My Feminism Is A Grave In My School

By Krati Gahlot

My feminism is a grave in my school.

Dug really deep.

They started digging the pit before I arrived.

My feminism was alive for a while.

It was breathing when I could play with the boys,

when birthdays meant we could wear what we wanted,

when our uniforms were not designed to cover our bosoms,

when we could sit on swings,

come down from slides

and jump into pools without thinking twice.

My feminism was slowly poisoned.

I was given a drug,

that categorised the good and bad girls.

It was a rule book

that measured characters by the length of our skirts,

or by the paint on our nails,

or by the socks folded till ankles.

When the problems of boys were not even allowed to reach the surface.

What they faced is still behind a smokescreen

because boys already had to be men-in-making.

My feminism was a teenager.

My feminism definitely was a teenager, because it could only see the world

where feminism was about

the length of skirts, painted nails, ankle socks and character assassinations.

It died a teenager because it could not grow up to see

the struggles at every step,

the world where every choice is a voice raised,

a shackle thrown off.

Was an early death a blessing?

I shudder to think.

My feminism was nicely tucked in the coffin.

But its soul left when the reins of patriarchy were handed to me.

When I was the all-powerful girl,

who had learnt all the rules by heart.

Who gave lectures to other women,

about the length of their skirts,

the paint on their nails,

or those socks folded at ankles.

The powerful girl,

entrusted to judge other girls,

their characters,

shame them for their choices,

stifled under the garb of discipline,

who basically was THE good girl

as everyone else was OBVIOUSLY A SLUT.

By the way, did you notice men figuring out there?

I think I left them quite behind.

That is how the demarcation was made.

My feminism is a grave in my school.

I visited it again.

But this time, I made sure to plant a sapling.

Because, when the flowers will bloom,

they will smile at the epitaph that says

‘My feminism will find its way back from this grave in my school.’

By Krati Gahlot