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