So Be It: A Feminist by Firelight

So often online, I'm scrolling through discourse after discourse on the debate about feminism and the devaluing of women in our society. It's particularly nasty in two places:

One, the undertone behind the passive-aggressive battle between working mothers and stay-home mothers. Because obviously, all working mothers are power-hungry, egotistical narcissists who hate their children and go to work specifically to avoid raising their babies. And just as obviously, all stay home moms are clearly pathologically lazy, pre-civilized moochers who use their offspring to sap pocket change from the world around them. (Satire: trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice or folly.)

And two, the backbiting from men with no clue what it truly means to be a woman forced to make decisions that feel wrong no matter what she chooses. Men who berate and degrade women on both ends of the spectrum, sometimes at the same time.

I have had both men and women accuse me of being lazy because I was a stay home mom, accuse me of being financially ignorant simply because I don't have a lot of money. That's easy for them to do, I guess, because so many of us have gotten too callused and uncaring to guard our words as carefully as we guard our money and our possessions. But I believe it takes a certain level of financial savvy to be able live a good life, raising a teenager alone on less than $1500 a month. Do we have a crappy car? Small apartment? Limited extracurricular options? Sure, all of the above. But there is joy in every flip of the light switch, every sip of a monthly Starbucks treat, and every room of our home. Because "home" is more than the money we pay to live under a particular roof. "Home" is the person who chooses to make it so.

I have had those same men and women accuse me of being full of myself because I put so much effort into building a platform for my writing...hoping to build a career that will give me financial autonomy. They love that. Spouting spite like full-on geysers, lest any woman should stand up, make an effort, and build something she might call her own. How dare a woman manufacture the boldness of spirit to become a mother and still stay a person? Or worse...what if she chooses not to become a mother at all, and instead decides to live her life for other callings to which she feels more connected? Because after all the possession of her uterus is, in many men's (and women's) eyes, her only purpose for being. And that deep place within her body and spirit, that fertile womb is an explorer's most envied land in which to plant a flag. (Because of course, only men can be explorers, right? Women shall henceforth have no sense of adventure at all!) And yet I have literally had a man sneer at me as he said, "You can't put uterus on your tax forms."

We won't dig into the Mommy issues so clearly apparent in such a man, particularly when he was raised by...you guessed it. A stay home mom.

I was once in a relationship with a man who spoiled me tenderly, and supported me selflessly. I would apologize when I was tired and unlively, feel guilty and ashamed when I was overwhelmed or sad or scared. Or angry. And he would remind me of all that I do in the course of a day for the people who count on me to show up. He was the original writer of all my "ta-da lists." There is such beauty and power and grace in validation. In simply hearing and seeing and acknowledging another person's input, especially when it's different from yours...because in doing this, you see their strengths cover your weaknesses. This in-and-out, give-and-take...it's why puzzle pieces fit together the way they do. One piece doesn't try to be bigger, better, bolder than the others. It simply is, in perfect knowledge (such as a puzzle piece can have) that every piece is necessary in its role.

Later, that same man would often tell me my moods were too much, my needs were too many, my expectations too high. In other words, "Your value doesn't quite reach your asking price." In other words, "No. You're not worth the effort." Once when I was literally so overwhelmed and exhausted I was in tears because life felt particularly crushing and soul-shatteringly lonesome, he said, "I mean, I don't get what your problem is. You're just a mom." Just a mom.

Just the one who knows every doctor (all 10-20 of them, not counting my own). Just the one who keeps every schedule. Just the one who plans, shops for, prepares, and cleans up after every meal. Just the one who washes every ounce of laundry. The one who sweeps up every mess. The one who kisses every booboo and answers every question. The one who will skip sleep, or food, or social interaction, or even basic hygiene...the one who feels erased even as she smiles through tears and holds the eraser herself...because the mom is the one who puts everyone else first. And somehow, there's always someone waiting for resent her for that, too.

I have been accused of being a feminist. And you know what? I am one. And I'm proud of it because let's just make this one thing clear: there is a difference between manipulative Herodias (Matthew 14:8) or nagging Delilah (Judges 16:16) and humble Abigail (1 Samuel 25:14-25) or bold Rahab (Joshua 2:8-13).

I never wanted to be a feminist. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Princess. Even as an older girl, when I wanted to be a lawyer and argue with people and get paid for it, I still wanted to be a Queen who went home to a King every night after court. And now as a woman, I write novels about women who would have been happy to "just" be women...if only they were met with men who saw and appreciated the value of what that means.

Because I've seen men turn submission into oppression. I've seen men turn violent at the drop of a hat or the mere suggestion that for even a second a woman might dare to be HERself, rather than the costume-self a man chooses for her to wear.

And yet...I've seen men complain about their jobs and their lives because they're required to submit at work to incompetent, unappreciative, dismissive, high-handed leadership.

So yeah, I guess I'm a feminist. Because I didn’t grow up trying to rule the world. I just wanted to be a woman. To be seen as worthy of the crown a King should proudly place on the heads of the women around him. A woman willing to kneel when it's holy, rise when it's time, and speak when it matters. I don't think we need louder women or quieter men.

What we need is to remember the puzzle piece, which is only beautiful when every edge is allowed to fit in its place—and appreciated for what it brings to the bigger picture.

I’m not burning bras or bashing men. But I will tend a flame, and happily teach other women to do the same. Perhaps not the raging flame of an inferno, but the kind that refuses to go out just because the room is cold. The kind that builds warmth for others, but only when it's needs for air and fuel are met. The kind that dares to believe a woman’s worth is not up for debate (regardless of who she is or where she came from or what she chooses to do with her life) and never has been.

If that makes me a feminist, so be it. I will light the flame and rise from the ashes and still as always...