A tale of Shamara
In honor of national women’s month!
Long ago, in an urbanized land not so far, far away, there was a girl — benevolent, pristine, ever so curious and audacious about what lies beyond her metaphorical tower. She wasn’t a princess of any sort; she wasn’t special at all.
Seven a.m., the usual morning lineup. Start by making her bed — that’s apparently how to start changing the world. Spend the next 10 minutes, sitting upright; arms parallel to the torso, palms fall on the thighs, eyes gaze slowly downwards till they’re closed. Clearing her headspace for the day, being one with the tower. By then it’s like 7:15, and so she’ll read a book or maybe two or three. She’ll add a few new writings to her diary.
Shamara’s spontaneity shows in the way she presented herself. She has her own sense of style she called panache de Shmar. Whatever that means. When did anyone ever understand what she means, anyway? Her psyche functioned only her and the tower understood. Its modus operandi so abundant it goes from as eccentric as, “Vegetables have rights!” to as profound as, “The notion of our existence might be an illusion.”
She’ll write arbitrary whatnots some more; she’s sure there’s room somewhere. And then she’ll brush and brush and brush and brush her hair as if her life depended on it. For only late has she realized the metamorphic impact of a meager tool made of polyacetal and nylon. But she’ll keep wandering and wondering, “What else of life is there?”
Some thoughts she easily transfigures into words. Some not, just occupying space like cells in busy streets, waiting to find their own form. Regardless, she values every fragment, every say, every direction her mind takes. All in all, perspicacious articulation both with how she looked and spoke.
Although confined, her mythical tower was on no account a hindrance to expressing who she was. It was her sanctuary, her kindred-soul. It made her believe she could be anything she set her mind to. It gave her the autonomy to widen her horizon. But only her tower knew her.
She yearned to further diversify her identity shaped by the confines of her tower. Curiosity crept into her almost like it conspired with the world begging for her, “Shamara, Shamara, get your head out of your ass.” What could it want from her, she thought. All she knew was the world is colossal and full of surprises, seeming like just another field she could play around without a care in the world, ironically.
Shamara felt like there was a bigger purpose crying out for her name from places unknown. She was ready to untangle what it had to offer her; its whereabouts, its valuables, its beings, its philosophy, its secrets. Along the way, maybe she would meet the other end of her red string.
The lights appeared. Off she went out there where they glow. Little did she know, the world is broken.
It welcomed her and yet when it knew her, she was labeled a threat. There were preestablished rules, a code of conduct imposed on her just because she’s a she. The force of her mind; the volume of her voice; the mere expression of her body didn’t fit the norm, they said. She was demanded to abide by their terms.
Women should be prim and proper. Women mustn’t reveal too much skin. Women belong in the kitchen. Women should marry. Women must conceive a child. Women are held hostage to these groundless beliefs. Women are treated as liabilities. Women don’t make these so-called rules, but they define us, our roles, and opportunities.
Shamara learned about Talibanization — a complete negation of women’s participation in all political, economical, and social activities. A girl aged 10 was shot in the head at point-blank range. All because she spoke from every platform she could for the right to education.
She learned sexual victims were blamed murmuring, “She asked for it.” “She just wants attention.” Society shaming them, unwilling to hear the stories besides what’s told. It even goes way back to a Greek story of tragedy between Olympian deity Apollo and Cassandra, the princess of Troy. In which Apollo gave her the power to predict fate so in return she had to sleep with him. She refused and he put a curse on her that all her prophecies would be true but catastrophic — accidents, deaths, the country falling into ruin. But nobody would ever believe them so the people would despise her. And they did.
They wanted her whole, though they came fractioned, half-hearted, half-soul, with no regards and no knowledge as to who she really was.
— Wild Women by Sunni Patterson
She learned if you don’t submit to them. If you speak your mind with conviction. If you have even a healthy dose of ego. If you’re really confident, passionate, competent. You’re just a whiny, sensitive little brat who should just sit still and look pretty because you don’t get how society works. They say, maybe it’s your time of the month since you’re sounding gibberish like, “HEY, DICKHEAD! HERE’S A PIECE OF MY MIND SO YOU BETTER LISTEN UP AND I MEANT TO TALK LIKE THIS RAISING MY VOICE BUT IT DOESN’T NECESSARILY MEAN WHAT I’M SAYING IS IMPORTANT JUST THAT EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT AND NO I’M NOT MAD! I’M PERFECTLY FINE!” In short, you’re a bitch.
But those characteristics in a man make him a hustler, achiever, a team player, a great executive. Someone you want an alliance with, someone you trust and rely on to take care of the problem. But women having those qualities are called bitches. It aims to dim our lights, make us stop and question ourselves if we’re doing the right thing. The bigger problem is that we do it to each other. We throw this degrading slang term like it’s a compliment.
She learned millions were suffering, but few spoke. The world paid no heed. It revealed itself to be worse than broken. No remorse in its admittance. In every nook and corner, discriminating against women’s rights to education; to fair and equal pay; to a life free from violence. She thought, “How did we get here?”
We’ve always been here. For centuries, women are treated like subordinate objects to be used, controlled, and abused. Physically, mentally, emotionally taxing many of us. Man-made rules and yet we’re the crazy ones. Where do they get all that audacity? Forgetting the fact that literally none of us would be here without a woman.
A part of her wished none of what she discovered about this part of the world existed in her vast mind. But a greater part of her knew better than to hide under a tower she couldn’t even see. She was eager to find another version of the world — one that she could accept. If only there was anyone who could prove it was possible. If only there was someone she could meet who was willing to change the game.
Well, that she did.
You might expect this is the part where I introduce some kind of living proof knight in shining armor. The man of the hour who changes her perspective. The hero who saves not only the world but especially her. No, jackass. Not in this storyline.
She only had to look in the mirror to know who the game-changer is. She just had to remind herself what she’s made of. Refusing to accept she was living in a man’s world, she learned how the game was played. From a pawn, she became a player. Shamara muttered, “You want crazy? I’ll show you crazy.” Not a sign of incertitude, loud enough for the world to know she was coming.
Shamara doesn’t know if she can change anything. She just knows that she’s not built for defeat. She just knows that she wants to tell everyone she’s a warrior, and she knows that she doesn’t want to question it.
Shouldn’t we all be like Shamara? You see, she exemplifies how we don’t have to be special to defy the unjustifiable. We just have to be aware.
Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” This has always been what drove me to speak my mind against our patriarchal society. They will treat us the way we let them. The systems depend on our silence to keep us exactly where we are. Speaking with integrity to power shouldn’t be sacrificial but it is. Serving justice shouldn’t be an option but it is.
We’re still here because those who came before us didn’t win every battle. All the more reason we should fight for the vision we now share. So Shamara can’t stop, neither can I. And I’m asking you not to stop either. Comfort is overrated. Silence serves no one. Speak hard truths.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. So to hell with standards.
We need to continue demanding what we want and make no apologies nor excuses for it. We need to speak up in rooms where decisions are made about our bodies, our lives. We need to show up for one another, challenging the social construct. Let’s do something that leaves the world a little less impaired than it was when we showed up.
This isn’t about empowering women because we already have power! Imagine if each of us realized that power. If a world where half of our countries were run by women, we might be a better world. The future is female. So stand tall, repeat after Maya Angelou, “I’m grateful to be a woman. I must have done something great in another life.” Let’s celebrate ourselves and all the other women out there speaking up. But as well as those who are yet to be heard.
Let me end with an excerpt from a similar piece I wrote last year for my school org’s online publication, Scribbles:
Being patronized is not an experience we choose to or could choose not to have. When we exercise our rights, we’re labeled as subjective, delusional, deceitful — in a nutshell, a female. Every day, women are fighting wars solely for the right to speak, to have ideas, to be valued, to be a human being. This is about the end of endless apologies; it’s about the end of excuses. It’s about having autonomy over our body, the freedom to express ourselves. Because it doesn’t matter whether one wears a tie or a dress, it’s what one accomplishes while wearing it. We have come so far as women over the last decades, but no doubt, this war is far from over. But here’s to the woman who has something to say, to bring to the table, but also to the voiceless woman who still hides behind her understanding smile.
