By Kelly McLendon

Author Mina Samuels sounds like that friend who’s always on the go.

“I do road running and a lot of trail running, whenever I can,” she says, adding that she also cycles, swims and enjoys cross-country skiing.

Her book “Run Like a Girl” looks at how women’s participation in sports has changed over the years. Samuels says their involvement is still evolving and isn’t always entirely accepted.

“To a certain extent, it’s still evolving where parents don’t think of putting their girls in sports, or girls don’t want to be in sports. That’s just crazy stuff.”

Wanting to explore “how sports help women discover their greater capacity” drove Samuels to uncover facts about sports history and also about herself. She writes about the impact sports and breaking a sweat have had on her own life.

When working out and committing to fitness, Samuels says there is a certain freedom that may come to women, as they’re prioritizing and putting themselves at the top of their list.
“We spend a lot of time prioritizing other people. I don’t know if it’s in our nature, or how we’ve been socialized. We are deferring to other people’s needs and schedules. When we make that time to get out there, it shows us that it’s possible.”

Samuels also looks at how sports are viewed in countries around the world. Sometimes, “it’s the freedom to do what you want with your body, which is not as accessible to women,” she says, citing South America and some parts of Africa as two of the places where women might lack this accessibility.
The connection between the mind and the body also play a big role in female sporting.

In “the sheer freedom of sports, as long as we remember to play sometimes, it allows us to open up our minds,” Samuels says.

Another chapter details her own experiences at an all-girls summer camp.

Being in an all-girls environment, free from the “male gaze” can be refreshing, she says.

“In a way, we could just do our thing and nobody mattered, or nobody was tempted to wear eyeliner.”

“Eyeliner has no place at summer camp,” she jokes.

Samuels says her own relationship with working out is constantly evolving.

“It’s fascinating how we can discover new elements of ourselves forever. I hope until the day I die, I’m discovering new aspects of myself. Sports are a really good place where we can test that out,”she says.

By Arti Patel

Six dancers are told to suck in their abs as the popular Bollywood hit “Sheila Ki Jawani” plays in the background. Tucked away in a dance studio in Toronto’s west end, these women are taking part in a fitness program a little different than most.

BollyCORE is allowing people to learn South Asian-inspired dance routines in their everyday workouts.

Current artistic director Puja Amin says Bollywood music and the opportunity to mimic moves done by famous actors has been a selling point.

“It’s a very good mix of people who love Bollywood and (people) who love working out,” she says.

The fitness program, like any other, focuses on giving a boost to your physical body and everyday lifestyle. However, Amin says some workouts can be tedious, which is a reason BollyCORE focuses on dance.

“It is easier to (get caught up in) an exercise if it’s fun and enjoyable,” she says. “We focus on getting the steps (right) and soon after, pump it up to the max.”

The classes are diverse and attract a variety of individuals, including seniors with disabilities and mother-daughter pairings.

“It became a great family activity — it became a family workout plan,” Amin says.

Amin travels to the U.S. to host workshops and is hoping to build a bigger audience through the release of DVD, which will feature 20-minute routines.

You can dangle it in front of me all you want. You can prod and poke and instigate, but my reaction will simply be a half-hearted, “Eh.” Because sometimes I’m just not in the mood for feminism.

Don’t get me wrong—I am as much a warrior as the rest of us, doing my best to reduce stereotypes and promote equality to the nth degree, but sometimes I am interested in being a person first and a woman second.

I want to go into a restaurant, order food, eat it, pay, then leave.

I want to do gather up my clothes, put them in the wash, then put them in the dryer.

I want to go to a movie theatre, buy my ticket and some popcorn, sit down and watch the movie.

My gender doesn’t have to be a factor in any of those things. As far as I know, we look at a single man eating dinner by himself the same way we look at a single woman. Everybody has dirty clothes. Nobody wants to stand and see a movie for two hours.

When I am a person first, it’s like my gender doesn’t matter. Not everything—interests, activities, experiences—is or has to be male or female. Some things you can’t categorize. I like good food, good music, good movies. I don’t think that specifically links me to one gender or another. Those are things that people like.

Granted, some interests, activities, or experiences are directly related to gender, but not all of them are. For example, everyone—female, male, black, white, orange, purple, gay, straight, bi, transsexual, pansexual, asexual—has to do laundry. We wear our clothes, they get dirty, we have to clean them. Everyone has to eat—we go buy food, we cook it, we eat it. Everyone needs a place to sleep—we have beds, we lie down, we close our eyes.

Yes, there are feminist analyses of all these things. Who does the laundry? Who buys the food? Who cooks it? Who eats it? Who goes to sleep first? The answers to these questions are not always the same, nor are they what they used to be. A woman does not always cook or clean, a man is not always the breadwinner.

The feminism battle gets difficult to do all the time. It uses up a lot of negative energy that I could be using for positive things, like basking in sunshine or writing the world’s next great novel. For me, the ability to step beyond myself and see the world in neutrality is like a détente. I don’t have to fight with anyone to make me or think of me as equal because if I am just a person it means I already am. I like being a person first because it means that I am a blank canvas—I am just me, without predetermined characteristics being ascribed to me. I wonder if we all start to think of ourselves as just people, if we stop labelling and stereotyping ourselves, then maybe the labels and stereotypes will eventually disappear? La la la and world peace. It might be raging idealism, but at least it’s a start. For now, I am walking down the street not as a female or a male, but as a person who likes to walk down the street.

Date: December 22, 2010
Location: Grantley Adams International, Barbados

1:30 P.M. – After an emotional four days in Trinidad for a funeral, I am on the return journey to Canada.  But I must stop over in Barbados. Decision time: Should I sneak off to Bridgetown and/or try to find a beach? Consulted with a tourist board representative who strongly discouraged me, not because it was too far, but because there was too much traffic.

I try to relax in the terminal, which is difficult given the constant roar of jets, a live band playing Christmas carols and Santa Claus handing out presents. Eating seems to be a sensible activity to fill the time, however I observe that everyone who emerges from the one restaurant in the airport is clutching a paper bag made semi-transparent with grease. A fellow traveller recommends Flyover—a two-minute walk from the airport. Checked my bags and suitcase with a West Jet rep (a polite, charming specimen of a Bajan man), who instructed me to go through security at 4:00 p.m. Navigated the “traffic” (three cars, tops) to my destination.

2:00 P.M. – Good decision. Utopia. Clean, spicy smells and lots of ceiling fans blowing cool air.  I review the menu. OMG, macaroni pie and ribs sound very tempting but dairy and I are not always the best of friends, especially in a foreign country. I order lentil pea and rice (as stated on menu), grilled swordfish and coleslaw. I feel pangs of guilt for two seconds (isn’t swordfish endangered?), which are quickly overruled by pangs of hunger.

2:20 P.M. – Food reach. Eh, if you see fish—two big steaks and I find a nex’ half piece hiding under dem two. (My Trinidadian dialect resurrects itself in the presence of good food.) Thankfully, the lentil pea and rice has more than one lentil pea. My first bite of fish is heavenly. It’s enough to make my nose drip after a minute but doesn’t burn my tongue at all. Swordfish mother and father, my apologies, but I really enjoyed eating your child.

3:20 P.M. – Time to go back to the airport to find one more gift for my son. I fight “traffic” on the way back (this time, it’s six cars). Pop into gift shop and pick up presents. Still 1.5 hours to kill.

3:30 P.M. – Fill out departure card

3:35 P.M. – Panic. They keep announcing final boarding call for <static> to Toronto, Flight <static> 13. Check my boarding pass. I’m on flight 2513, but we don’t board until 4:30 p.m. And the nice man at the West Jet counter told me to go through security at 4:00 p.m. Or at least that’s what I thought he said. It’s not like I was distracted in anyway—was I?

3:36 P.M. – Last call, WestJet Flight <static> 713 to Toronto boarding at Gate 14 immediately. Oh well, clearly another WJ flight – just relax.

3:40 P.M. – Open my backpack to get my Obama book to kill another 45 minutes. Note ominous water stain on the right hand side of bag. Open it up—a bottle of Sprite has spilled over, soaking contents. Assess damage. Souvenirs in plastic bags—safe. Eat, Pray, Love is drenched right through (clearly, Ms Gilbert did not pray hard enough). Sweater and scarf to change into upon arrival in Canadian winter—soaked. Moleskin notebooks, barely damp—they are legendary! Empty contents of bag and drape on table and chairs around me.

3:45 P.M. – Another urgent call for WJ – Toronto Flight 2513. Shite! That’s mine! But according to my cell it’s only 3:45 p.m. Flight doesn’t leave until 5 p.m. Must proceed to check point to clarify.

3:50 P.M. – Pack things madly and head over to security. I tell the guy I have another hour. He wisely ignores me and asks for my boarding pass. He says, “You better RUN now.” Why? He shows me his watch. 4:50 p.m. Grab my stuff and run.

3:51PM 4:51 P.M. – Long line-up at immigration. I beg people to let me cut in line. They all oblige except one lady whose flight also leaves in 10 minutes. Immigration official mercifully asks no questions, stamps my paper and I am off.

3:55PM 4:55 P.M – Squeeze past a bunch of teenage boys all in pink shorts. Throw bags, sweater, shoes and phone into bins on scanner. Walk though detector and I beep. Female officer does search and quickly identifies the culprit—a metal clasp on my top and the underwire in my bra. She waves me through while making a mental note to add me to the no-fly list. Pack and run.

3:57PM  4:57 P.M. – Where the hell is gate 14?

3:58PM 4:58 P.M. – Nice WestJet man who checked me in descends from heaven, runs up to me and charming as ever, points me in the right direction—last gate (naturally) on the left. Sigh . . . he remembered me. Snap back to reality, check bearings, run.

4:59 P.M. – Get to the end. I see no Gate 14 and no plane. I weakly ask two employees, “WestJet?” “Yes,” they say, irritated (who can blame them?), “passport please.” Check handbag—can’t find my &&*%&%&!!*%!! passport. Take a deep breath, check again—there it is. Hand over humbly. Get the green light and run. Stop by a sweetie pie of an attendant who walks me to the gate in a civilized manner. Bless you, darling.

5:00:00 P.M. – She deposits me at Gate 15 and instructs me to enter at front of plane. 100m dash. New West Indian record.

5:00:8.59 P.M. – On plane. Find my seat, chosen by my husband because of the “extra leg room.” He failed to mention I am seated next to the emergency exit. Flight attendant runs up and gives me the Reader’s Digest emergency door instructions. I nod to indicate  I understand, apparently unconvincingly because my seatmates are giggling. Smile beatifically. Exhale.

5:03 P.M. – Oh dear god, I have to pee.

5:52 P.M. – Seatbelt sign turned off. Small detour to the back of the plane. That felt good. Ok, now let me perform a post-mortem on the afternoon’s events. Clearly, my phone was an hour behind. I ask the lady to my right if Barbados is on Daylight Savings Time. No, just like T&T, they don’t change the clocks. So why was I able to rely on my phone in T&T? Wait a minute . . . after the kids called me from Canada on my cell twice for non-essentials, I powered it down to save on roaming charges and then switched to my iPod which I had re-set for Caribbean time. I only resurrected the cell in Barbados, which was still on Toronto time, to send a text to my husband. I am incredulous that I was so close to missing my flight. But, really, what is the worst that could have happened? I would have been stuck in Barbados for one extra day and possibly would have spent the night on the sofa of the nice West Jet man. Joking! I am glad I am on my way home.

And it did, to be fairly honest. I wined and dined and found myself sleeping in past the 9 a.m. church bells outside of my hotel room window. (That would have never happened at home).

In Florence, there were no alarm clocks. There were no ringing cell phones or an urgency to get into the office. I didn’t feel stressed and I didn’t feel like I needed to go for a rigorous run after my twice-daily gelato breaks.

On my first day in the city, jet-lagged and in an Oscar-the-Grouch mood, I set out with the intention of finding food. I wanted to go from point A to point B, meaning I wanted to get a bowl of pasta, or a plate of risotto, scarf it down and head back to my hotel to sleep the night away. Mind you, it was only 7 p.m. Italian time. Locals don’t even eat dinner there that early. And there I was, ready to go to sleep.

My travel companion asked me why I was in such a terrible mood and if it would trouble me to just slow down, enjoy our walk and decide on a place that had something I really wanted to eat, not just something that was going to be a quick “fix.”

“Plus, you’re going to want dessert,” he said. “I just know it.”

I rolled my eyes and followed him down the winding street. After walking through half the city in uncomfortable shoes (let me just complain some more now . . . ), we settled on a restaurant with white tablecloths and candles lit at the table.

We sat down and the hostess brought us menus.

As we tried to decipher them, I became more and more irritated. Not at the menu, but at myself. I have a habit of turning into the meanest, cruelest person ever when I am hungry.

Turning the tables

When the waitress came back to the table, I eagerly ordered white beans in olive oil and a bowl of peas with bacon. Once I placed the order, she brought out a basket of bread and some cheese. I dug into the bread basket full force, but once I realized I was going to gorge myself on the stuff before my meal, I put down the container of cheese and stopped.

I thought, “why am I rushing?”

After spending years in school with short lunch breaks, I had gotten so accustomed to eating quickly. Lunch breaks where I only had fifteen minutes to scarf down food had taught me nothing but bad things. They weren’t breaks, they were stress fests.

Nobody can be expected to eat in fifteen minutes. I learned in Italy that meals are long celebrations and it’s not abnormal to be sitting at dinner for two or more hours. If the food is delicious, the company is fun and the conversation is lively, this isn’t a problem.

Time to savour

My beans and peas were soon brought out. I relished the taste of the peas. I even closed my eyes when I chewed them. It was like I had never tasted better peas before. I savoured my meal that evening and during the walk back to the hotel, stopped for gelato.

Gelato is another one of those things in Italy that will just urge you to slow down. The lines were long, and picking the flavour combinations is an art form. Figuring out if you want hazelnut on one side of the cone and pistachio on the other certainly takes a few valid moments of thought.

I ordered a menta gelato cone (mint flavored). My friend ordered pistachio. When he got the camera out to take a picture of me with my treat, I tried his gelato.

“Hey!” he said. “I didn’t say you could have mine, too!”

I laughed and let him take the picture. I was having fun and even if I stole some of his cone, he didn’t care that much.

The final test

Over the next few days, I learned to accept what my thoughts and my body were telling me I needed. When I was hungry, I ate. When I was tired, I napped. I didn’t rush to go to dinner and I didn’t rush to wake up. I gave my body time.

I suppose now, back at home, it’s accurate to say that’s exactly what my body ordered: Time. Time to just be. I get stressed and I rush through life most of the time and a few months ago, I found myself in a rut. I didn’t feel like doing anything most days. On my trip, I left the rut (and all of my anxious, stressed-out baggage) at my hotel door.

Because of an observant friend and a city where nothing is rushed, I learned to slow down and take a break.

From now on, I’ll slow down.

I’ll slow down and always, always stop for gelato.

The royal wedding was definitely a guilty pleasure for people all over—especially women—and it’s no secret that all eyes were on Kate. Perhaps a small part of us, against our better judgment, daydreamed it was us becoming a princess that day . . .

Does any girl NEED a prince nowadays? Of course not. We’re pursuing higher education, kicking ass in our careers and creating homes, whether it’s with a partner and a child or a home made for one.

So why is it that the romance and fantasy of being a princess is so alluring? Well, it just is. Many of us are saying to Kate, “You go girl!” Sure, we pride ourselves on being independent and working hard but it doesn’t make us bad feminists to dream of escaping it all every now and then or wishing a real princess all the best, albeit a little enviously.’

Maybe our fascination stems from the fact that Kate’s life will never be the same again now that she’s the Duchess of Cambridge and the future Queen of England. Or maybe it’s the fact that Prince William chose to marry a non-royal in the first place. In the months leading up to the big day (the “most anticipated wedding of the century”) she’s become a global “it girl”—gracing the covers of countless magazines, having young women mimic her and being labeled a fashion icon. It’s hard not to fantasize about that.

I, unashamedly, was part of the set-your-alarm-to-wake-up-early-and-watch-the-royal-wedding crowd. My mother was a huge fan of Lady Di and has always followed the royal family. She was fascinated by Princess Diana’s humility and passion for helping others. Her fashion sense was always to be admired as well, of course. So when I learned about the royal engagement back in November, I thought to myself, “That Kate’s got huge shoes to fill,” which has been the attitude of many people towards the new princess.

But as I watched the way she handled herself in front of millions of viewers, the way she interacted with the crowd and saw that she truly loves her Prince, I think her late mother-in-law would be proud of her son’s choice in a wife. The Duchess will now lead her own path and I know that women will continue to watch Kate and hope for her happily-ever-after just as much as they hope for their own, prince or no prince. And that doesn’t mean we can’t be strong women at the same time.

On an uncharacteristically chilly spring day in New York, I sit with X in a diner near Times Square. She speedily cuts into her purple and green bed of leaves. Soft lines crease her forehead and the sides of her eyes. She has straightened brown hair and brown eyes that sparkle with each phrase that quickly tumbles out of her mouth. She is on her lunch hour and she still has a lot of errands to run.

X is a successful lady, having worked at high-profile companies her entire career. She has managed multi-million dollar accounts across the entire United States, trained groups of people at each company to be better at their jobs and grown programs at said companies from scratch. People call on her to do a good job. In short, she’s awesome, and I hope to have a career like hers one day.

But to her, this is second nature already. She has probably worked tirelessly to get good job after good job and do well at each of them. For the past however many years this has been her focus; it’s what she knows. So it is jarring to me when she jokes, “See? This is what you have to look forward to when you’re 44 and not married.”

Quite the sarcastic myself, I know there’s truth behind every joke. Despite all of X’s successes, she still finds herself unsuccessful, searching on the streets, in country clubs, on dating websites for a husband. As writer Jen Doll wrote in her Village Voice article “Dear Single Women of NYC: It’s Not Them, It’s You,” both men and women come to this city because they have ambition to have something better, most of the time a career. And people focus on their careers for so long that one day they wake up and they realize they don’t have someone sleeping next to them. But then they begin to define themselves by that absence and that absence only, when in reality their achievements are so much greater than just a spouse.

My dear friend Gaby Dunn, whose 100 Interviews project is now six months in and going strong, recently wrote up an interview with Kimberley Kennedy, a well-known Atlanta news anchor who was left at the altar some years ago. Despite the tremendous pain it caused her at the time, Kennedy knows that everything happened for the best. She says that a common mistake women make is “(defining) ourselves by our relationships. Unless a man loves us we feel we’re not worthy. We’re defined by if a man — or a woman, if you’re gay — loves us.” Kennedy wrote a book called Left at the Altar to help women ease their heartbreak, but also to “to show women their value independent from a romantic partner.”

I have never, ever sought to define myself by another person’s love, romantic or otherwise, nor do I hope to in the future. I am not more or less of a person because I am or am not seeing someone, a fact that I have made clear to my parents’ friends who, despite any other accomplishments or stories I may have, only ever care to ask about my dating life.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” my godfather’s new bride asked me across the table at Thanksgiving.

“No,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you?”

I hate that for X the situation may bear even more pressure, like Bridget Jones in that scene where she’s the only singleton at that all-couples dinner party. Bridget feels annoyed and alone when everyone else in front of her (literally and figuratively) has paired off. It’s not only that, but Bridget is getting older. She worries if there will come a time when she is no longer seen as desirable—that “old maid”/spinster stereotype that so many women fear. Because as we get older, we aren’t seen as swinging bachelorettes or grown-up versions of the sex kittens we were in our youth. We’re seen as pathetic, lonely old women. Nobody wants to be seen that way.

What I want is for X to see, perhaps in defiance of everything we’re taught or shown by popular culture, that she is a significant unit on her own. I wish all women could do this, could see themselves for the interesting, successful, beautiful people they are.

Instead, I sit across from her in the diner and my eyes wilt a little bit on top of my feigned smile when she makes that crack about being 44 and unmarried. “WHO CARES?!?!?” I want to say. I want to tell her no, you’re wrong, how can you say that, look at you! You’re beautiful, smart, ambitious, successful—you’re a powerful lady at the top of your game! Anyone who thinks you’re anything other than awesome is out of touch with modern times. Don’t you remember that song, “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves” by Aretha Franklin and the Eurhythmics? “Standin’ on their own two feet and ringin’ on their own bells.” How women in their 40s are “supposed” to live or be or act has changed significantly. Your success matters.

But the words get lodged in my throat and they refuse to come out. This is partly because this woman is my employer and I don’t want to insult her, drudge up bad memories from past relationships or, worst of all, have her refuse to pay me. It is also partly because I know what I will hear in return: There will be a kind of knowledgeable “ha” sound followed by a “You’re still young. How old are you? 22? Wait ‘til you’re my age, you’ll be singing a different tune.”

Yes, perhaps I am 22 and full of self-righteous idealism, feminism and narcissism. But I still know there’s so much value in you that I wish you could see for yourself. Like me, you came to New York full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the world and get that career you always dreamed of. And you did it! You are sitting across from me in this diner munching on that spring mix a successful lady. You are a living example for me and my ambitious sisters, who come to New York every day hoping to have a career like yours. You are a role model.

I once had a huge argument with my mom about voting.

It had nothing to do with voting or an election. I was pissed off and angry about something else, and decided to give my mom a history lesson about a woman’s right to vote.

It was my first year of university and I wanted to go to a friend’s house and stay overnight. I grew up in a strict household, so this wasn’t going to happen.

She gave me a lecture about going to school and coming straight home. I dealt with it. She told me about how at her age she did all of the blank and blank in the house (that list would go on forever). I dealt with it. But then, she said I shouldn’t be out late because I’m a girl. It’s not safe and men go out at night, not women, she said. I snapped.

I argued that it was a double standard, told her how women in this country have fought so hard for their rights – including the right to vote – and how in today’s world, this kind of thinking is nuts.

But I don’t blame her. My mom grew up in a different time and a different place – in the small village of Navsari, India, where at an early age she had to give up school and start doing household chores. By my age today, she was already married and expecting her first child.

Despite our different views on feminism, I have always seen my mom as a strong woman. And while she may have certain views on what is and isn’t appropriate behaviour for a woman, she has always encouraged me to get a great career, be independent and rely on myself.

Growing up, I understood what it meant to be a woman and in a relationship by watching my South Asian parents. In my family, a woman had certain roles she was expected to adhere to and so did a man. I believed relationships were always heterosexual and not equal. I believed the woman would do all the cooking, cleaning and child-rearing. I didn’t care about women’s rights or gender equality until high school, when my eyes just opened. I began reading feminist texts, researching women’s rights issues – especially in India – and realized how sexist advertising, music videos and movies were. But this doesn’t mean I had an abundance of self-esteem and an “I don’t give a shit” attitude. I was still too insecure and shy to share my feminist views with the world.

But eventually, I started to challenge my parents. Getting a job was huge for me. A lot of parents would encourage kids to work during school, but mine didn’t want me to – at least not then. I changed this. Even though I was never allowed to stay over at friends’ houses, I did fight for longer nights. Today, I’m the co-editor of feminist magazine McClung’s. I bring it home and show my mom the types of issues we tackle and why they’re important to me. She’s surprised at times, but strives to understand. I tell her stories about rape and gender inequality, something I never would have done six years ago. Sometimes we both get angry together.

A lot has changed, but even more has to. While I am encouraged to work, I have reached an age – 21 – where marriage and the responsibilities that go along with it are also expected in the near future. Am I ready? No. But I know there is still a long way to go towards changing my family’s expectations. I have learned to take it one step at a time – and history lessons are definitely helping.

In my mind, Michelle Obama wants to shout from the rooftops that the government does not have the right to control any woman’s body, that sex education should be comprehensive, that anyone and everyone should be allowed to get married. But she can’t. Instead, she makes sure children don’t get fat and writes a glorified cookbook.

Sometimes when I see glimpses in the news of what it’s like to be First Lady of the United States, I know for certain that I could never do it, nor would I want to. Imagine, your every move, word, outfit or choice becoming a topic of discussion. Your opinions are predetermined—i.e., they cannot differ from your husband’s, because what does that say if even his wife does not agree with him?—and you have to be this kind of living dedication to what the “American woman” is or, heaven forbid, should be.

This week The Christian Science Monitor ran a brief story detailing Michelle Obama’s plans to write a book about the kitchen garden she started at the White House. The book will feature recipes and photographs of the garden as well. Of course, this is a sweet little idea for a book and I’m sure it will sell well when it is released in April 2012. After all, what happy homemaker doesn’t love a good garden?

We are not all happy homemakers, however. Some of us (gasp) do not even desire to make a home in the figurative or literal senses of the word, thoroughly happy to plod about our apartments with cats and the occasional lover or roam the globe sleeping on couches of friends abroad. Accordingly, we do not have time or space or desire in our lives for kitchen gardens, instead taking preference to such valuable pastimes as smoking cigarettes on our fire escapes and watching bad reality shows on VH1.

We are these “other” women, the women who are not represented by the ideals put forth by the First Lady. This is not a comment on Michelle Obama directly, but rather the idea of the First Lady as a whole. It seems to me that the First Lady, be any Lady like Mamie Eisenhower or Laura Bush, has a standard list of topics upon which she might comment or for which she might be an activist, but no more. For example, Michelle Obama may leap forth and try to rid America of childhood obesity all she wants, and she will only be applauded. She may do her best to improve the quality of food in public schools all she wants. But should she for a moment address abortion, birth control, gay rights—things that are of the severest importance to women all over America, no matter which side of the issue they choose—she will be thoroughly condemned and her husband will go down with her. She cannot publicly express opinions about these hot-button issues or she could endanger her husband’s entire presidency.

Imagine living in a nation seemingly dedicated to free speech and the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness and watching everyone go about exercising these rights when you truly can’t do it yourself. People may think of all the wonderful things that being the President and the First Lady must entail. I’m sure the perks are absolutely innumerable. But there are also the things that are severely limiting. In my mind, Michelle Obama wants to shout from the rooftops that the government does not have the right to control any woman’s body, that sex education should be comprehensive, that anyone and everyone should be allowed to get married. But she can’t. Instead, she makes sure children don’t get fat and writes a glorified cookbook. I hate to say it, but she is stuck in a figurative kitchen, as I’m sure many if not all of the First Ladies before her have been. She is representing the ideal of an American woman that barely exists anymore, and it’s not her fault. It’s barely her choice.

I wonder if this is what Michelle Obama thought she would be doing when she was going to Princeton University and later Harvard Law School. When she was working as an associate at Chicago’s Sidley Austin law firm. When she was serving as an assistant to Chicago mayor Richard Daley and later as Chicago’s assistant commissioner of planning and development, among many other successes. I wonder if this was the dream: to be First Lady, start a garden outside the White House kitchen, and publish a book about it.

I wonder if Michelle Obama feels stuck in that kitchen garden, jonesing to join us out on our fire escapes for a cigarette.

CBC documentary tackles feminism

My list of F words is growing. First there was f***. Then fat. And most recently in my household, fried. Will feminist be added to the list?

The closest I came to thinking of myself as a feminist was five years ago, when I wrote a university essay on the subordination of women in arranged marriages. What has changed since then? Or in the past 100 years, since the first International Women’s Day on March 8th, 1911?

In the CBC documentary “The F Word: Who Wants to Be a Feminist?”, UN statistics state that women make up 53 per cent of the world population, yet make only one per cent of the world’s wealth, and take home 20 per cent less pay then men. But there’s also been progress – half of all North American university students are now women; and women comprise 50 per cent of the workforce.

The documentary takes us through each wave of feminism. Women won the right to vote during the first wave. The second wave dealt with policy-making on equal pay, sexual harassment and abortion legislation. The third wave, which began in the early ‘90s, was very youth oriented and more multicultural than the mostly white, middle-class movement that was the second wave.

Some years later North American women, for the most part, are no longer controlled by passivity, domesticity or chastity, but Naomi Wolf argues that with more power and money, women are now oppressed by the beauty myth, which is perpetuated by universal media images of rail-thin Botoxed women in high heels and makeup.

The feminists in the documentary say they know how to bring about change: Through money, the electoral process, and the media. If they know how to do it, why is no one taking charge? I found my answer a few minutes later in a question posed by one of the interviewees: How do you build something when you are destroying it every 30 years?

Every wave of feminism has addressed different concerns, and feminists agree that women haven’t been very successful at grooming the next generation of activists.

When asked her advice for future generations, feminist Germaine Greer says it would be odd for a 20-year-old to be acting on the advice of a 70-year-old woman.

“Every generation has to reinvent life for itself,” she says. A little wisdom we should all live by.