The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, April 20, 2022
I’ve been thinking a lot lately on what
constitutes a friend. The qualifiers and
the levels all associated with it. What
distinguishes someone as a true friend
versus someone you spend time with?
An issue I had in the past (and still suf-
fer from) is failure to define, creating the
boundaries between different categories
of friendship. I consider myself close
with a lot of people, but am I actually?
How many can I consider a true friend, a
partner, a protector of my own interests
who hold me in the same regard as I hold
them?
My friend Eliya sent me a TikTok the
other day that featured a quote about
female friendship — that it is a ferocious,
ugly, messy, emotional creature we are
never taught to train. My first reaction
was to laugh, because it’s never that deep.
Friendships are simple. Easy. It’s roman-
tic love that’s the complicated kind. But
the quote has rattled in my head as I’ve
been studying abroad, separate from the
people I call home.
Sometimes I forget where my best
friends begin and where I end. Their
friends are my friends. My belongings
are their belongings. Their house is my
house. The lines are blurry to nonexis-
tent at times. No topic is out of bounds.
We consume each other’s emotions. We
ruminate over situations, strategizing
and theorizing in our imaginary situation
rooms. We tell each other our secrets.
Our shame. Our burdens. Our pain. Do
you remember last winter when I held
you in my arms after you told that boy you
loved him? I do. The light reflecting off
your tears, which I had never seen from
you before. The tremble in your voice as
you described his rejection. But it’s not
just the difficult parts that we share.
We also cheer for each other. Praise one
another for putting ourselves out there.
Uplift one another when we feel we might
have fallen short. And although you were
shaking, I could not stop thinking how
strong you are — for taking that risk, for
being vulnerable. I am proud of you; I
know you’re proud of me too. I could hear
it in your voice months later, in the sum-
mer, miles away from one another as you
cheered me on for going on my first New
York City date. We give and give and take
and take and take.
I am a hopeless romantic. From the
media I consume to the stories I write
about, romantic love has always been
paramount. It’s not like it’s hard to obsess
over it. Media is saturated with love sto-
ries. Countless books, podcasts, movies,
TV series and more are all dedicated to
the pursuit of love and keeping it. My
favorite TV show used to be “Sex and the
City.” For months, I watched religiously
as Carrie chainsmoked her way around
New York City. You would often join
me on the couch of our house, holding
Socratic seminars on Carrie’s shenani-
gans. Would you have gotten back togeth-
er with Big? How could anyone break
up with Steve? Why do you like Aiden?
Despite the hours we spent discussing
the show, we still managed to miss the
point entirely. The men came and went,
treated like minor comedic blips, but the
core four — Carrie, Miranda, Samantha
and Charlotte — remained, brunching
and bickering as usual. That’s the true
love story of the show. Despite whatever
happened romantically, fans knew as long
as those friendships were there (ignoring
the reboot), everything would be fine.
So do all great love stories have to be
romantic then? It’s seemingly reinforced
that romantic love is the only love worthy
of writing an entire album over or book
on. But not for me anymore. The friends
that I’ve made, they’re my big college love
story. Not one of those random fuck boys
I keep tripping and falling over for. When
I look back on this season of my life, I
won’t think of these minor comedic blips.
I won’t think of the people I just hap-
pened to spend time with. I’ll think about
you. I’ll think about the hours we spent
on the phone, screaming at each other for
fucking up once again. I’ll think about the
aimless walks, where we don’t have the
slightest clue of where we are going. I’ll
think about the viewing parties, joking
about Wattpad. I’ll think about the time
we spent growing and building together.
It’s messy, ugly, beautiful and everything
in between. In the longest most convolut-
ed way, I wrote this just to say I miss you.
I love you. I’ll see you soon.
Author’s Note: I would like to clarify
my terminology out of respect for the
gender non-conforming community.
When I say “men” I am specifically
referring to cisgender men. When I say
“women” — I am referring to cisgender
women, the only identity I can mean-
ingfully speak on. I think it’s important
to make these distinctions because gen-
der identity is incredibly fluid and we do
not live in a binary world. We cannot
keep enforcing such barriers in the lan-
guage we use, which is why it is neces-
sary to clarify what one means when
they speak so generally. It is oppressive
by nature to not acknowledge the exis-
tence of identities that do not fit into the
conventional binary.
My first sexual revelation as a
woman happened during my sopho-
more year of high school when I
stopped wearing bras. It was terri-
fying. I was a flat-chested “skinny”
girl with chicken legs and everyone
around me growing up always made
sure I knew that. I was bullied in mid-
dle school for my body being under
the standard “healthy” weight and the
last thing I wanted was for my unflat-
tering legacy to continue into high
school. To wear the bra or to not wear
the bra: it was a decision that I went
back and forth on at least 1,000 times
and eventually culminated in a split-
second action before I left for school
that morning.
When I finally arrived, I took all
my layers off from being in the harsh
Chicago winter months. I was just
a young girl with a black and white
cubic patterned dress. Exposed for
the world to see. Except I didn’t want
to be seen. I was afraid people would
notice that my chest looked a bit flat-
ter than normal. I went about my day
going to first period, then to second
and so on. No one said a word. It felt
good. Maybe it wasn’t as noticeable as
I had thought. Maybe I had nothing to
be ashamed of. I had quickly evolved
from being afraid to let my natural
shape show to making a point for it to.
Only one week after I stopped
wearing bras, I was already so much
more confident in my body — in
myself. I started wearing shirts where
it was more clear that I wasn’t wear-
ing a bra — nothing too crazy — just a
fitted blouse of sorts. One day while I
was in the cafeteria with my friends,
a guidance counselor approached me
and said, “Your nipples are protrud-
ing.” I did not have the slightest clue
about what her comment meant, but
I assumed it was a positive comment
so I said plainly, “Thank you.” She
responded, “No, that means they are
projecting out,” to which I, once again,
said, “Thank you.”
I truly was not trying to be funny
— I genuinely took that as a compli-
ment because I was in a period of my
life where I was trying to embrace
my natural form and I assumed that
a woman in a higher position would
support that. I was sorely mistaken.
She told me to put on a jacket or I
would be removed from the premises.
So I grabbed my jacket, stood up and
walked myself out. The counselor fol-
lowed and I was met with three secu-
rity guards and my principal — who
was a woman. She explained to me
that their policy was meant to protect
me from predatory men. I explained
that it isn’t my job to conform to
safeguard myself. She said — and I
remember this quite explicitly — “If
you were to go in front of a judge for
being raped, you would be held at fault
because you enticed them.”
I cannot make this up. I wish I
was. An administrator working in an
institution dedicated to learning told
me this. I couldn’t believe it. It was
humiliating. This was the first time I
had been criminalized for my body by
an authoritative figure. It would not
be the last. This was the beginning
of a tumultuous road ahead where
I would have to fight for the right to
autonomy over myself.
The fact that a fellow woman, one
whom I was supposed to look up to,
said such vile things to me demon-
strates how deeply rooted the patri-
archy is in all of us — men and women
alike. The patriarchy can be defined as
a society in which “men hold the posi-
tions of power and have more privi-
lege: head of the family unit, leaders of
social groups, boss in the workplace,
and heads of government. In patriar-
chy, there is also a hierarchy among
the men.” To be clear, the patriarchy
is harmful to men and interrupts
their growth as human beings as well.
Make no mistake, I am not saying
women are at fault for the suffering we
experience. But I am saying that all of
us reinforce the patriarchal pressures
in our lives without even realizing it.
The patriarchy shows its face
everywhere you go. It’s just a matter
of recognizing it. See, that’s the thing
about men — when you call them a
misogynist, they immediately get
defensive because they think you’re
accusing them of some kind of hate
crime. Sometimes this is true, but it
doesn’t take the most extreme level of
hatred toward women for men to have
misogynistic tendencies.
Furthermore, if you are a man, you
are upholding the patriarchy simply
by existing. The privilege you hold as
a man does not go away just because
you acknowledge the strife of women.
You still hold the obligation to always
be cognizant of how the space you
take up impacts the women around
you. There is nothing you can do to
rid yourself of your male privilege,
but rather, you can use it to uplift
the women around you. Even if you
think you are a particularly progres-
sive man, remembering to check your
privilege is of the utmost importance.
To the men reading this: You hold
power over women in the job mar-
ket and take away opportunities
from them. You are more likely to be
heard in group conversations and
suppress the voices of women. You
are more likely to be taken seriously
at the doctor’s office and therefore
have, on average, gotten more effi-
cient and effective medical treatment.
Most importantly: your willingness
to believe this phenomenon does not
change the fact that you experience it.
The reality of the situation is that you
inadvertently benefit from the sup-
pressive injustice that women endure.
There is virtually nothing you can
do to escape that. Does that mean
there is nothing you should do to be a
decent human being to the women in
your life? Absolutely not. You should
always be striving for an awareness
of the privilege you hold. We are con-
stantly living in fear of being victim-
ized — the least you could do is walk
through the world with an acknowl-
edgment of that.
If you are now thinking to yourself
that women are strong, independent
beings who can conquer anything —
you’re not wrong, but you’re missing
the point. That type of circular rea-
soning places the responsibility on the
woman to halt her oppression while
ignoring the fact that much of her
torment is out of her control. I cannot
begin to explain how little grasp we
have over the patriarchal forces in our
lives and how absolutely soul-crush-
ing it is to know that my existence will
always be defined by a man. No mat-
ter how radical I try to be, no matter
how many “social rules” I break, I will
always be subject to the patriarchy.
We live in a man’s world. We have
generationally formed a society where
men are at the forefront and women
are in the background. Can you blame
me for feeling so powerless?
At the end of the day, women are in
this fight alone. I do not care how pro-
gressive a man you consider yourself
— you are still a misogynist or have
misogynistic tendencies. To illustrate
this, let’s take a look at a common
misconception of the dating scene:
the friend zone. If you declare you’re
in “the friend zone” with a woman
whom you just met — that’s misogy-
nistic. You are categorizing your rela-
tionship with a woman on whether or
not you are successful in your pursuit
to seduce her. This deduction misplac-
es the blame onto women for exercis-
ing their right to say no. It devalues
a woman’s feelings in a relationship
because it implies that a woman owes
that man something in return for his
supposed kindness. It is an explana-
tion used by insecure men to project
the responsibility onto women when
they are rejected. It reinforces the
objectification of women when you
assume that being kind to a woman
The greatest love story
i love being a slut
KATHERINA ANDRADE OZAETTA
MiC Assistant Editor
KAILANA DEJOIE
MiC Columnist
Design by Tamara Turner
Design by Rita Sayegh
“Media is saturated
with love stories.
Countless books,
podcasts, movies,
TV series and more
are all decdicated to
the pursuit of love
and keeping it.”
Read more at MichiganDaily.com