Predicaments of a Fashion Lover: Rising Back Up

It was an act of mitosis; every grieving American, and woman, became part of me. Their frustration was my frustration, because it felt like Brexit was happening all over again, but on a larger than life scale. This was America. Obama’s America. The country of self-confessed freedom and greatness. A nation that elected a black man as President for the first time, and the second time after that, and it felt a lot like progress. Of doing what we are meant to do. Now there is an ache. An ache of ‘what-could-have-been’. There seemed to be no way to move this ache, this loss of glass ceiling smashing and love winning. Nothing to remove the feeling ‘maybe we were asking too much’. And I thought over and over what exactly it is that I felt.

But mostly? I am tired. I am overwhelmed. I am disappointed. But I will not let this envelope me any longer. Hell no. Instead, I want to fight. I want to educate myself further, because being tired and disappointed and overwhelmed are words that do not hold enough gravity to what I feel. Frustration does not match the way my whole being is on edge, realising how ill-timed my optimism was. How wrong it was. How much I’ve lost, how much bigger the fight is.

I still want more. I want numbers and statistics to flow from my tongue, like the way water runs down a stream. Smooth, easy, calm. I want knowledge, all knowing smug knowledge, smirking knowledge, because feelings no longer matter. Who cares how someone might feel? Feeling is not knowledge. It does not make moves, it does not pass bills and legal documents, the way knowledge and words can. It can be flimsy. It can be easily backed into a corner without knowledge.. Unless they feel the same, deep down, then nothing will change. It's the way things are set; how one can make an argument and deliver it will grandeur, convince you yes we’re right. It’s a numbers game, a game of manipulation, of deceit, of downright politics at its core. I want to be calculated. Cutthroat. Self-aware. I want to be your angry feminist nightmare, because if you thought I was bad before, you're in for a treat.

I do not want to be cushiony and understanding, cheering for 'positivity only!1!' because at the end of the day, your friends 'beliefs' can be, at its core, erasing another persons’ being. And I won't have that.

Soz not soz, and all that sweet cheeks.

It’s not happening. Didn’t you know it’s 2016? We don’t do racism, homophobia or misogyny in this day or generation. It’s not how we live our lives, because love wins and the future is female.

There may be a hierarchy and a need for people in power, but those 'below' are not dogs and will not be pushed around as if we are bits of gristle on your plate. We are not blind, nor stupid, nor naïve. You’ve started a fire you can only add gasoline to. You might feed on who you are, what people think you are, how much dollar bills you’ve got in that bank. But we are rising and believing and fighting to have a better future. A future we want. A future of freedom and greatness, of freedom in our bodies and our decisions, of love and unity, of building people up, not building up walls to keep them out. The future is ours. And we will have it how we want it. We will.

Because love trumps hate, and I've always been good at card games.

Remember that. And bring your argument next time you try to let hate win, because I’ll be bringing mine. And like Annalise Keating, I’ll know my shit. So make sure yours is water tight.