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THIS IS A GAME DESIGNED TO EXPLORE THE MENTAL CONFLICTS OF TRYING TO BE A FEMINIST IN COMMON SECTORS OF EVERY DAY LIFE. THE CONCEPT OF “FEMINIST GUILT” – feeling as if I am dampening the mood, making things not as carefree, always bringing up this topic no one wants to talk about right now – IS SO PRESENT IN OUR DAILY INTERACTIONS.
<img src="https://i.upworthy.com/nugget/57b6130964e4340034000092/attachments/4-fc1a2a5692de936c94066945e995d8a2.gif?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&auto=format&cs=tinysrbg&q=75&colorquant=40" />
TODAY, I JUST WANT PEOPLE TO LIKE ME. TODAY, I DON’T WANT TO BE “CONTRAVERSIAL.” TODAY, I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THESE THINGS THAT PLAUGE US AND SHAPE OUR EXISTENCE AND OUR EXPERIENCES EVERY HOUR OF THE DAY – FOR FEAR I’M BEING ANNOYING. FOR FEAR OF HOW I WILL BE PROCIEVED.
THIS FEAR ITSELF IS THE VERY RESULT OF THE PATRIARCHAL, MISOGENSTIC SOCIAL CONSTRUCTUS THAT I AM TRYING TO COMABT.
AND WE ALL, MEN AND WOMEN AND ANYONE IDENTIFYING INBETWEEN, EXPERIENCE THE NEGATIVE CONSEQUENCES OF THESE PERCEPTIONS.
(I.E. TOXIC MASCULINITY, VICTIM SHAMING, RAPE CULTURE, NOT ACCESSING OR VALUING THE INTELLECTUAL CAPITAL OF HALF OF A POPULATION….)
AND IT SHOULD BE STRESSED THAT THE EXPERIENCES OF PEOPLE OF COLOR AND THE EXPERIENCES LGBTQ PEOPLE ARE SO IMPORTANT AND VALID TO THIS CONVERSATION; I CANNOT SPEAK TO THESE PERSONALLY.
<img src="https://i.upworthy.com/nugget/57b612ec3eeaaa0034000093/attachments/2-d5034acbcc216f2fe123b1967f74a907.gif?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&auto=format&cs=tinysrbg&q=75&colorquant=40" />
SPEAKING OUT IS IMPORTANT, BUT SOMETIMES SILENCE HAS JUST AS MANY CONSEQUENCES.
YOU WIN THIS GAME BY ALLOWING YOURSELF TO PARTICIPATE IN THIS CEBREBRAL BATTLE.
A STORY: [[when your body is a temple]]
A SLAM POETS INSPIRATION: [[when you're just trying to be cool]]
[[Once, when I was 13, my Dad took me to get my nails painted. While at the salon, I convinced him to get a pedicure. No polish – just the glorious part where they scrub all of the dead skin off of your feet and clip your toenails. He had a fantastic time; he even called my mom and loudly announced he was having a spa day. I could see, under the layer of humor, he was blushing.]]
[[As we exited the nail salon, two men who appeared to be in their 20’s coasted through the parking lot. With their windows rolled all the way down and their trunk vibrating from the base of their music, they sneered and whistled at me. One yelled, “Cute little ass, baby!” The other put two fingers in his mouth and hollered. “Mmmmm, gimmie some of that!”]][[I was 13, and it felt as if someone had just turned off the sun. Then, in the same quick motion, slammed their fist into my stomach and all the way to my spine. It was the first time I became aware of the fact that I was no-longer going to be regarded as a child.]]
[[My Dad fell silent, post-pedicure laughter evaporating. He grabbed my arm, and pulled me to the car, seeming to try to shrink me with his stature. The car ride home was static and speed bumps. When we got home, I quickly retreated to my room. A moment later, I heard the door slam. And then the murmurs of furious whispering from my parents.]]
[[Three years later, I found the courage to put on the shorts I had worn that day. They still fit, though they were even smaller than they had been. But it was 103 degrees outside that summer afternoon, and I was full of angst and fearlessness and entirely immune to harassment. And I felt cute as hell. As I snuck from bedroom towards the boundless freedom of the garage door, my keys slipped from my hands, and I was greeted with the glorious and infamous phrase, “Where do you think you’re going dressed like that?”]]
[[I turned to see my mother, legs in a side stance, arms crossed over her chest, accusatory look on her face. My Dad stood behind her. “To the pool?!” I responded, filling each word with as much teen rebellion as I can muster.]][[She replies, saying those shorts are way too short. They give off the wrong impression. I’ll get hollered at in those shorts, I’ll get looks from strange men. “You’ve worn those before, and it was very uncomfortable for your father to deal with! I can’t believe you’d choose to wear them again.”]]
I looked at my father, then back at her. I was embarrassed. I could [[apologize, go change into a pair of capris]] or I could [[defend myself.]]“I’m sorry,” I blushed. “I didn’t think about it.” I turn away from my parents, and I go to change my shorts. I suffer through the heat. I wonder why my body is so offensive.
I guess that the fault really did rest on me those years ago, when I, a 13-year-old child, choose to wear something that revealed my thighs. I battle with this unsettling feeling that the hushed conversation my parents had that day was not about the fact that it was so inappropriate for grown men to holler out of a car window, but rather that I was now this fixture that needed to be concealed and protected.
Meanwhile, my brother slips out the door as I change. He is wearing only swim trunks and flip flops. No even seems to care that it’s after dark.
[[when you're just trying to be cool]]
I tell them that there is nothing wrong with my shorts. I tell them that it is not my responsibility to prevent cat-calling. I tell them that my legs are not offending anyone.
My mother shakes her head. She becomes angry. She says that this is the way things are. She says that it’s not right for me to do that to my dad again. She says it was traumatic for him to hear that.
My body is a temple and should be hidden.
I’m 16 so I dare not ask why anyone would hide a temple. My body feels more like a jail cell. As I grow into a woman, it feels like the walls are closing in.
[[when you're just trying to be cool]][[It is June 2018 and you are at work, doing whatever it is that you do at work. Your co-worker announces that the popular SoundCloud Rapper "xxxtentacian" died while he was on his lunch break.]][[Excitedly, he approaches you and, shuttering because your sullen, stern, focused presence makes him uncomfortable, and asks, "Do you think that if a dude abuses his pregnant girlfriend, and then gets shot later that you should feel bad for him?"]]
[[You're surprised and somewhat startled by the question. Slowly, you compose an answer. "Well..." you begin, but he interrupts you -- "He was only 20! Such a talented artist..." You're no stranger to being interrupted, especially at work.]]
Pink eyeshadow and pigtails don't seem to leave any room for your seniority -- you've worked here for two years. You know everything there is to know.
You're left, again, with an internal battle of paths:
[[say nothing; do your job. that's all that matters.]]
[[ be angry -- respond. tell him not to interrupt you. dig in; what the hell kind of question is that? ]]
[[take the middle road. begin with, "I'm sorry, but..." ]]
but now you remember that slam poem about how [["silence is violence"]] Now he's holding his hands up, backing away, as if you are out to attack him, personally, unprovoked. "Yo, it was just a question, calm down..." Everyone is staring now -- it's uncomfortable and tense and you can feel the men around you are recoiling. There is this discomfort, this guilt; why couldn't you just go along with it? What's with the constant feminist anger? Why are you so obsessed? It's not productive.
It feels like everyone can [[see your bitch face]].
But there is that stupid word again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for existing. I'm [[sorry for occupying space.]] I am sorry for being a girl or a woman. I am sorry for having opinions. I say sorry before I begin any question or have any opinion because I have eternalized this idea that I am not entitled to have either. I am only sorry to myself for having said sorry; I have nothing to be sorry for. I should not have to speak delicately to spare the egos of the people around me.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vT74LH0W8ig
[[when your body is a temple]]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yGzMUzrgzA
[[when your body is a temple]]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQucWXWXp3k
[[when your body is a temple]]