Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me. 

I have begun to recognize there is a sector of psuedo-feminist academia in which I hope to never enter. See, I have started to notice an increasing crop of so-called "feminsts" who ascribe to the belief that feminism is marked by gestures which are brash, loud and unabashedly ugly. Obviously, I can recognize the certain legitimacy behind this sector and where the disgust towards anything else stems from.

When you have been sentenced to silence for so long, screaming is the logical response.

As well, what is ugly? Who has defined it? Injected the notion of what is markedly beautiful into society?

Like my mother constantly points out - were we to all exist on a deserted island, would any of these things matter?

Well, I say definitely!

Okay...maybe.

As a woman I have been both subliminally indoctrinated and force fed images which tell me my most redeeming and worthwhile quality is the ability to be found attractive by the opposite sex. These standards, as we know, have all been dictated by men. Specifically heterosexual, cisgendered men who are hardly bothered to understand the importance of exfoliation and long-term benefit of moisturizing. Mind, I am reluctantly and forcibly heterosexual, so there was a point in my life where this propaganda held a lot of weight. However, at my big, grown age, I simply refuse to center my person or decision-making process around any individual who shakes and does not wipe after they pee.

Like Orlan said, "the body is but a costume," and in aligning with the culture and legacy of loud and proud Black womanhood that shaped and centers me, I like to dress mine up with big hair, loud colors and garish jewelry. Thusly, in acknowledging that I am not part of the predominant image or seen as a vocal asset of contemporary, Western 'feminist' culture, I consider and classify myself as a womanist - specifically one who likes to get cute for herself and herself only.

But introspection requires that I ask: am I really?

Yes, because I say I am.

As well, I do not make centering the opinions of men, women or any other the driving force behind my actions.

I do not ascribe to others' preconceived notions about myself, and I no longer care to. And this is where my disconnect with this particular breed of male-centric, mildly misogynistic "feminism" stems from.

With this pseudo-feminism, I have felt suffocated under an undercurrent of heavy handed beliefs which dictate there is no such thing as a woman doing things simply for her own enjoyment. No matter how many times we shout and advocate the importance of doing things simply for ourselves or our own pleasure, I feel there is always a ravenous shadow of doubt lurking behind us - just waiting to prove how false the sentiment is. Always ready to attack and snack on our shame.

Pair this with a condescending-mother level of dictation that comes with the shock and disgust that I do not follow their rules, I remove myself of these ideologies and these spaces. Of course, I must recognize my complaints are not made in ignorance of the plenty contemporary, hypervisible psuedo-feminist ideologies which remain centered around every gaze but the female as an individual - sometimes the anger is valid. However, I am not going to be told that I am a bad feminist (which I am not, so it doesn't even apply) every time I glide that Fenty Beauty gloss bomb across my lips.

I am a womanist and I do's what I please's.