review

My “Lady Bird” Film Review

I’ve been fancying myself with writers and narratives that capture the facets of female complexity. Fittingly, while sitting in the quant Ottawa Bytowne Theatre awaiting the start of “Lady Bird”, I read the first pages of “Slouching Towards Bethlehem” by Joan Didion, a prominent thinker and writer of the late twentieth century, who also happened to be a woman. A few moments later, a 1979 epigraph by Didion would fade onto the screen in black and white:

“Anybody who talks about California hedonism has never spent Christmas in Sacramento.”

lady bird 5Director Greta Gerwig and Joan Didion, I would later find out are both from Sacramento. As with Christine McPherson, but as she so often corrects people, is Lady Bird – a name “given to me by me”, she explains. And that sets the premise for the story: a girl who demands a different flavour of life from the one the one that was given to her.

Before her directorial debut with Lady Bird, Greta Gerwig had a pretty successful acting career.  She spent her times on set as an opportunity to learn, observing and asking the directors question like a makeshift film school. A coming-of-age story is what Gerwig set out to create, deviating from the male-oriented algorithm that they usually follow. And in the simplest of conclusions, it was a masterful success.

“Lady Bird” tells the title character’s coming-of-age story in Sacramento in between the years of 2002 and 2003. In the final year of her Catholic high school, Lady Bird (played by Saoirse Ronan) desperately wants to leave the suburban wasteland of Sacramento and go to New York City for college, where the culture is. As protagonists go, she’s driven by a bravado and naivety that only young protagonists can encapsulate, fittingly juxtaposing the weary, disciplinary Mother who can, at times, be perceived as the antagonist.

Gerwig successfully examines the world that Lady Bird lives in, not with a critical lens, but with an observant one. So many little specificities of the film stick out to me, from the kilted Catholic uniforms, to the strategically placed early-2000s pop tracks, to the subtle backdrop of post-9/11 tensions and war overseas.

It is through Gerwig’s observant and specific lens that we get a zeroed-in narrative, lacking any political agenda, simply telling a story of a girl wanting more in a specific place, in a specific time. And she does this while simultaneously making it touch just about anyone who sees it.

lady bird 6Out of every shining detail, the most engaging part has to the be the central focus of the film; the relationship between Lady Bird and her Mother (played by Laurie Metcalfe). Because, while I had mentioned that she can, at times, be the antagonist, she is also the other half of Lady Bird’s tumultuous love story.

While this film could’ve fallen under the wide umbrella of female coming-of-age tales that are always aligned with the girl’s love for a boy, this film deviated from this in the best way possible way. It is in their mother-daughter relationship – the screaming-in-your-face, pushing-every-button, so-different-but-the-same relationship – that is so reflective of that contemporary dynamic that I was brought back to own life just a few years ago. It is so reflective of my own life, that I think that’s why my brother, a domestic observer of my relationship with our Mother, was the one who recommended I see “Lady Bird”. And why, just a week after seeing it the first time, saw it again but this time with her at my side.

lady bird 3

“Lady Bird” is a breath of fresh air, and probably my favourite film of the year. Much like the confidence and authenticity found in pen of Saramento’s Joan Didion, Greta Gerwig created a vivacious girl whose story captures the some of the facets of female complexity and authenticity. It taught me that love and attention are usually one in the same, and that one’s coming of age is another person’s letting go. It is a love story to hometowns, high schools, douchebags, best friends, and Mothers alike, and I cherished every moment of it.

 

 

 

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Uncategorized

Finding Resilience in a World That’s Breaking Down

I often envision myself in the middle of a history textbook, taught forty or fifty years from now to disbelieving high school students. I imagine that future youth reading the sometimes ridiculous, sometimes catastrophic histories with a better understanding of the events than I do now.

An infamous real-estate mogul and reality television star elected as President of United States of America; an ever-changing climate growing increasingly chaotic with each change of the seasons; racial disparities sprouting riots on the streets of cities; two imbeciles across oceans with hands over a red nuclear button. Wars leading millions of people to different parts of the world in the hope they can find a new home. The list goes on, and on, and on.


tumblr_owyt1nfNGC1qmp5efo1_500The future youth will have the luxury of looking back at a distance. Right now, it’s almost though I wake up each morning to an alarm on my phone, along a notification from the world’s most recent tragedy.

I am also studying it, analyzing the world and these intricacies in real time.

Professors who are there to prepare us for the real world, to make us productive citizens and fine attributes to the workplace, are simultaneously making us question every layer of society and the systems the expect us to work for.

All the while, our lives keep going. Classes still need to be attended, work still has us on the schedule. Friends are there, and then they are not. Family gets older.

Cynicism, despite my lack of trying, has seeped into my daily life. It’s hard to find motivation to keep going in a world that insistently tries to tell us not to.

And honestly, it’s difficult to envision a future. The one thing I know about the future is that it’s shrouded in uncertainty.

So, in the least preachy way possible, I’ve compiled a small list of things to do when that uncertainty seems to overpower everything else you’re doing in life. These things aren’t the typical “stay positive” or “eat healthy” advice on most “How-To-Be-Resilient” think pieces all over the internet. And, I say “least preachy” because my sermon would be like the sick healing the sick – I’m also doing this as a reminder to myself.

Look for someone wise words.

There might be someone in your life – an eccentric aunt, the old man next door, your old piano teacher, or a professor who moved you with her words – someone who seems to know a bit more about life than you do.

Reach out one of them.

At this age, we know so much about the things we are studying and using concepts that our parents haven’t ever heard of. But we might be coming home to dirty dishes in the sink, an unmade bed; you might have not called your parents in a while, or are in a fight with the person you’re dating; or you might’ve not been able to eat a home cooked meal since Thanksgiving.

Whatever it is, your twenties can give you a whole lot of life, but no credentials to know how to deal with it.

That person doesn’t have to have white hair and nearly a hundred years under their belt. it could even be your Mom – while she doesn’t understand some of the things you’re passionate about, I’m sure she could give you a hefty list of relationship advice, as well as an easy recipe to make from her Pinterest account.

Consider un-burning those bridges.

Perhaps it’s that little bit of Catholicism left in me from a lifetime ago, but I have found one of the keys to my inner peace has been forgiveness.

It could be a person, event or thing; some girls who bullied you in elementary school, a friend that turned sour and never figured out why, a neglectful parent…It’s amazing how good it feels to let go of the resentment. Hatred, regret, betrayal, all of these things that can sit in you like toxic lead.

There’s already enough happening in the world that can poison us, it’s unhealthy to harbour such feelings from our own lives. If you can let go, do just that.

And I know, somethings can’t be forgiven. You can forgive someone or something for the sake of shoving the weight off your shoulders, with no intention of letting them re-enter your life. Sometimes forgiveness isn’t a selfless act, it’s a selfish act.

Out of sight out of mind?

My parents may have read too many articles tying a connection to phones and the increase of anxiety and depression in college students.

They might be right, I’m often distracted by my cellphone, and find myself worrying too much about the content I chose to share and what people might think of it.

I’m consistently disappointed by the news I read and misinterpreting the things my friends text on a daily basis.

Realistically, turning off your phone just isn’t likely. It’s our main form of communication, professionally and personally. Getting a notification has the same psychological response as someone calling your name. You have to look.

Your phone is a window to the world, and even though it’s an amazing tool that to have access to, it doesn’t mean it needs to be used every waking moment. I’m not saying you should feign ignorance and look the other way at what’s happening in the world, because to me, ignorance isn’t bliss. I’m simply saying that, for a few moments of the day, it’s okay if you don’t look at your phone.

IMG_2084

Problems have solutions, look for one.

I know people who face troubles and their main solution is to not deal with it, to run away and never look back. I often wonder if that works out for t

hem in the end, because I question its long term effectiveness.

I mean, we could all pretend a problem doesn’t exist. But each problem can become a wound that festers.

Looking back, I realize that I’ve faced most conflicts with the desire to settle it. Not going to bed angry, as my Mother would say. Sometimes you have to 

re-break bones in order for them to heal properly.

But what if that problem is something that’s bigger than a falling out with a friend, or a class that you’re bound to fail? Something that seems so far out of your reach, that the only thing that can settle in 

the pit of your stomach is hopelessness?

Something like one of those things your professor mentioned that kept you up at night.

Every problem has some sort of solution, but not all solutions fix the problem. They heal it.

Finally, just take a deep breathe.

midlifecrisis
[Source]
Our generation hasn’t been dealt a fair hand, but we’re often blamed for some of society’s downfalls. Our mid-life-crisis have become quarter-life-crisis, and then we are accused of not being resilient.

I think we are quite the opposite. Considering the hand we have been dealt, we are the first generation to finally address things past generations have been sweeping under the carpet. That should be proof of our resilience in itself.

Resilience is the ability to recover quickly from something that hurt. I think I am resilient despite the fact that stress sometimes overpowers my life. I have to let everything that happens sink in, I need to feel it, so that I can move on and deal with the rest of the world.

Putting one step in front of the other, you focus on one thing at a time until you’re ready to move on to the next one, and know that not all things can’t be solved at once.

Poetry, Uncategorized

A People Person

 

I have come to realize that I am no longer an introvert, and perhaps I never was.

I like being alone sometimes, but not too much.

I need time, to recuperate, mend and think; a pause from the noise and filling it with my own music.

But I love people.

I love their faces, mind and bodies, all varying and authentic.

I love the words that pour from the mouths, some vulgar and others gentle and pleasant.

And my friends whose minds are like an open book,

Whose jokes make me choke with laughter

Whose closeness sometimes too close, I become irritable when I see their faces too often.

Even the people I do not know, with fluorescent signs above their heads reading:

“Enter with caution”

and

“Interpret gently”

They are a cog in a machine that begs me to ask how it works.

All of these people, and these people places.

Like my apartment, marked by the habits of those whom habit it

and marked by those who came before.

A lecture hall, with students dozing off, eyes glazed to screens

while their professor goes on tangents about their daughter.

Or at the back of a party in a cloud of smoke, hands grasping red plastics cups

filled with liquid that greases our gears, making it easier to open up.’

How I wonder what I could learn with their lips on mine, like my questions did their minds.

I am an extrovert.

A sieve, straining through people’s goodness and people’s badness, sitting on the shore of their lives

letting each wave crash over me.

~

Image: yannic_vom_kanal

Uncategorized

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

Sick with Age

My grandmother laid in her bed, curled up beneath a crocheted blanket, with plastic tubes connected a machine that loudly pumped oxygen. She had become so small I could wrap my hand around her thigh. I called to her a few times quietly, but her eyes were glazed to the TV like they had since I since I entered the room a few moments ago.

She was “the incredible shrinking woman”. Every time I had seen her in the last five years, it seemed as though she had shrunk a few centimetres. Since she had only peaked to 4’9 in her adulthood, her shrinking-ness seemed even more exaggerated. I outgrew her when I was just twelve years old, and towered over by the time I was fourteen.

My Grandma wasn’t sick, but she was sick with age. Her 92nd birthday had just passed not too long ago. She used to go to my house every Sunday evening as a sort of tradition; we’d turn on the TV to a golf game and pour her a glass of wine. She would eat a full plate of dinner, plus a little dollop of desert and end the night with a cup of tea. A few years back that tradition waned as her appetite decreased. Each time, her servings became smaller, her bites a little more conservative. And just over a year ago she had stopped coming altogether.

“Grandma,” I said again, coming closer to her bed.

Finally, she looked up and for a moment I thought she didn’t recognize me. And then a smile spread across her face. I saw a spark of something before she had gotten so small, like she had never started disappearing.

“Well,” she answered. “Look who we have here.”

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

IMG_2556Dorothy Link was born in 1925, just a bit younger than the Queen, just a bit younger than Betty White, and literally older than sliced bread. She orbited the sun 93 times, lived through the second world war, seen the moon landing on television, and to her demise, witnessed the creation of the cell phone.

I was born in 1996, and grew up on Sherry Lane, a few houses down from my Grandmother’s home. The same home my father and his siblings were raised in.

Sometimes I wondered if she would have ever expected to have had a granddaughter like myself. Throughout a good portion of my childhood, I switched between dressing Barbies, to looking at bugs through magnifying glasses in my basketball shorts. I put my elbows on the table, and talked back to my mother. And then, I hit my adolescence and got all of these opinions.

My Grandma didn’t grow up with much. She lived with her parents until she married my grandfather in her mid twenties. She was a mother and a wife, and then our family matriarch; sitting at the head of the table at each family gathering.

Topics of conversation never strayed too far from what was comfortable, but my Grandmother often asked my opinion about what was happening in the world and just the world itself.

We would often disagree but I think we both understood that it was because we had gained two different perspectives on the world – we were, after all, a product of our times.

While I was accepting of most things, she wasn’t accepting of all things; while she had seen so much, I had seen so little.

We were two women from two completely generations. But, almost every week before I moved away I’d go to her house with my Dad on Wednesday nights and share a pot of tea. As I got older she listened to me and my slightly radical opinions, toned down enough as to not give her a heart attack. And in exchange, I became less indifferent to her old, and sometimes repetitive, stories and started listening.

She told me…

She told me about her parents, who at times had barely enough money to feed their family as the result of the war, but did anything they could to give them the best life.

She told me about her father who used to drive down the county road to an apple orchard and load the back of his truck with baskets  of its red fruit, and sold it to the families in their neighbourhood.

She told me how the kids at her school would call her a skeleton because sometimes she didn’t have enough to eat.

She told me she would be scolded after playing with the only black boy that attended her school, and never understand why until she got older.

She told me she met my grandfather at a her best friends house, and they danced in the living room until her curfew.

She told me one morning she got frustrated at my teenaged father, and while trying give him a little kick, he caught her foot and fell right on her bottom.

Most things my grandmother told me were stories I heard before. Sometimes she say them out the exact same way she always had, word by word as if it were a script. Sometimes she’d add little details that I hadn’t heard yet, layers upon the layers I would get a little picture that was her life.

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“Bill always stayed up so late,” she said out of the blue, speaking of her late husband as she so often did – a grandfather who passed before I was born: “I’d always be asleep by the time he came to bed.”

Her speech faltered and paused, sometimes out of a daze and sometimes out of breath.

“Bill loved music,” my grandmother gushed. “I realized later, he stayed up listening to it… writing about it.”

I had spent the entire afternoon in her small room at the old age home, which had been more time I than in the last two years since I moved away to University.

Like with everything else – telling her to breath a little deeper, eat a little more, have one more sip of that drink – I pressed my grandmother for more; I hadn’t heard this story before.

The stories she told about herself, her husband and her kids now grown, felt like I was unlocking secrets about where I came from. Learning more about them felt like I was also learning more about myself.

I learned that something like the love of music could’ve been passed down from a man I never had the pleasure of meeting.

“Oh, he was such a good man,” my grandmother added. “A good husband.”

I smiled softly. I heard her say that many times.

Life and Death

In the time that I spent in her room, I thought about so many things. But I mostly thought about death.

And there she was still living. Clinging onto life in a body that was breaking down.

I cursed my pretentious adolescent self who thought she knew enough about life to have any idea about what happened after. Now, I felt like I know absolutely nothing.

I wondered if it was some sort of betrayal to have thought of her absence was she was still here. I tormented myself enough sadness for the weeks after I saw her that when she was actually gone I thought I wouldn’t have any left.

But that wasn’t the case. The news hit me a month later when I had reached some sort of plateau; enough time had occurred in between my last visit that my Grandmother was a worry I placed in the back of my mind.

I was at work and talking to a customer. I excused myself, let my heart unravel in bathroom.


Ironically, while experiencing her death, I thought about life. I thought of all the life she had lived in her 92 years and the small fraction of that I got spend with her.IMG_2557

She might’ve not done anything extraordinary, like win a Nobel Peace Prize or climb Mount Everest, but she impacted the lives of her loved ones in profound and subtle ways.

One thing about the “incredible shrinking woman” is that she was no small woman. Her personality, her snarky, hilarious comments and one liners filled the room. As did her laughter. But the biggest thing about her was her gratitude. Towards the life she was given, and the family that surrounded her.

Loss is an unfamiliar feeling to me, so while I figure that out, I’ll continue to save her seat at family dinners. And perhaps I’ll pour an extra inch of wine in my glass… in her name, of course.

Uncategorized

My Response to Charlottesville

(Feature Photo: News2Share via Reuters)

Have you read the news lately?

To be quite honest, I was at loss for words when everything went down in Charlottesville this week. But one thing I wasn’t, was surprised.

Racism is as American as apple pie. The country was built by the sweat of slaves and the genocide of indigenous peoples.

Somehow, the moment Obama was elected in 2008 we suddenly existed in a post racial world. Racism ended. No one saw colour.

But, of course, we know that was far from the truth.

In Trump’s America, racism can be uncloaked and confident. It can spill into the streets carrying torches, bearing flags with mythical histories, and recycled symbols whose messages have murdered millions.

I’ve allowed myself to mull over everything the last few days; I’ve straightened out the facts as well as my anger over the entire debacle. I’m still angry, but now I can actually form some coherent thoughts.

1.Terrorism is the unlawful use of violence and intimidation, especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political aims. Charlottesville was a domestic terrorist attack, by definition. A car sped into a throng of counter protesters, killing one and injuring nineteen others during a scheduled gathering called “Unite the Rally” by a group of white nationalists, supremacists, Neo-Nazis, and KKK members.

2. President Trumps rhetoric during the election empowered white nationalists and his ambiguous morality after the attack has empowered them even more. Neutrality helps the oppressor, and instead of calling terrorists for what they are, he claimed there was fault “on both sides”.

3. White supremacy is not native to America, it does not exist in a vacuum. It has existed since European powers started colonizing the world, and has left its prints everywhere they went. Charlottesville was not a solo act. It would not be surprising if we witness a rally on Canadian soil as our history is not as nearly as untarnished as most people would like to think.

My initial reaction to the news was a sense of hopelessness much like I had felt when Trump was elected eight months ago. It feels like we’ve been peeling back layers of the world and finally seeing its true colours. But I realize that I’ve been able to silently neglect this reality because of who I am, how I look, and where I grew up that has allowed me to live in a comfortable little bubble.

People of colour have been living this reality each and everyday, they have lived with constant disappointment, that the colossal disappointment that occurred in January wasn’t a surprise.

So I refused to let this surprise me and let the disappointment hit me full force. I spent hours the past few days, watching footage, reading articles, and personal accounts of what happened on that day. I’ve been flooded motivation to do something though I’m not sure what.

While we could all focus on pointing fingers, calling out the racists and problematic behaviours, we should have been doing this before.

I think what all of us, but especially us white folks, need to do more self reflection. Ask ourselves, why does talking about race feel political? Why is it so hard to say white supremacy? Why can’t I call white terrorists for what they are? Why is your response to “black lives matter”, “all lives matter”? Why do I let my friends and family continue to say and do problematic things?

And mostly, ask ourselves what more we could be doing.

It’s so easy for those with privilege to not look at the headlines, go for a walk and live your life just as you had been living it before.

There’s not more time for inaction. It’s time for us to see the broad spectrum of colour and do something about it.

In the meantime, if you’re looking for something you could do, here’s a very helpful resource that can help you catch up on some very necessary reading:

 

Syllabus for White People to Educate Themselves.

Poetry

Sea Glass, a free verse poem

This poem just came to me, and its super chaotic with absolutely no structure, but I hope you can look past that and enjoy what I’ve written. Tell me what you think: 


The beach is sprinkled, tossed with shapes

Swallowed by the mouth of the ocean and licked by its waves

The shards of glass are softened, smoothed down, worn down

Now spit up and gargled, sitting

On the billion-particle lip of the Earth

 

Here one sits in the palm of my hand

Its coin sized and shapeless and olive green

Cloudy in texture, like artist erased its sharp edges

In which she pressed and frictioned every last bit

Of the glass’s sheen

 

It is a missing piece, maybe a puzzle piece,

The nose of some bottle

Broken

Perhaps if I let it sit there a little longer

Then it would no longer be

It would’ve rather been broken down in in the belly of the sea

Grated down to a pulp that nature had foreseen

 

In my palm the shard sits and I imagine

a person in a factory

Sweating

Blowing the bottles soon filled with blood red wine

And drunk by a pot bellied man who stained his lips

Pink and fat like a swine

 

Or perhaps it was a pastor at the step of a church

Filling the void with blessed words

As the people are prodded, swaddled, poked like a herd of sheep

Sipping each word like a sacred nectar

As the glass, picturing their saviour at the steep

Breaks their faces into different hues

 

Or perhaps it wasn’t anything extraordinary

Perhaps it was a glass in some nice cabinetry

 

But still in my hand it sits and I imagine other hands

From their hands sewn

In Earth’s sweltering heat, the lime, the soda, the sand

A creation she could not do on her own

Still a story, unwritten and unravelled

 

While standing at shore, water pestering my feet

I place the piece of glass down beneath

The bed of rocks, and shards, and shells

Back to land, the molten Earth, where it came to be

feminism

The Female Fraud: My Experience with Imposter Syndrome

Mainstream feminists seem to think that the be-all and end-all issue to fight is the wage gap. However, studies show that, for the most part, the wage gap exists but not for the reason that people typically think. It has less to do with women getting smaller paychecks than men in similar positions, and more to do with how many women are not going towards those high paying careers.

Again, this doesn’t mean that the wage gap is a myth. In fact, the recent annual data shows that women working full time in Canada still earned 74.2 cents for every dollar that a full-time male employee made. And in some cases, highly educated women aren’t getting paid as much as men who have the same, or even less, credentials. 

The Flaw 

The main flaws in those numbers, is that researchers don’t consider different employment choices between men and women, or the number of hours they work. Almost none of them take into account the pressures women have on childbearing, and how pregnancy and motherhood can detract from a woman’s employment status.

In summary, within the Western world, the wage gap isn’t actually just as result of rampant discrimination. This belief leads to governments attempting to aid the situation with affirmative action. Thus, many men plead in defiance that they work just as hard, and women’s wages are still stagnant. This means that the issue is much more complicated than that.

I wanted to know why

Why are so many capable women avoiding those high paying jobs? There are countless reasons, and multiple online threads attempting to convince me that women simply don’t want to do those jobs, that they aren’t that good at bargaining for a better wage. While some I deemed completely laughable, others seemed quite fitting. The actual fault can be traced to the psychological effects of living in a legacy of women being excluded from professional spaces in the modern world. And the one that hit close to home for me, was the concept of Imposter Syndrome.

So, what’s Imposter Syndrome?

Individuals who have Imposter Syndrome, “experience intense feelings that their achievements are undeserved and that they’re likely to be exposed as a fraud,” as written in a report created by the International Journal of Behavioral Science. 

Mind you, this isn’t a gendered phenomenon. High achieving millennials and graduate students are plagued with this mindset no matter what gender they identify as. But it is inarguably and disproportionally afflicted by women – including myself. 

My Experience with Imposter Syndrome

I found myself looking at the accounts written by female professionals, and connecting words that perfectly explained what I have been experiencing ever since I was a young adult. Like ever since I set foot on my university campus I have felt out of place amongst the academics and keeners who did everything on time and seemingly without flaw. Or when people offer me compliments, and tell me that I seem to have everything put together, I can’t agree with them. I immediately think of my messy room back home, the dirty dishes on my desk, and the piles of readings I have yet to finish.

In classrooms, where male students offer their opinions freely and confidently, I take time to repeat my answer over and over in my head until perfection, to the point where I still kind of stutter on my words, or the class has moved on to completely different discussion point.

I think about how social media has allowed me to curate a very edited version of myself; from the articles I share on Facebook, to the highly selective photos I’ve posted on my Instagram. Sometimes I am extremely thankful that I was born in an era where people can take a picture of themselves with the right lighting, angle, and dress so that those candids of double chins, belly bumps, or big foreheads don’t have to presented to the world. But then sometimes I scroll through my feed and feel like I’m lying to everyone. If one of those candids came to light, it isn’t that it’s an ugly representation of myself, but it’s actually the true version of myself.

There are even times where my friends send me links to entry-level summer jobs they think are a perfect fit, but I feel deep down there is a better candidate for those positions. So I don’t apply. I take away any chance of myself gaining more than minimum wage.

That, combined with my knack of belittling every achievement I have had, makes it seem like I simply have some poor self-esteem, except it feels like more than that.

It feels like I’ve built a small empire – of confidence, beauty, and success – on shaky infrastructure; a castle made of sand.

Why does it matter?

Imposter Syndrome is a complicated concept and it definitely cannot independently explain why women don’t allow themselves to go towards high paying careers. However, it should be examined much more than it is, when female law students, professors and CEOS “find innumerable means of negating any external evidence that contradicts their belief that they are, in reality, unintelligent.”

I do call on it when people condescendingly claim that the wage gap is a myth, or when people try to reason through that specific issue by explaining that women are just less ambitious. Both of those reasons are just examples of people attempting to continue the narrative that women are inferior.

I know I’m not. I know women aren’t, but I think we all have that voice in the back of our heads that makes us question our worth.

Back to the Wage Gap 

While millionaire actresses and celebrities stand with signs in their hands about the wage gap, uneducated as to why it actually exists, it makes their fight seem unworthy, and often exasperating. Not only to they stand with misguided signs, but are probably standing next to images of pink vulvas with the thought that all women are connected by same genitalia, and not mention, are all probably white. These acts are excluding many people and specifically disregarding how the wage gap disproportionally affects women of colour.

It’s extremely difficult to live in a time where everyone feels like everyone else is living better. It’s also extremely difficult living in the legacy where women have been excluded from the work force and academic spaces. Hopefully, the end of that legacy is closer than we think.

It is important to note that issues such as these cannot only be explained with numbers. It the lived experience that should be taken to account as well.

And in the meantime, we should create a mantra when those dirty, little thoughts sneak into heads, repeating over and over, “I can, I can, I can.”

Sources:
Image 1: https://studybreaks.com/2016/10/20/will-gender-pay-gap-shrink-future/
Grant, Tavia. Who is minding the gap? The Globe And Mail (2017). Retrieved from: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/gender-pay-gap-a-persistent-issue-in-canada/article34210790/
Clance, Pauline Rose; Imes, Suzanne. The Imposter Phenomenon In High Achieving Women: Dynamics and Therapeutic Intervention. Psychotherapy Theory, Research and Practise, 15:3. (1978).