a room of my own

I ended up yelling at my literature professor today. He hadn't made me mad. He was on my side.

A lot of people close to me have felt my frustration about going to BYU. A lot of times I say I wish I could be closer to home, that I haven't connected to Provo like I should have, that I am not pleased with the curriculum of any of my major programs. Those are all partial truths and partial lies. The very truth, the reason of all reasons that I just absolutely hate BYU some days, is something that I try not to say out loud because I feel like it devalues my culture and my faith. It is something that I have wrestled with for years, something that other people would say is just a part of growing up. But for me, it is this lynchpin that I both hold and reject.

It is really pretty simple. I have been taught, tenderly and relentlessly, that in order to fulfill my potential as a woman and a daughter of God that I should become a wife and mother. I must take great care to make myself the kind of woman that would be a good caretaker. That should be my principle goal. And as much as I love God, as much as I have faith in my religion, I fight against this. I am so scared, so averse, and so unprepared to make the jump into that role, that I kick and scream against the proddings of my parents, of my leaders, of the BYU mantra: stop hanging out, and get married.

Some people have pointed out that my fear is pointless. I don't have anyone in my life who could assume the role of a boyfriend, let alone spouse. But that's not my fear. My fear is that I'll be cornered into it. That I will be tricked. People say that's not what love is, and I know they are right. People say that if I stay close to God that he will let me know which path is the right one, and I know they are right. God made me for a reason and he has a work for me to do. When I think about Him, my fears are calmed. But eventually a new part of me slinks out and says, "Even if they're right, what if you don't want that? What if you want a room of your own?" That part of me, by all accounts, is the devil in me.

She's the worst part, the part that confuses me and everyone around me, which is only to be expected from the devil. She's the part of me that wants to cut my hair short and wear my brother's clothes, just so that I couldn't be mistaken for a girl who cares so much to be attractive to boys. She's the part of me that wants to ignore everything but my studies, so that I can graduate and run away to somewhere where I will never have to meet boys and I will never be asked (as soon as they know my name), "So, are you dating anyone?" The devil in me isn't exactly a bra-burner (on the contrary, I am a very big fan of bras). The devil in me still loves my mother more than anyone, and doesn't regret being raised on princess stories... She's probably Kate Chopin.

I guess I laugh at myself for this because I always thought that feminists were silly people. I wanted to put them all on my list of crazies. But I realize that I am one of them. I want to wear pearls and I want to bake and I want to hold the hands of children crossing the street, but I do not want those things if, by accepting them, I accept that I am second to man and only good for wearing pearls and baking with children. I want freedom. I want to be a person who is capable of greatness, and accepted at an equal level. I do not want to be a failure upon graduating from my university because I was unsuccessful in finding my mate. But I do not want to be a cultural enigma. I also do not want to be a rebel. I want to do what is right. But I do not want to be put on a list of potential baby-makers. I do not want to be seen as a girl who would only feel complete if she was married. But that is something I have been taught to strive for. This antithesis of my feelings, of what I want and do not want but should want, drives me insane.

So today, when we were reading Sandra Cisneros, and I started saying something that ended up being something more than what I wanted and I couldn't stop myself from my voice raising in excitement, I decided that this is more than spiritual discontent or a lack of self esteem. On my walk home I didn't feel embarrassment or shame, I mostly just wanted to think about it all again in a room of my own. And when my roommate comes in and wants to know why I was crying, I will probably chock it up to hormones and then try to forget that I was so shaken up. It's hard to have a room of your own when you're an exchange student not paying nearly enough for lunch everyday.

And, it's hard to be masculine when you are so prone to tears.