The shoe rack displays Bata Hawai, Crocs, and Birkenstocks. An everyday scene that today suddenly reminds me of the events I attended on International Women’s Day. Caught amid Gen X, Millennials, and IGeneration, my dilemma was which side I fit in: Baby Boomers, Heyday, or Bloomers.
Being a Baby Boomer felt like slacking in my idea of equality. Being a Millennial felt like being stuck in a permanent state of on-the-cusp adolescence. Being a Bloomer felt like rooting for the rejection of procreation. Wherever I belonged, I was still sulky and prickly, and my every movement was tracked by a set of watchful guardians eager to pin me down with their beliefs.
I lived with my parents and parents-in-law while struggling to fulfil all relationships. Anxiety, post-partum issues, personal space, and boundaries felt like mumbo-jumbo. At that time, I was Girlbossing, working like a man! However, the appearance of grey hair reminded me to align with the rhythm of my feminine physiology.
All I developed was an insatiable urge to run away—sometimes literally, but certainly from a mental and emotional hunger to be accepted and validated and a desire to fix everything in perfect alignment.
One of the few things associated with women of my generation is to have a positive public reception at all times. An archetypical Millennial woman must be pretty, fair-complexioned, sweet and domestic. But the uncomfortable truth is, I am infuriatingly precocious. I am no genius, but I am good at grocery lists; I can talk politics; I am getting the ropes of digitisation. I could be a mine of aspirations that bring innate protest against the world. Hence, the millennial me struggles to re-route melancholy to break away from toxic familial dynamics. I have likely entered the ‘unlikeable woman’ era, which means I can be flawed.
Today, I don’t like greasy food, cloth napkins, plastic straws, or shopping bags. I freely indulge in self-care. The struggle to relate to the hyperbole-drenched marketing fetes of products is real.
IGen women can laugh, cry, speed date, swear, smoke cigarettes, buy contraceptives, epilators, and vibrators, and discuss difficult marriages, stressing motherhood and trail-blazing careers. The one-dimensional figures of the past have engineered the victorious rise of the ‘flawed woman.’
On the outside, I am empowered to reject all that is misogynistic, while the inside transforms into a complex, frenzied female character. I find IGen women’s self-affirmations revolutionary. She does not walk on tiptoes; she aspires to a lifestyle; she wears red. Now, don’t think I am eager to graft relatability onto her. Instead, I am fascinated by her ability to be brazen.
The tales of dysfunction and healing are universal. There are lessons learned, happiness deferred, families broken, and disappointments. I concur that an IGen woman could have burnout, too. She could be living a fictional life. I am not being the mean Millennial here, but rather questioning if we have committed a social failure again by failing to provide genuine care.
Do we only place pedestals for headline buzzwords of empowerment? Are the ethics of self-care confused with commodified exchange?
Honestly, all the chatter about dropping filters from real and reel life sounds obscure to me. When I see a glimmer, I quietly celebrate my triumphs. I draw inspiration from IGen women to negotiate my adaptability when faced with societal demands.
With this remit of feminism, I am not palatable to the mainstream Baby Boomers. As one of a kind, I attract attention from Heyday girls and find a lofty acquaintance amongst the Bloomers. What is certain is that every generation is entitled to flourish.
We are all susceptible to feelings of love and seeking soulful kinship. I honour all sisters as individuals par excellence, and I am a part of this deeply variegated culture of Womanhood.
