Along this chronic, I want to do a homage to a special kind of woman. I call her wild woman. Her beauty is heathen, withdrawn from trends. She charms with an odd “I don’t know what”…but also hurts your sight. It’s a rare kind and has not defined habitat: she lives in Katmandu, lives at the apart nearby you or moved to Barroquinha yesterday. And she did not let her address.
The wild woman is, in almost everything, a common woman: she takes crowded metro, she enjoys promo sales, she takes out the trash and there are days when she gives up to come out because she thinks she’s a tramp. But everything she does emanates a fresh of freedom. And also thrills: you have the impression you saw a she-wolf. You get scared, you look again…and who’s there is that sweet and lovely woman, almost a little girl. But for a second you saw the she-wolf, yes you saw. It’s she, the wild woman.
The society tries, but can’t domesticate her, she dodges from the rules. When you think that you caught her, she slips away like water through the fingers. When you think that finally you know about her, she surprises you again. She has free soul and just submit herself when she wants.
Because of that, she chooses her partners among the ones who worship the freedom. And how she recognizes them? Like every she-wolf, by the smell, because of this, pay attention to the parfums. Her moves have grace; her look distils a natural sensuality, but beware, do not come passing your hand on her. She’s an animal, do not forget. She likes cherish, but she can also scratch.
Note that there’s always a stubborn lock of hair. It’s the savage spirit that blows in her refreshing soul to the feeling of being united to the Earth. From this comes her beauty and strength. And her instinctive wisdom. Yes, she is wise because it is in harmony with the rhythms of Nature. So she knows herself, she knows her growth cycles and not sabotage her own happiness. Like every beast, she respects her body, but sometimes she does not resist the goodies. Bush hippie? Not necessarily, most of this kind of woman lives in the city. And there are days that she flirts wth that black dress in the mall. And she loves dancing under the moonlight. Ah, so it’s a witch … Maybe, she does not care about labels. She knows the immensity of a alive being does not fit into definitions.
Women like to make mystery. She doesn’t , she is the mystery. For a simple reason: a wild woman knows that life is stunning and perfect thing and that she lives the most sacred of the rituals. She feels stations and moves according to the winds, laughing at the rain and crying when the rivers die. Collect little stones, speaks with plants and a suddenly she wants to be alone , do not insist.
No, she is not an esoteric dazzled but she is always getting dazzled: with the heroines of her favorite movies; that new bookstore, her favorite musician or CD … the guy she falls in love; she dreams awake, having insomnia. The injustices of the world anguish her, but she takes a deep breath and renew her faith in humanity. She fights every day for her dreams, falls asleep among unanswered questions and wakes up with the whisper of the morning in her ear, and another perfect day to celebrate the immense mystery of being alive.
She balances herself between culture and nature, moving and beautiful and poetically between the two extremes of the human condition. she is rare, yes, but is not an aberration, an evolutionary shift. On the contrary: she is the most archetypal and genuine expression of femininity, eternal celebration of the sacred feminine.
The Wild Woman still survives in all women, but most of them are afraid and stay in the cage. she is what all women are, always have been, but most of them forgot. Fortunately, some of them remembered. These ones were misunderstood, yes, but they licked their wounds and found their way back to their nature.
This chronicle is a tribute to her, the wild woman, the kind of woman that fascinates men who are not afraid of women. They get kinda nervous, indeed, when suddenly they find themselves face to face with such specimen. So they sometimes run away to climb the first tree. But is normal. After they get down, they approach suspicious, exchange smells and then … Well , the Nature knows how to proceed.
The Yearbook of the Brazilian Forum on Public Safety revealed that, per hour, 6 women are rape victims. Most of them are black young women with low schooling. According to IPEA (Institute of Applied Economic Research, in Brazil) research, 65% agree with this claim: “Women with tiny clothes deserve to be attacked.” Worrying. Shoking. Scary.
Rising from the shock of these stats, the protest called “I do not deserve to be raped!” took its place on Brazilian networks, where women, ordinary or famous, half-naked or dressed, showing their faces or staying anonymous, posted selfie photos on their personal profiles to appeal attention for such threating situation and bring the sexual violence issue for the center of discussion. All of them holding a paper written “Eu não mereço ser estuprada!” (“I do not deserve to be raped” in Portuguese, the motto of the protest) in front of breasts.
Since the protest began, I saw many of these pictures full of awful comments screaming verbal aggressions, mockery and even threats to physical violence. Yes. This kind of attitude, just like any attitude which defies some sort of socially legitimate power, brings heavy retaliations. It’s a radical disobedience. In a world which sees the woman as an object for exclusive male use, when a woman (or a group of them) takes the risk of show her teeth and shout loud, she is immediately reduced to powder. Lots of stones are thrown, even by other women. And sure, as someone who always wrote feminist manifestos and always joined SlutWalks every year, I could not be apart of the issue.
Let’s face the facts: doing what I did brought me a lot of risks, such as: my family’s judgement; being fired from my job; and destroying everything that comes to reputation. I mean, in some other cultures a female naked chest is okay. In my social reality, this is gravely outrageous. You know what? I never worried about reputation in the end. Even because I owe nothing to anyone. By the way, in my picture, the Labrys pendant and the red lipstick, they identified me for the ones who know me really well. “It is you?”. Yes, it’s me, and I’m not afraid.
Rapists by nature?
You know, when I think about the reactions that people shown in the comments on the protest photos, I think that men should feel really offended when someone says that women should avoid to be raped by not using some specific kind of clothes, or acting in a specific way. Because this way of thinking assumes that men are unable to control themselves; it assumes that they are too bestial, too primitive that is walking in the streets without raping someone requires a huge effort of them, like they were some sort of brainless sick monsters. In short, it assumes that the natural state of man is to be a rapist.
And being honest, when I consider that I have many male friends; that I learn a lot of things with them and I appreciate the respect they dedicate to me, I doubt that men in their most pure reasonable essence are proud of reveal themselves as uncontrolled creatures. By the way, let me tell you a secret: every woman who knows her strength knows that it’s pretty easy to dominate a man who is sexually vulnerable like a dog in heat.
But I doubt that real men believe that they need to prove their masculinity every time, acting like assholes as they talk bullshit to unknown women in the streets, trying to intimidate them. I categorically doubt it. These men are so convinced and secure of themselves that they don’t need to prove anything, they don’t need to abash women just to feel they are the huge dicks of the world. And no, being a rapist is not the natural male condition.
"This is needless! You did not need doing that!"
Many people say I’m obsessed by my views and I see sexism in everything. Because, actually, it’s really in everything, like a plague that refuses to die. You know, sometimes I would like to be invisible just for not have to deal with sick guys commenting on the parts of my body along the way I walk to my job. I dream of the day we can finally say we don’t need Feminism anymore. For while, being feminist, for me, it’s a survival issue. This is one of things that make me resist in an environment where people say I’m less able than I actually am.
Unfortunately, we still live in a pseudo liberal society; a society that glamorizes female sexual exploration; that consumes the image of our erotized bodies through the media like we were stuff; a society that calls me dirty when I reveal myself as human; when I admit my sexuality without guilt; and when I present myself as a thinking individual with my own will. Women are allowed to show their bodies, but only if this act pleases males fantasies.
It’s pretty true that one symbolic photo won’t change our status quo once for all, it’s a long way to reinvent old social values, but it’s a beginning of an effective message. When it comes to Brazil, my country, where women are culturally faced as nothing more than sexual amusement; where I have to deal with little acts of disrespect every day, I believe that finally people are waking up from a coma which seemed to be eternal, the coma of the pseudo freedom and equality of gender. I’m woman, but I’m human for first. Individual liberty and autonomy for human beings. This is what we must defend and require as natural right. Freedom above power, because every power relation suggests one opressor and one opressed. But freedom is for everyone. But if we do nothing, nothing may change.
And finally, some words for those who think a woman showing her body deserves to be raped: put in your head that it’s not the fact that I have a pussy between my legs that says how erotic I shall be, no matter how much skin I show. It’s MY body, baby! My feminine nature does not make of me a sort of public property. It does not authorize anyone to control it except myself; or touching it, except those who I choose as my partners. And even if I walked naked in the street, this would not give you the right to possess me.
If my tiny skirt, my tight jeans, my red lipstick or my shaking hips as I walk make you horny, gotta care to control yourself. I won’t take them off because of you. I do whatever I want and I refuse to sabotage my freedom of choice. I love myself too much to put my head down only to receive protection. I don’t think I’m asking that much when I require respect. If this makes of me a deviant, it’s okay, no price is too high to pay for belonging to myself. You can even call me a bitch. But I’m not YOUR bitch. I am mine!
And take your hands, eyes and filthy words out of my way, because I, high mistress of my life, empowered by my female pride, I want to pass! ;D