What it means to be fabulously woman

Disclaimer: Writing this makes me only mildly aggravated (for those of you who know me, you know that statement is completely sarcastic).

A few nights ago, after a dinner date which comprised of tater-tots and fancy organic Oregon ketchup, my good friend and I headed over to one of our lady friend’s house. There we were, in her dimly-lit sanctuary of feminist novels and a more-than-outrageous cat (whose favorite activity is the attacking of human toes), talking about the ways in which we have been abused by men.

Abuse is a term we use when we are beaten to a pulp, I think, and often times this is a very specific and unruly way to describe abuse as a whole. We determined that abuse was the following:

1. VERBAL ABUSE

Girl 1: “This man looked over at me and assumed I spoke Spanish because he said ‘Hola. Hola.’ I was just reading a novel and sitting on the train. The same day, another man cat-called me over to him, right when he was stepping off the train.”

Let’s look at cat calling.

The act of a man screaming out at me, calling me “mami” and “baby girl” is enough to drive me mad with the burning passion I have for this said man. My favorite instance is when I am walking to class on the street and the rain is pouring and I am mildly late because my bagel took a while to toast–and to be consumed. The man calling out to me has a foul case of bed hair and is either in a group of another four carbon-copied men, or just alone.

It defeats me to know that things could escalate if I did not cross the street to the other side. I am defeated by someone using their words to look like and be a predator. I have to cross the street because I am scared–no, terrified. I cannot and must not walk on the other side of the street, because if I do, will I be raped? Kidnapped? Hit? I wouldn’t know. I have never walked past.

Now, let’s look at racial profiling.

This. Is. Wrong. This is gross, and incorrect, and should not be done. Just because a woman, a man, or any human has a certain pigment of skin or a certain bone structure, or ANYTHING THAT EVEN REMOTELY MAKES THEM “UN-WHITE” is not someone else’s place to judge. Girl 1 experienced both in one day.

1. PHYSICAL ABUSE

Girl 2: “Did you hear about that girl who recently called the police? She had her hips grabbed by some man in front of the gym, at the train stop. That is terrifying!”

This is the kind of action we would never assume is abuse, but it is. Abuse, I believe, is any kind of violence–mental, verbal, subliminal, cyber, etcetera. Not that any abuse is comparable, this one actually terrified me. Imagine waiting for the train, in crisp, frosty air, and having your hips actually GRABBED. What makes it worse is that the train station in front of the school gym is almost always buzzing with people. It is almost always populated with other individuals waiting to get the potentially the same place as others.

Yes, as it was stated, the police later came and arrested the guy who wanted some hip action by literally violating a stranger, but that stranger has to live with that. That human has to go home to themselves, thinking about it over and over again. Highlighting the event in their mind, over and over. That is abuse, isn’t it? Or rather, shouldn’t it be?

1. ROMANTIC ABUSE

• First let me just say that there is nothing romantic about romantic abuse.

Girl 3: “I finally cut ties with the person I was in love with for a little while. He cheated three times, and when I finally did it, he cried and asked for me back. I was appalled, but I was happy about the way I DID NOT give him another chance. I am finally the winner in this situation.”

Let me just begin by saying that I am far too familiar with this instance. Giving someone a chance because you think they will give you the world, even after they seek another type of love in another lover is abuse, in all aspects of the word. Thinking that someone loves another just because they say they do is such bitter abuse, I can hardly wrap my mind around it.

This is toxic and unnatural.

The room went a little quiet after we were all done sharing stories that were difficult to share. But what I found more powerful is the fact that all of us looked at each other with so much bittersweet agreement, it made my heart break and mend simultaneously. We were more powerful together than alone because we all sympathized with each other.

We were bonding over our abuse.

There truly is nothing wrong with abuse bonding, and I am not saying women are perfectly innocent when it comes to this (there is so much abuse that comes from women, too). But it is statistically proven that women are more affected by nonsensical acts like cat-calling and violation and (debatably) romantic turmoil than men. And the act of discussing this opened up so many doors to a new tone of women-bonding than I have ever seen before. We were not talking about how shitty someone’s makeup was, or how someone stole someone’s boyfriend, or how someone slept with more guys than another. We were talking about something we were all bitterly passionate about.

We were ladies in a university setting, calling out for help in a group who would truly understand. There was something so radiant about this group and how we decided to support each other–I went home that night and reminisced on my own experiences of abuse. It suddenly dawned on me that even though there was something beautiful about the way we bonded, but even more prominently, it reminded me that we shouldn’t be bonding about this.

We should not be girl-hating in the first place, and this is a truth that should be universally agreed with, as we are women, and we should be sticking together, and quite frankly, I do not care about this cliche. But further than that, we should be striving to not be abuse-bonding, either, as beautiful as it is.

The truth about abuse bonding is that it is a form of support, but all of me just wishes it was not something that would happen in the first place. Imagine the conversation if no one was abused. Would we speak more of lovely occurrences that made us feel “beautifully woman?”

Are we really at such a shortage of nice and decent humans that we no longer speak of them? Why is it that we are reflecting society’s indecent events so highly and so constantly?

This all leaves me with so many questions, but I try to remind myself and my fellow lady friends that they are all wonderful, and powerful, and queen-like. The truth is that women are beautiful in many aspects–we are delicate, but we are powerful. In short terms, we kick ass (especially in big groups).

More importantly, we are so much more than victims (SURVIVORS) of cat-calling, or gross body violations, or toxic relationships. I wish we would all see this more than we do, but I do not think there is enough exposure in society that would suggest we are more powerful than we think.

Personally, I have looked at myself as a human with power the second I stepped away from toxicity. I do not let a human overstep my boundaries. My face breaks out, and I have prominent hips, and thin hair. I am beautifully woman, and I love everything I that makes me feel this way. There is nothing I dislike more than something or someone that makes me believe otherwise.

My last goal in this post was to leave it with a cliffhanger, but the more I addressed this, the more I want to emphasize the power we all flourish from.

If you are a man, please remind ladies that they are powerful, in ways that are not abusive.

If you are a woman, please remind yourself and your lady friends of your power.

Most importantly, if you are a human, please (please, please, please) do not make anyone feel like less than they are. We all deserve to shine. Please do not forget that.

Between Then and Now

My last post happened at a time of my life that was fragile, to use the least amount of expressive terms. I was battling a case of “where the hell do I want to go in life?” when I looked at myself as either a writer or a respiratory therapist. I didn’t have the slightest clue about self-love, and I thought I loved a boy I was highly mistaken about.

Now, over a year later, I chose the writer’s path, gave up the “love” I thought I felt for a boy so scarred I wouldn’t even know where to begin, and I learned that self-love is the anthem. I packed up “my life” (which is really the life my mother works hard for every day to provide for me), and I moved to Portland, Oregon.

I applied to Portland State University “for fun,” as I often tell people. The application was inexplicably easy, and I thought nothing of it. It was among 12 other schools. I received my acceptance letter via email a day before Christmas Eve. It was, by no means, my first acceptance, but it was the first acceptance I received that made it feel correct.

The months that followed, I lived on Google. I Googled images of the school. I Google-Earth’d my way across campus. I knew where Lincoln Hall was before I even saw Lincoln Hall in front of my very eyes. Something about Portland’s allure drew me in and kept me there. In the current moment, I have been living in Portland for 16 weeks (give or take). My walks to class in the morning are filled with chilled mist, which is a common occurrence here. In the evening, I can smell the frost starting to form in the air–this is no two-cent exaggeration.

Besides learning when to expect rain, Portland has taught me more about myself than I ever could have guessed. When I first moved here, I did not allow myself to be enclosed in a 325 square-foot apartment. I learned where the relics of the city were. I found myself in each of the relics. I was a tough teenager in my previous city. Not in the classic drug-taking, alcohol-drinking, running-away teenager, but I was a tough critic. Las Vegas did not suit any part of what I wanted from my life. This caused an extensive amount of backlash and my desire to stick out like a sore thumb grew more and more prominent.

Kids used to make fun of me for wearing bell bottoms and Birkenstocks; often expressing their concern toward my sexuality (in simple terms, I was often called a lesbian because of my choice of wardrobe. Because lesbians only wear Birks and bell bottoms, right?) I often got dress-coded because of my choice of clothing. I hated the objectification and the ignorance. I read literature that other kids would skip on and just guess about. I had (and still have) this horrible habit of putting my hair up in a bun, because I had this looming suspicion that shampoo is not that great for you. I knew Las Vegas was not the place to be, but I never even dared guess how much Portland would suit me.

The first time I arrived in Portland, I was mesmerized about the prominence of green. I can’t quite compose it. Portland was more of a savior for me. Portland is the ultimate motivation.

Adulthood is not a walk through the looking glass. And moving away from home is not like developing out of a cocoon and forgetting your loved ones far away. Moving away is not necessarily an escape from parents or siblings or family. Moving away is bitter enlightenment.

I had always been independent prior to moving away, but I would have never guesses what it truly is like. I was going from “mom bought groceries” to “$60 dollars and two bags of groceries later…” Growing up is a lot like skinning your knees, letting them heal, and then falling one more time, just to find even more intense skinned knees.

But growing up is like blooming. I spend my Sundays in my quaint apartment having “mental health” and “self-discovery” days which are so necessary for the hectic weeks that follow. I am a typical gal, still, and I still find myself crying at random times for random reasons.

But the only difference now is that I’m crying big-girl tears.

(Never as often)

(I never imagined I’d ever be this happy)