No, this isn’t a satirical take on International Women’s Day, I did actually clean out my man’s “man cave” over the weekend and much to my pleasure.
And while I can imagine this to be every radical feminist’s nightmare and every misogynists “slow clap” moment, it isn’t quite that.
As a feminist and firm believer in equality by law, cleaning out my partner’s space does not by any means negate my beliefs in terms of my status as a human being. And while my taking on the more female oriented tasks and my partner dealing with the more –dare I say- masculine errands that include setting up electricity, water and other “man stuff”, the truth is constant: we are the product of our upbringing and the gender roles that come with that.
But who’s to say that some of those don’t work when both parties make the choice? When both consent to the division of chores equally? Exactly, no one.
To me, cleaning is a therapeutic art-form. I love having the control to throw away what needs to be thrown, making space for freshly picked flower bouquets in place of clutter and the whiff of the sweet aroma that spells a job well done. In contrast, I do not know the first thing about power generators, nor do I wish to. I simply do not have the desire to be in that dark room with all those utterly evil, monstrous appliances that make no sense to me (but kudos to all women who do know their ins and outs). So in all fairness, the chores were divided, each to their own liking and the result was as desired: a clean, power efficient space atop the Lebanese mountains on a beautiful spring day. Everyone wins.
I have been accused a lot of things over a number of years, especially since I am very vocal and passionate about women’s rights among other things. From man hater to misandrist and everything in between, I’ve learned to constantly ignore (read: laugh off) the pointless accusations of the outside world, and instead focus on what’s really important: the power of perseverance.
Adopting or disposing of gender roles in our daily lives is a matter of personal choice. Choosing to be a stay-at-home mom (or dad) for example does not mean a person has betrayed modernism and all that comes with it but instead has made a conscious choice (read: CHOICE) to live that way, the same way I made the choice to dust off the ol’ witches broom both literally (for cleaning purposes) and figuratively (to dust off old misconceptions).
Choice is a keyword in feminist vocabulary. Our fight is one for choice.
The choice to adopt or dispose of gender roles.
The choice to seek limitless education and job opportunities.
The choice to say NO to exploitation and sexual harassment and most importantly the choice to fight back.
Feminism is about standing up for the rights of women and girls the world over. It is not about stripping men of power, or bullying them into submission.
Feminism is about empowering a society, because unless all members of a civilization are treated equally, we will not move forward.
As Sister Joan Chittister says, nothing is going to change in the world until the situation of women changes.
A view shared by South African archbishop and visionary spiritual leader Desmond Tutu who on more than one occasion has called for the empowerment of women.
Later that day and as the rays of sun performed their final curtain call on the season’s remaining snow, our moment of peace, a simple walk in the great outdoors, was interrupted by sheer brutality. A man, totally unannounced appeared out of nowhere, wearing a cowboy hat (yes, you read that right) threatening to shoot our dog for no reason.
To me, this was the embodiment of pure hillbilly demeanor. I had never encountered such provocation for no apparent reason. Both in a state of concern for the well-being of our furry-friend, we complied and left the vicinity of the man’s house; the public road that leads to the (very public) fields.
And as we left I turned to look at the life of the man, who so viciously chose to verbally attack peaceful passersby and their dog, and what I saw says it all.
What appeared to be the man’s wife was outside their isolated home, lifting and moving heavy pieces of furniture –unassisted, as the man towered over her frail frame in supervision, watching, waiting in a commanding manner, the way of a master to his slave.
In that moment, I felt a mixture of sympathy and gratitude. Sympathy for the both of them and gratitude for the likes of us. One word had separated our reality from theirs, and that word was choice. While their reality was dictated by decades of inherited gender roles, ours was not, and that made all the difference in the world.