I know you hate me
VALERIJA MALASHEVICH
Statement Columnist
This is a tale as old as time, but
when I was in high school, I — like
virtually everyone else my age —
was going through a lot. Mentally,
physically, spiritually, psychologically
and all the other -ly’s. I was planting
a seed for my own future, which is a
notoriously difficult task for someone
so young and often ushers in plenty
of unanticipated troubles. We start
to put things that don’t matter before
things that do or — as my parents say
— we put the cart before the horse.
Most of the decisions we tend to
make as 15-year-olds end up being
half-assed, inconsequential or just
plain
dimwitted.
We
convince
ourselves we love people when, truly,
we do not, we allow things to occupy
our minds that do not deserve such
real estate and, most importantly, we
tell ourselves that the decisions we
make now will withstand the test of
time. We tell ourselves that we had
choices in the first place, cemented in
rock and resistant to decay.
I made a lot of these so-called
choices in my younger, and more
vulnerable, years (if you want to call
them that). I chose a profession that I
had no interest in pursuing and failed
to realize that medical school posed
a dead end for me. It sparked no joy.
Nothing.
I chose to make my happiness
contingent on certain individuals,
and when they left, I let the pillows
soak up my tears until there wasn’t
any more space left on it to cry. I
disregarded my parents and acted
as if I could shed them like the skin
of a lizard, simply because I had
seemingly put on my big girl pants.
I acted like I didn’t need them
anymore. And that hurt them.
But luckily, most of these decisions
were the same: inconsequential. I
received opportunities to re-envision
my career path and frame it within
a broader perspective. I’ve come to
realize that while friends and lovers
are things that come and go, my
parents (and their love) do not. Their
compassion is truly one of the only
things I have witnessed withstand
turmoil, troubles and time.
The other thing that seems to
remain grounded within me are the
pinky promises I make to myself.
The pledges I make staring into the
mirror, telling myself that self-love is
not finite and that it is possible to love
yourself more each and every day.
The laments to start doing more and
overthinking less, to stop the meat
organ in my skull from dictating all
of the “do nots” and “why nots” and
“should nots” that infest my stream of
consciousness.
And one of those pinky promises
has been one of the hardest decisions
I’ve ever made in my life — and I
committed to it during the most
tender years of my life. I had to bite
through skin and bone to know I
wanted it for sure: I decided early on
that, if nothing else, children would
be an impediment for my future.
I was only 15.
I spent years and years grieving,
sifting through articles titled “Top 10
reasons to become child-free,” hoping
to find a slice of validation through
anonymous messages on Tumblr and
upvoted posts on Reddit.
At this point, my anger toward
children fueled my pursuit for a child-
free lifestyle. I wanted nothing to do
with babies — they carry germs like
14th-century monks, wail like cicadas
in the summertime and look more
fragile than porcelain dishes. They
are an incredible mix of everything I
can’t seem to tolerate.
I remember telling my parents and
grandparents, with anger seeping
through my teeth and revenge rolling
off my tongue, that I would abstain
from having children. It felt like a
protest, to turn away from a role that
(even now) many working, young,
Russian women are expected to
embrace. I was too young and hungry
with power, and while I see that now,
it seems wrong to deny how delicious
my quiet rebellion tasted.
It was a directed anger, and one I
am not necessarily proud of anymore
— but it was directed toward a real
villain: A society that unabashedly
assumes people with uteruses were
born to be mothers.
I was only 17.
Being 17 was far from perfect, and
it definitely came nowhere close to
the expectations for a period that is
often dubbed as “the golden years.”
I grew as a person, for sure, but at
a considerable cost — I sacrificed
so much of myself for material
achievements.
Maybe it was wrong or maybe
it wasn’t, but I started to value
professional pursuits and hedonic
interests over everything else. In my
mind, I was in a coming-of-age party-
girl movie, and while I was young and
reckless, I was everything but stupid.
Sure,
I
would
attend
those
somewhat lame high school parties
in those slightly smelly houses on
streets with names I couldn’t recall
because they all sound the same in
Vegas, anyway. Hualapai Way. Oasis
Cove. Sunset Boulevard. Tropical
Parkway and Fort Apache Road.
However, I wouldn’t dare leave
my house without knowing I had
submitted the Common App essays
that were due that night.
My parents had forgotten the
words for how to tell me to do my
homework, and they often didn’t
know I had any.
S T A T E M E N T
4 — Wednesday, July 27, 2022
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Priya Ganji/Daily
Read more at michigandaily.com
Bitches, sluts and
other deviant women
Content warning: Mentions of
sexual assault and violent language
Deviant women are a natural
byproduct of a patriarchal society.
Deviancy is not one-size-fits-all;
instead, a woman can stray away
from normality in a plethora of
unique ways. By definition, “gender
deviance” is any stray away from
gendered and sexual social norms.
Most often, deviancy in women is
prescribed as a result of sexuality,
emotionality, egoism, autonomy and
demanding personhood. Essentially,
having a personality and body that is
anything other than submissive, small
and docile holds an innate unruliness
per the ideals held by the patriarchy.
Additionally, any identity or behavior
not approved by the homogeneity of
power in the United States is at risk of
deviancy. So at its very heart, America
hates its women — especially women
who dabble in deviancy.
Rather
depressingly,
a
large
portion of girlhood is dedicated to
avoiding the perils of deviousness.
Girls, including my younger self, are
taught how to center male attention,
idolize emaciated bodies and enter
competitions with any other girl in
our vicinity. The link between this
social education and misogyny is
undeniable — girls are indoctrinated
into patriarchy as early as possible.
From the very beginning, we are
taught
by
our
environment
to
ostracize deviant girls, even if it just
starts as refusing to invite a girl who
AVA BURZYCKI
Statement Columnist
strays away from gender norms to
an elementary school sleepover. As a
young girl, only aged around 10 or 11,
I already had a steady stream of this
beginner’s misogyny directed my
way. Friendly scraped knees on the
blacktop and harmless playground
taunts turned into gendered insults
and
the
precursors
of
taught
objectification. By middle school, I
gravitated away from nearly all of
my male friends, and the final few
had only seemed to stick around to
practice their prepubescent flirting.
When I refused, I became just a bitch
to them.
My own bitchiness is just one of
the many categories that deviant
women can fall into — others include,
but aren’t limited to, sluts, prudes and
attention-whores. Each category has
a unique blend of sexuality, autonomy
and vulnerability, and acts more
as a sliding-scale axis than strictly
defined categories. Descriptors like
crazy, stupid, ugly, dramatic and
feminist can all be distasteful add-
ons; after all, even misogynists can
acknowledge some of the uniqueness
in each woman. It is crucial to note,
too, how racism, homophobia and
transphobia contribute to the idea
of female deviance. Women of
intersecting marginalized identities
are punished quicker and harder
than
their
counterparts.
And,
like all moral panics, women who
deviate
from
heteropatriarchal
ideals receive every potential form
of interpersonal, social and cultural
punishment.
Jennie Vang/Daily
Read more at michigandaily.com