The gender badge vs. the gender vadge

Dear Females,

I apologize for travelling along the third wave feminism road.  It was the road called equality and it seemed to logically follow the road my mother and grandmothers fought for. I apologize for calling it equality and erasing liberation from the nomenclature of feminism.

I apologize for believing that in the 21st century women had a right to choose to sell her body. I apologize for thinking porn helped further sexual liberation. I apologize for thinking pro-choice = reproductive justice.

I apologize for thinking that women and men were wired differently and I somehow won the genetic lottery by earning the right to call myself a mathematician and an engineer despite being born female.

The road to my enlightenment was long and twisted and admittedly, privileged.

My privilege came from a mother determined to not award gender badges to her daughters. A mother who allowed me firetrucks and my sister cowboy regalia. A mother who encouraged a love of learning and a love of math. And a father who 'allowed' this freedom and even (gasp) changed our diapers in the late 1960s. A father who 'allowed' my mother to be the primary wage earner and he even cooked our family meals during the week and took us to lessons and medical appointments. There were no gender badges awarded in my family growing up. And when my sister came out as a lesbian in her early twenties in the early 90s, my parents embraced her despite their catholic upbringing and a church determined to erase her reality.And we did not seek to give her the gender badge of butch dyke or femme lesbian. She simply loved women and we accepted that without needing to label her beyond lesbian.

And now my privilege is being slammed because I also have the audacity of having a gender vadge. I am a female that calls herself a woman and I happen to also have a vagina. The fact that my parents tried so hard to eliminate the gender badge from my life - as did other freethinking parents who saw the harms of boxing in their children into prescriptive gendered roles while children - is now considered irrelevant and even dangerous to third wave feminists. Flaunting the fact that I have a vagina and others born with one need liberation is deemed cissexist. Saying that someone born with a vagina is more likely to be penetrated in a violent act whether for money or torture is called sex-phobic. Telling people that I want access to female only space is pronounced transphobic.

The only thing that seems to be relevant today is what gender badge you feel like you have and the quicker you identify your gender then the quicker your "problem" can be solved if you don't have the right body parts to match. The solution ultimately  involves lots of drugs and genital mutilation surgery. But, if caught early enough, the gender badge will be awarded.

My vagina is not gendered, it is female. My brain is not gendered, it is human. My feminism is not gendered, it is about females. My privilege is not gendered it is about socio-economic class and education and race.

Ultimately I am sorry that it took me so long to wake up to our female born reality and what the true liberation of females entails. The road behind is only a couple of centuries old and I fear the road ahead is much steeper than it was before gender badges and gender vadges become priority #1 in First World Feminism.

The penance for my own third-wave feminism fiasco will be that for the remainder of my life I will cry every time I see another female shame another female for anything.

And I'm crying a lot these days.

Sincerely,

A 46 yo womens liberationist.

Good Grief

Today marked an entirely new variety of grief.

I knew my day was gonna be, um, off, to put it mildly by 7:30 am.  I had been up for 30 minutes, had a good 8 ounces of coffee into me and I had yet to have a clear thought that didn't carry a huge lump in my throat quickly behind it.

So I attempted to busy myself.  You know the theory....idle hands make for the devils workshop.  So I hung the laundry in the near freezing morning.  That task usually chippers me up but today, with my wide open deck gate and back fence gaping at me I was confronted by my loss.  There is no need to ensure that these items are secured any more because we no longer have a dog in this house.  It's been nearly two weeks and today it feels like a raw and unhealing hangnail.

In this state of mind I numbly attacked my linen closet next (idle hands, devils playground).  That effort requires strong will and a sharp mind to make tough decisions regarding the dismantling and reconstruction of the currently near-useless shelves.  One small bag of goodwill items later (and nearly an hour of fussing before that) I gave into my muddled mind and grieving heart.  I made one rule for myself about today...I must make no major decisions and then let the wind of grief blow me wherever she may take me.

I took Daughter to school first (she skipped the morning due to a late night outing with her new boyfriend...it is hard to give out to her with that honours average, three university acceptances and three scholarships she's toting these days...).  We shared a good laugh about my decision not to make any decisions today.

Then, in order to make the grief move faster, I went to the humane society.  Hindsight is making me call it a grief 'enhancer', if you will. I actually had no idea why I went there other than to just feel something maybe.  Luckily I made that rule (no major decisions) for myself before I left the house or else I likely would have taken Maya, the six year old spitz husky mix, home.  I might go back for her tomorrow.  There are no major decisions today.  I went to the cat room at the pound and guiltily scratched a cat while chatting with a volunteer.  I felt guilty because of my own affection starved cat at home.

Since I was already veering towards the east side of the city I thought I'd check out the restaurant where I'd hoped to get a bunch of friends together for a birthday Jiggs dinner.  On my way out to the eastern location I cruised through streets I hadn't been through for awhile.  It wasn't until I hit Coxwell that I realized I could swing by my family's first house in Toronto....very near Coxwell and the Danforth.  My earliest memories are placed here and I tend to revisit the old homestead when I'm in the area.  I think I've written about that before but I'm not gonna try and find it right now.

I expected the floodgate to open when I cruised down the street and spotted the freshly coloured front door.  It was so cheery looking that I didn't even stop.  That wasn't gonna serve my maudlin intentions at all!  As I cruised by the house I made a minor decision...I thought I'd prod the grief a bit by parking directly in front of the house and let my mind free float.  And there was nothing.  Nothing but the wonder I felt at the enormous tree in the front of that house and how much energy that tree contains.  As I grabbed a pic, for posterity (and my parents) I did not really take note of the rays of light in the the shot and how beautifully they peered through the tree.  I felt a bit ripped off that the visit didn't do any purging but I carried on to find the restaurant. I easily found the now closed and rather seedy looking restaurant (unfortunately a bit too similar to some of the places my family has seen during tours around the Rock) and then returned home.  I rode in silence and my mind felt a bit clearer.

I write this now after nourishing my body with leftovers from yet another meal made without my cooking companion.  I ate the meal and peered at the picture (posted).  I often used to call these shots with the rays of light that are placed just so, 'god shots'.  Maybe I might start calling them Shamrock shots since she was a ray of light in my life.  Gosh darn it, the floodgate opened, finally, and yet again.  This grief thing bites.  Large.

First Toronto Hegarty Homestead
Pic taken 2012.  Hegarty Habitat from 1969-1973

Cooking Companion

I've made very few meals since Shamrock died.  Today I forced myself to make a late breakfast.

The rhythms of ones' life can be subtle.  And once disrupted by something like the death of a family pet it is like a microscope gets placed on them and the rhythms start pelting out.

Cooking is something I've found solace in since I was a mere child baking homemade cookies.  Alone.  One of my most memorable gifts was my easy bake oven.  I shunned dolls but loved the miniature oven and once I was old enough to tackle the real stove I delighted in the whole process of cooking - and then eating the fruits of my labour and sharing them.

Daughter has not been taught cooking by myself.  I like to cook alone.  Or so I thought.  But the past few days have found me wailing with grief in my kitchen.  My constant companion is gone.  Every morsel brought out of my fridge was inspected by Shamrock from a respectable but often awkward distance on the floor.  The floor training was gotten to quickly...she was a large dog and had to be taught to give people distance around food. But if you ever fed her from the table she never forget who was slack about this and who was not.  Shamrock had the habit of lying directly in front of the fridge which made it extremely awkward while cooking but she made sure you didn't forget that she was there for any offerings of scraps while preparing a meal.

In her younger days she would prance with delight when a broccoli came out of the fridge.  In the last few months her eyes would perk up from the floor and I would place the stems directly in front of her to save her from having to pull herself up.  I ascribe those broccoli stems and the plentiful raw carrot treats to the great condition her teeth were in after 13 years.  Any opening of the fridge signaled to her that something good might come her way and it was more often than not in the last few years that I'd give her more than the usual offering of meat scraps and raw bones/cartilage on top of the many vegetable and fruit trimmings.

I keep two large glass containers of water in my fridge and a full ice cube tray.  She always preferred ice cold water and each morning I would top it up fresh cold and refill the containers in order to replenish throughout the day.  That was part of her fridge duty as well...eyeballing her water tray as if to remind me not to forget water duty.  I just poured myself a glass of cold water and started wailing.  I don't need 3 Litres of cold water in my fridge for two people.

Raw grief.  I was warned.

Daughter and Shamrock in Newfoundland on the
Skerwink Trail overlooking Trinity, 2008

Shamrock, still smiling after all those years.

Shamrock Hegarty  January 1999 - March 2012
Photo taken March 14, 2012

We met you at the Kitchener pound on St. Patrick's Day 1999.  Took you for a walk.  Or rather, you took us.  That never much changed.   Four year old Daughter begged.  I had been somewhat serious about the pound outing.  You were named before we left the parking lot after making the application to adopt you. That mandatory three day wait to adopt was exciting and terrifying.  I was expanding my circle of dependents, willingly. The small Canadian Hegarty clan of 2 humans (me, Daughter) and one cat (RIP Cadbury) was about to include a canine.

This past St. Patrick's Day, our fourteenth together, I wondered about the upcoming ultimate decision I was facing.  Because you did give us warning dear girl.  I thank-you for that.  We all knew it was getting close. And last week, after you had perked up again - perking up at this stage was measured by your ability to get up and down the steep old staircase in our house - I briefly thought back to the days when you could still hear me speak but you were showing clear signs of slowing down.  The days when I'd say, "It'd be mighty helpful if you just up and died on us one day so that I don't have to face the ultimate decision."

Of course, the ultimate decision is making the appointment.  The one with the needle.  The one with the public portrayal of tears, even if that public is the home visiting veterinarian.

You and I communicated well for 13 years.  I didn't always agree with you, nor you with me.  But I guess you agreed with me on the ultimate decision and conveniently died this weekend on our front porch.  The very same porch we sat on together for many an evening....you racing through your elder years while I meandered into middle age.  

I don't know how I'll cope with losing two dependents in one year...Daughter to University and you to the ultimate dogapalooza in the sky.  But I won't think about that now.  I'll think about your goofy smile, your crooked ears and your never ending supply of adoration for your clan.  And the formidable number of complete strangers that stopped me over the years to tell me how beautiful my dog was.  Perfect, even in death, you were.