I think I stopped associating myself with the word ‘feminist’ when Roxane Gay (yes, I googled because I am terrible with names) and Lena Dunham started being recognized as vagina-loving, man-hating powerhouses. When the pussy movement was out in real force with their pink clothing items, I was huffing and puffing because protests, to me, felt unproductive. Like, all I wanted to do was head out for hot yoga, to sweat out the negativity and be mindful. Instead, I was dodging crowds, having to trudge through unnecessary detours. In search of peace and calmness, I was surrounded by privileged, liberal notions of discontentment and calamity.
It feels liberating to actually write that out. On the other side of the world. Where my interactions are limited to my own(?) people. Perhaps, it is the very notion of being Western educated that grants me the ability to be brash and politically incorrect. Perhaps, it is the very notion of me being the other that makes it okay for me to be indifferent towards the likes of the pussy movement and feminism.
I’m a binge watcher of shows and movies. And I love watching Barry. It’s one of a select few movies that gives me the space to indulge in my chip-on-my-shoulder cultural reflections. What makes Obama compelling to me is his cultural background – how his racial identity and cultural heritage and the places he’s lived collide. What I love is the attempt that goes into the articulation and negotiation of who he is and how he thinks. He encapsulates a version of the other that is accepted and respected. I think that deep down, I am envious. Envious of him negotiating the concept of the other so publicly and so effortlessly.
It’s literally taken me this long to actually have the mental capacity to write and feel. Maybe it’s the constant rain and cool air that remind me that I should never give up my writing chops but I’m itching for academic literature. And go figure, I am a classic case of hypocrisy as I bid you brb while I dive into Trinh T Minh Ha’s Elsewhere, Within Here.