The Power of Storytelling in Activism

When I heard the news of the shooting at UCSB on Saturday, I worked myself up into a tornado of anger, my body trembling at the dangerous reality of a narrative I had condemned for years: the friendzone. 

Next, I made the mistake of engaging social media. I read tweets attempting to pin the tragedy on mental illness, a scapegoat used to explain nearly every murder spree. Such a trope simultaneously reinforces stigma associated with mental illness and covers up any underlying and systematic forces that may be at play: in this case, misogyny (see Jessica Valenti's article on The Guardian). 

When I suggested that the force of internalized and systematic misogyny were at the root of Elliot Rodger's deadly actions on Saturday, someone accused me of misandry. This is when my feminism turned radical. 

When I call myself a radical feminist, I feel it important to explain myself, not because I owe it to skeptics of the feminist movement, but because I owe it to the wide-eyed, budding young feminists who are watching me. When I say radical, I do not mean Radical; I do not wish or fight for a flip of the gender hierarchy. I do not want matriarchy.

Sustainable gender equality and justice is still my goal. But owning the label as a radical feminist means I recognize that these tragedies are not isolated incidents. It means that I am attuned to the systematic sexism at play in these instances of violence. It means that I recognize the importance of other identities that intersect with gender identity in feminism: sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, race, age, etc. It means that I recognize the privilege it takes to express hurt feelings over generalizations a woman may make when she speaks out against sexism. It means that I must constantly educate myself and others. Finally, it means that I recognize what it takes to end injustices like the gender violence Rodger committed and to tackle misogyny: political activism, community, and storytelling.

The shooting shook me up so much that I only slept for two hours, uninterrupted, on Saturday night.  But the next day, I found hope in the #YesAllWomen tag on Twitter and on Facebook. 

People often accuse my fellow Millennials and me, the Me Me Me Generation, of slacktivism. Our concern for social issues that's somehow important enough to post about on social media but that does not extend to public action puzzles them. Indeed, sometimes I wish we would remove ourselves from the proverbial couches and act in the community. But that point ignores the power of community that happens when we share our stories on the Internet.

The #YesAllWomen tag featured women from all over the country who shared similar stories of unwanted advances, abuse, assault, and violence by men. Women expressed the fear of being attacked that is present everywhere they go. They shared stories of guilt and fear when they rejected advances by men. And they shared stories of men they knew in schools, in the workplace, and in homes acting with anger or violence toward them.

These stories will not deter the violence committed by people like Rodger, but they do bring women together, and they do serve as catalysts for community outreach and action. The #YesAllWomen tag showed that we are in this together, that all of our stories matter, and that we are through with silence. The tag is an act of social resistance.

Stories are what connect us, far more than any abstract claims. Stories bring out our humanity. They demonstrate our shortcomings, our brokenness, our suffering, and our pain. They put human faces to statistics. And they reveal that others are scared, suffering, and hurt, too. Stories say we aren't alone. Stories say there is hope.

Radical feminism means I am committed to sharing my story and to listening to yours.