I’m not a fem­i­nist.

I think fem­i­nism is awe­some. I want to be a fem­i­nist.

I read some—not enough, but some. I keep up-to-date on cur­rent events. I do my best to be aware of the ills in the so­ci­ety around me. I try to watch for sex­ism. I try to see racism. I’m try­ing to learn more about ab­lism. I’m very aware of ho­mo­pho­bia and trans­pho­bia.

It’s not hard. It’s every­where, even if I’ve been long trained not to see it (even where it af­fects me per­son­ally).

I do my best to take the red pill every day.

But I’m not a fem­i­nist.

Be­cause of­ten, I see some­thing. Of­ten, I hear some­thing. Of­ten, I read some­thing.

And I want to say some­thing. I want to say: Hey! There’s a prob­lem! This is per­pet­u­at­ing so­ci­etal prob­lems, mak­ing the world a worse place, word by word, and that both­ers me. I know you don’t mean it. Any chance you could cut it out?

I’d love to say some­thing like that.

But I can’t.

What if I’m wrong? What if it should­n’t be a prob­lem? Why is it a prob­lem? It’s both­er­ing me, but can I ex­plain why?

If I were a real fem­i­nist, I feel, then I’d know when to say some­thing. If I were a fem­i­nist, I’d know what to say. If I were a fem­i­nist, I’d know how to say it.

In­stead, I sit qui­etly, and fid­get.

I’m both­ered. But I stay quiet.

Be­cause I’m not a fem­i­nist. I don’t know these things. I don’t know any­thing. I don’t know enough.

I learn more and more. I try, but it’s never enough.

I never know enough to feel com­fort­able in what I know. I never know enough to make a clean ar­gu­ment.

I never know enough to feel like I can say some­thing.

Be­cause I’m not a fem­i­nist.

But, per­haps…

I should say some­thing any­way.