Six subject positions with hand-drawn images:
- I am a woman (and perform femininity)
- I am white (American)
- I am of an educated social class
- I am young
- I live in fashion-focused cities (Paris + NYC)
- I perform heteronormativity (I prefer to say this way as opposed to labeling myself straight or bisexual. Regardless of what my sexuality is, I still partake in heteronormative activities and performances)
Intersectional feminism is not about women. First-wave feminism is about white women of privilege. Intersectional feminism is about everybody. As is fashion; as Susan Kaiser states in Fashion and Cultural Studies, “Fashion is more than a white, bourgeois (upper-middle class), heterosexual female affair” (p. 34).
Although one cannot discount the origins of feminism, one must realize that feminism actually began as “straight, white, educated woman” feminism, and was harmful and hurtful to women of other races, identities, and class systems. When white women were “finally” allowed to go to work, the black women were saying “we’ve been working for years”.
Intersectionality recognizes inequalities and gives them equal validation. Intersectionality is asking why two black women might have different amounts of privilege in society — perhaps one is educated and fit, and the other is uneducated and overweight. They both have stories to tell, and they are both valid. And to the uneducated, overweight, black woman, who is the first generation Chinese-American lesbian woman with her Ph.D., who also has an anxiety disorder? Or to the white trans man from a suburb who didn’t have the support he needed to get a college degree, who are 530,000 undocumented immigrants in New York City alone?
Subject positions are in motion. Kaiser writes that they “intersect with each other” and “rotate but not in only one direction… somewhat erratically and jerkily, they can move in quickly and perhaps even light up, commanding our attention and becoming especially salient in terms of self-awareness and a sense of subjectivity” (p. 36).
I am a white cisgender woman from a Christian family in Portland, OR — a city known for its racist origins and predominant whiteness, and a state with active KKK groups. Nobody in my immediate nor extended family openly identifies as queer or trans, and both of my grandfathers (not grandmothers) received a college education from private universities. Both of my parents are alive, healthy, and married to each other. They had private college educations as well, and so do all of my siblings. I was raised comfortably — there was always food on the table. We had piano lessons, ballet class, and went to a private school. My mother stayed at home because my father was able to earn enough money with his work, and therefore I was able to spend a lot of time with her growing up.
Now I live in New York City. My parents pay half my rent and send me money each month so I can buy groceries. They pay for my tuition. If I ever need anything, I can call them and they will have the means, and generosity, to help me.
I did not choose this. I did not choose to be born a white woman in a generally wealthy city of the United States. I did not choose to have educated and incredibly supportive parents. I did not choose my immense privilege in this world. In my life, I have never been subject to racism, and when I graduate I expect to be able to find a job.
I feel deep pangs of guilt for the amount of privilege I have in this world. I see people on the street, even my peers — my friends of color, my trans friends, my friends whose parents are immigrants, and I know I am privileged in ways they are not, and often, ways I am blind to.
But I do not want to be blinded by my own privilege. This is why I, an educated white woman, need intersectionality. Feminism cannot just be about my rights to vote and my rights to work a 9-5 job, not just about my rights to choose if I have children or not, or about being able to open my own bank account. Other voices must be heard, voices that have been drowned out for centuries.
All of these factors affect the way that I dress. Here are some ways:
- My gender: I wear women’s clothes (ie. clothes made for women). Not only women’s pants and shirts (gender-neutral garments) but I enjoy wearing dresses and skirts. (There is a story my mother told me of how we went camping when I was a toddler, and I refused to wear anything besides this little ruffly rainbow skirt, even roughing it in the middle of the woods. And I see now not much has changed. Even yesterday I was building a sculpture out of plaster and probably should have worn jeans or some clothes that can get a little messy, I found myself in a skirt and a shirt that said “New York City Ballet” on it.) Now that I am older I must question if I genuinely enjoy being “feminine” in how I dress or if it is something that society has taught me. However, I actively look for “feminine” cuts, collars, shapes, and waistlines in my garments when I am shopping, not only because I feel it is more flattering to my body, but I feel more “myself”. (Perhaps we can also say the same of people whose gender expression is not the gender they were born with — when they were certain clothes, they just feel more “themselves”).
I also choose to wear clothes that are comfortable and loose-fitting to my body. I am a dancer and enjoy wearing clothes that allow movement and let me “forget” that I wear clothes.
- My class: I’ve never worn couture, and I don’t plan to. My clothes are from some fast-fashion shops, although I try to avoid them. If I do buy fast-fashion, it’s because I really love the piece and will wear it over and over. I also shop at consignment stores or get hand-me-downs. The places that I inhabit due to my class also have an influence on how I dress. Joan Entwistle writes, “most situations, even the most informal, have a code of dress and impose particular ways of being on bodies in such a way as to have a social and moral imperative to them.”
- The place I’m in: I’ve been able to live in several cities over the last couple of years, and I’ve noticed how much my fashion changes even ever so slightly after I move. For example, when I lived in Paris, I noticed very quickly that I couldn’t wear skirts or dresses above the knee. When I moved to Paris I had several skirts in bright colors — purple, green, red, that fell to my mid-thigh. After living in Paris for a couple of weeks, they never saw daylight again and were replaced by skirts to my mid-calf or at least my knee in blues, blacks, and greys. I’ve brought these skirts to New York with me, and in Paris, I would wear a very “matchy” shirt with them. But in the last three weeks of living in New York, I’ve paired them with brighter, more abstract shirts. As I write this I’m wearing a camisole with the blue skirt — I would never expose my shoulders in Paris, but in New York it’s comfortable.
Intersectionality is important to me because I recognize my privilege in society and space I occupy as a Western, white, educated, woman whose gender expression is feminine and sexuality quite heteronormative with a few exceptions (I am questioning if I identify as apart of the queer community). I must recognize that those who have also occupied this same space in society have been incredibly problematic and hurtful to those who occupy different spaces, or even a similar space but with a lower class or disability. Therefore, each step I take forward must be towards this intersection of acceptance, and I must be aware of the past and history of those who have walked this road before me.
