Somewhere, where I’d probably make a lot more sense, Wednesdays are ‘writer’s block’ days. The one day I decide to strip myself off of anything else and give half a mind to writing something, I sit very unladylike and fall asleep eventually. Ya feel? You definitely feel.
I’m 18. (Big shocker! I’ve probably said that a bajillion times on here and might even say it a hundred times more.) Over the past 18 years (Another big shocker. I’ve survived.) I’ve only and only learnt, I’m a girl. Even if people around you aren’t in their right minds, you should rise above them and be better than the crowd. Associate yourself with people who’ll protect you. Don’t head dive into unnecessary trouble with the wrong people. (There is no such thing as necessary trouble, I’m just saying. Trouble’s trouble and it’ll come bite you in the arse. Take my word.) You know where I’m taking this. Being Indian, it’s only right for ‘women’ to be terrified of the sight of even the slightest movements in men. (Not as exagerrated but close.) While it might seem like I’m ridiculing my own country, which by all means I am, that’s not what’s important. Or at least that is NOT what I want you to read into. Nope. I could give less than two shits to what you think I’m made of to openly (Not so much) mock a country that’s given me more than everything I’ve needed. Let’s just address the elephant in the room before I move on. I love my country. Given a choice between here and anywhere else, the heart wants what it wants and it wants home. Home is India. (That’s because I’ve never been out of the country. It’s subject to change.) But with everything that it has given me, I’d trade so many things in favor of a solid promise to every female in the country, that they don’t have to be threatened by anyone’s presence. That we can walk at 7 in the night to a nearby store without the fear of being subjected to prying eyes of rowdy men. That we can wear something without being either thrown disgusted stares from older women or equally hungry, lustful glances of men with no values. (Yes, I said no values. Screw you if you think otherwise.)
-Quick side note: Don’t connect stuff together because this is going to be all over the place. I might even start on the Presidential debate sometime in between.
I don’t usually pick at subjects where a lot of depth and boundary pushings (A word I might’ve just made up.) happens because I don’t make a lot of sense but today, coincidently on a Wednesday (My usually discontinuous posting day.) I thought, why the heck not? I haven’t been through a lot of torture to actually sit down and reflect on how women are treated here and everywhere. (Also, you dont have to experience anhthing first hand to have an opinion.) But torture, is still torturous. Take it down a notch or blow it out, it is still the same feeling of being harassed.
Three months ago, I signed up with a driving school with my best friend. (I have a good mind to type out the driving school’s name but we’ll keep that to when they disappoint me again.) With a sudden change in exam schedules, I chose not to take up lessons immediately while I prepared for a huge exam that I had to write two months from then. After I’d written the exam, I reached out and tried getting them to schedule a date and a time for me to begin classes that I’d already paid to register. But two months since then, I’ve received no sense of actual proper administering of the dysfunctional school and only excuses to why I wasn’t being given a time period. Until last week, I’ve been ‘pestering’ them for just a date so I could be ready and in town. Luckily, I’d like to think, probably afraid of Daddy’s terrible anger, they gave a 10-11 slot today. (5.10.16) So I go there all pumped and ready to finally start classes. Only I wasn’t going to start today. The pathetic excuse of a man decides to break it to me then that all 10-11 instructors were engaged and I couldn’t start classes today. So I had to wait, AGAIN.
So I come back home after giving the guy a piece of my mind, using words I didn’t have to just to sound kind. But clearly, that wasn’t working. My dad has a temper, have I said? A bad one if he’s played with. For a man who doesn’t take time to boil up, my dad’s temper hit the roof when I was once again screwed over with. What followed was a one sided conversation of heated words which later settled down to a cordial understanding. ‘Give my daughter a schedule or return the money. If neither, I know how to wrench it out of your hands. (Fun fact: I might just be into theatrics. Can you tell? 😉 It was something along those lines, at least.
Here’s the thing, I’d probably feel less crappy if my father had gotten the same response as I had. A lie and some serious bullshitting. But NO, the man always gets his work done. I also forgot to mention, my mom came along when I first went to the driving school. I’m glad WE had gotten to a point where they’d really take me seriously but then again, it was not ME they were taking seriously. No matter how much my mom and I explained and even ever so slightly raised our voices, we were sent away with a hopeless excuse. But when a MAN does the same thing, Oh God Forbid, they turn him down. Like excuse me, little shit bag? We said the same thing my dad said but no one decided to do shit and instead while we walked away from the school, turning back we saw them laughing and discussing.
How does a women’s word weigh so much lesser than the same words when spoken by a man? How is it that in the 21st century, we’re still striped off our voices, with or without realization? It’s not just subject to India but I’ve never had first hand experiences elsewhere so I’m no one to speak about anywhere else. There’s really no point to writing what I did because half of which I wrote didn’t make a whole lot if sense and the other half just doesn’t seem to matter enough but here’s the shit. I’ve learnt to be just as good a boy as anyone else my age. Screw society’s way of silencing girls because we don’t have ‘a pair and a sausage’. (Talking about the downstairs area.) Maybe I’m reading into it too much but it still stands that my father got work done and my mom AND I couldn’t not because we were soft or okay with everything but only because we weren’t men and didn’t seem threatening enough. I love my dad for doing this for me but there’s still the underlying truth that this is not the last time I’ll be needing my dad to do my things when I could’ve done it myself if maybe I was born a boy. Sigh.
If you think of any other idea to explain the series of events, I’m down. I could use constructive criticism.
Until our time meets again,
Nothing a Wednesday rant can’t fix. It is almost un-adult like to make assumptions because someone didn’t get your work done when they promised to do so but, being played with isn’t cool enough to let it slide. Anyway, I hope you have/had a super day. Cheers. x)