My womanhood is masculine. She does not fit into the stereotypical box that men wished she would. She’s always had something to prove. She wants to be seen as equal to men, rather than desired by men. She tries to be seen and heard, loud—sometimes obnoxious. She gains respect as an aggressive and physical athlete, with a blinding sense of confidence and a threatening level of intellect. My womanhood wants men to look up to her, to respect her, not as a sister or mother or lover, but as a role model, a father, a professor, or a coach. She is a leader. She doesn’t want to be romanticized and admired as a feminine, pretty lady. In other words, she does not wish to be seen as an object; she wishes to conquer masculinity. My womanhood is masculine.

My best friend’s womanhood looks different. She embodies femininity. When we collide, it creates the most beautiful and destructive chemical reaction. My best friend goes to a Jewish sleep away camp with me. She’s in my kvutza, a Hebrew term we use to describe an age group. Growing up, camp has been a beautiful, unbelievably inclusive, and educational Jewish space for me. My kvutza being male dominated (with the exception of my best friend and me) has never seemed to be an issue. But, learning to work as counselors in training (CITs) with a group of men who have never grasped the term “toxic masculinity” proved to be one of the greatest challenges of my life. My miniature moments of rage, stacking on top of each other, became my only notable memories. The moments when your idea is laughed off, until it comes out of the mouth of a man. The moments when you can’t get a word out unless you’re obnoxiously loud. The moments when their jokes go too far. The moments when they want to spend time with you, until you take up too much space. The miniature moments of rage formed a blockade until the men’s individuality was far from sight, along with my respect for them.  

This summer I had a conversation with my best friend. She asked me “Do you ever feel envious of me, Zoe?” Yes—as she soon discovered—I envied her. I wanted that ability, that she so naturally held, to feel empathy through all her anger. To validate everyone else’s feelings, when no one seemed to understand her own. To be there for people, to fully feel for everyone else, even the men. Of course I envied her. A woman, not fueled by anger or a craving for respect. The envy was a mutual feeling. Her womanhood allowed the world to overlook her. Especially the men. She was there when they needed her. She’d fix all their problems, and when her job was done, she was dismissed. Unimportant. I, however, was too loud and bold and obnoxious to be overlooked. So we envied each other.  

One night, I was in my ohel [tent] with my best friend. I felt nauseous. Maybe it was the lack of air conditioning, or perhaps it was the empathy draining from my body. My best friend listened as all of my neatly organized thoughts spilled out of my mouth in a chaotic rant. Our kvutza had become intolerable. I spoke of their ignorant habits: their childish “follow the leader” tendencies, their joking stabs at each other’s egos as an attempt to boost their own, the differences in how they speak to us and how they speak to each other. I describe the man who’s extra touchy with us, the one with the inability to handle rejection, and the one who hurt me all those years ago. The more I spoke, the more my perception of them shifted. Each friend that I’d loved for all this time, morphed into one singular concept: manhood.  

My womanhood sat, eye to eye, with my best friend. The anger, the denial, staring into each other’s souls…until my best friend left. She walked out, and left me there, hurt. Needing a friend. Needing a woman. Needing validation. She didn’t return until after I’d fallen asleep. The next day, the elephant remained in the room—unaddressed—until lunch. She justified her exit: a panic attack. I felt awful. She told me, “All the guys keep coming to me to talk. They keep using me as an outlet, which is fine, but it’s just a lot. And last night, when you dumped that on me…it was just too much. I keep dealing with everyone else’s issues, I haven’t had time to figure out my own.” I was now angry not just for myself, but for the both of us. It was a classic man move: they can’t be vulnerable with each other, so they’d use the woman as a therapist, until other men were around, and my best friend’s voice would remain unheard. Though our conversation was mature and kind, it left me feeling alone—a feeling that was never vocalized. A feeling that, perhaps, I should have vocalized. However, I loved her too much. I didn’t want to put more pressure on her. So I inevitably forced myself into a worsened state of isolation. 

I was not, however, silenced. I vocalized my issues to the kvutza as a whole. I confronted the men, over and over and over. I spoke to them professionally, I showed no signs of anger, though my words told them otherwise. I was clear, I was mature, I was understanding. I spoke slowly to give them time to process, to identify the emotions my words evoked in them. This continued throughout the entire summer. They’d continuously feel attacked, but they cared. They spoke to me with respect, with a willingness to learn. But they were frustrated. I spoke of patriarchy, and internalized misogyny, and toxic masculinity, and male validation. It was frustrating for them in part because their confidence in their morality was fading, and in part because I, a woman, had a world of knowledge that they couldn’t grasp. Before every kvutza discussion, though she related to my resentment, my best friend labeled herself as the mediator. She’d keep things calm if I lost control of my anger. She’d make the men feel heard and validated. She’d be there if I needed to step out. She was always good at keeping conversations calm and peaceful, so I respected her for stepping up. However, it was never necessary. I never lost control of my anger. I never needed someone to validate their feelings, I never needed someone to keep me calm, to contain me. While she attempted to be my mediator, it evoked one large question in me: why was my best friend treating me like an angry woman?  

My best friend’s womanhood has always been empathetic and kind and held the ability to soften the emotions of others. I’ve looked up to her for as long as I’ve known her. In many cases, the delicate and the assertive could come together, creating a balance. But feminism is not always so simple. Feminism does not require that all women are the same and should react in the same manner to misogyny. Feminism does not require that women will always have the strength to hold each other up. Feminism does not mean that the patriarchy affects all women in the same way. It’s a mess, it’s a struggle, but it’s important