Of women

I was walking to the drugstore at 7 PM that day, the summer sun splashing the sky with vibrant colours of purple, pink, green, blue as it hid behind the faint Sierra Madre mountains, a temporary bid of farewell for the day.

I overheard a girl, who was helping her mother sell chicken innards and pig blood, being asked by her playmates if she was willing to play with them (maybe hide and seek? Maybe tag?).

She hesitated a bit, obviously wanting to be a kid. Later, however, she said no. “Sabi ni nanay, gabi na. Baka ma-rape ako.” “It’s late,” she muttered. “Mother said I might get raped.”

Mothers fearing for their pre-teen daughters getting raped at twilight, what kind of world have we created for the future?

—

A writer friend wrote about #CoverTheAthlete, a piece about how many female athletes are lauded solely for their looks and not for their athletic prowesses.

As though they wake up at 4 am to do sprints and jumps and stretches and lunges just so people can call them pretty, or cute, or hot.

As though they were nothing more than their looks.

And people jeered at my friend. They called her too sensitive, too strict, too this and too that, and too many harsh things, but not – no, never – too nice, because she wouldn’t allow people to objectify the athletes she now calls her friends.

—

My friend came to me and told me she tells her partners she has her period when she’s not in the mood to have sex.

She told me, as she wrung her fingers, averting my gaze, that that’s the only way her ex-boyfriend would stop from nagging her when he’s horny and she’s not.

Her now-boyfriend found this out, and he got red with rage. “I need you,” he said, tenderly holding the fingers she was now clasping together on her lap, “to tell me ‘no’ when you don’t want to.”

And all because her ex-boyfriend couldn’t take no for an answer.

—

My ex-roommate is a volunteer teacher in a far-flung province in the country. She acts (among other things) as counsellor for kids in the school, especially because they have no one they can openly talk to about things that they should have all the freedom in the world to discuss.

When she came over to visit, I asked her if she was training for the 21K race we were participating in in two months.

“No,” she said, almost apologetically. “Recently there have been news of girls getting abducted and raped, and I’m scared.”

This, coming from the bravest soul I know.

—

I have – for as long as I remember – been struggling with my self-esteem. Some days I am okay. No, actually, many days I am okay. Many days I am not so horrified at my face, and many days I look at my reflection and say that I do not look so bad.

The world is harsh, however. The world has ways to tell you you should not be happy with how you look like because you do not fit the world’s standard of beauty, completely forgetting that this world has more than one standard.

And that standard is each person.

And so sometimes I am told I am not pretty enough, or thin enough, or have clear enough skin. On those days I stare at myself in the mirror and pinch myself in places I wish I weren’t so imperfect. I’d pinch my nose (wish you were higher), my mouth (wish you were plumper), my chin (wish you didn’t protrude too much), my chest (wish you were bigger) my tummy (wish you weren’t pudgy) my thighs (wish you weren’t made of thunder) my calves (wish you had more muscle) my toes (wish you weren’t dead) (i wish i wish i wish i wish) until I’ve pinched myself so much in so many places I have forgotten which part of me I liked as it is now.

All because this world has a standard of beauty I can’t live up to.

—

Halfway through International Women’s Month, I am reminded that I still live in a world where inequality reigns supreme.

Women are vilified for covering up the same way they are vilified for showing skin.

Women are underrepresented in many sectors of society, and in places where they are well-represented, they are less compensated then their male counterparts.

Women are told they should be like this and act like so, and are called crazy when they do not fit squarely between the limits people set.

Women are expected to work hard and perpetually look pristine, and when – for one reason or another – they could not look after themselves (hair out of place, mismatched shoes, heaven forbid — a lack of eyeliner), they are immediately looked down on (What kind of self-respecting woman cannot look like a proper one?).

Mothers are scorned at for breastfeeding in public by the same people whose mouths they use to kiss their own moms.

“Girls who read are the best, screw girls who don’t.” “Go girls who skateboard, girls who can’t are useless bimbos.” “I like my girls wearing skirts, ripped jeans are the worst.” Boys forget that their opinions are only valid to themselves, and are neither limits nor reminders for girls. Girls can do both, or do neither — it doesn’t matter much. I didn’t read Camus for you.

Little boys are sneered at and are told they “throw like a girl” when they don’t do well in basketball practice.

Little girls are told to not be such a “little girl” when they cry (as if they can be anything else but).

We are told, “you’re just a girl,” completely forgetting that we are girls, but not just.

We are women, but not just women.

We are strength, and beauty, and passion. We are grace, and intelligence, and pride.

We are stubborn and difficult. But hell, we’re worth it. And we know this because it’s true.

Happy International Women’s Month.