My name is George and I am old enough to know better. I am fat. And vegan.
What if all women were bigger and stronger than you? And thought they were smarter? What if women were the ones who started wars? What if too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos and no K-Y Jelly? What if the state trooper who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike was a woman and carried a gun? What if the ability to menstruate was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs? What if your attractiveness to women depended on the size of your penis? What if every time women saw you they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands? What if women were always making jokes about how ugly penises are and how bad sperm tastes? What if you had to explain what’s wrong with your car to big sweaty women with greasy hands who stared at your crotch in a garage where you are surrounded by posters of naked men with hard-ons? What if men’s magazines featured cover photos of 14-year-old boys with socks tucked into the front of their jeans and articles like: “How to tell if your wife is unfaithful” or “What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate” or “The truth about impotence”? What if the doctor who examined your prostate was a woman and called you “Honey”? What if you had to inhale your boss’ stale cigar breath as she insisted that sleeping with her was part of the job? What if you couldn’t get away because the company dress code required you wear shoes designed to keep you from running? And what if after all that women still wanted you to love them?
When I first became a feminist twenty years ago, I had an old-school feminist (wearing bright pink lipstick, mind you) ask, ‘What’s a feminist like you doing wearing a miniskirt?’ I said to her, ‘I got out of the patriarchy because it was always telling me what to do. I’ll be damned if I let anyone else do it, either.’ I told her that automatically rejecting everything the patriarchy demanded was allowing the patriarchy to control you just as much as if you did everything it ordered. As long as you were simply reacting, you were still granting the patriarchy all the power. Part of feminism, to me, was the freedom to choose for myself after carefully thinking out the issue, and I wasn’t going to cede that power to ANYONE, ever again. Besides, damn it, I had good legs, and I wasn’t above showing them off.
This is an excerpt from her essay in the Let’s Talk About Names series (I have one too) on Flyover Feminism and Are Women Human? The essay focuses on her experiences with people trying to pronounce her name, race, last name changes and feminism. I love this excerpt. I wrote about something similar recently, in my essay Black Women Do Not Have To Reject Any Mention Of Beauty To Be Womanist/Feminist.
Fucking lick this up, radfems.