What is a woman to do?
How does a society that has always kept me in its fringes, never given equal status and share in privilege, expect me to choose it when given a choice? How do I devote my life, to upholding a systems values, principles and aspirations when it does not even consider me worthy of equality before its laws? Which limits me to roles, stereotypes and defines me solely through my relations to men.
Is it not natural then, for me to sacrifice my life for an alternative which considers me human? To you of-course this option seems to be a clear error, a logical wrong, stupidity to put bluntly. Yes, it sounds naive, to want to lay your life down for unrealised, distant ideals. To subject yourself willingly to the uncertainties and turbulence of life in hope that they will one day be realized. But don’t you see, how it is beneath me to accept the good graces of a system which at best considers me only wife, daughter, sister, object. Always half and incomplete on my own. At best a wife at worst a mistress. A fetish to mirror your own aspirations, to dispell your self-doubt, to quell your guilt, cover up for your own inadequacies. A site to posit yourself against, project on to, so you can have a better sense of who you are.
How can I, if I have a shred of dignity, accept its alms and graces when those very graces are meted out in pity not because they assent to my inherent worth or due share? For you it may be a decision of, a life of ease vs a life of turmoil. For me it is simply a matter of my chosing own humanity. Whether I am to deny it for a level of comfort and lifelong shame, or whether I am to assert it at the risk of discomfort and uncertainty. For me, both options are a sacrifice. Only one is a sacrifice of dignity and respect while the other is the sacrifice of ease which comes at the cost of debasing myself in my own eyes and never being able to look God in the eye saying I lived oh how I lived the life you gave me.
Having had the unfortunate privilege of being born a woman with intellect I can now, neither numb myself to the depravity you subject me to, nor act out your fantasies in a child like manner without becoming crushed with humiliation. The painful unrelenting, self awareness has robbed me of the ability to fool myself.
It is obviously quite possible, that this naivety fades away with youth. But the naivety in question is the over estimation of my ability to withstand life’s harshness having made my decision, not the decision itself which remains at all points true. A system which admits to giving the vast majority a miserable existence and calling it divine will and natural order. Which sustains itself on dehumanising others and fetishising their grief can never be right. It can only serve to be the dirty water with which the rich perform ablutions to absolve themselves of the guilt brought on by such massive injustice. It can only serve to be the rail guard, which they lean on for comfort, in the face of the terrifying alienation they inflict upon themselves.
It is deemed logical to bet on what is possible and practical. Yet what is possible and practical is an injury to my sense of self. I understand there are other humiliations I will have to suffer, life leaves us little luxury to gloat about respect as women. At best as Doris Lessning says we grow up so sheltered we never see beyond the terms of the little fish pond of the upper class. If we are ‘good women’ we console ourselves with what ever little is offered. We limit ourselves, to decorating our houses at great pains, buying the right dinner sets, setting the table expertly and taking great care to ensure the shades of the crutains and carpet are not hostile to each other. We take pride in making the best rice dish or being the best hostess. We choose to play out whatever fantasy our men want. We walk the tight rope of being a sexual seductress and playing the saint mother, an educated drawing room intellectual, smart but in a non threatening way, which some how serves to make our men feel smarter, working some little job, earning just enough money so our husbands can show off about their open-mindedness, bearing children, ruining our bodies, watching our bodies, obsessively tweaking hips, lips, inches on the waist, curating our wardrobes. Resigning ourselves to sucking bourgeoise cock. Indulging in the arts to assuage our guilt, to console ourselves, to be more cultured for the men. Lessning says ‘Art is the mirror of our betrayed ideals’ so we immerse ourselves in that form of bourgeoise art until we fetishise it to the extent it loses all meaning and purpose and becomes another price tag to brag about, another hobby to act as an accessory to our class status. Always some tight rope of mens fantasies, which takes us so far from ourselves, that if we fall we die, if we hold on, we can not breathe.
So what is a woman to do?
