"Holy crap! Where did THAT come from?"
Various forms of this question have been asked by a good many guys in my life recently. Some of them are guys whom I'm pretty sure have never skeeved on women, maybe never told anything more sexist than the odd PMS joke. Some who've done what they can, as allies, to be sure other guys in the workplace or social environment don't get away with 'locker room talk' among themselves, even.
I've heard it again and again. "Wait, what? Why now? Why so MUCH? WTF??" It reminds me of people walking along the street at the foot of a 50-story skyscraper, chatting about where to have lunch and not paying much more attention to what's around them than they have to, to avoid the idiots with their noses in their mobile phones. Lovely day, nice breeze, and then...
WHUMP!!!
A couple of yards in front of them, a monstrous body hits the sidewalk, narrowly missing another pedestrian and grossing EVERYBODY out. It's hideous. It was hideous even before it connected with the pavement, a grotesque, barely-human fiend.
"Holy crap! Where did THAT come from?"
Dudes... it's the Patriarchy. You're only surprised because you haven't seen the women who've been dragging it up the stairs, all fifty stories, one flight at a time, as it's struggled and fought, lived on every time they pounded a stake into its heart, yanked it onto the next flight and plodded upward again.
Fifty fucking stories. It's been kicking and screaming, every flight, but you never heard. You didn't pay any attention to those noises coming from the stairwell.
You know nothing of the women killed, crippled, left for dead on the landings, as their sisters grimly pounded in another stake and heaved it onto the next stair upward. Sometimes losing their grip and letting the revolting thing bump-bump-bump back down to the landing below.
Every staircase, every floor, more women have arrived to join the task, because this is one effing HUGE monster, this patriarchy, this sleazy predator that regards half of the human race as domestic animals for its own consumption.
Many have died. Many. Hauling that monster up the narrow, dark, smelly stairwell is not for the faint of heart.
But we got it up there, onto the roof. A tag-team effort. Finally, finally...
WE knew.
Women have seen every moment of the fight. We've all had a hand dragging it, we've all got the scars to show for that. We know that monster.
And with a massive heave, we got it over, and let it drop.
THAT'S where it came from.
If you're shocked, it's because you haven't been paying attention.
I have no idea if that thing is dead. Probably not.
But it's seriously damaged, and I thank every one of my sisters, and the occasional brother who's joined in the effort, too.
It's been worth it.
informatively,
Bright
= new reply since forum marked as read
There was even a Barbie outfit called "Cutie Coed." "Former Uni-High Coed Found..." - that was a headline in the local paper after what I believe was a rape story. I didn't even read it. I was stopped, dead in my tracks, by the headline. "COED"? What the fuck is THAT? Is that a thing? If I'm female and I'm in that school or in this community taking note of me in that school, I'm now a THING?
When I first got into radio, professionally, I landed my first several jobs simply because the station needed to "check the box", acknowledging that they'd hired somebody outside the norm (which was always automatically presumed to be "male" and "white"
. And I'd come out of four years of college radio with actual broadcast experience, and an official FCC 3rd-class license with a broadcast endorsement, which you needed back then, in order to handle the equipment and engineer for yourself and turn the transmitter on in the morning or turn it off at night and note it in the official log, and for which you had to study and take a test at the FCC offices in downtown L.A. so you knew what meter readings were and the difference between AM and FM and other stuff like that. (Amplitude modulation and frequency modulation - THERE! I still remember that much! LOL) So I got right in.
But I remember, while still in college, with all that actual broadcast experience, going to the local CBS offices to apply for a job (that I naively hoped would lead me to one of their broadcast properties) and being promptly directed to go down the hall and report to a particular room to take a typing test.
PMS jokes are never funny. PERIOD!! 
Hugs to you, Bright. 
Sisterly,
Hekate
have borrowed this to the point post and have already passed it on.
Thank you!
