Lying to yourself

I take small sips from a bottle of Perrier, or Evian- it doesn’t matter; the point is, I sip on privilege. I am a feminist, one so radical that sometimes, I want to burn my bra and I would, if not for my saggy breasts. The look doesn’t suit my cropped top wearing body.  So, I write. I write and re-write for a left-wing magazine that pays me way more than I deserve but not quite as much I think I do.

I write mostly about feminism. Sometimes, I write about how shitty the government is. I use big words that I learned while I was taking SAT preparation classes. I write about how prevalent sexism is in Nepal, I write about women who live (and suffer) in Sindhupalchowk, Rautahat, Manang, Taplejung, it doesn’t matter I’ve never set foot outside the valley. I present the same argument in 50 different ways in fifty different ways, just hoping (never praying, I am an agnostic after all) no one notices.

I write about this stuff because I care – to an extent. But I also do it because later, when I go drink cheap alcohol with my friends at an over-priced bar, I can humble brag about being a nice fucking person. And it’s not like I don’t care. I do, I really do. I just don’t do anything about it. I even go as far as to write a blog post about it, but I don’t take physical action, I tell myself that I don’t have the time, or the knowledge, or any resources.

And later, as I stumble into my home reeking of alcohol, I don’t see the maid quietly walking out, going home to her abusive husband who finds it okay to beat the living shit out of her. Or maybe she doesn’t go home, maybe she goes to meet up with someone she calls dai, who will eventually rape her, or beat her, or sell her or even kill her. No, I don’t see her because I’m too busy trying to think of some revolutionary, rebellious way to flush sexism down my rather fancy toilet.

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