Celebrating The Woman You Are

This past Saturday was National Women's Equality Day. The day that white privileged women got to vote in 1920.

I don't quite feel like celebrating it, with how things are in the current state of this country.


I do, however, want to celebrate being a woman and what that means, but I'm also stuck there.

What does being a woman mean?

Does it mean the ability to give birth?

Does it mean having breasts?

Does it mean having a figure that can stop traffic?

Does it mean wearing panty hose to a wedding?

Does it mean being a fighter, creator, bitch, slut, saint, whore?

Does it mean menstruating once a month and eventually going through menopause?

Does it mean being sexy? Or smart?

Does it mean being able to do it all alone?

Does it mean leaning on a man to help us?

Does it mean being religious or spiritual?

Does it mean being soft, kind, gentle hearted?

Does it mean being modest?

Does it mean being unstoppable, fierce?

Is it wearing a skirt or pants?

Is it being called "girl" or "sister?"

Is it peeing sitting down or standing up?

It is being vulgar, burping, cursing?

Is it walking with someone else at night?

Is it being called "baby" "sugar" "sweetheart" by strangers?

Is it holding our own door?

Does it mean the door is held for us?

Is it enjoying sex?

Is it playing hard to get?

Is it being polite in public?

Is it being the target of unwanted sexual attention by the masses?

Does it mean wanting to have sex with men, women, genderless, queer folk?

Is it being a "she?" or "we" or "them" or "her?"

I'm seeing that what is special about us is what we CHOOSE it to be.

It is all of those things and none of those things.

It is different for each person.


The squirrel outside of my window continues to hang upside down as he stares at me with these sweet beety eyes. I have named him Knuckles and made him a "him," just because I felt like it, but it doesn't reflect anything other than me, who I am, and my odd propensity for falling in love with simple things like squirrels who visit my tree.

I don't think Knuckles cares much about me being clear on his gender or sex or how he acts it out or what makes them different or the same. Knuckles isn't too worried about fitting in or being part of some structural system, so that I know who I'm looking at. No one told him one day: "You are a squirrel. Now act like it." Which is pretty cool. Knuckles gets to do whatever he damn wants to do, and I love that about him.

And for me being a woman is like being Knuckles the Squirrel: enjoying the bliss of being, feeling, eating, seeing, speaking up, loving, for no good reason other than because I am alive and it is my right to be fully alive.

It is living outside of the pressure to have to conform to any societal norm, knowing that I was meant to be fully awake and not a dead fish in the sea of life.

It's just doing my thing and having the right to do it, without apology.

I will celebrate that.


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