Women have made massive strides in this country. We can vote, own property, run for legislation, hold even the highest positions of authority, and we are supposed to have equal pay.

Many would ask, "What more do you want?" or even worse, "What more could you need?"

I have peers who have asked this question. I have teachers. I have friends. I have relatives. Various people from various backgrounds in various positions in my life have asked me, "What more do you women want?"

They ask this question in ignorance. They ask it as though women are silly for wanting anything else. As though asking to be treated as a human is asking to be given special exceptions and acknowledgments. As though we have not historically far more than our male counterparts throughout the centuries than those male counterparts have ever suffered from us.

They ask this question in innocence. They ask it because they are unaware of the pain that women feel. They are unaware of the shame and fear that we are conditioned to experience from the moment we are able to comprehend that men are bigger, that men are stronger, and that men can and often will hold those facts over our heads as we beg for scraps of equality.

They ask this question because they will never and can never understand the female experience - an experience that begins the moment we first notice a man's gaze lingering a little too long.

"What more do you want?"

I want the statistic of women sold into the sex industry to drop to zero. I want the statistic of women starving themselves to look the way they think they have to drop to zero. I want the statistics women enduring and dying from domestic abuse to drop to zero. I want the statistic of women being assaulted and raped and murdered to drop to zero.

I want the statistics that exist around these facts to be treated as the horrors that they are, rather than as just a natural and ordinary part of the female existence. I want these crimes to be treated as the atrocities that they are.

"What more do you want?"

I want to not have to be on a constant lookout for men who are staring too long.

I want to not walk down the sidewalk without the apprehension of being catcalled. I want to go out at night or on my own without gripping my mace in fear of being killed.

I want to be able to wear what I want without being held responsible for men's "instincts". I want to say what I want without being called a bitch or a tease. I want to be able to tell a man to leave me alone, that I'm not interested, without having to tell him that I already have a boyfriend, as though another man's claim over me has more validation than my own claim to myself.

When I was in the second grade, I hated pink and refused to be the "princess" in our playground games because I didn't want to be treated as a girly-girl. I didn't want the boys to tease me or the teachers to tell me that I couldn't do the same things as everyone else, so I demanded that I play the same roles as the boys. As if being seen as a girl was a bad thing. As if being a princess was something to be ashamed of.

In third grade, I argued with my mother about wearing dresses, because I didn't want to not be able to run and play and sit however I wanted. My mom asked me, "Don't you want to look pretty?" and my answer was, "Why do I need to look pretty? I don't want a boyfriend." As if the only justification for being pretty was to look good for boys. As if I wasn't allowed to look pretty just for myself.

In the fourth grade, I hit puberty before any of the other girls. I had my period when I was ten years old and was lucky that my mother had told me about them the week before. My breasts began to develop, and I was mortified to go shopping for bras with my mother. As if becoming a woman was a bad thing. As though growing into my body was something to be ashamed of.

In the fifth grade, a male friend of mine hugged me and then laughed when he felt my breasts press against his chest. "You have boobs!" he shouted, for everyone in the hallway to hear. I blushed, and I punched him in the stomach, and I ran to the girls' restroom to hide. As though my body was unnatural. As though puberty and boobs were some sort of disease that needed to be kept secret.

In the sixth grade, the boys at my school started a game they called "Black Ops" where they got differing amounts of points for touching or grabbing hold of the butts and breasts of the female students. This game continued into the seventh grade before a group of girls finally told the principle and gave him a list of the boys involved. The boys were mad at us, as though they had a right to touch us. As though we had taken away something that belonged to them.

In the eighth grade, two of my friends developed eating disorders, and one moved away from our school permanently. Ninth grade, and I was on the girls' soccer team, seeing the boys' team ogling our legs and butts and breasts, talking within earshot about our which parts of our bodies they like the most as though window shopping for different parts to make the perfect girl to fuck. Tenth grade, and a boy told his friends that I had sex with him every night, when in reality I was a virgin. Eleventh grade, and I was listening to speeches written by women and for the first time learning about feminism and sex and the history of women in the United States and women's bodies and how they worked, and suddenly I was angry for having been withheld from this information for so long. Multiple girls were dress coded for the sports uniforms that the school had made them buy and that their coaches made them wear to school. I won the district Literary Competition by writing about my anger at the objectification and dehumanization of the female body. I was told that I was too pretty to waste my time being so angry about stuff that was only a natural part of the male physiology. "Smile more, and you won't be so angry about all of this," said the man who asked me to read my paper to him. Twelfth grade, and I dyed my hair pink. After it faded, I dyed it neon purple because my teacher said she was glad the pink had faded to a color more "respectable for a young lady." I walked onstage to graduate and my principle shook his head and said, "Really, Leigh? Purple?"

Freshman year of college, and I took my first Women's Gender and Sexuality Studies class and learned more about the laws that have held us back and those that have helped us forward, and about the women behind them, and the various arguments about why we do or don't deserve to be treated as human. But I was also verbally harassed by a man several years older than me, and I was told by an uncle that Women's Rights don't matter anymore. Sophomore year, and I had finally realized that my body is nothing to be ashamed of. I got catcalled while walking back to my dorm. "Show us some leg, pretty lady!" I held my middle finger high and kept walking.

One month ago, a middle-aged man followed me around the grocery store, staring at me as I shopped with my mom and grandmother. "Stop staring," I snapped at him, and my mother laughed, shocked and proud. There was a time when I would have been ashamed at myself that he stared; now I am angry. But I was still scared enough to feel relieved when my mom linked her arm with mine as we returned our shopping cart to its place.

Two weeks ago, I wore a tank top to work, making sure that none of my sports bras showed, only my shoulders. I work in ninety-degree heat at a landscaping and garden center, outside in the sun all day. But a customer still complained about my lack of professional attire; the other female workers and I now wear t-shirts to ensure that we don't offend anyone with our shoulders. The male workers sweat next to us in bro-tanks or less, stomachs and chests often fully exposed.

Last week, Congress started passing laws banning abortions at six weeks or less, but not requiring child support from the father at six weeks, and not doing anything about unused and discarded embryos at fertility clinics. As though women want abortions and Congress is taking away a dangerous toy. As if our bodies are things to be controlled and put under surveillance. As if all pregnancies are the same and should be treated the same. As though we as women are nothing more than wombs. As though it is ridiculous to want the same rights as a corpse.

"What more do you want?"
I want future daughters to not experience the shame that I did.

"What more do you want?"

I want men to stop touching me.

"What more do you want?"

I want to be able to take pride in my femininity.

"What more do you want?"

I want to be given the same respect as the men I am surrounded by.

"What more do you want?"

I want to be treated as a human.