What it Means to Me to be a Woman

I’m a server at a restaurant that was in the news for having two chefs die within the span of two months-due to addiction. Both of these chefs hold special places in my heart. I wasn’t as close with the first, but I admired him greatly and worked with him for over a year. He had a lasting impact on me, both professionally and in my outlook on life. He was our head chef, the man in charge of the entire kitchen, calling the shots. The one who artfully crafted each impressive plate that I took out to guests. He was a great man, his genuine love for food and people oozed out of him like melted chocolate from a molten lava cake. He couldn’t hide his heart if he tried (which he did).

My favorite memory with him was getting ourselves hands-deep scrubbing muck off clam shells. This was after I came forward for being responsible for accidentally throwing most away the day before. I had been trying to make life a little easier for the dishwasher, who told me they do get tossed. Turns out, we were supposed to reuse those clam shells as plates for the first course. Rye blew up like a firework, as usual, when he was mad. But later, I was the only one willing to come to join him in the back of the dish pit and attempt to rectify the situation. Somebody found enough for service, but they came straight from the beach and hadn’t been cleaned yet.

Rye, the pro, was much faster than me. He got through 10 clam shells while I got through three, none of which looked nearly as perfect as his. Most people who saw what we were doing scrunched up their faces at how disgusting our activities appeared, not to mention the smell. We were using our bare hands to remove armpit odored slime that was attached like glue to those shells. It was gag-worthy. But I was way more scared of ruining the night than tackling some foul sandy goop. Rye later told me he appreciated that I was willing to get my hands dirty.

Chef Rye taught me that to create the most pristine dishes, you had to have a willingness to fully commit to the not-so-pristine process. But in the end, that dirty grit can’t show in the final product. Whatsoever. The finished presentation, that took so much sweat and tears, must look effortless. An artful illusion.

From my perspective, the same concept has applied to what it means in society to be a woman. Women are told they need to be artful illusions. They need to hide the less than perfect parts of themselves in order to only present their polished, best self. But women are not expensive plates of food. We are people. Human. Prone to fault and flaw as much as glamor and beauty. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned to take the idea of feminine perfection with less than a grain of salt. I’ve learned to ignore, with great difficulty, the constant message to not show the dirty/unkempt parts about myself. Because they are part of me, the full me. And they're usually my favorite part in other women. The real stuff.

And no, I'm not talking about a lack of hygiene, I'm talking about double standards. Women sweat. They have body hair. Sometimes we skip a shower. Life goes on. Just like it does for men. I’m talking about the ability to dispel what society tells us is dirty. Unseemly. Lesser-than. Every time I’ve come back from a camping or backpacking trip I’ve looked like a train wreck, but usually returned from the best time. Returning to a survivalist or animalistic connection to nature brings certain parts of me home. In the wilderness, I discard the layers of myself created for self-image and take on a new exfoliating layer of dirt. Every time I returned to society from these experiences, I had heightened motivation to discard more “fake”layers.

Indeed, in my twenties, I played around a bit with shedding the femininity expected of me, as a woman. I let my inner wild side out more.

I attacked turkey drumsticks like a hyena, no utensils needed. I was known by my friends in Amsterdam for walking around blissfully unaware I had hummus all over my face.

I showed up to places full of sweat, trusting my body to get me there on time more than public transportation. I played on co-ed soccer teams and was extremely aggressive on the soccer field, using to my advantage that sometimes guys were afraid to hurt a girl. I shopped in the men’s athletic side of stores so I didn’t have to wear pinks and purples, or wear tight fitted sports clothing. I followed my instincts if I wanted to climb a tree or go down a mysterious path. My intuition never led me astray, but did encourage people to look at me with dismay.

Over time I realized that the wild side wasn’t the only part of me that was “real,” however. When I wanted to dress up in style, bejeweled with my witchy crystals, that did not feel fake either. That felt like releasing another side of me, sinking into what I love about my femininity.

I am proud to be a woman. I believe women have incredible empathic intelligence, and are fierce in some of the most beautiful ways. Women have to work extremely hard to earn positions of power in society. It is never given freely to them. Women all have an inner intuition so strong that it can sometimes even save lives. I’ve seen it. In fact, I've acted on it.

Once, at 3 in the morning, I sent out multiple texts to various colleagues, including my boss, to try to obtain a coworker's number. It had suddenly dawned on me that he was suicidal, to a very dangerous level. I don't know how I knew, I just knew. People thought I was drunk texting them, that I wanted this man's number for other reasons. No one gave it to me. I stayed up as late as I could to try to send positive energy towards this man. The next day, I caught this guy just as he was about to leave work. He was about to leave because he didn't feel safe being around sharp objects. But he was going home to an empty house. I got his number directly from him and ended up visiting him in the hospital later that night. I barely knew him until that day, but something in me knew he needed a friend.

Women are complete on their own. Good partners are just a bonus.

I’ve had a couple controlling boyfriends in my twenties. Both times, I didn’t see it that way until after.

I grew up sometimes believing I was incompetent. I was told I wasn’t cut out for certain things that everyone else was. I thought something was inherently wrong with me, but I still pushed myself to try to succeed anyway, in all these areas. Sometimes low expectations inspired me to work even harder to disprove them. I specifically chose an abroad experience where I didn’t know anyone and I had to learn to get around by bike and maps, because people told me I wouldn’t be able to figure that out.

To this day, biking is still my favorite way to traverse a city, and the fastest way for me to learn it.

When I was with controlling boyfriends though, they were able to convince me I needed them to be complete, and to “get by” in life. I felt like a caged animal, but remained their painted doll. Society says that girls are supposed to like dolls, not boys. But I can assure you some grown up men like dolls, in that they like women to play as them. Sadly, and unfortunately, when we play them for too long, we accidentally turn into them. That is why I am not putting on Barbie clothes, even as a joke. I’m no one’s plaything. I’ll take my heels off if I want to, run barefoot. I’ll eat with my hands sometimes, not with my silverware. I’ll lift my friends up, but I won’t let myself be dragged down. Not anymore.

I’m a woman. I am complete as I am. You can join me, but don’t expect to change me. I am too strong in who I am to be swayed anymore that I need saving.

I know now I don’t need anyone to complete me. And that, to me, is being a woman.