The F word and football

Feminism is a funny kind of word. Kind of like the word 'moist'. It can stir very different responses in different people.

Personally, I've never been scared of the F label. I've worn it proudly and encouraged others to do so.

Then again, I also say the name Voldemort aloud without flinching.

The family I was raised in made a point of not just throwing out vivid claims of what women were capable of, but backing it up with self-achieved proof.

My two brothers were the only boys in a swarm of female cousins and sisters, and were never once in their upbringing under the impression that we were in any way gentle and softly spoken. In fact, any male in our tribe would laugh hysterically to hear us described as such. 

It was our basic understanding that if you believed that women and men deserved equal opportunity and equal respect, that meant you were dwelling on the feminist side of life. Which, let’s face it, was a more favourable tag than being an asshole.

We were never aggressive and defensive. Some of us wore heels and make up, because it was our choice. Some of us never wore dresses because they found them pointless and ridiculous. We were a Spice Girl spectrum of personalities and cultural backgrounds who lifted each other up in our different ways.

I went on to marry a man who was also unquestioning when our marital life fell into what would have been considered unconventional home roles by housecoat laden housewives everywhere. He would be expected, regardless of what people assumed was his heritage, to enjoy a close relationship with our laundry appliances and share the drop-saw with his project-prone wife.

Swaddled in this way of thinking for a decent chunk of my life, I sometimes forgot that the world still suffered heavily from pussyphobia.

It is a horrible epidemic. Bob Geldof really needs to look into writing a Christmas jingle about it. Most of those effected don’t even know they have it. It’s truly heartbreaking.

'Oh I bet your husband wants a little boy to follow in his soccer boots,' people would coo as they rubbed my first pregnant belly back in 2009.

When I say people, I mean all the people. All of them.

He did want a football confederate. Of course he did. He had purchased a Chelsea FC pacifier before the second line had even appeared on the pee stick. But it had never crossed his mind that this sidekick would require a penis as part of the uniform. Or that possessing such equipment would result in instant football skill.

Thankfully for Soccer Hubby, with our first child he was gifted his life long dream of a co-conspirator. He had someone to coach. Someone who demanded he stay in the yard long after daylight had faded and practice their back heel kick trick just once more. Someone who would sit beside him eating nachos at preposterous hours and screaming ‘HOW IS THAT NOT OFFSIDE?’ in unison at the telly. Someone who shared his passion for the game with every ounce of themselves.

And I would like to state, for the record, she has not once tripped over her vagina whilst on a soccer pitch.

The child quite literally left the womb bicycle kicking. Once she was crawling, her teeny knees would slide up and down the hallway retrieving footballs like an excited puppy. She would squeal with glee as Soccer Hubby kicked about in the back yard while cradling her.

A week prior to her first birthday, she took her first steps. In an absolute flurry of excitement, I did what most first time parents would do in this situation. I figured she was a genius and marched her to the backyard in a soccer kit to take adorable photos for Facebook. Planting a miniature football at her tiny little feet, I ran back into position with my phone poised and ready. In the time it had taken to do this, the kid had kicked the bloody thing the length of the yard.

And still, it was assumed on an overwhelming scope that she would not fulfil the void of Soccer Hubby’s son-less life. She was adorable and all, but not to be taken as seriously in her passion as someone with a scrotum.

Deterred, but determined to not write off mankind entirely, I refused to accept this. I looked to those around me to open my eyes to a better opinion. I wanted to immerse myself in a world where anyone who is human is acknowledged as the person they are and the choices they make for themselves.

I wanted a world where a father of little girls could not only proudly identify as a feminist, but lay a trail of evidence showing this, for them to collect as their minds continue to grow. I wanted mothers of sons to prove that we have progressed, as their sons grow to inherit a world they share with women.

I wanted this. So. Fucking. Badly.

I almost convinced myself it was true. Until I needed it to be.

Until I needed to know my daughter was going to be allowed equal opportunity on a football pitch. Until I needed to not hear the words ‘careful with them out there mate, they’re girls.’ Until I needed to be able to enjoy the birth of my second daughter without a collective sigh from society as the world turned to my husband and sympathetically said ‘another one, hey.’

Throughout her nine exciting years of life, my eldest has time and time again opted without prompting to enjoying cars, trains, football, and sport in general. Time and time again, I’ve watched her joys be labelled and questioned. 

A lot of times, by people who pause their own cries for equality just to do so.

‘Yes. My two year old daughter is wearing a Thomas The Tank Engine shirt. She won’t take the sodding thing off either,’ I would answer to strangers who were concerned she was being forced into an older brother’s hand-me-downs and stifled of her right to pink frills.

Honestly, that stuff just made her excessively happy. Why would I deny her that? What parent would watch their child light up with elation at the sight of a T-Shirt and reject the idea based on the fact it was intended ‘for boys’.

A new term and label found its way into our life. She was, according to un-asked people everywhere, obviously a Tom Boy. That explained it. That made it all better. That was the answer. She just wanted to be like a boy.

No. No. No. Stop. Everyone stop.

I’ve also seen this kid lose her shit over sequins. I’ve seen her literally well up with tears over a bright pink unicorn. I have barely survived mornings in which I have told her that she can’t wear a JoJo bow to school.

I refused then, just as I refuse now, to penalise my kid with questions, just for knowing what she likes. 

The equality we all keep saying we're in favour of, needs to start there.

I'm sick of watching her justify why she loves this game. I'm sick of her having to fight twice as hard to prove why she deserves to kick a ball into a net.

As a strong adult woman, I make no apologies for knowing what I like. Do I enjoy football? Absolutely. Will I wear ridiculously inappropriately heeled shoes to the game? You betcha.

Before any mother questions my parenting skills when it comes to dressing my kid in a ‘boy’s shirt’, please note that it is an unspoken understanding in our house that if Soccer Hubby purchases a new hoodie, it is now our hoodie.

To date, neither myself, nor Soccer Hubby, have spontaneously combusted through fabrically transmitted disease. 

In our hoodie sharing home, we could have trained and brainwashed any child to play a half decent game of football. But you can't teach passion. They have it or they don't.

That’s the thing with parenthood, you can’t pick what you get. This shit isn’t amazon.

Boy, girl, brunette, blonde, feminist or not. It doesn’t matter. These little beings are going to like what they like. We need to do better in making sure we don’t question them for it. We need to do better when it comes to limiting what they can reach for. We need to be better at checking the bias at the door and supporting them as equal. We need to do better at ensuring they're supporting each other.

You don't need to call yourself a feminist if you don't want to. Just don't tell my kid her ability to kick a ball is weighed down by the word female.

My girl isn't just a 'female soccer player', she's a soccer player. Trust me, that's a label she's earned.