I sat staring at the words, at the page that contained the depressing truth.
“It appears that more girls have been killed in the last fifty years, precisely because they were girls, than men were killed in all the battles of the twentieth century. More girls are killed in this routine ‘genocide’ in any one decade than people were slaughtered in all the genocides of the twentieth century” (Kristof and WuDunn 2009, xvii).
After studying sexual exploitation, rape, poverty, and abuse, I should not be shocked by this kind of information. And yet I am. Except this time, my pain, my despair is more visceral.
I put down the book and watch the two boys I am babysitting karate chop and kick each other. Inhaling the crisp October air, I snuggle in my jacket and try to exhale all my despair, frustration, and hopelessness. Just like in the movies, this eerie, chilly Fall day, which is rare in Southern California, matched my mood.
Watching these two six-year-old boys play while contemplating the plight of girl-children and women around the world seemed to be like wearing bright clothes at a funeral- inappropriate and yet somewhat hopeful. I was also very aware of the divide between them and myself. Woman and boys. Girl and boy.
No, I have not been sexually exploited or forced to work in a factory for 20 hours a day for little wages. I do not claim to understand the trauma of such atrocities, however, I still feel connected to these women. In fact, I feel connected to the women around the world because of what author Sue Monk Kidd describes as the “feminine wound” in her book, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter. The feminine wound, meaning women’s experiences of inferiority in a patriarchal world. A woman living in a man’s world. Psychotherapist Anne Wilson Schaef describes this concept by stating,
“To be born female in this culture means that you are born ‘tainted,’ that there is something intrinsically wrong with you that you can never change, that your birthright is one of innate inferiority. I am not implying that this must remain so. I do believe that we must know this and understand it as a given before it can be worked through” (Schaef 1981, 27).
I close my eyes, allowing the wind to caress my face as the words “tainted” and “inferior” reverberate in my mind. Hugging my knees closer to my chest for warmth, I felt as though I was trying to hug myself and, in turn, hug each and every single girl and woman. This feminine wound is deep. It cannot be healed with a band-aide or even stitches because it is ripped open over and over again with each injustice. Every time a woman is paid less than a man, every time a girl is raped, and every time a man receives food and medical attention instead of a woman, the wound is slashed deeper and wider.
The gut-wrenching burn of truth and indignation rose within me, contrasting the chill of the afternoon. These truths, these sad realities keep sinking deeper into me, intertwining with my own struggles. Over the past few years, I’ve confronted my own difficult realities. Actually, I still am. These realities are rooted deep in this wound- the feminine wound.
The boys’ laughter broke my concentration. I got up from the steps and paced around a bit, hoping to warm my body and still my soul. I knew, though, that my soul was not going to be calm. I was furious. I am furious. I am livid with the lies, the situations, the injustices. Both men and women make sure the wound stays raw. I can blame it on culture or the sinfulness of humanity, but I simply know that it continues. “It” meaning injustice, inferiority, lies, skewed perspectives, and misconceptions about being a girl, a woman.
Worthless. Not skinny enough. Not curvy enough. Not pretty enough. Inferior. Needs a man. Needs children. Less than. Not worthy of food, medicine, care, money, and education. Not important. These are the messages of “it.”
Reflecting on my feminine wound, I shudder at my life before I recognized what “it” was and before I began working on exposing the lies that I had labeled truth. My feminine wound was first sliced into me with a culture that denied women leadership and equal opportunities, especially in the Church. It became larger and deeper as I fell into a generational pattern of self-loathing and self-criticism about who I am as a person and as a woman.
I ache for the young Ashley, wishing she would know what I know now. That she would see the wound and tend to it as much as she is capable. I ache for the women who still live in these lies and who are captive to system that demeans them and rapes (figuratively and literally) them of life. My gut becomes nauseous out of compassion for the women who feel they need a man to whistle at them or fondle their bodies in order to feel beautiful. My heart stops in terror when I think about the girls who are sold and resold, enduring hours and hours of rape. My head pounds when I realize the domino affect of such wounds, of my wounds, also.
PTSD. Eating disorders. Self-harm. Self-hatred. Low self-esteem. Suicide. Neglect. Death.
Yet, my heart is soothed when I hear of a girl who escapes from a brothel and survives and thrives from the earnings of her own retail business, when I hear of a girl fighting her eating disorder through healthy eating habits and understanding her beauty and worth, when I hear of a man treating a woman as an intellectual equal and not as a body for his pleasure, and when I view myself as worthy and valuable simply because God made me.
Looking at my phone, I realize it is time for the parents to be home soon. So I intercept the ninja game and usher the rowdy boys inside. The warm air of the house meets my wind blown cheeks and, for some reason, at this moment, I knew I had changed. While I have drastically changed this past year through reflection and processing, this hour of reflection marked a shift in my life. For the first time, I didn’t just feel like a strong woman. I knew I was a strong woman. A strong woman with a blazing passion to see relationships restored and the feminine wounds healed.
Kristof, N. and Sheryl WuDunn. 2009. Half the sky: Turning oppression into opportunity for women worldwide. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.
Schaef, Anne W. 1981. Women’s reality: An emerging female system in a white mate society. San Francisco: Harper & Row.
