In the beginning of the seamster, during the infamous NYU class, Writing the Essay, I was introduced to an excerpt by Roxane Gay. It was from her essay collection, “Bad Feminist.” While I found her words interesting and relatable, I was too busy with school to read the rest of her book.
The night before I left for winter break, I stopped by the Strand bookstore. I wanted to have something to read on my plane ride to Chicago. There, I found Gay’s book once again. As I stayed up that night, partially for last minute packing and partially because I was worried I wouldn’t wake up early enough, I read the book, finishing it even before my plane departed. On the plane, I reread it.
I’m not sure if I understand feminism. There was a time that I denied being called a feminist and also a time I claimed that title. Now, while I don’t reject it, I struggle to completely identify with it. The more I learn about the movement, the less I seem to understand. To be honest, I am confused by the many definitions and the various characteristics of feminism. There were a lot of aspects in Gay’s writing that spoke to me, especially in regards to her confusion, and there were some that I couldn’t relate at all, like her blackness, and her experience with sexual abuse.
However, like Gay, I am full of contradictions.
After reading, I thought about how I had been living. Did I experience discrimination? Abuse? I think what is difficult for a lot of people is that these experiences are never a big moment, rarely a one-time trauma. Instead, they become habit and repetitive, like a lifestyle. Growing up, I was told “because you are a girl” a lot. If I was the person that I am now, I would have gotten angry. But as a child, I didn’t have that much courage so I chose to disregard it. I always thought that if I got hung up on unpleasant words and left them to linger, I would be the only one suffering. Instead, I would turn around and forget. From that, I learned how to hear with one ear and forget with the other.
In that process, I erased a lot from my childhood and still struggle to remember anything before 7th grade. However, that doesn’t mean my current life is unaffected by the past.
On my birthday my male cousin, three years younger, called to wish me a happy day. During the phone call, he mentioned a shared memory that I had forgotten. He was lying on the floor, purposely blocking my way. I found no reason to go around him so, I walked over him. Immediately, my grandma yelled at me angrily. As a child, barely eight or so, I questioned her anger. She said, girls should not walk over boys. By challenging her, another thing I should not have done, I was given no dessert that night. My portion was given to him.
“You always walked around me after that. I stopped blocking you because you never reacted. Do you think that’s why we grew apart?” He asked before hanging up.
I couldn’t answer right away but that question lingered with me. While I can’t remember clearly, there was a time when I stopped playing around in the garden and helped with the kitchen chores. I remember my uncles asking me to get the fruit and the coffee while they sat around watching TV. I saw my aunts standing up first and sitting down last every time we had family gatherings. From getting the groceries to washing the dishes, the work was all done by women.
I moved further from my grandparent’s house halfway through middle school. As a result, I stopped going over there as much. On those rare times, my parents were given a lot of advice. Mostly to have a second child, a son, and that for a girl, they are spending too much money. My dad, the least successful (?) of his four siblings, was sending his daughter to a private school that was pricier than any other Korean school. While it was mostly because my mom was an American citizen and therefore I was too and could attend International school, they were upset that my dad was “wasting” it on a girl.
Just because we are bounded by the title of family, words and actions are thrown around leaving scars and hurt. Why didn’t they know to be more considerate? Why didn’t they know that “sorry” should come before “I love you.” Why was it so easy for them to forget but not so simple for me? I chose to ignore and laugh along with them towards the words at the dinner table, the truth that is said disguised as humor. Because it was easier than to have things taken away from me. But maybe that wasn’t the right way to handle it. The jokes and the comments made, the difference in the treatment toward my cousin and I, they all remained as scars. It’s just that all of that became habit.
I wish that we all, myself included, think about how we affect those around us. Did we do anything to hurt someone else, were we hurt by anyone else? Do we have scars, or do we pretend to not have any? If my grandma thought about that before getting mad at me, if my uncles just looked into the kitchen before their beers, if my parents didn’t laugh it off during dinner, if my cousin stood up for me when I was getting yelled at, I think I would be a person with one more memory and one less scar.
Few days ago I started to pack my bags to return to school. I decided to reread “Bad Feminist,” just for old times (one month ago tbh) sake. While it seemed like a book on feminism in my initial read, I have come to recognize her work as more than just that. Before gender, before equal rights, Gay shares the hurt she has felt and how that makes her who she is. In that honest process, she heals some of the readers’ scars.
