My all-girls’ high school taught me that advanced mathematics and physics were for everyone (as long as you applied yourself and didn’t sit at the back of your Year 11 physics class writing poetry). My mother, a mathematician herself, taught me that no physical task was insurmountable if one applied logic and a knowledge of Newtonian physics. She taught me that with a good education, a woman could be financially independent. The world taught me that womanhood was both deficit and currency.
Woman as deficit. Pre-pubescent, not quite girl, not quite woman, because every child has a harassment story, what girl-child hasn’t been sexually harassed, be careful what you wear be careful where you walk, be careful be careful take care, society tells you. If something happens to you, you clearly haven’t taken care enough, even if the something is an adult, and you simply cannot fight them off. Woman as deficit, becoming twice as qualified as your male colleague, spending 20 years in higher education acquiring degrees and the right tone of voice so people will take your ideas seriously.
Woman as currency. 18 and navigating sticky nightclub floors in stilettos, my hair reeking of second-hand tobacco back in the indoor smoking days, with a bra that cut into my flesh to give the illusion of cleavage. Enhancing womanhood with a push-up bra and Revlon colour stay mascara, as currency, to get the guy, to get the girl. Womanhood as delightful performance, an artist’s fantasy of lace and tulle, rainbow of costumes and artifice. Woman as currency, to show vulnerability, to speak truths that all humans feel but men are told to silence. To be intimate, to share our flaws, our realness.
The last time I was reminded of my womanhood, I was having my appendix removed. I awoke gasping, my stomach bloated from key-hole surgery, with the surgeon standing over me in dismay. “The surgery was successful…but…but you have endometriosis. It’s everywhere!” What did that mean? I thought, in my post-operative drug addled state. Was my brain still functioning? Could I still run? Could I still feel deeply? Yes, yes, yes.
“But the endometrial cells have escaped the uterine walls, wrapped around your ovaries, your bladder, your bowels. This can affect fertility,” the surgeon said.
Are you a woman if you cannot grow life in your body, if your body itself is hostile to new life? My womb has grown monstrous out of its cavity, annexing its neighbouring organs. In some cultures, an infertile woman is shunned, driven from the village as though infertility is a contagious disease, a plague liable to disrupt society itself. In other cultures, such a woman takes on an elevated role, of healer, elder, counsel.
A gynaecologist later told me that it was lucky the surgeon had diagnosed the endometriosis early. It could be contained without further surgery. My fertility could be saved. There was hope for me.
Can I still think? Can I still feel? Can I still run?
Yes, yes, yes.
Does anything else matter?
Yes, no, possibly.
Word upon Word 