When I was 15 years old, I found my solace in a man. A boy, really. He was not but 17 years old and his voice had barely dropped. Andrew made me happy in that giddy, crush sort of way. I felt enamored at the idea of being attractive and interesting to an older guy. We got to talking. And texting. And canoodling in a secluded hallway at school at 7:00 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays; don’t be late. It felt good to feel wanted. And it felt dangerous to be breaking the rules. But that isn’t what I should have been wary about.
When I was 15 years old, I was sexually assaulted by a man. A boy, really. He was not but 17 years old and his voice had barely dropped. But he was strong enough to keep me down and make me feel small in a secluded hallway at school at 7:00 a.m. His voice was alone enough to keep me from fighting or running or shouting. His previous affections were enough to manipulate me into coming back that next week. And the week after. And the week after that. Because he was my solace. Who else do you have? I asked myself. Four, five, six times it happened. And I hated him. I hate him. No one believed me and I hate him still.
But I know that there were men in my life willing to support me when I finally did come out about the series of assaults on my body; they were allies and if I didn’t have them, I might not be alive. I can hate Andrew, but I can’t hate men.
I feel uncomfortable saying this here for fear of being crucified in the middle of Lowry with a crown of french fries on my head. Maybe there will be clapbacks, maybe a few distasteful glances, maybe even a meme or two if I’m lucky. But the third-wave feminist movement has a big, glaring problem and we need to address the elephant in the room: blatant misandry.
It seems that the past five years have uncovered a poison in a movement that is already vastly misunderstood. There is a snake in the garden. It is the cyanide to our ibuprofen. We hear it all the time and the rhetoric is constant; “Men are trash.” Men are trash. Like, the word that means disposable, unwanted and less than. Trash.
I argue that while this could be just an elementary way to release painful experiences people have had with men, it is ultimately unhelpful and anti-feminist. It actually sets us back and puts the movement in danger.
Here’s why: When we as a feminist community don’t practice what we preach, we make fools of ourselves. We should be helping to raise a kind, informed and confident group of young people behind us, doing our best to unify rather than fragmentize for the sole purpose of ego-boosting and refusal to address the real problems.
Men are not trash, and saying so just makes the feminist movement seem exclusive, inapproachable and driven by “man-hating.” We should be trying to reach all possible allies by inviting men into our fold. At this point we are making more enemies than friends, for no reason other than what’s between their legs. If we want more men to be comfortable saying they are feminists, then cut the bullshit.
I have no respect for a “feminist” who decides that their Edgelord points are more important than the movement they claim. Stop polarizing our country even more than it already is, get your heads out of your asses and stop trying to represent feminism as anti-feminist.
Stop making Andrews. Start making allies.
Jaz Nappier, a Contributing Writer for the Voice, can be reached for comment at JNappier22@wooster.edu.