My father hated feminists. He was actually behind a campaign to stop a women’s studies program from launching at his university in the 1970s. When that didn’t work, he followed up with periodic harassing letters to the head of the program. I know this because 30 years later, she showed them to me.
My father always spoke derisively about feminists!. Among one of the many faults of feminists, I learned at a young age, was that they wear ugly shoes.
I remember clearly when I met the first woman I knew who named herself as a feminist. I was in my late 20s. I couldn’t help myself, I had to look under the table, to check out her shoes.
Yep. They were ugly. “Ugly”, like mine. They were the kind of shoes that you can stand in all day, at a protest, or walk in, at a march. They were the kind of shoes that do not deform your feet or make you walk with your glutes popped out. They were the kind of shoes that you can escape a predator in. Or fight him in.
Me and my ugly shoes.
A homeless man is standing on a street corner with a sign reading:
Too fat and too ugly
to prostitute 🙂
He is neither fat nor ugly. I am also certain he is straight. A homeless gay man would not advertise his double vulnerability to the omnipresent dangerous bigots.
So the “in” joke—“in” with other, straight but not homeless men—is that he is more downtrodden than a homeless woman, whom men screw before giving cash. And since there are so many, many men who are willing to screw a homeless woman, she gets more cash at the end of the day than he, the homeless straight guy.
So pity me, he says, with a smiley face on his cardboard sign. I may be homeless, but I am a man just like you—always at least a rung higher on the ladder of power than women of my own class, always able to joke about the oppression and abuse of women—and that’s where you, the other classes of men in the cars, and me, the homeless man, bond.
The colonized are truly colonized when the only path they can see out of their colonization leads to the colonizer’s definition of heaven. — D.A. Clarke
Sex radicals do the pornographers’ dirty work…when women defend pornography and prostitution, they attach themselves to a politics that hates them and negates their existence. Sex radicals are not rebels…it is radical in every sense of the word when women stand against pornography and prostitution. — Christine Stark
It is the perfect storm of consonants and a vowel. It starts out slow and ends with an aggressive finality. It’s a release. A push at the beginning, a slam at the end.
But it is more than a cluster of sounds. It has a specific meaning. Like the symbol of “fuck,” the middle finger raised in angry disdain, it references a hostile penis. A rape, really.
When used by radical feminists, it represents a colonizing of our movement.
The trick-or-treaters came in droves this year. I started to worry that I would run out, because I take pretty seriously having plenty of good Halloween swag for the kids. I still remember when I was 10 and arrived at a house with my hopeful paper bag, and a couple was exiting the house, well dressed, purse, polished shoes, jewelry. Going out. One feigned, “Oh! Is it Halloween? I guess we forgot,” and dropped a nickel in my bag. Then they scuttled to their car to spend the night hunkered down in whatever fancy restaurant they were headed to.
Bad. That was just bad. But if you come to my house, you’ll get swag. Good swag.
One of the clusters of kids who came for candy this year was three boys in their early teens: two galactic warlords of some sort and their companion wearing an ill-fitting dress and some sloppy girly makeup.
I was immediately put off by the “man in the dress” satire. Although I was busy handing out candy and not thinking in complete sentences, I was musing something along the line of here’s a young guy who needs someone to contradict his gender paradigm before it becomes so entrenched it can’t be uprooted. But I paused, and more thoughtfully wondered, is he a boy who would really like to wear dresses, beautiful dresses, with tidy makeup, but could only feel safe as a Halloween satire of himself?
Either way, it was a troubling costume. It was either a parody of a girl or a parody of a boy’s silence about his identity. I couldn’t help notice that he did seem very sad.
So I am trying online dating. What else is a vegan heterosexual radical feminist to do? A guy responds to my ad. His profile name is Juicy Cucumber. I don’t know whether I should laugh or swear perversely. I do both. Later today, I am reading feminist blogs, and I come across this by the author of How to be a Rad Fem:
One of the conundrums for us heterosexual Radfems is our sexual attraction to our oppressor. You know the man you’re attracted to probably doesn’t share your warm fuzzy (humane) feelings – and almost certainly watches degrading porn – but you want to run your fingers through his chest hair anyway.
And I laugh. I really, really need to laugh.