Pride or Prejudice?

In my philosophy class recently, a classmate gave a presentation on feminist theory. First, she asked the class what the word feminism meant and people gave vague token answers. Then she asked the class what feminism meant on Spelman's campus and that's when things really got interesting. When one student said, "I don't know why feminism always has to be equated with lesbianism," other students shook their heads in agreement. Another girl asked, "Why does it always have to be about the lesbians?"

My classmates then brought up the National Day of Silence, an event recently sponsored by Afrekete (the Atlanta University Center's only gay/straight alliance) meant to raise awareness about GLBT Rights. (see Shutting Up to Get a Point Across for more about the Day of Silence) One woman said she would have participated in the days events except for fear of being labeled a lesbian and others agreed. I was floored.

How is it the fault of feminism that this student is afraid of how she will be labeled if she participates? How could events like this give the impression that lesbian rights were invading the campus, I wondered. Let's say somebody did assume that you were a lesbian because of your participation in the day's events or because you were a member of the Feminist Majority Leadership Alliance (FMLA) or Afrekete. What would happen if people thought that? Undoubtedly suspicions around my sexuality were rising in the minds of my classmates as I defended these groups, and tried to question their assumptions. I was still a heterosexual and still very much the same activist I had always been. It was clear to me that her internal struggle about participating in the day was not the fault of feminism itself.

But my protests were in vain and my classmates wrote off my activism and that of my fellow activists as the frustration of "lesbian man-haters." And I have since learned that the feelings voiced in this classroom, at this college, are not isolated or rare.

Growing up in a moderately liberal and tolerant Southern community, I was used to my beliefs as a feminist being accepted or, at worst, ignored by other people. In fact, my thoughts on strengthening the black community were always much harder for the general public to swallow in this predominately white setting than my feminism. I expected all of this to change when I arrived at Spelman College, a historically black all-women's institution. Truth be told, it did change, but not at all in the way that I imagined it would.

In class that day, I was seeing evidence of the general discomfort about feminism in society at large, and in the black community, in particular. I was learning how, even on a campus like Spelman's, young black women are often divided.

As a member of the FMLA, I had never been to a meeting where lesbianism had been discussed. In fact, I had never equated feminism with lesbianism or "man-hating." So, I started to wonder where this idea had come from.

Then the class raised a new point of contention. According to them, all the women involved in these organizations fit a certain "aesthetic," one that usually involved one or more of the following: natural hair, eccentric clothes, traditional African fabric, or veganism.

"I hate that people associate consciousness with an aesthetic," says fellow activist Delaine Ferguson. Her sentiment echoes that of a lot of people who are upset by a tendency some people have to associate both activism and lesbianism with a specific "look." For instance, short or locked hair seems to be an indicator of liberal politics and, to some, a sign that one is lesbian or bisexual.

Despite the fact that many women with traditionally "feminine" appearances do date other women, and vise-versa, these stereotypes remain fixed. But that day, the women in my philosophy class actually said they sometimes feel discriminated against because they don't look like they fit in with this "conscious young woman" mold.