Lately, one of my neighbors likes to talk about how nice I am. She sees how well I take care of my elderly cat, and hey, that’s fine, but I can’t help but feel there’s a degree of malice in her pronouncements.
“Oh, you’re so nice.”
I hate when people say I’m nice. Kind? Sure, I’ll take kind. Though I think kindness implies an action of goodwill, like giving money to the homeless or maybe donating your time to seniors. That sort of thing. And I haven’t done much of that.
But nice? To me, it implies submission, a rule player. The kind of woman who marries the patriarchy and smiles all the way through.
A nice woman is a conformist.
I am not that woman. Never have been. And I’ve had to sacrifice a lot of material comforts because I’m not.
So, hey, don’t call me nice.
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