“I’d like to go on birth control,” I said to my mom one day, standing in the kitchen after helping her out with dinner. I did not say that I was sexually active (although I wanted to start having sex at the time), nor did I give any other reason for my wish to start popping those expensive pills.
I was entering a new relationship. I had never had sex before, and one of my greatest fears in life is having a baby. For that reason, I wanted to find the right birth control for me. I began the conversation with my Republican, conservative, Catholic mother knowing that it might be awkward. I figured my parents would not be pleased with this decision of mine to not wait to have sex before marriage, but I did not anticipate the blatantly sexist response that I received, and the emotional abuse I continued to suffer for months after the fact.
Let’s begin with the fact that I was nineteen years old. I’d just begun a relationship that I was very positive and happy about. I had the title of “good girl” almost all of my life. I received only A’s, read books vivaciously, participated in extra-curriculars, went to church every Sunday and complied with my parents’ archaic household rules. But these are only behaviors that were once attributed to me. According to society, these attributes spoke nothing of my character or integrity as a person, as a woman, which was evident by the way my parents’ perspective of me changed.
As soon as I worded my way around the fact that I would probably start having sex, my parents changed their mind about this “good girl.” I became a daughter that was a disappointment, ruined, wasting her life on boys, a girl who didn’t focus on the important things in life (like school and homework) and who was straying away from the family path. The days I needed a ride to Walgreen’s to pick up my birth control were days of the silent treatment, raised eyebrows and passive aggressive comments. I was not asked about my relationship, my feelings, my love or how my days went. I became a person that my mom and dad could try and change, rebuild and re-inspire to join the Catholic faith and adopt their traditions once more.
There were nights my mother cried about my actions. She cried because she lost her little girl. She cried because I left the faith. She cried because my body was no longer an extension of hers. I began to take control of my behavior, although I still could not really afford to pay $30 per month for the use of my own body on my own. The monthly fee of female independence further discriminates between class lines.
I began to rebel, for complete lack of a better word. I was entering the stage of developing a complex and wonderful sex life. In so many cultures, this is considered sinful, taboo, wrong. By stripping away your clothes and joining your body with another person for no other reason than love or personal pleasure, you are committing a grave sin. This makes logical sense to some.
I was torn. I was a young woman in the throes of love, while at the same time being in the pits of despair when her body was in contestation to her loving, caring parents. I understand that my mother and father wanted what was best for me. Most parents do. While they may have meant well, they did not do well in this stage of parenting. But I do not blame them one ounce. They did not want me becoming pregnant, contracting an STD, or becoming disappointing with my love life and feeling used. All these were possible outcomes of having sex. But they also did not want me losing my value in society.
As we read and laugh about the archaic ways men and women viewed female virginity in days and literature of old, we neglect to see those blood splattered bed sheets still blowing in the wind as they hang off the balconies of those members of society today who cannot let go of the past. We profess to be liberal and progressive, but we call out celebrities and public figures and call them “sluts.” In so many ways, our bodies are still not our own. The parades and marches of the proud women before us led to legalized birth control, and more well educated women. And yet, I still have to spend $30 per month for the use of my vagina, and my friends still text me pictures asking if their skirts are “too revealing” or their shirts too low.
For months my mom would remind me to be careful. My dad would mention other female family friends who have had more than a few boyfriends and therefore had to settle in marriage because “no one would later want them.” My parents constantly bombarded me with these opinions, and they became emotionally abusive. I liked to have sex...did that make me a slut?
No. It made me a human being who identifies as a woman, who happens to enjoy having sex for reasons other than to procreate.
I wanted to have a relationship with my mother again. I yearned for the days when I could discuss boys with my mom over a cup of tea. A few months later when my relationship started falling apart, I was in pain and cried over the fact that I couldn’t turn to the one person who could help me. I was depressed and I wanted my mother. But my mother would only look at me and say, “I told you so.”
Our bodies are still not our own. Our bodies are battlefields in which personal and public wars are being played out. Our bodies are being fought for on the street as we’re catcalled by passersby, in our homes as our very own parents slut shame us, by our churches who shackle us to their paradigms, and by Supreme Court justices, half of which probably don’t even know what a clitoris is. More importantly, however, our bodies are being used and abused by our very selves as we ruthlessly judge other women for the choices they make with their bodies.
In my challenges, I have learned that one way to combat the shame and pain inflicted upon us is to turn to other women. We must turn to one another and offer discussion and avid listening. Listen to other women’s family situations, faiths, restrictions, rules and plans. Listen and try to understand where all these regulations upon our bodies are coming from. Perhaps once we see the hidden sexist agendas in both our courtrooms and at our dinner tables, we can begin to heal our minds and hearts from this shame and begin refining our society into a true habitat of equality.