by Deepa Rajan
Unholy Matrimony
Venus walks down the aisle.
No - not the goddess of beauty,
Venus from Gillette,
Venus from Shocking Blue,
Venus flattened into a jingle:
“I’m your Venus, I’m the fire at your desire.”
He waits at the altar for her,
can’t take His eyes off His bride,
they had been dating for so long -
they met a century ago in the 1920s.
During the World Wars the men left His side
so He sought another companion
and pursued her.
Upon meeting, He whispered to her:
your body hair is gross,
your natural body is masculine,
buy my razors and be beautiful.
He repeated this for 100 years.
So Venus bought the razors,
and grew to love them,
and grew to love Him,
Mr. Capit Alism,
the now wealthy groom.
Venus’ father,
the old Patriarch,
leads her down the aisle.
He wholeheartedly approves
of this wedding. In fact,
He was the one who introduced them.
He assuaged Venus’ doubts, telling her
There is nothing greater than being desired.
Venus carries her Patriarch’s name,
He made sure of it.
Join us for a reception at 3 pm.
Let us all shave and celebrate
this Unholy Matrimony
of Capitalism and Patriarchy.
Bigger Fish to Fry
Each morning greets me
with news of death and war,
stories of hunger and poverty
trickling out of my earbuds
as I brush my teeth in the safety
of my San Francisco apartment.
I am angry.
Then I turn on the shower and
I am angrier still.
I dread taking showers because
now I must confront
the everyday patriarchy:
Do I keep my body hair
and rebel against misogyny,
stick to my values, weather the backlash?
Or do I pick up my purple glittery razor,
perpetuate the expectation of hairlessness,
and reap the benefits of conformity?
My phone still blares the news
of governmental collapse
and dire funding cuts,
so when I look at my razor
a tiny voice in my head whispers:
Are there not bigger fish to fry?
I look back at my naked hairy body
and think of all of my fellow women
who have never had the chance
to see their natural adult bodies,
body hair fully grown out,
because the world tells us that
our natural bodies are
Disgusting,
and eventually we believe them.
When the NPR news segment ends
I am left alone with
my own body,
my own indignation because
50% of the population is
denied the basic right
to exist in our human bodies
without facing debilitating stigma:
slim job prospects, dating prospects,
disgusting comments in public,
disgusting comments in private,
rape threats.
It sticks with me in my bones:
Women are not allowed
to exist in our natural
human bodies.
That’s a large god damn fish.
FUCK “CHOICE FEMINISM”
Choice, choice, choice -
ever since I was a girl
this is what people have told me:
feminism is about
a woman’s right to choice.
As a brown girl I wandered the aisles of grocery stores,
rummaged through the cosmetics sections
to find “Fair and Lovely” creams,
skin bleaching products disguised as “brightening.”
Women told me, it’s our CHOICE to lighten our skin,
we do it for ourselves, because we like it.
Choice, choice, choice. Really?
I look at movies, magazine, books
featuring mainly light skin
and when I choose a lightening filter on my phone
it doesn’t feel like a choice.
Fast forward.
I went to elementary school
in the early 2000s era of pencil-thin eyebrows.
Henry in art class pointed out
the large Indian caterpillars on my face.
The girls around me chimed,
it’s our CHOICE to make our eyebrow thin.
We do it for ourselves, it’s daintier and more feminine.
But when I went home with shame
and ripped hair from my eyebrows with a nail cutter
it didn’t feel like a choice.
Ten years later, the white Cara Delevingne hit the runway
with her thick magnificent eyebrows, and
those same girls who used to laugh at my Indian brows
now spent a fortune trying to tattoo theirs darker.
It’s our CHOICE, they said.
Is it choice? Or a surrender to trends set by white people?
I remember this when my friend and I
get ready to go dancing.
I ask if we should wear matching dresses.
I wish, she says, but I haven’t shaved.
I’ll wear pants.
You don’t have to shave, I tell her.
It’s my CHOICE to shave, she says, I shave for myself.
But when she refuses to leave the house with exposed body hair,
covering her legs on a sunny day,
it doesn’t feel like a choice.
I think about it again when my friend
tells me about lasering her pubic hair.
It’s my CHOICE to remove it, she says, I do it for myself.
But when she tells me her boyfriend wants it that way,
it’s the Porn Standard after all,
and she tells me about her constant doctor’s appointments
because of all the infections she got from hair removal,
it doesn’t seem like a choice.
Choice, choice, choice.
An old word uttered through the eras.
How did these choices arise?
I read the history books.
Cleopatra removed her hair
but her slaves did not.
Is it a choice or is it a class distinction?
I read the history books.
In the 1800s Darwin inspired a racial hierarchy
with white and hairless as most civilized
and dark and hairy as most primitive.
Is it a choice or is it racism?
I read the history books.
Gillette expanded their market to women
in the 1900s by advertising that
female body hair is dirty, unfeminine.
Is it a choice or is it capitalism?
So no, it’s not a choice.
Until hairy-legged women
are as common as hairy-legged men,
shaving for femininity
only upholds the oppressive standard,
the lack of choice.
Choice, choice, choice.
We are entitled to choices about our own bodies,
I’ll say it again, I’ll say it forever:
We are entitled to choices about our own bodies.
This is a basic right, basic bodily autonomy.
But not all choice are equal.
Not all choices are feminist.
Choices don’t exist in a vacuum.
So what is choice feminism
but patriarchy by another name.
Our mainstream internalized misogyny,
a toothless, agreeable, depoliticized feminism
wherein we sit in a circle and congratulate each other
on all of our personal choices.
But the personal is political.
True feminism isn’t JUST about a woman’s right to choice
because some choices
perpetuate beauty standards that
oppress other women.
So I stand here before you a hypocrite,
because I spent years shaving.
Each day I picked up a razor,
each day I performed femininity,
and each day I wanted to scream:
every light-skinned woman’s
Choice to pick up a razor
impedes a dark-skinned woman’s
Choice to put down the razor.
In the era of Imane Khelif being called a man,
Michelle Obama an ape,
when they are simply women of color,
my dark skin apparently already makes me masculine.
I can’t afford to add my dark body hair to the mix.
So for me it’s not a choice,
It was never a choice,
I don’t HAVE a choice.
And until I do:
Fuck.
Choice.
Feminism.
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