I, Fembot
It’s a weird time to be a feminist. We’re caught somewhere between hot girl summer and 1920, where I feel equally inclined to shake my ass and start a riot over women’s body autonomy.
I don't know if either will make me feel better.
Over 60% of Americans think of themselves as feminists, but at this point, what does that even mean?
My timeline has become a whirlpool of awful news, commentary on the news, commentary on the commentary of the news, and commentary on the commentary on the commentary of the news. Algorithms have clumped all these opinions together like a liberal Stanford Prison Experiment, and we are eating our own tails tales.
In the middle of it all, I find myself yearning for dumb fun. I’m slowly closing off the discourse around me with a mix of bimbofication and dissociation.
I’m turning myself into a fembot: dangerous, impenetrable, and hot as hell
The only bra I’ll be wearing after the pandemic
Weapons of Ass Destruction
The warmer the weather gets, the more I’m reminded of our complex feelings around women’s bodies. We’re in the era of body positivity and shapewear, where every inch of skin is simultaneously obscene, political, and outrageously sexy.
Women are weapons and targets.
TikTok shoves ads for bikinis down my throat yet removes videos of my pole dance classes. People call Britney crazy for posting nude selfies while Hilary Duff in the buff is praised. North America has a baby formula shortage, but people are panicking over Adidas showing breasts in an ad for sports bras. We celebrated Mother’s Day by discussing if women should be forced to bear children. Down the street from my apartment, a mother was dismembered by her son.
Many of us have taken the luxury of body autonomy for granted. We thought the feminists before us did the heavy lifting, and we focused our attention on the softer side of feminism – the nuances of inclusive language, the grey areas of prosecuting sexual assault, and the empowerment of twerking.
That Roe v Wade could be revoked is making me rethink my focus on causes like #freethenippple. It feels silly to have put my time into body positivity when actual human rights are at stake. The loss of safe abortions is a much more devastating blow to women than outrage over WAP.
We know that the attack on abortion has never been about saving babies. If the anti-choice brigade cared about children, they’d spend their energy on daycare, maternity leave, and education. It’s not about saving lives either, or they’d recognize the dangers of leaving women to handle unwanted pregnancies on their own. To save lives, homelessness, mental health, and gun control should be prioritized over fetuses.
Clean your country before you tell me what can and can't leave my crotch.
Eliminating abortion is, predominantly, a way to punish female sexuality and pleasure. Suddenly, it becomes much riskier to be a single woman enjoying casual sex. You may have to bear the consequences to term.
When your own body is weaponized against you, nowhere feels safe.
Back to office vibes
System Overload
I don’t know how to react to all the contradictions, and I don’t know how to handle the constant feeling that our security is slipping away. Ever since we elected a president famous for grabbing women by the pussy, feminists have been on edge.
There’s nuance to advocating for an entire gender. I don’t love all women; I know you don’t, either. There are Trump supporters, anti-vaxxers, racists, and just plain bitches that all don’t align with my values.
Never do men have to vouch for their entire Y chromosome. Their brotherhood exists in pockets. As we unlocked more and more equality, the feminist agenda splintered into its own hubs too.
True to Millennial and Gen Z form, they all come with their own hashtags:
There’s dissociation feminism that prioritizes sarcasm over shouting. Women romanticize self-destruction and narrate their poor choices from an emotional distance. It’s a Fleabag era of nihilism that embraces the “feminine urge” to make as many snide remarks as possible. Of course Roe v Wade is being overturned. What am I going to do? Cry about it?
On the other end of the spectrum are the optimistic bimbos looking to have a little fun. They keep their brains clear from stress and full of glitter, romance, and makeup pointers from the internet. New age bimbos are all about love and vibes. They’re socialists in velour tracksuits just looking to be cute and unbothered. Let the girlies make their own choices.
What, like it’s hard?
Big GRRRLS and midsize queens are on the front lines of the body positivity movement. Questioning beauty standards, normalizing bodies, freeing nipples, and celebrating flaws are all on the agenda. The more diversity and representation, the better. Let’s talk about wigs, cellulite, armpit hair, the power of makeup, skin issues, discharge – you name it. My body, my choice!
#GirlBosses take that positive energy to the extreme. There’s nothing an inspirational quote and a side hustle won’t fix. We can, and we WILL have it all. Women supporting women is great in theory, but the toxic positivity often lands these She-E-Os in MLMs. It’s hard to focus on the news when you have a bottom line of leggings to sell…
Femcels lean into angst and are frank about society’s “lookist” culture. One former femcel remarks that the group is rebelling against the idea that women should always find ways to be positive. “I’d rather be able to talk about being ugly than just try to convince myself that I’m pretty.” They focus on practical tips to make yourself more conventionally attractive, or they avoid sex entirely.
Women in their “villain eras” aim to look as hot as possible while asserting that men are trash. While femcels are lamenting at home, villains are chaotic partiers with a pension for drastic makeovers and the most revealing outfits they can find. They're going to scam a rich man, makeout with their ex's new girlfriend, and post three thirst trap videos before Monday. #sorrynotsorry
Radical feminists cancel people at every turn. If you aren’t inclusive enough, your ass is grass. There are no second chances, no grey areas, and no mercy. We worry so much about offending this group that we tolerate shows like And Just Like That, where every character gets a token-coloured friend and no stone of gender identity is left unturned. Inauthentic, but politically correct.
From the pure anarchists of Kyle Prue to the gender filter that had women roasting men to the lesbians comforting straight women lost in the algorithm, there is no shortage of niche feminist content online.
Somewhere in the middle are the mainstream feminists (hi!) and allies, who are simply trying to live life as equals. We Frankenstein together bits and pieces of these niche opinions to create our own brands. It becomes a hodgepodge of values and memes, which can be fun.
That is until our basic liberties are stripped away.
In the Land of Goddesses and Monsters
In the crossfire, weird alliances are made. You might “my body my choice” your way into an anti-vax rally.
God forbid you say the wrong thing, latch on to an unpopular idea, or forget to include a facet of our sisterhood. There are infinite ways to get feminism wrong, and no way to be perfect. It’s a messy pile of pussy power that, deep down, all want the same thing: to feel valued, safe, and equal
For some, that means being able to run around topless. For others, it means climbing to the top of the company ladder. For me, it means not having my brain constantly consumed by injustices around me.
I think we’re a long way off from that.
The more immediate need is to maintain the progress our founding feminist mothers made. While the bimbos are lounging by the pool, fleabags are drinking in the bathtub, and the girl bosses are hosting makeup parties, who’s left to fight for our rights? Are we even able to create a united front anymore?
I see my brand of feminism as a mix of a few: too cynical to be a #girlboss, too aware to be a bimbo, too romantic to be a villain. Instead of being alienated from those groups, I like to think that I've embedded a little part of each of them into my armour. I've grown into my fembot self, and I believe we can work together as a legion of Frankensteined monsters - some scary, some soft, all beautiful.
If not, maybe it’s time to reboot.
