Don't be so sensitive
Female rage, from a woman of color
Don't make it a big deal, don't be so sensitive
We're not playing a game anymore
You don't have to be so defensive
— Fiona Apple, “Sleep to Dream”
If Fiona Apple has taught me anything, it’s that people are extraordinary at making others feel bad. And the ones that are hurt take it lying down, because that’s a normal human reaction. Being sad is acceptable and warrants you comfort from an unnamed stranger, a pat on the back from someone else, a source of pity.
Well, Fiona Apple has also taught me another human reaction—which is to be angry. We, as people, condemn anger more than we do sadness. Because to be sad is to be soft, to be weak, to be a woman, and to hold anger is to be strong, to be fearful, to be a man. Because anger leads to destruction more than it does sadness, somehow, and is a more powerful driving force. Because anger is loud, and girls are supposed to be quiet.
Girls are allowed to be hysterical only to a certain degree. Only when it doesn’t threaten other people, when it fits inside of society’s imposed limits. You can cry, because that’s just what girls do. You’re supposed to let bygones be bygones when someone has done you wrong—after all, it’s a woman’s job to forgive and forget. Women are supposed to be prim and perfect, never leaving any room for flaws while we excuse men for the things they throw at us when their days and nights end poorly.
Forgive and forget. A bastardization of growth to counter a woman’s control over her life. How many times can we forgive before you realize we do not believe forgetfulness to be a requirement? Before you realize we do not speak in dulcet tones and act all demure the way you want us to? Should we manipulate ourselves into believing that we deserve the shitty treatment others hand to us on a silver platter? Should we dumb ourselves down and make ourselves fit these boxes and labels just to please you—daughter, mother, sister, girlfriend, wife? Perhaps, to cater to the white male gaze, should I apply myself to become the soft, feminine, pale Asian girl? Passive, docile, subservient, agreeable yet sexy, alluring, mysterious all at once?
Because to be a woman is to be just that and only that. To be a woman of color is to be labeled marginalized and a victim on top of that. The deeper you feel, the less the world is willing to understand you. You are supposed to be surface-level and bat your doe eyes to get what you want, not work towards it the way men do.
Still, today, I unironically hear—I’m just a girl, big girl job, girl math. ‘For the girls’ and it is really just a dumbed down analysis of a concept, idea, belief. Pink is girl, blue is boy, and anything else is strange.
Fine. You can choose whichever life you want—after all, that is the goal of feminism, a woman’s right to choose.
(But sometimes people tell me to ‘just marry rich’ as a nice piece of advice. I often want to throttle them and rock them back and forth with my hands on their shoulders, repeatedly shouting in anger, are you insane? I wonder what I do to make someone believe I want my entire life to be dictated by another person, especially a man, acting as though submission is power.) You can choose to be in a ‘traditional’ role. But saying things like you are just a girl is degrading to the others who are trying to free themselves from what a patriarchal society has imposed.
People believe that embracing femininity is, in turn, embracing softness and sensitivity and lightheartedness. What makes you believe that is all women are supposed to be? Women are naturally empathetic and made to be mothers? While men are born to be leaders and dominant, women are supposed to sit back and be happy in their manmade role in this world, which is to carry children and bear the pain of birth.
I’m just a girl, big girl job, girl math.
What you really mean is infantilize me, belittle me, make me fragile.
A woman of color is not allowed to say I’m just a girl. Because we were never allowed to be just girls, to exist in a world where the odds are stacked against us yet we actively try to reverse it anyway, to see pink when the stores grant us purple, red, green, yellow, and any other color in the rainbow, to be able to afford to tear our eyes away from what we were given once born. All the world sees of us is a blot on the page, walking wombs, skin a different, odder color than the others, features aligned incorrectly. A culture that sticks out like an annoying protrusion, poking at places meant to address that is stamped out like the embers of a dying fire. Because people hate what they cannot understand, what goes against their previous knowledge. Because women of color hold a strength inequitable to anything else, yet women alone are meant to be weak. When we hold a frown on our faces, we are told to smile more, that we would be prettier if we did. And when was the last time you hear this being said to a man?
As an Asian alone, woman aside, I am supposed to be good at math, science, and everything in between—I am supposed to blend in with my white counterparts and other Asians who say slurs unashamedly just to fit in. I’m not supposed to stand apart. I am simply made to fit the mold of the model minority and make a mockery of other cultures to cope with the fact that I come from Asian immigrants. A disconnect from American culture and a desperate need to belong and cater to the white gaze, that is what I am supposed to hold. I’m supposed to bleach my hair blonde, call myself a jungle Asian, throw out random Vietnamese curse words in a crude accent, major in a STEM field to appease my family while remaining bitter towards others, turn my nose up at cultural foods, stay in a monoracial friend group, and never learn a single word of my own language. I’m supposed to reap all the benefits of the pride that comes with being Asian while actively harming others. I’m supposed to remain ignorant on social issues and put up with the stereotypes others inflict. Because it’s all in good fun if it’s for a white person. They want me to think, progress is only progress when it benefits me.
My own mother told me, from a young age—don’t get married, don’t have kids. Now, this is not to say she regrets either of those two choices she made, but she is making sure that I know I am not burdened to go down that same path. I am not required to fall under these expectations. Because she gave me life, moved to another country, learned another language, and still works long hours in a labor-intensive job, just to ensure that I have a choice. And to coast on the idea that I can take the easy way out, is unbelievable to me, because she passed down her own sacrifices to me. Why would I not want to expand upon that? To not take advantage of the opportunities presented towards me?
Somehow, the idea of someone, especially a woman, wanting to work is inconceivable. Why in the world would you put in labor when you could ‘take the easy way out’? I am still questioning why I would consider a life with no effort, no purpose, no reason the easy way out. Yes, I complain, and yes, I do it anyway. Because, to me, this is a form of liberation, of motivation, where I cannot afford to stop or stoop below standards. There is one thing I am familiar with—the concept of putting a mountain of effort in to even tread my way to success. The hand that life has dealt me is this: you either work, or you die. There is no waiting around for someone rich to swoop in and save me. (I wouldn’t even want that, anyway, because being indebted to someone is a burden on my shoulders.) I pave my own path, or I stay unsatisfied until time ends. And I owe myself some form of satisfaction for what an unlucky hand I have been given. That is what I know.
There is no ‘easy way out’ for a woman of color.
Our birthright is pain. Because, as the popular monologue in the show Fleabag states, women are born with pain built in. Periods, sore boobs, childbirth. And men create ways to feel emotions that women have felt their entire lives. They start wars, they start violent sports, they take drugs to obtain a higher meaning, they maneuver themselves to feel basic guilt and empathy. Men invent ways to make themselves feel bad, while women don’t even need a reason to. Because emotional intelligence is engrained inside of us.
But what would I know? I’m just a girl.
I resent you for being raised right
I resent you for being tall
I resent you for never getting any opposition at all
I resent you for having each other
I resent you for being so sure
I resent you presenting your life
Like a fucking propaganda brochure
Evil is a relay sport
When the one who's burned, turns to pass the torch
— Fiona Apple, “Relay”
beautiful