If Only I Were A Beautiful Little Fool

Trigger Warning: A woman expressing valid anger and frustration.

I could always be softer and kinder and more docile, I know. I wish I was. more than that, I wish I were a fool. A beautiful little fool, like Daisy Buchanan hoped her daughter would be in The Great Gatsby. When I first heard her say this I did not understand why anyone would want such a thing. But after grappling with the dark, bottomless rage and bitterness of knowing what it is to be a woman in this world-not just in this world but a woman in Nigeria-I see why Daisy wished that.

I step out of my house each day wishing to be softer, kinder, and more gracious. Most days I fail, because I am not a beautiful little fool who is oblivious to the odious nature of misogyny and all the creative ways it introduces you to disrespect (disrespect being the very least of its offenses). I am burdened with the inescapable knowledge of it. How much happier would I be if I were simply too stupid to notice it? If I could not detect it even in its sometimes imperceptible subtlety- benevolent sexism masking as kindness, a waiter greeting the man you’re with but not you, “Women are rarely interesting to have conversations with” and other stories.

I think the world asks too much of me. To be less angry and disgusted by the Uber driver whose entire attitude and demeanor changes once he realizes he’s driving a young woman. They want you to endure abuse with a big stupid smile on your face and never speak about it for fear of being accused of “ruining the lives” of promising young abusers who have such illustrious careers ahead of them (the “careers” in question being raising incel armies on Twitch, spewing red pill rhetoric on podcasts and making terrible music).

They even want you to clap and cheer for the enablers and apologists whose unwavering support and relentless efforts to discredit victims make it possible for them to keep getting away with all sorts of depraved behavior towards women! (Isn’t male solitary so heartwarming to see?)

Contrary to popular belief, I do not enjoy being an angry feminist. I do not enjoy being angry at all, it is a useless emotion and has never served me. I love to be sweet and happy, to laugh at jokes without wondering whether they are offensive to women or not. I do not like to be hyper vigilant and overly sensitive about my boundaries. If only I were a beautiful little fool, mindlessly smiling in the face of glaring disregard and abuse. If only I was not aware that I am in fact a human being with agency and dignity, deserving of all the respect afforded to men in this big boy’s club of a world.

If only the gaslighting worked like an erasing spell, blotting out the ugly things I know to be true. What a gorgeous and contented doormat I would be. Unfortunately for everyone I am sharper than a set of teeth and therefore make a terrible doormat (don’t step on me or I will bite). I love myself for it and I would not want to be anything else. But sometimes, sometimes, when I am tired of shouting and explaining why I am so angry and shouting some more, I wish I were a fool. A beautiful, winsome fool with nothing in her head but air and a lust for life, who is always soft and always gracious because she sees no reason to be otherwise.

A prayer for all the girls who still wish to be softer and kinder in spite of everything:

Dear God, please quell this raging fire in my heart. Wrap me in impenetrable softness. Make me love itself, impervious to the desperate wickedness that threatens each day to undo me. I will not be consumed by anger and hate. I will be master of myself. So help me God, AMEN.