Look Inside Of You

Fangirl

Y’know, you really bring out the worst in me.

I like to think I’m a fairly sensible person; sometimes beyond my age, sometimes a little bit below –I admit it-. There’s not much about myself I take pride in, but my mind… my mind has always been one. It’s been the one constant in my life that kept me from absolutely hating myself.

I was the one pushing gender boundaries at that epic, tender, oh so important age of 5, hanging out with the boys because of course they didn’t have cooties, don’t be stupid.

I was the one the teacher chose to help her with the other classmates. Well, with their schoolwork anyway. I wasn’t the best role model otherwise.

I was an honor student, wisdom beyond my years. And if later in life my academic achievements weren’t so great, well of course that was because I was bored of it and couldn’t be bothered to keep it up. I was always smart.

I failed to understand the attraction to the heartthrobs of the day, week, or month. I figured they had enough attention and wouldn’t miss one little old me, and I never viewed myself much a prize anyway. I lived and let live… with just a little bit of pride in the fact that I was above it all.

Then there’s you.

I want to say instead “Then I look at you,” but what you have done to me has evolved into so much more than that. It’s gotten to the point that the mention of your name, a passing glance at a stranger who looks like you, indeed, even just the thought of you, and the dangerous chemicals come into play.

Admiration.

Adoration.

Love.

Jealousy.

Reflection.

All ingredients to my little potion, the one I’ve succumb to. The one I take anytime any medium with you comes to my attention. The most important ingredient, of course, is you.

I adore you.

I admire you.

I probably love you. I’m still young after all.

I definitely get jealous of romantic rivals for you, (luckily there are none at the moment).

I see in myself pieces of you, personality traits. Reflection.

You could argue that maybe I’ve made the other parts up and that you are the sole component of my dangerous vile. The liquid I will drink without fail every time. You are the medium between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

You revert me back into a creature with basic, primal needs. Hunger, thirst, lust. Forever insatiable, until suddenly they’re not.

The problem with you is, I never get to quench these desires. You remain just out of my reach, and at 19, I’m not getting any taller. The logical thing to do would be to just move on and continue with things the way they were before.

Mr. Hyde is not known for his logic.

He’s the id released, doing awful things while Dr. Jekyll could only watch and bemoan his fate, like a faulty autopilot beyond repairs.

And that’s what happens to me with you.

I giggle and smile for no reason.

I sing high praises of you to anyone who will listen. I must; how else will you hear them, tall as the pedestal is that I’ve made for you? (I’m sorry about that; it must be so lonely)

When someone talks about you, directly or indirectly, my shyness must take a back seat and

I have to blab all about you because you are just so amazing.

I write things about you that you will likely never see.

I hurt when people say bad things about you, defend you even.

I do all this without a second thought.

And at every chance given, I’ll do it again.

It’s only later that I think back and deplore what a mess I’ve become. But I never blame you. My shame is mine to bear alone, so I do. And I change it into something else. I guess you’d call it “immodesty”. I myself am not good with names.

I should probably thank you; for giving me another way to connect with people. Another aspect I now understand and sympathize with entirely. Because I like you so damn much, I think I will.

But I do so with half of my heart, because at the end of the day, you’ve made the most frightening, vile, dangerous creature out of an otherwise ordinary female.

You, my good sir, have created a fangirl.

Why Society Still Needs Feminism

Because to men, a key is a device to open something. For women, it’s a weapon we hold between our fingers when we’re walking alone at night.

Because the biggest insult for a guy is to be called a “pussy,” a “little bitch” or a “girl.” From here on out, being called a “pussy” is an effing badge of honor.

Because last month, my politics professor asked the class if women should have equal representation in the Supreme Court, and only three out of 42 people raised their hands.

Because rape jokes are still a thing.

Because despite being equally broke college kids, guys are still expected to pay for dates, drinks and flowers.

Because as a legit student group, Campus Fellowship does not allow women to lead anything involving men. Look, I know Eve was dumb about the whole apple and snake thing, but I think we can agree having a vagina does not directly impact your ability to lead a
college organization.

Because it’s assumed that if you are nice to a girl, she owes you sex — therefore, if she turns you down, she’s a bitch who’s put you in the “friend zone.” Sorry, bro, women are not machines you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.

Because only 29 percent of American women identify as feminist, and in the words of author Caitlin Moran, “What part of ‘liberation for women’ is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? Did all that good shit get on your nerves? Or were you just drunk at the time
of the survey?”

Because when people hear the term feminist, they honestly think of women burning bras. Dude, have you ever bought a bra? No one would burn them because they’re freaking
expensive.

Because Rush Limbaugh.

Because we now have a record number of women in the Senate … which is a measly 20 out of 100. Congrats, USA, we’ve gone up to 78th place for women’s political representation, still below China, Rwanda and Iraq.

Because recently I had a discussion with a couple of well-meaning Drake University guys, and they literally could not fathom how catcalling a woman walking down University Avenue is creepy and sexist.
Could. Not. Fathom.

Because on average, the tenured male professors at Drake make more than the tenured female professors.

Because more people on campus complain about chalked statistics regarding sexual assault than complain about the existence of sexual assault. Priorities? Have them.

Because 138 House Republicans voted against the Violence Against Women Act. All 138 felt it shouldn’t provide support for Native women, LGBT people or immigrant women. I’m kind of confused by this, because I thought LGBT people and women of color were also human beings.
Weird, right?

Because a girl was roofied last semester at a local campus bar, and I heard someone say they think she should have been more careful. Being drugged is her fault, not the fault of the person who put drugs in her drink?

Because Chris Brown beat Rihanna so badly she was hospitalized, yet he still has fans and bestselling songs and a tattoo of an abused woman on his neck.

Because out of 7 billion people on the planet, more than 1 billion women will be raped or beaten in their lifetimes. Women and girls have their clitorises cut out, acid thrown on them and broken bottles shoved up them as an act of war. Every second of every day. Every corner of the Earth.

Because the other day, another friend of mine told me she was raped, and I can no longer count on both my hands the number of friends who have told me they’ve been sexually assaulted. Words can’t express how scared I am that I’m getting used to this.

Because a brief survey of reality will tell you that we do not live in a world that values all people equally and that sucks in real, very scary ways. Because you know we live in a sexist world when an awesome thing with the name “feminism” has a weird connotation. Because if I have kids someday, I want my son to be able to have emotions and play dress up, and I want my daughter to climb trees and care more about what’s in her head than what’s on it. Because I don’t want her to carry keys between her fingers at night to
protect herself.

Because feminism is for everybody, and this is your official invitation.