I am a feminist. I live to rip holes in the male-woven fabric of society. My soul preaches at the mention of Beyoncé. My skin crawls when I hear words like “slut” and “bossy.”
I get it, ladies. Really: I do.
Over the past few months, I’ve watched two tiny words change the power dynamic between men and women forever. The concept behind those two words is simple: if you’re a woman who’s suffered sexual injustice or abuse at the hands of men, write #MeToo in your social media status. It’s become a revolution—a wave of women proclaiming they’ve been on the receiving end of unwanted sexual advances.
The world is officially woke.
These stories are empowering, raw, and expository, tearing down the patriarchy. Women have had enough.
And it’s about flipping time.
I see my Facebook feed flooded by countless women in my life standing together. Women I’ve respected and known for years are declaring—either through a simple hashtag or a full-on story—that they have been been unjustly exploited by men.
Like I say, part of me is a preaching, proud feminist, and when I see these posts, my heart simultaneously swells and splinters at the strength these women possess for coming forward.
And part of me is incredibly uncomfortable with the #MeToo movement.
I am—selfishly, I’m aware—hurt that they’ve never shared this before in all our sleepovers, coffee dates, dinner parties, 2-am drunken texts, and three-hour phone conversations. Why am I learning about this at same time as their 700 other Facebook friends?
Their declarations aren’t about me; however, they are about all womankind. My hurt feelings are irrelevant and insignificant. Marginalization at its finest.
There is also another part of me longing to throw a hashtag on my wall, to claim those moments I too felt pressured by men. But I haven’t. I’ve remained silent.
I’m scared. I’m unsure. I don’t want to point a finger. Is my experience worthy of #MeToo?
As the conversation grows, I want desperately to participate, to prove that I am “one of the girls.” To own my sexuality and grab my feminism by the balls. To proclaim I’ve been there. “I get it, ladies. Really, I do.”
But I’m not ready for my experience to be defined by a hashtag. Because it can’t be. Like everyone else’s, it’s complex and messy, and while society has decided it’s time to talk about it I’m not sure I’m ready. But, as a feminist, how can I not participate in such an empowering movement?
As women’s stories overtake our social media accounts and newspapers, I wonder if we’re so concerned about being woke that we’ve forgotten why these stories were ever silent to begin with: because women were afraid to vocalize that they were victimized. Because women have been taught, on some level, that—from what we wore to what we said to what we did, or didn’t, do—we could have—or even worse, should have—done something to prevent our stories.
These are the scars and scabs we’re picking at by exposing our truths. For some women, it’s therapeutic, but for others, it’s a trigger. Some aren’t ready, but still they give in to the pressure of the almighty hashtag, because if it didn’t happen on social media, it didn’t happen… right?
With this movement, we’ve opened Pandora’s Box. We’ve had enough. What’s the next step?
Yes, there is power in numbers. Yes, there is power in starting a crusade. But at what cost? The damage caused by these experiences doesn’t disappear simply because a hashtag’s been attached to it.
The reality is that no amount of likes will validate our experiences or soothe the pain they’ve caused.
Congratulations: we’re trending. Now what?