Ashley Elizabeth Miller

I cannot escape feminism. Before these past two weeks, I always knew I was a feminist, but I didn’t know the history of the women’s movement as well as I should have. I always felt like one foot was in the door and the other was waiting outside, still maybe hoping some prince would come by and put on a glass slipper for me to try. Maybe this man would save me from the responsibilities of life — in general, or life as a woman, which is much harder.

To all the men rolling their eyes — including my date last week — here’s the deal: it’s harder for women to live and work in this world. For me to work in New York City, I wake up early to find the right outfit, go to the gym (though this is a shared feat between the sexes: the will to stay fit), wash my hair, coat my long blonde mane in product, and spend at least 30 minutes blow-drying it. Imagine all the work men could get done in that time — and me too — if I didn’t feel a sense of insecurity so strong in my belly that I needed to do all this to feel better under the approving gaze of men on the street.

Even if it was a tough day at work, at least I got a good look from that sexy 50-year-old man on the subway. Really, Ashley? Is that what you think of at the end of the day? That’s disgusting, would be the reply of many friends, family members, and colleagues. But I know the women critics do it too. We don’t like to admit it, especially those of us who are feminists, but we like the attention of men on the street. It makes us feel worthy, accomplished, like a bigger force in a world of people and systems that have taught us to feel small.

After two weeks of reading Virginia Woolf, Gloria Steinem, Eve Babitz, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and now Charlotte Brontë, I should feel ready to take on the world as a woman living alone in New York City, as a young adult, as my friends talk about their jobs at banks and the men they meet on dating apps.

I, too, am seeing a few men. I’m quite good at first and second dates, but it becomes harder for me to know how to take things to the next step. My past boyfriends have left many marks on my emotional well-being. For instance, on Maui, I dated a man who made me self-conscious about my sleeping clothes (not being sexy enough for him) and even the hairs on my face. Let’s be clear: I was — and am — a thin, blonde (albeit a fake one), active, smart, kind, and pretty young woman. He should never have thought to put those cruel insecurities in my mind.

But now I’m much better at picking men. I’ve gotten over that step. Maybe I’m growing. Then again, are these new men that great? Or have the lies I’ve told my friends about them become real in my own mind, so I now believe them to be better than they are?

My ramblings of thought, insecurity, sadness, unsureness, and passionate moments of loneliness are all part of the feminist canon. Reading these same types of sentences by other acclaimed women has helped me feel less alone. That’s what I want for other women: to feel less alone.

Then again, with all this new knowledge in my head, I still felt so alone last night. I nearly dreamt myself to tears — if not for my weed pen. I rely on substances to soothe my pain. Maybe if I were to relish in it, this would help me experience the full joys of feminist power. Or maybe it just takes more time — reading, learning from other women, speaking with other women, and so on.

In the meantime, I see points of resonance with their work in all areas of my daily life. Here are a few examples:

Because all I do is read, watch political news, and some New Yorker documentaries, and live in the Upper West Side, I fear I’m beginning to fall into the coastal elite class. To get back in touch with friends in rural America — and my banker friends downtown with largely different political views than most New Yorkers — I turned on a Netflix series about selling real estate in the Big Apple.

The host and one of the top agents in the city kicked off the program by making a joke, slipping in a line about how women need to run their desired new homes by their husbands (to pay the final price).

Gross. Now I remember why I don’t like mainstream media, culture, art, press — whatever you call that reality stuff these days. But is this turning my nose at my working-class friends? I wish it wasn’t. I wish it didn’t come down to me having to subvert my convictions to bridge connections. I wish more people saw how repeated ideas — like only men can afford big homes — affect women viewers who internalize those views and sink further into the domestic role of the manufactured nuclear family.

Finally, another example: This morning, after I took my LSAT exam, I played a round of chess online. (Fun fact: Did you know the sport is growing super fast right now? You can make an account online. I bet more men play than women — let’s change that. I only say that because my grandfather, who taught me, was obsessed with chess. It may have been a traditionally masculine pastime — but no longer!)

Anyway, I usually play on a hard board but decided to give an online game a go. My first move is usually to move the pawn in front of the king forward, but the problem with playing on Chess.com was I couldn’t tell which one was the queen or king. Their two crowns look too similar. So I looked it up and found all these comments from other online players with the same problem.

And there I was reminded: The king’s crown is always higher than the queen’s because he is the most important player in the game.