This week, instead of posting new things I want to stay silent and instead allow other POC voices to come through. This is a particularly moving piece about one woman’s journey with her hair. I loved this post and I hope you do too. 
Let me just say, this is the longest amount of time I have ever spent on a blog post. It is a wide open door into a hidden part of me that I never …
Yesterday was International Women’s Day, and I can’t say I did much.
But I think the point is that women, as a collective, do so much to prove themselves that it’s alright that we take one day out of the year to do nothing. There’s all these seminars about bettering yourself and book talks about how you can be the perfect wife or girlfriend or best friend and there’s not much telling women to just be themselves.
So, today, in honor of International Women’s Day, I want to tell all women, yes all women, whether you identify as a woman, or not, that you are a woman and that’s enough. Strong, brave, clever, passionate. You are all these things because you are a woman. It comes with the territory.
Because that’s how you should define women. Not what’s between their legs. But the strength of what beats in their chest.
So, if that’s you, then celebrate IWD with everything you got. You’re woman. And you should be proud.
I think it’s really easy sometimes to go with the flow. To think everything is going to work out. That if you just pray/wish/want hard enough, then it’ll all be to your satisfaction.
But I’m here to remind you that the Knight didn’t get the princess by wishing she was there. He did something – he climbed the back wall/tower/gate and rescued the princess from the dragon/evil stepmother/her fate.
And I’d also like to point out that sometimes, the princess can save herself. And that’s important to remember too. Because if you don’t see your knight anywhere and he’s not on the horizon, then it’s probably you.
So you want your happily ever after? Get up and save yourself. Or call your knight. Just do something.
I grew up with two fiercely independent, smart, and kind role models: my mother and my sister. And being the youngest, I was obviously impressionable. So I ate up every word of advice on life that my mother and sister could give. And for you tonight, I’ve collected my favorite memories of each of them. To celebrate just two of the women I hold most dear. (I’m laughing even as I write this.)
Sister, Juliet:
Mom, Ellen:
Thanks, mom and Jul, for being who you both are. And allowing me to be who I am. Love you both.
Sincerely,
Bailey
We all know one (or are one).
A b**** – A woman (a word mostly used for women by women) who is loud, obnoxious, arrogant, pushy, and bossy.
But have you ever noticed that women call each other b****** when they simply don’t like what they’re doing? It seems a woman can’t ever stand up for herself, a woman cannot speak her mind, a woman cannot call out the errors of others without looking like a you know what.
Well, you know what? I’m not a Starbucks barista. I’m not here to put whip cream in your latte and a smile on your heart. I don’t have to be nice all the time. I can be respectful while still getting what I want.
I don’t have to be afraid of the b word anymore. Actually, it sort of has a nice ring to it. (Maybe I should change the old blog name to b****dailey).
At the end of the day, don’t be afraid of what people think of you. Because at the end of the day, you don’t have to spend time with anyone but yourself. After all, there’s a little b**** in all of us.
I pass a lot of the homeless on my way to work. And you’d have to have a heart of stone to not at least feel bad, even if you do just walk by them.
But today, one lady was making it really hard to walk by her. She was rattling a can of change and calling out to people on the street, imploring them, “every little bit helps! Every little bit helps!”
And as I walked by she said it again: “every little bit helps! Even just a smile!”
And that stopped me in my tracks. Because I wish I could tell you that I walked back and gave her some change.
I didn’t. I kept walking. But a smile did creep onto my face, one that only I could see, and as is the case with smiles, it did make me honestly feel better. It was so much preferable to the sour expression I was displaying originally.
And like the woman said, even a smile helps. It helps you, and it helps the people around you.
So go ahead and smile. I can guarantee that you have at least one thing to smile about.
In honor of International Women’s Day, I’d like to take a moment and recognize some of the women in (and not in) my life:
To my mother, most obviously, who raised me, who nurtured me, who mothered me and taught me what it was to grow.
To my grandmothers, one delicate and sweet, one tough and powerful, who taught me what it was to be a woman, both feminine and strong.
To my sister, who also nurtured me, but fought for me too, until I could do so for myself.
To every woman English teacher I ever had, who brought me into the fold and let me flourished there, and showed me what I was capable of.
To my female peers and colleagues in all of the college courses I’ve ever taken, who have awed me with their brilliance and cowed me with their determination.
To every woman I have worked under, who has had a seat of power, who showed me that to be successful, people will call you mean names. Still, we will push on.
To my female friends, new and old, who have made a sisterhood for me to return to time and time again.
To every woman who I have only glimpsed walking by but knew that they were smarter, prettier, and more put together than me in that instant, who made me push for more.
To every woman who has gossiped behind my back, who has given me the strength to triumph against pettiness.
To any woman who goes out of her way to make others feel good, despite how she feels about herself.
To any woman who has ever been nice to me in a bathroom on a drunken night out with friends.
To any woman who thought they would never leave a bad situation.
To every woman who has ever fought, battled, won, died from a disease or mental illnesss.
To any woman who thought through their own problem and then applied it to the world.
To every woman who was pronounced barren.
To every woman who has raised a strong daughter.
Thank you. You have shown us all the way.
Did you ever think about the fact that the first thing you do when you are born is cry? And that you cry at all of your most important moments in life? It’s one of those very few, special things that you never stop doing or somehow unlearn. (Yes, that’s right. Crying isn’t just for women and babies.)
And what’s weird is that you never get better at it. It’s not like you get especially adept at wiping tears from your face. It’s not as if it gets any easier to hide your tears once they start.
But whether you’re a baby or not or good at crying or not, we all still cry for the same reason: we need something, and we don’t know how to express that need in words.
I mean, when you’re a kid, your mom or dad or legal guardian would scoop you up and shush you or sing you a lullaby when you cry. And maybe that worked. Or maybe they had to give you a bottle or change your diaper. And maybe that worked, too. And other times, you cried for no reason, and nothing could stop you. And that was frustrating, but your parents knew that you had to do that.
Now, that you’re older, suddenly you find yourself unable to hold back tears, standing in your kitchen alone, eating leftovers and wiping your face with dishtowels because when was the last time you bought napkins? What do you really need now (besides actual tissues)? You can feed yourself and go to the bathroom. Why would you be crying as an adult? You think, I have the ability to communicate my needs, but I can’t seem to at this moment.
And then comes the shame. Shouldn’t we be able to express ourselves in words instead of just crying about things? What an unproductive mode of expression! But laughing doesn’t have a bad reputation. No one has ever called someone “weak” for laughing at something. So, why crying?
As much as I love the written language, I think there are always going to be things that we cannot explain in words. The awesome power of the universe is one thing. Love is another. But the reason that tears are shed may be the most important of all. Because in the end, it is not the act of crying itself that is cathartic. Rather, it is the act of giving ourselves permission to feel. And really, we need that capability from the beginning to the end of our lives.
How did you read the title of this blog post?
Did you read it as “compare-able”? As in, oranges and apples are not “compare-able” because they are obviously two different fruits, you knucklehead?
Or did you read it as “comprable”? As in, these M. Night Shyamalan movies are “comprable” because they both have terribly obvious “twist” endings.
I know, I know. The second pronunciation is correct, but for whatever reason, I say these words in different ways depending on my meaning. To me, “comprable” is something lesser. If something is “comprable,” you are compromising by choosing it. It’s like saying,
“I’ll have both if it makes you happy, but I’d really like the first one.” Whereas “compare-able” means something like, “Those two things are the same, and it doesn’t matter to me which one you pick.”
And quite literally, this is semantics…that I’ve made up in my head. There is some perceived distinction in wordplay within this word for me that isn’t there at all.
And yet, this word has completely ruled my life in an imaginary way. Until today.
Okay, here it is, plain and simple: I am a human, and so I compare myself to other humans. Not in a “why is she so rich and perfect and I’m not,” way. More like, “why am I so awkward, I just said “I’m good” when she didn’t say “how are you?” way. And so, I’m constantly wondering if people find me “compare-able,” as in someone similar to a person they have met before, but generally a dime a dozen, or if I am “comprable,” meaning that they could be hanging out with someone much cooler, but they’ve lost interest in their own life and they might as well compromise their best interests before they come to their senses.
But I realized something today: when you are truly yourself, when you are really who you are inside and out, you can’t be comparable or comparable. Because there is no one that will ever be exactly like you and you’re not compromising anything when you can be yourself.
And suddenly, the pressure was off. I didn’t have to think about being too this or too that. I could just be me, and there were no words to describe me, whether they had multiple pronunciations or not.
Because when you defy the boxes and labels that people try to put you in or on you, some members of the outside world become frightened or confused. But most people? They’re just dazzled that you have the confidence to be yourself. And they haven’t got any notion of what you were once or what you should be. You’re just you. And they’re speechless.
Author’s Note: I’m sorry about the lapse, absence, and neglect that has occurred on this blog. It was truly not my intention. But alas, life happened. I hope that I will greet you with more regularity in the future. I say “hope” because that is all I can offer as of now.
I think us ladies have come a long way from “damsels in distress,” right? I mean, we’ve overcome some serious oppression (which was basically meted out to us by the fashion industry that put us into those uncomfortable petticoats and weird shoes). Now, we can vote, wear pants, and think for ourselves (the horror!). We’ve burned a few bras and generally raised hell in the name of equality.
So, why is there still stuff we (women) “can’t” do? (I use the word “can’t” very liberally, mind you.) I mean it more in the way that why aren’t we taught to do all of the same stuff? Forget breaking glass ceilings, why can’t we rip down the curtain that separates the sexes?
Because whether we like it or not, there are commonly certain tasks that are simply relegated to the male or female sex and so are passed over when one individual is provided with an education, either formal or otherwise.
I’ve become painfully aware of this since moving out with my fiancee. I pride myself as a woman who isn’t afraid to do a job that is generally perceived as “man’s work,” or whatever that means in the 21st century (which is a statement that I know subjects me to the same sexist ideals I’m trying to fight.) But the thing is that I never really learned a lot of those tasks, or was really interested in learning them, for that matter.
I don’t know how to hammer nails, for instance. Not that it’s particularly hard, but for some reason, my father was always in charge of such things. Wiring wires and screwing screws. These were simply things that I had missed, gaps as sure as the holes in the walls that my father used to make. And if I needed to do these tasks, it was easy enough to ask him to help or to do it for me.
But that was then. Now, nothing on this Earth makes me more frustrated–feeling like I can’t do something because some type of biological obstacle is in my way, either real or perceived. (Men are stronger, women are more adept at conversation, blah blah blah). But what’s really bothering me is that I feel ignorant for not trying to learn. For accepting the fact that someone (some man, perhaps, although I’d never voice it that way) would come along and help me do whatever it was that I needed doing. That I can’t even because I had never wanted to.
And maybe that was the right use of wording before…”pride.” Maybe I’m just being prideful by not wanting anyone to help me. But I also think that it’s quieter than that. A small discovery of not my own physical weakness (I can swing an axe if I tried, I think?), but a weakness of the mind, thinking that I didn’t need to try and learn.
Because although I hate being ignorant, I hate being helpless so much more.
And so, it is high time to leave off the stays of oppression of my mind, in which I simply wait to be rescued. It’s time to let down the rope (or my hair, whichever is available) and worry not about ceilings, but climbing down off pedestals to have level ground to stand on.
Bailey Dailey 