I feel like this is my annual sermon. Maybe I’ll start calling these messages in general sermons. The church of moi.
You know the way certain women dread Christmas because they know they have to do all the work, host all the dopes, lose out on first dibs of all the great Roses? A relative of that emotion infects my blood in the run-up to International Women’s Day. Verbs like ‘aspire’ and ‘inspire’ inflame me like dairy. Nouns such as ‘goals’ and ‘ambition’ kick the funny bone. Hints of concepts like ‘the fucking pay gap’ and ‘abysmal childcare policies’ are to be mildly commended, but God forbid they overload the air in the room with carbon monoxide.
There is a weight on us to be positive, and if we are not positive we are to embody thunder and amplify those doing The Hard Work. We must be a sisterhood. We must be sad that Elizabeth Warren and her to-do lists didn’t get their day in the sun. Retweet the right voices. Make sure to use the word intersectional at some stage. Bemoan and then demand change. Remind people that these struggles and the conversations around them do not end on one day with one panel. Some people are invited to fancy events. Others speak at these fancy events. Newsletters are themed. Sometimes it results in lovely work. (I was slightly involved with this. And enjoyed reading this.)
But if you dare grumble about the day in general, the overarching cloud, you’re being needless. Negative. Recognise your privilege to be dismissive.
I’ve done the International Women’s Day dance a lot. Worked towards the calendar date. Delivered outcomes in relation to its looming presence. Met interesting women. Thoroughly unenjoyed it. One year, I fainted on the Friday of the week. I was exhausted.
Last year, the day coincided with the start of a painful and costly process of which I was an unaware central piece. So forgive me, find mercy in your hearts, for rolling my eyes and watching Douglas Sirk movies instead. I haven’t got the strength or energy. I can’t be perfect, or the perfect kind of imperfect: the self-aware socio-economic factors expert who is friends with all the unproblematic people and reads expensive pertinent hardbacks with the speed of making porridge.
There are two people not in my life anymore but who played grating on/off roles in the past. I can now call them bad language names without the weight of other emotions - shame, disappointment, the magnet to earth feeling of being a victim - attaching to me. The microplastics have been extracted. Now I’m just stating facts. And that’s my recent feminist victory. Moving on, framing the transgressions as historical, acknowledging their backgrounds, still being pissed off about what happened, hoping and working towards better for me. If I’m plotting revenge, it’s better you don’t know.