Feminism Isn’t One-Size-Fits-All

This article was originally published on PolicyMic. You can read it HERE.

Last spring I submitted an entry to Michele Norris’ Race Card Project, a forum for an “honest” conversation about race in just six words. My six words were “White Feminism. I live with contradiction” and underneath my entry, I explained:

“I’m proud to be a feminist, but I’m not proud of the unspoken privilege that comes with being a white feminist. Fighting privilege with privilege? It’s so contradictory, yet I cannot ignore both these parts of my identity. Whiteness consumes me every day, every minute, but because it’s so ingrained in society, I sometimes fail to see it. The never-ending battle … race and gender, gender and race. Inseparable, a complex, complicated narrative …”

It’s the only entry tagged under “feminism” on the Race Card Wall even though the reigning influence of white privilege on mainstream feminism remains at the forefront of the conversation. Historically, this is also true as feminism has been traditionally represented by white middle-class heteronormative cis-bodied women.

From Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s racism-fuelled anger towards black men receiving the vote before white women to Betty Friedan’s homophobic fear of the “lavender menace,” equality feminism as it stands today has been elevated and popularized on the basis of privilege and exclusion.

There is something unsettling about the seemingly illogical notion of fighting one particular privilege — the patriarchy — from society’s privileged positioning of whiteness. And as a straight white woman studying at a prestigious university, I am uncomfortable with the admission that even though I consider myself an intersectional feminist, I am situated within the very systemic and societal oppression that I profess to fight.

So I must ask the question: Why aren’t we talking more about the contradictions and consequent limitations of streamlining white feminism as mainstream feminism? And why is mainstream feminism resisting the urge to progress from a standard one-size-fits-all definition to one that more aptly reflects the age of intersectionality.

It seems as if the founders of the white feminist parody Twitter account @WhiteFeminist are navigating this thorny terrain by interjecting a good dose of sarcastic humor. According toCampus Progress, the Twitter account @WhiteFeminist, was started after “hearing and experiencing the numerous (sometimes) well-intentioned but inadvertently oppressive statements by self-identifying ‘feminists’ and ‘womanists.’”

Although the managers of the Twitter account stated that the tweets were based on real experiences, satire is employed here as a valuable and important measure for sparking conversation on the importance of shaping feminism through an intersectional lens and addressing the privilege embedded in the notion of one standardized definition of feminism. But the thing about satire is — it’s not too funny when it edges too close to the truth; and some of these tweets certainly magnify a slew of semi relatable scenarios with some users replying, “Is this actually a parody?” and the majority (for the most part) sending tweet after tweet of encouragement and praise.

But perhaps in between laughing and cringing, we need to listen to the very real and pressing divides that face modern feminism. And by listen, maybe we need to re-write the current feminist narrative that touts gender equity as the ultimate marker of feminist progress. The white feminist parody Twitter, while entertaining and amusing, successfully hints at something quite profound — it’s a warning of what is at stake by reducing feminism to one voice and oneexperience in order to foster romanticized visions of female solidarity. Instead of striving to universalize and standardize what it means to be a white heteronormative middle class feminist, we need to unpack the ways in which race, gender, class, and sexuality inform the reality of what it means to be a woman.

The narrative of feminism isn’t a neat and tidy bedtime story; it’s nuanced, intricate, and layered, but this distinctive nature within the movement should empower in encouraging productive discourse and disagreement rather than a barrier. Feminism needs to begin with the mission of amplifying any and all women’s voices, because as an ideology feminism is preserved by its potential to be shaped and re-shaped, challenged and reworked.

Maybe then the truth is simply that when we are finally able to accept that we cannot build an empathetic and inclusive feminism on the utopian pillars of sisterhood and solidarity amongst all women, then and only then will we be able to begin distancing ourselves from an alienating feminism and instead move towards an increasingly more progressive and intersectional feminism that doesn’t attempt to separate gender from other factors of race, class, and sexuality.

In the same way that we cannot expect one feminist to speak for all women, there cannot be a uniform feminism that speaks to all women. Feminism is more than striving for equal opportunity — it’s about breaking down the structural barriers that silence the ongoing fight for a comprehensive and diversified variation of feminism.

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I Think That I Think Too Much

This post was published on Thought Catalog! You can read it HERE.

I think that I think too much.

No, I know that I think far too much. Because it’s almost 4am and my heart is pounding and I’m twirling my hair around my finger to ward off the eager nerves and my eyes are swollen and alert and my fingers are flying across brightly lit keys in a rather dark room.

My laptop is propped up on a hardcover Audrey Hepburn coffee-table book to prevent it from overheating, like my mind, like my body when I toss and turn for hours on a humid Southern night all swaddled in sheets and a light airy duvet.

I think that I think too much.

Because my mind is ablaze—the disjointed thoughts, unrealized ideas, fragmented sentences seamlessly disturb the quiet, the peace, and the calm.

It’s the angst of having the beginnings of everything, but no endings in sight; the pathways are obscured and you can barely see more than two feet in front of you. Before long it’s pitch black with only a few stars dotting the night sky. And now even one step forward is all consuming and drenched with fear.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. Chapter 1 should lead to Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 should proceed to Chapter 4… but then the text disappears and in its place there is a quasi-blank piece of paper with the tiny words Part II dangling in the center—forthcoming.

Forthcoming—what a ruse.

It’s all such a performance, a game, an act. There’s no cliffhanger, no “… “ no pause, no break. There’s only a hole—a huge gaping hole.

But I’m not completely lost; I want to write well, speak well, think well. I want to be smart, clever, and articulate. I think I always have.

I romanticize those nights where the books lay half-open with their crinkled spines and scholarly essays are tossed and splattered across the table. It’s too late to be night, yet too early to be tomorrow. Espresso is rushing through my veins and the cursor is blinking at the end of a double-spaced page of neat text as if seemingly amused by my ineptitude and rather faulty writing process. My hair is stringy, a little greasy at the roots, but I’m happy. Or whatever it could possibly mean to find bits and traces of pleasure in the process of crafting together a lyrical composition or a well-articulated argument. I want to write more, read more, produce more… but the world doesn’t seem to take notice. The clock keeps ticking in an orderly fashion, time for this, time for that.

“Danielle, normal people get dressed for the day,” my mother tells me.

There is simply no time to be “out of step” in a world of clock-like precision.

Then she asks me, “Don’t you want to throw on a suit or a nice dress and go off to work every day?”

No, no I don’t.

I don’t know what I want. Maybe to be a professor or a fiction writer or a journalist or a freelancer?

But in all honesty, I think I do; I want to work with a visceral intensity. I want to write deeply, think deeply, so deeply entrenched in my craft that I feel destroyed until the words fill the page.

I want to weave remnants of the past into ephemeral dream-like sequences.

I want to mold the new from the old and warp ugly, sad things into beautiful things.

Those people who think the same, act the same, dress the same, parading the comfort and stability of their sameness; they fascinate me, I tell my mother while clutching a bottle of vivid red polish.

“You just want to write all day… don’t you, Nan?”

Her eyes meet mine as I sit down on the footstool directly across from her. I rest my foot on her knee and she stains my toenails with the scarlet color.

“Are you going to write about me,” she asks me on the second coat.

“Probably.”

I respond with one of those forced half-hearted crooked smiles.

“Oh you will, I know you will. You’ll write about me in your memoir and your novel,” she says.

The certainty in her voice is alarming, almost haunting; it’s insufferable.

I wish everyone would stop encouraging me to want this. How do they know that I truly can? How do they know the well won’t run dry—the creativity halted—the prose stilted only to lack poise and ease.

I haven’t written anything to warrant such smug deliberate intent. I don’t have enough bylines; I haven’t published enough, lived enough, loved enough, cried enough—a writer is fearless and here I am paralyzed with the fear that the one thing I can visualize myself doing is something that will always escape me, teasing me, mocking me.

I’m an outsider with nothing to show for her outsider-ness.

I’m a monologue, an internal rambling array of incoherent thoughts reverberating against the bookends of my typical atypical 20something angst.

Or maybe I’m just a ridiculous cliché—writing when normal people sleep, sipping bougie soy lattes in dimly lit coffee shops, and writing in leather-bound journals with a loopy, cursive hand.

I think that I think too much.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll write a novella.

But now it’s time to sleep.

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Write(h)ers: The Feminist Future is Happening Right Now — Online

This article was originally published on PolicyMic. You can read it HERE This spring, Duke University gave undergraduate feminist writer-activists an introductory course in “#femfuture: Online Revolution” through Write(h)ers, a semester long speaker series featuring feminist women in the fields of journalism, media, and broadcast journalism. Over the spring semester, Jill Filipovic, Irin Carmon, Rebecca Traister, Heather Havrilesky, Maria Ebrahimji, and LC Coleman visited Duke to [...]

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Should Feminism Be Part of a Required College Curriculum?

I wrote this as a final reflection in one of my Women’s Studies classes this semester where we presented a proposal that consisted of potentially adding a new requirement involving the study of race, gender, and sexuality to a pre-existing aspect of Duke’s current curriculum. Here are my thoughts, as usual in the form of [...]

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Excerpt from my Memoir about Sylvia Plath

This is an excerpt from my final writing project for an Autobiographical Fiction course Spring 2013… I turned onto my back and my head hit the hard spine of a book that must have been tossed carelessly in the night. I had stayed up into the early hours of the morning lingering over the inked [...]

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The Proposal… for my thesis

The first step of writing a senior thesis in Women’s Studies? The proposal. — I am interested in exploring the role of language in the identity formation of the feminist woman. I became a feminist through the act of writing about my experiences as a woman on campus and gradually, I began to develop a [...]

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