I was sitting at the table watching the manicurist
meticulously paint my nails, when he said something about “females.” I sucked
in my breath as the words from his tongue screeched against the chalkboard of
my mind. By the time, he uttered it the
third time, my ears were burning so I said, “I don’t like being called a
female.” He looked at me, paused hunched up his shoulders and resumed polishing
my nails. It was quiet for a few minutes, and then he asked, “What’s wrong with
female?”
And I asked him “If I am simply a female, then what
separates me from a dog, a cat or cow?” He said he never really thought about
it. And I’m sure he didn’t because it’s so common now. But I don’t like it, and
I won’t wear it because the title “female” strips me of my humanity. I don’t
want to be objectified by the v-shaped space below my navel. If being called female is ok, then why don’t
we run around calling guys males?
Female is what I check on forms to distinguish me from a
male. So the only time I want to be referred to as female is for statistical
and identification purposes! When I was born, the doctor said, “It’s a
girl! Time and experience groomed me
into into a young woman, and the tutelage of magnificent mentors blossomed me
into a lady. So, why would I settle for the façade of half-dressed femininity when
I can fully wear the worldliness of a woman and/or the loveliness of a lady so
much better?
