The morning of the Girls Rock NC concert as I ate breakfast in Au Bon Pain, I sleepily half-watched an infomercial for a “wheelbarrow for women.”
"It’s the easiest way for women to move heavy material!,” a man said.
“We don’t need men anymore!” His wife smiles, baring pearly white teeth. “Well, we still need them for some things…”
I feel the rising panic of someone uncertain of if they’re observing a satirical commentary.
Yet, when I think about the ridiculous indignity of fobbing off a poorly designed wheelbarrow on women, it becomes only one of those minor provocations dissected in Jezebel and Buzzfeed articles; an alarm buzzer that screams "misogyny!" for us without ever addressing the real issues.
I can write endless articles on microaggressions: on those Bic pens for women, “Science with a Sparkle” workshops for Girl Scouts, and the fact that every time I ride the C-1, I sit across from a Blue Rose Society sign that legitimately tells me “An intelligent man will open your mind. However, only a gentleman will open your heart.” In fact, I can give you a ten minute monologue on this sign alone, and you might leave with the impression that feminism only seeks to unveil a series of “haha, how ridiculous” moment, that we possess the ability to eliminate misogyny by dissecting it into laughter.
However, fear, not laughter, is the true antithesis to my Girls Rock experience. Fear is why I remain silent when I want to scream as loud as possible. Fear is why women still aren’t given enough platforms to express any anger, much less anger at the real, pervasive issues.
And so, I am watching as high school-age Girls Rock alums take the stage at the Carrboro ArtsCenter and Cat’s Cradle, playing songs–loud, fast, angry and confrontational–about their lives, and I am screaming along in the front row. It’s finally an atmosphere free from fear–not because we’ve pushed it to the side with jokes and evasions, but rather because we’ve screamed about it into a microphone. The atmosphere is absolutely thrilling.
Not every song, however, deals with serious issues. There’s room for being young and in love with pop culture, and for songs that are perfect in their specificity.
For example, at the Alumni Showcase, the announcer screams into the microphone. “I am so psyched for this!”
“Yeah, so this is a song about Adventure Time!” the front-woman screams back.
On the wall of the Cat’s Cradle, there’s a series of screen-printed posters of musicians. It’s difficult to tell exactly which male rock stars they are (glasses=John Lennon?) yet when compared to the crowd of teenage rockers with electric guitars and pride pins, they’re outnumbered and silent. “Revolution Grrrl Style Now!”, the rallying cry of the early 90’s riot grrrl movement, is everywhere in the packed concert hall: from Girls Rock NC! alums Cosmic Punk, a trio of high school students, to Shirlette Ammons and her niece Anansi, who rap together while their family members (and the audience in general) screams out the chorus.
By the end of evening, every performer, from Heather McEntire (front-woman of Mount Moriah) to the first band who played, goes wild as Kathleen Hanna grabs the microphone. In front of me, a mother and daughter, dressed in matching bowler hats and suits (yes, this really happened) dance together as Hanna tears through songs from her current band, The Julie Ruin, as well as classics dating to the the beginning of the riot grrrl movement.
Beginning in 1990 Hanna fronted the punk band Bikini Kill in Olympia, Washington. She was famous for using the rallying cry “Girls to the front,” to make literal space for women in music during a time when punk rock wasn’t safe for women in an extremely visceral way: not only from the inability to be at the mosh pits at the front of the stage, but also to a harshly misogynistic environment that often spilled over into violence. Yet, the blood and guts determination of Hanna and her cohort inspired a countercurrent to punk rock that embraced its DIY ethos while screaming as loud as possible for a voice, a presence in the world.
"I know a lot of you wish you were alive in the 90s, that you feel like you missed out on something,” Hanna said. “ But wait: You're lucky to be alive now. You're lucky that this is your time." For the girls and women crowding Cat’s Cradle, Hanna’s words couldn’t be more true.
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