Feminism…activism… plain humanity…and everything in between... and its expression

As a kid, I help (on my mom’s behest) our cleaning lady’s kids with their studies. My mother sighs and notes the daughter is smarter, but our cleaning lady wants to focus mostly on her son’s education. It’s always so, my mother tells me. I decide to focus on the daughter. The boy is not very interested anyhow.

In college, a friend calls me to tell me she is getting married. In ten days. An arranged match, she’s met the guy only a couple of times. She sounds quiet and serious and very grown-up. She is 20. I am 18. I am completely rattled. I picture her being forced into marriage against her wishes. I must do something. I know a women’s activist from the newspaper office where I work. I contact her. But first I must collect facts.

I drag my best friend – I need a partner in crime after all, and we decide to go see our friend and find out what is going on. We circle a part of town we’ve somehow never been in. Dusty streets and unclear directions, notwithstanding, we find her house. She is wearing a sari and a subdued air. Members of her joint family eye us with curiosity. I continue to make up stories in my head.

Until she tells us she’s really really happy. I am not convinced. I look for problems. She tells us she really really likes the guy. Not what I was expecting. But I suppose I am relieved. I have no idea what our plan was had she not been a willing bride. Hmm… never got that far. Happy to say she’s been happily married ever since. 

Some days ago, my daughter and I make signs for the Women’s March. My kid is uncertain and wants more information. She is not thrilled as she is packed tight like a sardine on the Max train.  

She is not thrilled that it is wet and cold, but she doesn’t complain. We wave our signs. She has a lot of questions. About other signs. Signs that talk about body parts and such. “That’s weird. What does that even mean?”

I tell her about objectification of the woman body and how women like to be considered more than just their bodies. I never thought I was a feminist. Simply because I never thought about it. But again, isn’t every woman a feminist? Wouldn’t every woman want to be treated an equal. And really, isn’t that the same for other groups of individuals who are put in a category, any category, and denied rights, simply for belonging to a category.

 

These are all random stories that crop up in my mind for no particular reason. There are others. I notice that I don’t know if my actions/ intentions ever made a difference. Clearly, my friend didn’t need our meddling (and thankfully so).

I suppose it is hard to say if we make a difference. But then, is that reason to stop caring? For wouldn’t that only allow a sense of apathy or helplessness or defeat to set in.

I suppose there are times when even if we don’t know how far the impact of our expression will be, we must. For the sake of participation in democracy, for believing in what we believe in, for faith in what we believe in and what we believe the right thing to be.

Expression may be all we have in certain times. For at the heart of it, we all know right from wrong and good from evil, and we are all born with an inherent sense of what is equal and fair for one, is for the other. The courage to express and hold our own for what we believe in, may matter more in certain times than others.