This is the truth I know: That your definition of me is incomplete, whatever stereotypes I inhabit. I am struggling to reconcile these simultaneous, paradoxical sensations of rage and defeat. I am struggling to reconcile the lesson of my youth—that I could be anything!—with the obvious, systemic, condoned, sanctioned marginalization of my voice. My faith is shaken, and the four walls of my understanding have rotted to the studs. I’m pissed. Not because I’m an angry snowflake, whatever the living fuck that means, you misogynistic bastards who can’t use your words. I’m pissed because nothing less than the value, the core of the essence of truth has been impugned here.
In the parable of the flood, a man dies because, while claiming that God will save him, he turns away multiple attempts at rescue. When he comes to face God, he complains bitterly, why didn’t you save me? God’s response, in effect: why didn’t you let me? Here we have no less than the National Council of Churches denouncing this man as unfit. You have myriad people who know him and have witnessed his behavior saying he is unfit. You have the obvious demonstration of his behavioral flaws, underscoring his lack of fitness. So, it can’t be about the truth, can it? It can be about power. At the very expense of representation.
I am so angry. And I am so sad. This de-evolution of our society, away from the sacred, claiming false idolatry and pride. The hubris on display is sickening. Through millennia, women have been cast aside and called less than, but have persisted in stepping up and carrying the water when needed. We are stronger than you give us credit for. We cry, but it is in mourning for our hopes and expectations that you might do the right thing. We break, but we individually and collectively repair those broken points to be stronger than before. We lift each other up while you work to separate us and cast us against each other. You fight for your power because you know it’s all you have. There is strength in our apparent vulnerability. We are at, perhaps, our most vulnerable. The realization of progress unrealized.
So much that I treasure and value and admire has been dismantled and ridiculed. It’s exhausting, trying to keep up. But we will. I am insulated in my privilege, and know that, absent these lunatics driving us straight into war or economic or environmental collapse, my day-to-day life is somewhat protected. But I resent their dismissal. I resent that my voice feels so small. I can’t fit myself into as small a space as they would prefer. I can’t swallow the hot air they spew and call it oxygen.
I’ll pitch out these words for a few of you to catch, but what difference does it make? I tell myself, because I have to, all the difference. For each of us who refuse to capitulate, who get up and do the thing and live our lives and strain to hold the world to better standards, and who vote no matter how ineffectual it may feel, we are the ones whose voices will ultimately rise to the top. This is what makes women strong. After millennia of societal contempt, we still believe there’s a chance to raise our voices.
caroline ridgway 