny pack. You’re that guy now.

And I’m not even going to talk about going to the movies alone – particularly if you’re a Disney fan, as is yours truly. I’m surprised I’m not in jail yet.

Let’s face it: we, as a culture, court an underlying suspicion of single people. And, in this the technology age, we go to extraordinary lengths to let everyone – including our best friend’s fifth grade boyfriend who now lives in another state – that we are definitely part of a couple. We live in a fantastic time to be partnered up. Social media practically begs it of you. What in the world is Instagram for if not for sharing all the ridiculously cute pictures of you and your significant other buying organic produce at your local farmer’s market? (Sadly, try as I might, me and Moms just don’t have that same glow in our Cute Couple Pictures.) Facebook, though, is by far the worst of the worst. Yes, as a single person, I do absolutely love finding out that people I’ve known since I was still drooling on myself are now engaged while I sit alone in my apartment and experiment with all of the foods that taste good with Nutella. Thanks for that notification, Zuckerberg. (Ritz crackers are the best, if you’re wondering). And it’s not as if you can really announce with pride that you’re single and pretty cool with it. Who wants to publicize to everyone in their social circle and even some people they've never met before that they are, in fact, just single? Not that we all couldn't tell by your considerable lack of couple pictures or meme shares from your significant other or status tags from your partner about how much they just REALLY LOVE YOU. Of course, thanks to Facebook’s new effort to track our every life event, we can now see that you aren't “In a Relationship” and that you haven’t bought a house on We’re So Happy We Thought We’d Take Pictures of Our Stove Ln. I mean, if I take a picture of my stove and post it on Facebook, I’m high. (But then again, I’m single.) So all us non-coupled folks have to act like we’re all LIVING THE DREAM, BRO when, in reality, we’re just being normal. Solo style.

The point is we’re conditioned from an early age to be extremely anxious if we’re single for too long. A little while? Okay, that’s called healing or sowing your wild oats or finding out who you really are. More than a year? Time to get back out there, partner. You’re fucking things up. At the very least, you need to listen to “Tired of Being Alone” on repeat and wish fervently for someone to accompany you as you shop for chemical-free cucumbers. If not, your relatives start to question your sexuality. Or set you up on blind dates. Or some combination thereof. Either way, you will have to answer for your lifestyle.

What our society fails to realize, though, is that single life has its perks. And since Her Highness Beyoncé threw her two cents in with “Single Ladies,” single life has definitely become a hell of a lot cooler. And maybe no one’s writing movie scripts about those singles among us who are content with our lives, but we’re here, and we’ve figured out that it’s really not that bad. Just think: I have an entire queen-sized mattress to myself. All those blankets? Oh yeah, those are mine. No one gives me judgey face when I eat spaghetti at midnight. (Which, by the way, is when spaghetti tastes the best.) If anyone’s drinking the last beer in the fridge, it’s me. If I decide I want to uproot and spend a year teaching Moroccan children how to weave baskets with their teeth, that’s my prerogative. And sometimes, when I just don’t feel like wearing pants, I let my no-purchase-necessary Victoria’s Secret cheekies see the light of day. There’s nobody to impress except myself. And I’m a really laid back kind of girl.

I may not have a companion, but I’m okay with it. What I’m not okay with is feeling obligated to slut it up and show the world that I am trying, really trying, to couple up. I don’t want to beg for acceptance. Because, as a recently singled friend of mine said to me in her infinite wisdom, “One day our princes will come, but until then, we’ll be fucking fabulous.” Even if that means just hanging out with our respective pets and eating Nutella on Ritz crackers.

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.