Why Be A Woman?
When I first became a woman I was totally confused. I had no female role models that were living their lives, true to themselves. Rather, I was surrounded by women who living a life according to the whims of men, western culture society. All I could see in the teenage magazines and television were fake women with fake bodies and fake personalities crafted perfectly. My budding breasts drew the attention of men young and old, which I was totally creeped out by.
In saying that, back then I thought any attention from men was good, even the creepy stuff. I mean isn’t that what those women in the magazines and on the television are doing? Crafting their lives to fit the mould of the ‘perfect woman’ so that men both young and old, creepy and non-creepy can creep on them? And that is what is supposed to make a young woman feel whole and complete?
The woman of celebrity status is always displayed out in the open where she is visually groped, judged and contorted by society. Women are doomed to inevitably fail whether through death (Marilyn Monroe) or drug overdose (Judy Garland). Perhaps even worse is the fate of ‘hot new thing’ the wearing off her ‘novelty’ and by virtue of time no longer fitting into the role of the virginal maiden.
At school all the ‘cool-girls’ would sit next to the ‘hot’ rugby guys playing games on the school field. Men always just did what they wanted but the ‘cool-girls’ would always be circling, nearby, close to the groups of men and their intoxicating masculinity as though they wanted to get ‘drunk’ off their coolness. Like vultures, like groupies, like followers.
Women were destined never to create their own ‘cool’ instead they were the eternal tag-a-longs. One where masculinity always ruled. Always needy, always wanting, always in search of loving that can only be found inside one’s self but instead is sought for constantly in the arms of the masculine man. The masculine man who ironically, is incapable of truly loving the way in which the feminine so desperately needs until the connection between the disowned, hidden feminine counterpart is dredged up from the depths. The skeleton in the closet that is brought into the light to bring the warmth, compassion and nurturing that the feminine woman so desperately desires in the masculine man of which she lays with.
My first bleed was filled with shame. Shame I was no longer the ‘cute’ ‘little’ girl. Being the polite, cute and sweet girl-child was easy - I knew how to play that part - but now I was venturing into the unexplored realms of womanhood. It was a time to be dreaded and avoided. As my breasts grew bigger and bigger I wore crop tops to strap them down.
My mother and other women, lamented the ‘curse of being a woman.’ They would ask, why do we have to bleed? Why do we have to have children? Why do we have to take on the burdens of our households? Eventually someone would utter “in my next life I will be coming back as a man” the women around nodding in agreement.
I feel compassion for the young woman who felt like this. Bleeding is a wonderful celebration of the gifts of womanhood of the connection with the other side. Femininity is the sacred connection between women and Mother Goddess, Mother Nature and all the other mothers that have ever existed in this universe. A sacred bond built on love, compassion and nurturing. This is something to feel proud of - not hate.