‘God, You’re Not One of Those Feminists, Are You?’: The Filthiest Word in England
By Lauren Lewis
I’ve had many a derogatory phrase thrown my way – whore, slut, slag, bimbo. Sometimes guys can even get a little creative. Harlot. Wench. Strumpet. I’ve been called a conniving little bitch, two shags short of a prostitute. But when men really want to hit a girl where it hurts – or, at least, where they think it hurts – they start throwing the ‘f’ word around.
The disdain towards feminists is nothing new. We’re all recipients of that same query, ‘God, you’re not one of those feminists, are you?’, and the sigh of, ‘I hate feminists’ from an uninformed sister. But my move from London to rural England led me to the not-so-ground-breaking realisation that the road to gender equality is nowhere near as far along as I thought.
I’m stood behind a bar – a beloved village pub where I work all week – in clothes I feel most comfortable in. Today, I wear a lacy corset top, a pair of pinstripe trousers and a sheer, black shawl. I look a little witchy. A reject from the cast of The Craft perhaps, and I feel good. Paired with my smoky eyeliner and razor-sharp contour, I expect the usual comments from village locals regarding my appearance. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ (I’ve been running around for three hours) and ‘Is it Halloween already?’ (He’s dressed like an extra in Seven Brides and Seven Brothers). I have a comeback for everything. A smartass quip with a toss of my hair. It’s only when a hand reaches out and unhooks my top that I am left speechless.
My boss, Lindsay, comes in at just the right moment – she’s young, but strong. A force to be reckoned with. She takes the man with the wandering hand aside and scolds him, her Welsh accent getting stronger with every attempted interruption he executes. As she snatches his pint glass and guides my shaking self behind the bar, he hurls the worst possible curse word our way – the Voldemort of all labels:
‘Fuckin’ feminists,’ he spits, and an amalgamation of growls and gasps erupt from his corner of the pub.
It is then that I realise where I am. They disguise it well: the slight chuckle after every questionable comment, the sea of chunky sweaters and colourful wellies. Anyone passing through would believe they’re simply in an isolated corner of the world. The quintessential rural village. No internet, one speculates – perhaps they still use a town crier. I, too, was misled, but this place is no Stars Hollow. It’s the 1950s. Salem, during the witch trials. A land crawling with Adele Ratignolles and Mina Harkers.
New wives are judged on what they cook and the quality of it. Women are disgraced for drinking out of a pint glass because it’s unladylike. Don’t talk about aging or menopause or childbirth – it’s disturbing. If your husband doesn’t cheat on you, count yourself lucky. If he does, it was probably your fault. Queerness is reduced to greediness; a woman’s success is diminished by speculation on who she’s sleeping with. And being called a feminist? It’s like being brandished with a hot iron. I felt naïve and defeated, attacked by a word I’d always loved.
Later that night, I’m sat in Lindsay and bar manager Alice’s apartment discussing the encounter. This is our sanctuary, our place of refuge. Every snide remark, dirty look and mere semblance of assholery has been dissected in this room, beneath a poster that reads: They can’t burn us all. Most nights, these debriefs are filled with an emboldening anger. An array of, ‘fuck them’s and ‘screw that’s thrown left, right and centre, but punctuated with laughter. Me, parading around the flat with a cigarette in hand, an electricity permeating the room that makes me excited to be a woman in revolt.
But tonight, I’m quiet. I curl up into Alice’s Hufflepuff blanket and an Old English Sheepdog and wonder things that would’ve made my past self from that morning utterly furious. The girls ask what I’m thinking, and I admit – albeit ashamedly – that I think it’s my fault. Our own form of blasphemy.
‘I shouldn’t dress like this anymore, should I?’ I should be quieter, shouldn’t I? I resolve that I’ll be smaller, less opinionated, less noticeable, less bubbly. Just when I’m at work. Just when I’m around men like these, and the women that agree with them. It’s not too much of a sacrifice, is it? It’s fine. I’ll be less.
And they say, almost instantly, ‘How is that going to change anything?’ and reel off the spiel about self-worth and my feminine power, like a beautiful incantation. And of course, they’re right. Alas, the man with the wandering hand remains dominant in my brain. The way he spat the title I’ve always been proud to have, how others agreed, makes me wonder how many other corners of the world possess people like this. Armies of assholes. Misogynistic militias. It fills me with despair. I question why we do it, why we bother if ‘feminist’ is simply another word that can be used against us, even now.
And then I look up at my girls. The women this rural village has led me to. Lindsay, who loves her friends fiercely. Alice, who can protect me better than any man I’ve met. Women who, in the face of all this bleakness, will shine a spotlight on me and exclaim, ‘This is who she is. If you don’t like it, shut up and fuck off.’ I wonder, with a shimmer of hope, in how many corners of the world there are covens of women like us trying to make a difference.
Having conversations with those who don’t understand, arguing with people who refuse to try. The women who stand with you through the mockery, the tears, the misery and the terror. And I realise, with vigour, that if this feminism business – this filthy word, this outrageous brand – leads us to women such as these… Well. It all must be worth it, mustn’t it?
Lauren Lewis (she/her) is a writer focusing on women’s issues, sex, modern relationships and mental health in both literary fiction and non-fiction forms. Drawing on her own experiences, Lauren desires to normalise topics which often go undiscussed in mainstream media. She is a self-proclaimed enchilada enthusiast.