The Birth of a Feminist

How one sentence forged a phoenix

Before this day, I had always known that something made me different. I couldn’t exactly find the words to express the feelings of self-hatred I was experiencing.

However, I knew that there was something about myself worthy of shame.

I was oblivious to why I relentlessly rejected the colour pink, or why I crinkled my nose at the sight of pregnant women.

It wasn’t until I was forced to witness myself through the eyes of another that I discovered the reason I dismissed women and wanted desperately to associate myself with the perceived qualities of men.

I remember this turning point as vivid as my last nightmare, I suppose it is because this moment was very much reminiscent of a bad dream.

I was fifteen, parading the halls of my school when the bell went off. Lunch was over, and we were set to form our lines and say our prayers before running off to another class.

Like most people from the Caribbean, I spent my entire teenage life at a Catholic school.

It was particularly hot that day and the air stood still, it was quiet and the heat seemed to radiate off of the lush greenery that surrounded our patio.

If you’re wondering if my uniform was designed to harmonize with our climate, it was not.

We called these gatherings that we had twice a day ‘assemblies’. The assembly in the morning included the entire student body but the ones at lunch were separated by grade and they were held at assigned spots throughout the school.

The assemblies at lunch were very private, thus allowing remarks otherwise kept to oneself to be expressed.

‘I don’t understand why the girls are outperforming the boys!’

I looked up, our host had arrived and began his tirade before anyone had noticed he was there.

He continued, carving every word into my back.

‘In my day, boys were at the top of academics, why are you allowing these girls to get ahead of you?’

I felt my eyes burn, they became heavy, they became full. My stomach tied itself into a tight knot and I was resisting the urge to cry.

I wanted so badly to cry.

I remember looking around, seeing all of the smiling, laughing faces.

I was completely alone and I was terrified. I was drowning in a sea of approval.

‘Put them back in their place!’

And just like that, a little girl blossomed.

Yes, blossomed, a word that would have aroused disgust within my former self.

I went home that day, and I cried for hours. All of that time, the world was seeing me through a filter and learning of it hurt me deeply.

I was finally self-aware.

It began to make sense, I despised things associated with women because I subconsciously knew that if something became the interest of a woman it simultaneously became a symbol of weakness.

The world was going to reject me regardless of how much I tried to disassociate myself from other women. I learned that in a rather harsh manner.

They did not differentiate between me and the other girls.

I was one of them.

I scorned many women for following their desires because they wanted traditional lives. I internalized so much of the toxic masculinity around me that I too became a misogynist.

After time, self-reflection and lots of reprogramming I comprehended this reality:

I am brilliant and I am a woman.

Just like all the other girls.

Our womanhood does not prevent us from engaging in intellectual activities, it is society that refuses to reward them as such.

From that day onward, I was liberated through my genuine passions, stereotypically feminine or not. I stopped suffocating myself, I shredded my regulations.

I began to learn that I did not need to be riding a stallion equipped with gold-plated armor to be a force. As a woman, I am glorious and I am vigorous.

I became my own source of validation.

I have the ability to change the world, and in my fluffy pink dress too.