My Journey to Feminism

So let’s talk about the f-word, no not that one but the other f-word: feminism. It comes with many different definitions, perspectives, and agendas. Here is mine. 

Like most births, no one truly remembers that moment of becoming into being but once something is given life it is hard to snuff it out. So is my journey to feminism. 

I would like to say that I was a docile child: always pleasing my parents, doing as I was told, a paragon of Asian filial piety but the reality was I was quite bossy, bullied my younger brother of four years, picked fights with kids at school because I did not know how to express my anger, and had screaming fits directed at my parents about 3-5 times a year. The cornerstone of all of this was “fairness.” It was unfair that I am born female and my brother male so he gets to be coddled while I wasn’t; unfair that I am the eldest and had to break all the rules while my brother had it easy; unfair that other non-Asian kids get allowance for doing nothing at all while I got nothing for doing a gajillion chores at home (this only improved slightly in high school where I got $10 a month in the 1990’s); unfair that we were so poor that McDonald’s was a treat for good report card grades (Thank god for that! My parents never let me develop addiction to fast food); unfair that we don’t get to drink soda (Kudos to frugal Asian parents!) unless it’s the holidays or someone’s birthday celebration; unfair that I wore hand-me-down clothing despite being the eldest kid, unfair that I’m short; unfair that our house had cockroaches and mice that crawl around at night casting shadows via the night light, scaring the crap out of me and turning me into a slight insomniac; unfair that I’m being compared to the genius kids of my parents’  friends who always got great grade and is going to be a doctor. The list can go on and on and on. So one can see that while I was obsessed with the righteous definition of “fair” I was also an angry kid.   

Surprisingly this concept of “unfairness” never prompted me to be a feminist yet because I was a huge nerd, actually enjoyed school quite a bit, and did well enough academically which engage and challenge me at the same time. The closest I ever got to feminist studies was in college while pursuing my biology and East Studies (with a concentration in Japanese) majors that I decided to take a Japanese women writer course that took care of 2 birds with 1 stone: liberal arts and writing requirement. I saw how “unfair” it was within the Tale of Genji, that Japanese noblewomen were treated as sexual playthings to Prince Genji but the “unfairness” never touched me because it was in the past and everything was romanticized in my quaint naïve adolescent mind. 

But oh how I read! Since I learned to read, I devoured books from the library like a starving person at a buffet because it was a way for me to escape from growing up in a poor immigrant family where we had no means to own a book. The library was a magical place that houses an infinite number of friends, possibilities, and adventures that expanded my small world to beyond my imagination. My readings should have tipped my off about my feminist tendencies because while I like fairy tale with beautiful princesses, magic, love, and happy endings, I especially loved stories with strong female characters that save the day because I imagine that one day I too can be the main character and hero.

My journey to feminism didn’t proactively metamorphosized till coming back to the East Coast after a sales rotation in San Francisco. Maybe it was the liberal west coast air or that everything is better out west, or just that I have a lot more free time to peruse the internet in an office job setting, thus I began to read. I’ve always been an avid lover of reading, with my taste shifting from sci-fi fantasy of childhood to actual interest in non-fiction writing. As I kept reading I noticed that the articles I gravitate to are 1- usually about inequality (socio-economic, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, class, gender, etc) and 2- about women. The more I read the more I can’t stop but from 2012 onward there was also a dramatic shift in American culture and politics. Mitt Romney’s “binder full of women” snafu was repeatedly called out/made fun of, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler emerged as the funniest comedians around, America’s love/hate relationship with Hilary Clinton is still very much love/hate, Miss Representation documentary exploring the damaging relationship between women and media, and Sheryl Sandberg stepped out from being a TED talk darling to a Lean In machine. All of this I devoured ferociously. 

At the same time I was also looking at my career, or maybe lack of. Despite being part of a rotation “program” the company was in an industry of mergers and acquisition, downsizing, and lackluster pipeline. I look at senior management and all I see are “pale frail male” aka old white men. I do not see role models for me as a woman or an Asian American. This made me question if I am cut out for slugging it out to climb this corporate ladder (or jungle gym or whatever metaphor people like to use about career management.) It has been shown time and time again that if one does not see someone like them in aspirational roles, the individuals have a hard time aspiring.

At the same time I found a group of college female friends who have been traversing this feminist journey that was similar but separate to mine. One is a PhD candidate for Japanese literature (specifically Chosen literature (written Koreans living in post-World War II Japan)), another taught English abroad for a few years and has joined the corporate world (she is also the one who wordsmithed “pale frail male”), one is a publishing house editor, one is a pharmacist, and one is a lawyer. All of us through different walks of life are suddenly converging organically to want to talk about being a woman, the opportunities and obstacles arising from our gender, and what does it mean to navigate through personal and professional lives. Albeit some of us are much more passionate about the topic, we all were finding a voice that resonated with each other. We would have ginormous email chains that would break Gmail because there would be over 100 emails with 800 word essays about our views on a NY Times or Atlantic article, personal happenings, opinions about Lean In (oh what battles we would have about this!), a Buzzfeed list about women or people in their 20s/30s, or academic analysis of gender inequality. Such an insular sisterhood that was analytical, self-aware, and amazing! 

Bolstering this digital connection was my own real life connection with Asian American women in the city I was living in. I have joined an Asian American professional organization upon moving to my 4^th city and sought involvement with the organization, which didn’t come to fruition till in 2013 when the local chapter decided to launch a women’s group within the Asian American organization. Working with a team of talented, dedicated, and amazing women we worked throughout that summer to officially launch the Asian American women’s program via a panel of Asian American women small business owners and entrepreneurs. Countless hours of coordination, venue planning, logistics, naming the event, and marketing drew a crowd of over 80 women and men. I was so caught up in the event planning that it was so gratifying to learn so much from amazing women who have forged their own path by taking a place at the helm. 

Since then my journey continues and I am learning much about myself, the world, and others. Assuming more leadership in the Asian American women’s program has grown my sense of leadership, made me question is the program mainly to provide a “safe space” for Asian American women (or should the program go beyond to really encourage the dialogue between men and women about gen inequality instead of having one-sided monologues?), made it harder to meet and date a man who can be truly be my life partner, realized my sense of self in different ways, and pushed me in ways I didn’t expect to be pushed. 

I know that “women” and “feminism” is a hot topic right now. It’s amazing how my journey has gotten me here and I am truly grateful that I was not involved in women’s study during college or younger because I would burnt out by now. My sense of “unfairness” would have erupted into anger that is fueled by youth and personal righteousness that would quickly die down due to exhaustion and also personal sense of lack of impact or ability to change the status quo. It’s been amazing to see so many women come to terms on their own in this mass journey to feminism. Yes the whole world is gearing up for election 2016 despite the fact that it is 2 years away, yes it is a media sensationalization at its finest, yes it is trendy to be a feminist (look at Beyonce!) but I hope this is not just a blip in time, that the current dialogue will continue to grow a future where not all men aspire to be CEO’s and not all women want to be housewives. That our potential in life is not inhibited by the gender given to us, or at least the hurdles and barriers will be lowered so that regardless of being female or male we can realize our greatest potential for impact, happiness, and harmony.

The Rewriting of the Nijou’s

Rummaging through nostalgia, this was a short story that I wrote for a Japanese women literature class in college. Truthfully speaking, it was mainly a piece that was trying to mimic Michael Cunningham's The Hours (one of my favorite book and the movie was quite true to its roots!) with a slight flare of my own. Reading it with the distance of time, I am embarrassed at the mimicry but the waves of fond memories follow closely. So here goes.

The Rewriting of the Nijou’s                                                                                        

            There is still paper to buy. Nina blows out a sigh of exasperation but drops a smiling kiss on Georgiana’s sleeping forehead, takes care to close the door quietly, and leaves the tiny apartment complex with a faint click.

            The air feels particularly filtered on this fine spring morning as Nina’s heels click smartly on the cool concrete. Tiny flowers peep out from the dull brown earth, reminding everyone that they are but playing hide-and-seek for the winter. The universe seems to consist of children who smile and the parents who love them; all is in harmony. Yet there is a niggling sense in the back of Nina’s mind, taunting her to go back to bed, lie flat on her stomach, pull the thick down comforter over her shoulders, huddle over The Confessions of Lady Nijou and continue reading. But no. Today is not her day.  Today is their day, Georgiana’s day, and so Nina shall set aside her desires for that moment and go on, for there is paper to buy and things to do.

            The wind chimes on the tiny used bookstore’s door clink faintly as Nina opens the door and walks in, a tiny waif in a gypsy skirt among the dusty books that she has so many times lovingly pored over, debating about whether to purchase or not -- only to slot them back into their original position. There is no room in the apartment and the appearance of the used books would clash with the sleek modern furniture. Mr. Smith, the owner of the store, says hello, pauses a second and offers his cheek for a kiss.

            Nina places her lips against the whiskered, leathery, sagging skin, and for that moment everything is in accord. Surrounded by more than five thousand books that contain five thousand different worlds, each with a happy ending, Nina feels at home.

            “How are you?” Mr. Smith inquires.

            “I’m fine. It’s Georgiana’s and my 5^th anniversary; I want to make it extra special.”

            Mr. Smith’s eyes turn hooded for a second, and then he asks, “Shall it be the regular,  then?”

            “Yes, please, the regular.”

            As Mr. Smith rolls the sheet of fine calligraphy paper made from the hands of authentic Tibetan monks (so they say) with his delicate blue-veined hands and secures it with a single blue rubber band, Nina suddenly wants to know his name. His real name, not just Mr. Smith. How many hours has Nina came into here to look over every volume of twice loved books and seen that gentle old man in the corner? Approval is a funny thing. Nina never thinks she sought it, but on rainy days when there is only Mr. Smith and her in the bookstore, she craves the praise and the love a child would receive from her parents. Granted, they have shared a few ideas but whenever Georgiana is mentioned, Mr. Smith gives a token polite smile, as if he neither understand nor wants to understand; and an unexpected wall is instantaneously erected between them.

            Just as Nina’s curiosity and quiet desperation threatens to gush out, Mr. Smith asks, “Is that all?”

            “Yes, that is all.”

            “Well then, have a good day.”

            “You too,” says Nina and leaves the bookstore as she found it.

“The restless world of the unenlightened men is like a burning house,” Ariake once said.

Lady Nijou wonders if he has attained enlightenment. After Ariake died, Lady Nijou thought a lot about death. If Ariake had worshipped the Buddhas with as much fervor as he worshipped Lady Nijou, then he must have gone straight to nirvana, for who can be as heartless to deny passion as strong as his? Even if he didn’t attain enlightenment, Lady Nijou is sure that he died happy, for finally he is able to do what he derided so much: burn like the commoners do.

Many say it takes more courage to live than to die; well, it takes more courage to burn than to live life slowly, carefully, as if every single step determines your next move, your last move. As if every single decision creates a definite ripple in a tiny pond, until all of the ripples blend into one another so that you don’t know what you did, what you didn’t do, and how it all began.

 To throw away the promises of salvation in one fell swoop. Now that takes courage.

            By the time Nina passes the myriad of punks with technicolored hair smoking weed in the lobby and reaches the fourth floor of the ritzy artist-filled apartment complex, she realizes that she has forgotten her keys. After a few minutes of debate, Nina knocks quietly on the smooth splinterless oak door. The door swings lazily on the hinge and Nina’s eyes look up to meet the even lazier, exotic, half tilted, single lidded moon-eyes of Georgiana.

            “Okaeri nasai, Nijou-Sama,” greets Georgiana in a husky, just woken up voice, with a perfect pitchless Japanese accent. Nina is annoyed and briefly wonders when Georgiana will stop with this silly nickname. When they first met, Georgiana declared that Nina was too plain a name for her and insisted on giving her the name of an immortal heroine. Nina had suggested Athena or Minerva, her favorites of all the goddesses of mythology, but Georgiana insisted on dubbing her Nijou-Sama, the tragic Heian woman writer whose literature still persists after more than a thousand years. So Lady Nijou has the last laugh.

There once was a time that Nina was so afraid of becoming like her namesake that she kept on chanting, “No, I am not promiscuous. Will not become a nun” until it became a mantra in its own right.

“Tadaima,” replies Nina. It seems like yesterday that she met Georgiana in her Japanese calligraphy class. Nina doesn’t know what compelled an English major at Berkley College to take a course as eclectic as Japanese Calligraphy. In the 1700s Georgiana would have been persecuted as a deviant, an abnormal, the devil herself, but in the 1980s Georgiana just took her gorgeous mixed body (half Japanese, half Norwegian), sauntered over to Nina, and asked her for a date. Day by day, date by date, Georgiana claimed parts of Nina, her thoughts, her dreams, her hopes, her fears, her joys till nothing was left but bare bones and a kiss.

Then Georgiana kissed her.

Nina wonders about what if’s all the time. What if she had slanted her head away at the last minute in the little rusted park bench beside the ancient maple tree? What if she turned away and feigned disgust?  What if she had refused to accept the bestowment of Georgiana’s kiss, all that happiness it promised and all the sadness that followed? Surely if all the what if’s had coalesced together in an alternate universe, bifurcation after trifurcation after multi-furcation, they would have been so powerful that they would have taken their toll and punctured the balloon of reality of ‘had been’s’ and ‘had done’s.’ Yet Nina had tilted her head ever so slightly, met the cool lips.

“Happy 5^th year anniversary,” says Nina.

“Has it been that long already? Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

“Yes, it has. Come back early tonight. There’ll be a surprise.”

“I’ll try. I’m leaving for work now,” Georgiana proclaims with the confidence of an artist who does not dance to anyone’s tune but her own. Her crisp, blue-collared shirt ironed the day before by Nina is slightly unbuttoned, revealing the single silver cross that Nina gave to her on their first month anniversary. Georgiana had laughed in her low breathy laugh and graciously accepted it. But Nina felt mocked, for she later discovered that Georgiana is an atheist, reined by no god, be it be a man or a woman.

They go through the ritual they have gone through for the past five years. The flurries of kisses, the handing over of coat, briefcase, and shoes continued as a practiced dance, faultless since the movements have been traced over so many times. Nina wonders what will happen if she “accidentally” dropped the coat, but she never does.

What is Lady Nijou doing in the book right now? Will she still be there as I left her on page eighty-one? Will Lady Nijou finally accept the devoted Ariake or turn him away?

When Nina was a child, she never wanted to leave a book alone till it was done. She was afraid that the characters would magically pick themselves up from where Nina left them and proceed along the story without her, she was like a child missing a parade -- the parade of life. Nina would stay up all night long till her tired bloodshot eyes forced her to go to sleep. She didn’t want to miss a single minute.

Georgiana is no longer thinking about the night but about work, the few hours she gets to shine and show the artistic side of her that wants attention, compliments, and love. Always love.  Like a child, Georgiana craves love and is never completely satisfied. Nina was surprised when someone as brilliant and ephemeral as Georgiana picked her -- a white girl, a little bookworm with no root, no mother or father to anchor her, fresh out of college -- to be a life partner, to be the beacon for Georgiana to return to after the excitement of the multiple new affairs has worn off.

“Love ya. Be back soon. If I’m not back by midnight, don’t wait up for me.”

Lady Nijou sits still as a stone as the two maidens attend her hair, the one on the left, Ayako, being slower but more careful, the one on the right, Seiko, being fast and efficient; but what is the use of Seiko’s haste if Lady Nijou  must inevitably wait until Ayako finishes brushing the floor length hair to her satisfaction before sneaking out to see her lover after?

GoFukakusa hasn’t visited her in three weeks and four days. For each those days Lady Nijou has been waiting up each night, accompanied by only the chirping of the cicadas on the trees and the lonely moonlight traversing the length of her hair. The shuffling of the palace guards sends her heart into a staccato every time. The footsteps stop to shoo away a cat, to flirt with a maid, or to bring messages to other ladies, but never stops at her door; and Lady Nijou waits each night in vain.

Was it because of that incident he is repelled? Lady Nijou knows that trying to stop rumors and gossip is as useless as trying to catch sakura petals in a net. Her mind constantly wavers among the image of GoFukakusa’s face as he ardently pledged his undying love in poetry so moving that even the gods must have wept, to him begging her to continue her affair with Ariake, to the multiple affairs that he conducted with Lady Nijou as the go-between, and finally to GoFukakusa waking up groggily that morning, oblivious to what had transpired the night before between Lady Nijou and his half brother, Kameyama. All these images superimpose upon one another until Lady Nijou does not know which one is true, while the maids placidly brush her asset of beauty, wealth and status, unaware of the turmoil swarming inside their mistress like a group of angry bees.

One more hour and it will all be over.

             

            All is not perfect. Nina squints critically at the last stroke of the u in Otanjoubi Omedetou, disappointed in the flatness of the character. No matter how many times Nina tries to smooth the curve, the character refuses to be coaxed from the brush and ink. If only she had the skills of her namesake! All this time spent on making the floor spotless (Georgiana likes to walk around barefoot), cooking (filet mignon with cream hollandaise sauce, Georgiana’s favorite), and calligraphy leaves Nina no time to return to the world of Lady Nijou. Nina bites her lips and looked around; the clock on the wall reads a quarter to five. Georgina gets off work at exactly five and should be back soon.

            Not that it matters. The quaintness and lack of direction in Nina’s calligraphy will please Georgiana nevertheless. Georgiana will smile and say what a great present it is, how she doesn’t deserve it, exclaim how it brings back memories of how they met, and give her a kiss. Those pale faded memories feels like sad excuses that are unshelved once in a while to admire but are quickly returned to the closet before the sunlight does more damage to their already worn colors. It irritates Nina that no matter what she does, Georgiana will be unperturbed.

The shade of pasty green on the wall tempts Nina to dig her fingers in, until she hits the asbestos lining, and then pull off the vile wallpaper. It reminds her of puke. Neither does she like the metallic table, the ebony black closets, the stainless steel refrigerator, the black leather sofa that is too high for her and leaves her legs dangling above the floor like a child sitting in her father’s favorite loveseat; but nor does she like the steel stools that provide no cushion for her weak back or the white veined black marble kitchen top. Nina has no memory of when these things were bought in the first place. The only thing that Nina can claim for herself is the ridiculous Mickey Mouse telephone that she insisted on buying despite Georgiana’s protests. Surrounded by all the hard metal and dark colors, Mickey’s red shorts and yellow shoes look out of place.

“Maybe he needs a Minnie,” Nina says idly out loud.

Lady Nijou would have never stood for this. She would have elegantly composed a poem so filled with feeling and truth that GoFukakusa, Ariake, Akebono, and Georgiana would have come crawling back to her, begging to be accepted back in her graces.

            Suddenly Nina rips the calligraphy paper in half (there goes three dollars and twenty five cents), rips the halves into halves, and then halves the quarter pieces again till there is nothing but asymmetrical pieces left. She carefully places them at the very bottom of the trashcan, taking care to hide them with a torn Gap bag; closes the lid as if it were a coffin, and wipes her hands on her pants. A broad black smear is left trailing on the right thigh of her white pants.

            “Shit.”

            How is she going to get the stain out in time? There are only fifteen minutes till Georgiana returns; she can’t change her outfit. No, it will be all right. Maybe she can wear her white skirt instead; it will go nicely with the patterned white collared shirt she spent days looking for in vintage stores all over downtown Los Angeles. No, it would make her look childish, almost virginal.

Suddenly Nina wants to stop, let it all end. What does it matter what her pants look like when she still has not returned to Lady Nijou’s world? What does it matter that the cake is ready and the present is finished when Georgiana left with a careless, “If I am not back by midnight, don’t wait up for me”?  For all Nina knows, Georgiana might be in the same situation as the last time Nina randomly decided to visit her office: shirtless, in the dark, with Sharon, again.

No, it will not be all right.

It would be so easy. There’s a bottle of Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet. “Take no more than four tablets in twenty-four hours,” the bottle instructs. What if Nina took 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 356, 712 tablets? What if Lady Nijou took the ornamental sword hanging on the wall and slowly drew a line with it from one end of her neck to the other, leaving a fine line of red, red blood trailing elegantly down her pale neck, a single drop falling onto the sleeves of her favorite red Chinese jacket with ivy patterns?  What a picture she would make: serene, pretty, and still. That’s too easy, too simple, no flair at all; something Nina would do. What if she jumped off the fourth floor of the apartment complex? The spring sun would feel nice and breezy while the four floors flashed by in rapid succession until her face kissed the hard concrete that countless dogs have defecated over. But today Lady Nijou is wearing her favorite outfit  and does not want it to be dirtied by blood. What if she casted herself off the quaint wooden bridge spanning the pavilion between her garden and the other lady’s? The layers and layers of gown would be soaked, clinging to her legs, dragging her to the bottom of the calm artificial pond, cutting off everything — sight, sound, air — until time slowed, faded, and stopped into the darkness that no Buddha could pierce: for suicide is a sin. The thought of her body shattering to pieces and leaving an unattractive splotch on the concrete disturbs Nina. What if her blood flickered onto the white jacket of British man who happened to walking his Scottish terrier at 4:57 in the afternoon?  Nina knows how hard it is to get blood out of clothes, especially white ones.

Nina runs into the bedroom, takes her copy of The Confessions of Lady Nijou, slips back into her prim black heels, and leaves the apartment with a click. Out the splinterless mahogany door, down the elevator, past the lobby now absent of technicolored punks (although the sweet cloying scent of weed still lurks the air), and onto the street. Everything feels like a dream, highlighted by the brilliancy of the setting sun, dulling all edges and casting everything in a kinder light. I need a place, any place, a place of my own. I need to finish this book. Is this what it feels like to be crazy? The movies always depict crazy women who rend their hair and beat their breasts, but real insanity is a desperateness that is punctuated by silence and a clear mind.

Finding herself in front of the secondhand bookstore again, Nina pushes the resilient door, whose chimes clink sweetly, and looks into the face of Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith looks tired; tired of owning a bookstore that does not make any money, tired of sleeping on a queen size bed by himself at the age of sixty-seven, tired of waiting for the short hand of the clock to hit six everyday.

“What are you doing here?”

“Let me stay here and read. Please”

In that moment Mr. Smith sees a woman with a glazed look in her eyes clutching a book as if her life depended on it, so tightly that her the bones of her knuckles form tiny white islands against the sea of red skin, wearing white slacks with a huge black smear on them and black heels that do not match the rest of her outfit. Pity creeps into his heart.

“Please, I’ll close up. I will lock the door and make sure nobody breaks in. Just for a little while. Please.”

Perhaps Mr. Smith will curse himself later, wondering what makes him hand over his key without a thought to the girl with the desperate gypsy eyes. The eyes that asks for constant approval that he is never able to give, never wanted to give, but suddenly at that moment he wants to reciprocate and perhaps leave her with a kinder memory of him, for he is but an old man who has nothing else to give. Mr. Smith puts on his jacket, tips his hat, and goes out the front door.

At last! Nina pulls down the blinds, turns on the lights, sits down at a neatly organized table, and begins to read.

The sound of laughter pierces Lady Nijou’s reverie, cleanly severing the thought of death from her mind. Lady Nijou looks up and spots two maids playing with a calico tabby barely weaned from its mother. The setting sunlight gleams unbearably bright on the girls’ black, black hair and the world is on fire. Yes, the same fire that fuels the poets to pick up their brushes, the heroes to brandish their swords, and the lovers to forsake their duties.

She wants to burn. Lady Nijou hasn’t felt that fire in a long time. Dulled are her senses that used to be so fine and exquisite, dulled from the petty gossips and the fear of GoFukakusa’s suspicion. Or is it just GoFukakusa himself? GoFukakusa the father, the lover, the confident, the betrayer. Lady Nijou couldn’t think of a single moment when GoFukakusa hadn’t been in the picture of her life, peripherally or centrally, overshadowing her (the supposed protagonist of the story). Casting her from heaven to hell and back to heaven within the space of five seconds and ten syllables.

Lady Nijou no longer knows where the beginning of her story is. Was it when her father handed her over to GoFukakusa? Was it when she started her affair with Akebono? All these possibilities pool into the past that was, the present that is, and the future that will be.

She needs to get away, to find a place of her own so that she can burn freely with oxygen of her own. Yes, she will become a nun and take the tonsure, wash away all the sins that she has committed and dedicate her life to Buddhism in hopes that one day she too may attain enlightenment. Or can she? Are her sins too deeply fixed now that no matter how many times she scrubs the darkness will remain?

Lady Nijou suddenly remembers the poor fanmaker, the painted undergown seeping in the rain, her nose red and her hair wild. What an unpleasant sight it was then, but the fanmaker’s sorrow resulted in joy while Lady Nijou’s joy resulted in sorrow. The poet Semimaru once said, “One cannot live forever in a palace or a hut.” Lady Nijou decides that neither will she.  But she can’t leave at once; she will need a week’s time to prepare quickly and find GoFukakusa to tell him about the sudden revelation she has had. Surely he will understand and let her go.

Two days later, GoFukakusa declares the banishment of Lady Nijou from the palace.

A sigh of pure bliss escapes from Nina, spirals into the air and is captured by the softness of the surrounding books. So this is how it ends. The pure craft and perfection of Lady Nijou’s story leaves her breathless, wonder-filled, and hopeful; like being in love with Georgiana except without the confusion and the heartache. Nina can no longer tell where Lady Nijou’s story ends and where hers begins.

Was it Nina who was sold by her father to GoFukakusa, or was it Lady Nijou? Was it she who recoiled at the thought of conducting an affair with Ariake? Was it Lady Nijou who cried when she saw Georgiana bestowing a kiss onto another woman? Was it she who boldly traveled in Kamakura Japan as a nun? Or was it she who forgave Georgiana for a few crocodile tears that glistened so prettily as it slid down her cheek, and a fake diamond bracelet she saw in the windows of Walmart? Does it matter?

The world is suddenly simple. Lovers will meet, couples will cheat, pets will die, and children will cry; yet despite it all, we go on in life. No one’s story is truly original or extraordinary, although we lie awake at night wishing it to be so. But life is not like that. If you are good enough the world does not mock you; if you are lucky enough the world remembers you; and if you are truly great the world will put you onto a pedestal so high so that others can bounce their dreams off your shiny patina, hoping that the dreams will be reflected back to themselves.

Georgiana should be home already.

Grabbing a piece of floral stationary off the top of the desk, Nina begins to write. Purging, returning every gift, every promise, every lie to Georgiana so there is nothing but Nina left. As Nina drops the flimsy letter into the mailbox, she imagines a satisfying clunk breaking the fall.

Whistling, Nina walks away; Nina, and not Nijou-Sama, for there is no one to call her that again.

Stop it with the "having it all"

If I have to hear/read another article about a woman who can or cannot have it all, I will scream.

Although my interest in genderism (or feminism, which I think is a biased term) is relatively recent, it seems like the media, even our dear POTUS and FLOTUS Obama, are capitalizing on the gender inequality that still exists despite the feminist movement starting in the late 1880s to getting the right to vote in 1869 to Equal Pay Act of 1963 to Equal Opportunity Act of 1972.

Having media and political attention on the subject is great because women are still making only 77 cents to the manly dollar. Even when the salary data accounts for similar age, education level, industry, role, experience, etc, women in the same exact position as men are only making 91 cents to the manly dollar. So clearly discrimination is still at play and equity is not achieved yet.

But what absolutely sets my teeth grinding, nerves firing, fist pounding, and foot stamping is when the phrase "Why women can't have it all?" or "Can this woman have it all?" used. I get it: it's brilliant media fodder because it's very attention grabbing for both supporters and detractors however: when was the feminist/gender revolution about "having it all"? WHO actually can "have it all"?


What does "having it all" mean anyway? Just as "happiness" is a term that is differentially defined by different people according to their personal experiences, current situation, and future aspirations, there is no consensus for the "have it all" phrase. While there is no one definition of "have it all" whenever the phrase is used it usually implied having a fabulous combination of financial wealth, power, marital/romantic/family relationship, friendship, charisma, good looks, health, amazing career, full head of hair, white teeth, sexual vigor, and above average height. That's a tall order! And more men don't even have that nevertheless women.

By saying that women can or cannot "have it all" implies that men (or least non-women entities) are "having it all." When I look around I don't see that. Even if you see a successful (often defined in our current society as having financial power) man, it doesn't necessarily imply he has a great family, marriage, friends, health, or mental state. Even if he does have most of those things, if he has a successful career usually he is not the one taking care of the kids, picking up the groceries, cooking dinner, cleaning the bathroom, and having enough energy to have sex at the end of the night. Usually his wife does it.

Yet these articles keep saying how it is or is not possible to be a wonderful mom and have a successful career in a leadership role. At what point in any of the waves of feminism/genderism was it about "having it all?" The initial waves of the movements was about attaining things that were taboo or not allowed for women but were a guaranteed privilege of men, such as the right to vote. So when goal go from attaining something that was denied to a person based on gender to now a gender having everything?

It drives me nuts when people use that phrase because no one in the universe can "have it all" unless you are a deity endowed with superpower. Because we are human we cannot "have it all" because there are scientifically and literally only 24 hours in a day, which will always limit us to certain things we cannot do unless we don't sleep, eat, get bio breaks, laugh, read a good book, spend quality time with friends and family, get our weekly Bachelor fix, ogle in amazement of superhuman strength of the winter Olympians, or go to work.

So what I'm trying to say is that while I really appreciate the increased media and societal scrutiny on gender inequality, I am not appreciating the framing and presentation of the issue. By often associating "having it all" with women (but we don't say that of men), along with the expectations that a progressive modern woman means being successful with attaining a career dominated by men who are unaware of the unconscious discrimination while still maintaining lion share of the caretaker role along with being a sex goddess, is simply unfair and unrealistic. The more we keep saying why women can or cannot "have it all" shifts the dialogue to an area that is not progressing the gender imbalance issue. Instead it holds up the conversation at fulfilling that impossible role. We should agree that NO ONE can "have it all" but that does not mean women shouldn't be given opportunities in an unbiased and undiscriminating way that men are. (This of course also applies to any other minority being treated differently because of what they are vs. who they are.)

So women can't "have it all," so what can we achieved based on what we do instead of what we look like, along with all the societal assumptions that come with our appearances? That is what we as a society need to progress beyond.