(Written Sunday, December 19th, 2010)
I’m writing this after spending an amazing day hanging out with extended family on my grandparent’s farm in the backwoods of eastern Ontario (though it won’t be posted till later because…well…it’s the middle of nowhere and my grandpa only has dial-up). I love my family. I treasure spending time with them more than I could possibly express.
And yet…
Every time that I’ve come here in recent years, I’ve found myself struggling to define myself in the midst of this world. You see, my extended family (and my immediate family to an extent) defines itself and everyone in it by how well each individual fits into their preconceived definitions. Are you married? How many kids do you have? Are you in the ministry? Are you preparing to be a wife and a mother? Are you acting like a young woman?
Women and men are talked about as rigid, immovable categories which define nearly everything that you need to know about a person. From such mundane (though still patently incorrect) things such as “women like mittens” to more frustrating notions like the instruction that my brother must go help my grandpa do chores outside but I, a girl, do not have to.
In this world, I am defined by these stringent categories. In my world, I must admit, I am still defined by categories. I am defined by my GPA. I am defined by my AU honours status. I am defined by my major and my career goals. Except these definitions do not bug me so much. Because I fit; because I’m comfortable. I can answer questions regarding these definitions with ease and without agitation. I never feel the need to suppress my anger or my grief.
It’s a different story in this place though. My family doesn’t seem to understand the thought that these definitions, these categories might not perfectly suite everyone. Yes, they recognize that not every girl gets married (at least not right away). But women still must play different roles than men in nearly every area of life. Your gender is still the most defining characteristic of who you are. It tells you where you can go, what jobs you are and are not expected to do. It tells you when you can speak or how well your speech will be respected. It tells you what you like and do not like, what you are and are not capable of understanding.
My greatest heartache at this moment is that I cannot be myself in this place. There is one definition that I must suppress and it hurts me more than I would like to admit. I cannot be a feminist. I cannot declare my equality with man. I must pretend. Pretend that I’m ok with this constant understanding that women are lesser. That I am lesser. I am defined by what I am, and what I am first and foremost is a woman. So therefore, I am less than. I am not him. I am her. I cannot stand up. I cannot speak out. I must pretend.
This person is not me. This silent person feeling the need to shrink away to my room so that I can find my voice. The only comfort that I can find is in knowing that as soon as I get to the hotel in London, Ontario on December 22nd, I can copy and paste this document into my blog and then hit "publish post". I am clinging to the hope of that button, knowing that nothing can silence this voice in the darkness.
Yet, though I cling to that thought, it is not exactly true. I am choosing not to be a voice in the darkness of this place. Out of fear. Out of intimidation. Out of love. I don’t want to upset anyone. I don’t want to get into a fight or make anyone mad. Honestly, I just want to relax. But I’m finding it to be more difficult than I had anticipated. I’m feeling stressed out and agitated because I have no clue how to interact in this world.
I always know that I’m going to have to hide parts of myself while I’m here. From simple things like my tattoos to bigger things like my feminism, I know far in advance that portions of me must remain hidden while visiting this farm. I always forget how stressful it is though. I never remember the heartache, the headaches, the pain. I forget the need to rush into a private room and express myself through writing. I forget the sarcastic comments which rise like bile in my throat. I forget the clenched teeth and jaw, the furrowed brow, the painful concentration that it takes to simply bite these barbs back.
Don’t get me wrong. As I said at the beginning, I absolutely love my family. I love coming here, and I wouldn’t give up my time here for the world. One of my greatest regrets in life is not being able to get to know my grandparents better. So please don’t take any of this to think that I’m hating my family or not wanting to visit them. It’s just hard. I can’t seem to find a balance. I need to find a way to love my family and respect their opinions, traditions, and beliefs while still maintaining my own convictions and character.
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