Femininity is NOT weakness

When Hillary Clinton was running for office, some commented on her fashion, or lack thereof. Hillary dressed in predominantly dark pants suits. She was trying to do everything she could to make America forget that she is a woman. Questions, comments, and queries regarding fashion were never directed to her male competitors.

Showing one’s femininity is considered a weakness that is not suitable for high powered positions. America was distracted by her lack of femininity while at the same time undermining her capability as a strong leader because her womanly proclivities. I understand her dilemma. I dare say that all women experience this double standard. Unfortunately, there are few prominent females that can serve as examples, and they always endure the harshest criticisms.

Respect is earned by working hard, but it’s naïve to think that is the only quality that is noticed. I always feel like I need to be twice as good to gain the respect men receive. Therefore, it seemed to reason, that the way to mitigate this double standard, was to dull the apparent differences between me and my male counterparts. I, just as Hillary Clinton, fell in to the same gender-neutral-clothes-wearing trap.   I used to have a visceral reaction to all things ‘girly’ or pink. It personified all of the things that I was trying to evade. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever owned or wore anything pink until I was in my mid-twenties.

Femininity is, of course, more than just what you wear. Unfortunately, it is often limited to intangible descriptions such as maternal instincts, tender-hearted, soft, etc. The strength in a woman’s power is in its subtleties that are often overlooked and underappreciated. It doesn’t have the same in-your-face aggressiveness which sometimes overpowers the testosterone-filled workplace.  It is more than a just complement to machismo that creates harmony.  But the very nature of its elusive qualities makes it hard to perceive in its own right, let alone appreciate it.

Over the past two years, I’ve had a change of heart of how I identify with femininity. When I look around me, I see girls unconsciously being forced to make the same decision – embrace their femininity or to be taken seriously.  It breaks my heart to see their path being chosen without them understanding its implications.

I choose both.  I no longer try to hide the fact that I’m a woman. (Let’s be serious, I wasn’t fooling anybody and attempting to do so was only harming myself.)  I realized if I don’t make a stand to change how femininity is perceived, then who will? So, I choose to wear pink while boxing; I choose to wear skirts when I’m leading meetings. I choose to let myself be me. Now when I pass girls on the streets, I give them a knowing smile and hope they find their way. There is strength in femininity, and we should feel empowered by that, not ashamed. 

A Letter to the Racially Curious Stranger

Dear Curious Homogeneous Stranger,

I know my mixed features and ambiguously noncommittal brown skin intrigue you. I can see your eyes running inventory over my features, trying to figure me out.  An astute observer can recognize fairly quickly that I don’t check just one box on census forms. Either way, we invariably play a sometimes-too-lengthy game of ‘what-are-you?-No-I-mean-where-are-you-from?-No- I-mean-what-is-your-origin?’

My ethnicity will be compared to any place home to vaguely brown-skinned people. I can see the curiosity building as you list off all of the countries you know. For good measure, you may even switch into a different language as if you might trick me into revealing my true identity.

I see the bewildered and slightly disappointed expression when you discover the truth. “But you don’t look Ethiopian”. I see you are trying to reconcile my face with your previous experiences with mixed race people, but I assure I do not look like the other mixed raced girl that you randomly met once at a coffee shop, nor am I related to her. Still unconvinced, you prod me into persuading you about the legitimacy of my ethnicity, demanding a family tree history, complete with names, hometowns, and professions. I do this in vain because I still won’t fit in your narrow conception of race. Please note that your curiosity is no longer mildly amusing but offensive despite your good or innocent intentions. Furthermore, please understand that the world is not always black and white, even though, ironically, I am.

Sincerely,

Racially Ambiguous

What is International Women's Day?

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to be amongst ministers and high-level government officials attending the 14^th annual Delhi Sustainable Development Summit. The conference showcased a host of highly recognizable names, including Kofi Annan as the keynote speaker.

 

As one of only a few women in my office, I am always acutely aware of the gender disparity around me. Upon first glance, I was excited to see so many young women attending the conference.

However, once the conference began, those women disappeared. I realized that those women were the organizers; the women behind the scenes. They introduced the sessions, welcomed the speakers and moderated the discussions. They were in essence, transition women. Their value was held in their ability to make sessions to run smoothly, rather than to share their knowledge or experience. Their superficial presence was an attempt to placate gender advocates with a thin façade of allowing women to be present without actually participating.

A feeble attempt to include gender sensitivity in the conference was to include a gender panel discussion. Seemingly an afterthought, the session was in the afternoon of the last day with five of the six panelists being men. It was clear from their presentations that there were just as surprised to be presenting, as we were to hear them.

There is something incredibly frustrating about International Women’s Day. Perhaps it’s the patronizing way that the day is honored. It reminds me of the older man in my office, telling me that I’m beautiful. I feel like I should be flattered, but its delivery rubs me the wrong way.

I asked around the office about the significance of the International Women’s Day. What is women’s day? What is the purpose? My admiring colleague told me “It’s a day that men sleep under the bed”. While others told me that “it’s just a reason to have a party.” Their incredulous stares made it clear that the intention of the day has nothing to do with promoting women’s equality.

Nonetheless, Addis Ababa was a flurry with events throughout the city. My organization, not to be outdone by the potential PR buzz of International Women’s Day, is hosting its own event.

My organization will invite dignitaries and their wives to plant trees. Admittedly, I work for an environmental think tank and re-greening initiatives are a part of our mandate. However, I must admit that I was disappointed with the superficial and uninspired attempt at promoting gender equality. Here we are, an environmental think tank, with a plethora of evidence indicating how the adverse effects of climate change and environmental degradation disproportionately affects women.

As if that weren’t compelling enough, we are surrounded by examples of those effects on a daily basis. We live in a city where women walk 5-10 kilometers a day down the mountain with several kilos of firewood on their back. We live in a city where pollution from burning plastic and exhaust hangs heavy in the air. We live in a city with nearly no green spaces for its 4 million occupants.  We live in a city with landfills that house hundreds of residents within its confines. The effects of poor environmental management have palpable consequences on women and our response is to have a photo opportunity with an ambassador’s wife planting trees.

It feels like the Delhi conference all over again. Women are in the room but not in any empowered capacity. I’m disappointed that at 2014, we are still having the same conversations about gender inequality, yet not at all surprised since this is the superficial approach we take at addressing the issue. 

It is another missed opportunity.

Last night I watched a man die.

Yesterday, I was having a shitty day that seemed to keep getting worse. I left work early because it was too frustrating to be in the office. Feeling a bit emotional, I resisted the urge to drink at three in the afternoon. After a good cry, I resolved to attend a circuits class to get out some pent up restless energy.

Totally unmotivated to go workout, I somehow managed to convince 2 friends to join me so I wouldn't back out. After the warm up, I'm feeling the endorphins running through my veins and I'm starting to feel better; happy with my decision to stay sober and have a productive outlet.

For those who’ve never done circuits training, but it can be a bit intense. It's not uncommon for people to stop and rest while others continue on. So no one took extra notice when an older man sat down in the corner for rest. He was laying down on a push cart with his arms splayed to the side. A few people periodically checked up on him and then hopped back in the training circuit.

A few more minutes passed and people stayed by his side longer than normal. A small crowd grew around him. His face turned a ghostly white. His hands locked up in a claw position.  He started convulsing. His breathing stopped...

The rest of us were remotely aware that something terrible was happening in the far dark corner, but we couldn't really see. He was wheeled out of the corner. Not handicap accessible, he couldn't be rolled out of the gym. In the doorway, someone started giving him CPR. Panic started to escalate as the seconds tick by and reality of the severity of the situation sunk in. He was still not breathing.

People frantically tried to locate emergency numbers to call an ambulance. A few people try to counter the naive Western assumption that an ambulance would come in a timely manner. A few of us gently urged to take him immediately to hospital instead of waiting. The idea was rejected for fear of stopping CPR would do more damage.

The air being forced into his lunges gurgled out, as if rejected by his body. Someone took off his sneakers to help circulation. 

After several calls, an ambulance was dispatched. His chest heaved from the chest compressions. Finally, consensus was reached that it was better to take him to the hospital in a private car rather than wait for an ambulance that has been known to take up to 3 hours to arrive. The group continued to move with haste, but whispers had already infiltrated their thoughts. It was too late. He was already dead.

They lifted the pushcart and carried him to a pickup truck, where they continued to do CPR. They sped off into the night.

As I stood staring at his forgotten sneakers strewn on the cold pavement, I could hear the shrill ambulance siren in the distance.

When people ask me what is the hardest thing about living in Ethiopia, my answer is not expected food-related answer. Instead, I find that the hardest thing about living in Ethiopia is being constantly faced with your own mortality.

It’s too hard to accept the fragility of our existence; our solace lies in the routine of our expectations. Only when something shakes us from this monotony, can we see how quickly misfortune can happen; how quickly we can lose everything. But humans are incredibly resilient.  Our coping mechanisms are quick to suppress the revelation, as it disrupts our comforting concept of reality.