Kassandra's Notes

Do you know that feeling? You get up in the morning, pick out an outfit and feel great in your own skin. You choose something that makes you feel amazing! An outfit that shows everyone your confidence! Your love for your body! Only you can decide which side of yourself you want to show the world. With this choice, you can influence the first impression that others have of you. This is what everyone will use to judge you at first. They’ll decide whether they like or hate you. Whether you’re a s**t or a slug. They will have an opinion of you. Hopefully, you’ll never find out. Why would anyone want to hear criticism that devalues our personal choices? These choices define us and shape how we perceive ourselves. If you’re curious, you can always ask. But I wouldn’t recommend it. For the slight chance of gaining recognition for your own style, it’s not worth bargaining. I don’t want to hear a little voice in my head telling me that something looks wrong. This little voice will haunt me whenever I choose any part of this outfit again.

Anyway, why am I telling you this? I recently bought a few new skirts. Most of my old skirts either didn’t fit my body anymore, or they just didn’t suit me. I felt comfortable and empowered in every single one of these skirts because I felt like myself. None of the skirts stood out to me. But I felt great in all of them. So I thought one of them would be the right choice for Father’s Day. My father and I haven’t spoken for years. However, I have the greatest grandfather in the world. We celebrated the day with my closest family members: my mum, my grandmother and grandfather, my uncle and aunt, and my two little cousins. But the voice that haunts this sweet, white skirt — the one that makes me feel great in my own body — is that of my uncle.

After a celebratory lunch at our favorite pizza restaurant, we went to my grandparents’ house for cake. As soon as we had settled into the living room, my uncle suddenly asked me how long I had been wearing such girly skirts. If you want to know since when, then the answer is since always. I like girly, pink, princess-style things. And I’m absolutely happy with that. This skirt is nothing out of the ordinary. I confirmed this to my uncle, who has known me since birth. I couldn’t even finish a sentence before my uncle stopped me.

You know, that’s really anti-feminist of you!

Excuse me! How is wearing a skirt anti-feminist? I chose to wear my skirt that I bought with my money I earned from my job. In what way is that anti-feminist?

I asked him. I can’t know what goes on in his head. But since I was a little girl, my uncle has kind of been my hero, along with my grandfather. It’s not that my female family members weren’t worthy of being called heroes. They are all amazing in their own way, especially my mother. But there was always a rift between the subjects that fascinated me. My uncle studied politics, economics and philosophy. As a child, he seemed to know everything I wanted to know. All the knowledge in the world. Now, however, as a young woman, I realize that he doesn’t know everything. However, he possesses a certain type of knowledge that impresses a young girl who knows nobody else with it. So I couldn’t compare his knowledge to that of others who would feed my thirst for knowledge. I’m not holding my uncle to the same high standards I held him to as a child, but in my heart he’s still my hero who helped me discover the world. His voice and opinion matter to me. Well, and now his opinion follows my skirt everywhere.

You know, your skirt is a symbol of the oppression of women. It’s like all the Muslim women who freely wear hijabs — they are oppressing themselves. By wearing it, you’re showing everyone that you’re following the rules that patriarchy has given you. So you’re oppressing yourself.

Excuse me … again!

How dare he suggest that I’m oppressing myself by submitting to the patriarchy? As far as I know — please correct me if I’m wrong — feminism means I have a choice. I have an opinion. I can express this opinion however I want. If I want to be a 1950s housewife with 12 kids, then so be it. If I want to work as a mathematician, I might not have the brains for it, but I could if I wanted to. If I want to look fu**ing adorable in a cute little white skirt, I can absolutely do it, because it’s my choice that matters. Feminism should value the voices and choices of all women rather than being defined by the stigmas imposed on women in the past.

I’m so thankful to the last few generations of feminists who paved the way for us into the future. But the idea of defying femininity is, to be honest, outdated. You can be a feminist and a feminine woman at the same time. Of course, there are many feminists who aren’t particularly feminine, and that’s fine because it’s the choice that matters. Unfortunately, this is the origin of my uncle’s problem with my skirt: an outdated form of feminism in modern times. I don’t think my uncle knows. His idea is beyond the expiration date. Time has passed, and I don’t think he’s really noticed that the ’90s are well and truly over. I can’t really be angry with him for that. But I’m hurt.

Well, this whole discussion with my uncle feels like it took just a few seconds, but in reality it was more like a ten-minute monologue from him. I can’t remember most of what he said. But I know that he didn’t let me say a single sentence. I can’t say that I’ve ever felt like someone has mansplained something to me, except my uncle. Hopefully that won’t change, because the thought of experiencing something like that in my professional life one day is dreadful. Anyway, every time I talk to my uncle now, he does it. I don’t know why he thinks he has to do that. But it hurts. I’m a grown woman with my own experiences, and I would never want to make someone feel like their opinion doesn’t matter. We’ve got a godfather-goddaughter date in a month, so I think this is “to be continued”. We’ll see how it goes.

And regarding the skirt: As a feminist, I will continue to wear it, even if I hear that voice in my head telling me that I’m oppressing myself. The only way I would be oppressing myself is if I stopped wearing it because a man told me to.