It’s been over a month since He became She. You would think I’d have acclimatized by now. Only, I have not. I’m getting worse, I think. When I first found out, it was so surreal that I was protected from it. Now, as my once full life becomes an endless surfing of gender critical sites, I see clearly how all reality has merged with some sort of sort focus sureality, when it comes to what it takes to be a woman.
Some say it’s shoes and heaven help the attendant who doesn’t know their gender (the shoe’s that is). More say it’s lipstick, and eye-liner and badly applied mascara, coz it take’s a lot of years to learn how to apply the right amount of lash. Those, resistant to such cliched explanations go for the more abstract. ‘It’s a feeling.’ Some venture. ‘You just know.’ Others explain.
Only I’m no clearer. The more you talk the less sense you make. Do you want to know what a woman is? It’s ownership of a vagina and a womb and a fluctuating in size set of tits, or because of owning enough of these things, being assigned woman at birth. That’s right. Assigned. No choice. And, because of that assigned first biological sex and then accompanying gender, getting f***ed over, time and time again, by a system of oppression called patriarchy, which favours the penis.
The first rule of the feminist club is that no-body has a penis.
The second rule of the feminist club is that no-body has a penis.
We know this, in real life. That’s why no self respecting feminist, over twenty-five, would be caught in the company of a bloke whose profile read feminist.
Yet… we make an exception. The dress wearing freak can sit among us, because… well… that dress he’s wearing… those shoes he’s shoved his big, brutish size nines into… that outdated handbag he hangs on his spookishly, hairless arm … they’re all a bit pathetic, right? He’s no threat. And just like that, an age-old, time memorial, incredibility effective way to identify those that statistics tell us harm us gets tossed aside. And, there goes the baby with the bath water.
And, here, stand I crying for that dead baby. The dead baby, if you’re struggling to keep up, is woman-hood. It’s a meta-physical death, obviously.
But woman-hood is dying, literally, also. And, by that, I don’t mean that women are dying. Though, they are. I mean woman-hood, as a thing you can describe, is vanishing before our eyes.
The extensive grappling I did to explain my own woman-hood, a few paragraphs ago, tells you all you need to know. They’re taking our nouns and our verbs and our adjectives. They’re taking our voices and our ability to congregate. They are coming for our objective reality, and if we call them out, they will criminalize us.
We have been completely colonized. I should know. The violent psychotic ex might soon be allowed access to the very shelters he forces his prey to flee to.