The veiled feminist.

When I walk down the markets you see an oppressed woman all I see are feet and blurred outlines. Do I like not being able to look up at the clear blue sky except from the window of my room? Is it my life’s dream to follow a man on a path that isn’t mine mine? Do I not crave adventure? I am just like you. But to the child born and raised in a dungeon the sunlight is blinding.

You say let go of your chains. Walk free. All I can think of is my family. My mother who spent her life being my living shield. My grandmother who couldn’t hope and lived her life cloaked in fear. My sisters who deflect this question by “the veil? What do you mean? I am ravishing in black!”

We are in awe of your confidence and long legs. But we don’t aspire to be you. We want to be invisible but seen, to be loved not coveted, to get drunk on freedom but not lose our senses. “So change. Drop that veil. Fight.” You have not watched your daughter tortured for your mistakes. To fear for your life and that ones you love. So don’t judge me if I keep the veil. If you have only known the familiarity of a cage the skies are daunting. I do not make excuses for living my life, I just live it.

I am your comrade in war but for now I will keep my veil. You might lose a job over an angry outburst I might lose my life. Don’t pity me, don’t judge me, don’t help me. There may be times when you have my back and there will be days when I have yours. For an idea to take life it must be accepted with open arms not forced. So the revolution is silent, it is slow, but it will keep humanity going.

I try. I may not have wings but I wish them for my daughters. I teach my sons what it means to be born equal. And I know the day I will be buried the white clouds will roll by silently, the birds will sing of love, the flowers will bloom and the bees will hum. And there from that grave my soul will rise towards the clear blue sky.

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Is it too much to ask?

Because stereotypes.

Is it too much to ask that you put down the new edition of vogue and pick up a real book (I know Hugo will be gibberish to you but I think we can start with Austen)

Maybe Marilyn is your hero, but is it too much to ask for you to give She Hulk a chance? (Green and smart what’s not to like?)

Yes we know she is wearing an ugly dress and slept with a dozen guys in a week. But is it too much to ask that you don’t judge and let her be? (Then again, gossip feeds your size 0 body. I wouldn’t want you to starve.)

I admire your confidence and your sense of style. But is it too much to ask for you to stop asking me if I want a makeover? (Bitch please. My sweater vest is vintage)

If your boyfriend physically abuses you is it too much to ask that you find your voice and make a stand? (Because if you can’t get a happy ending there sure is no hope for me)

When you are 40 and single is it too much to ask that you stop throwing yourself at every man you meet? (And in case you are in that place and wondering what to do with your life; I am always low on perpetually horny study subjects)

Is it too much to ask that you understand the real difference between a Ursula and Ariel is not in appearance but in spirit. (Although you have one on me. You figured out good girl gone bad makes the frat boys drool)

The brain is not an ornament on display. Is it too much to ask that you use it? (But then again, You would if you could)

There are so many questions unanswered. So many ideas. So many thoughts. Is it too much to ask that you find some answers? (No! How skinny you can get without dying is not what I meant!)

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Feminist’s fables

Only these are true.

She stares at the swirling plaster on the ceiling, grey, uninviting. The creaky ceiling fan moving in a rhythm almost like a lullaby. The window is boarded, the room is dark and musty, it is a Friday afternoon. There is a man there with her, her husband. No she must not think, she looks intently at the ceiling. She can feel finger nails clawing through her arms. The physical pain she can block but her mind is in pieces now. Every thrust feels like a dagger, icy and cold.
Her child is in the room too, crying, their house is a single room, a shanty. Her one year old, she can see her bones stick out. A girl shunned by all. She was 19 and the only reason she didn’t use that rope by the bed is because of her angel, her daughter. Her parents decided she must get married at 17 and she obeyed. She didn’t want to, she wanted to study, to work. Books were a privilege and she was poor, and a girl. She looked at the ray of sunlight that shone through the boarded window. The particles of dust shining like gold. The pain stopped, he was gone. She must get up and go to work at the construction site. The sheets were stained, she could make out the old blood stains she was unable to remove. She got out of bed and walked towards the tap, she must go to work.

She looked out of her open window, the street was empty. Her pearls felt heavy around her neck. She had everything yet nothing. In her youth she dreamt of doing something extraordinary. She was fifty and never had she once done something impulsive. Tradition shackled her for life. He made her abort two girl child’s she bore, and the third was a son. They celebrated his birth but that day all she could do was mourn the death of his unborn sisters. She never knew what it would feel like to travel alone, meet new people, fall in love with sights and sounds. And she never will. Her mother always said freedom was overrated. She wished she could tell her how wrong she was.

She looked at her watch, a new Rolex she got herself last week. She was one of those women who believed they shouldn’t have to do anything they don’t want to to get what they deserve. It was a long wait but she finally got promoted. She was a member of the board, the only woman there. She wasn’t proud of it, she wished there were more women. Her marriages kept falling apart, she was 40 and her eggs were in a cryo bank. She didn’t want this, she dreamt of children, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to care for them then. Now her obstetrician tells her, her womb cannot hold a baby. She looks at her watch, time flies. Did she make the wrong choice? She hated having to chose. She knew she shouldn’t have to. ‘Would you like to consider a surrogate mother?’ Some people think some women don’t want to go through labour, they want an easy way out. But she knew every woman who lives today in an unjust world knows pain from her first breath as a newborn entering the world. She knew what they called her at the office. Medusa. A head full of snakes, if only.

She was home alone her parents were at the clinic. Dad called, her uncle was coming home. She should let him in, he wanted to meet her. She wished her parents were home. But she didn’t know why what he did to her was wrong and what she should tell her dad. She let him in. He did those things again. She didn’t like his cold hands under her shirt. It was her favourite shirt, with pink flowers. Did this happen to other kids in school? Their class teacher never talked about this. She couldn’t understand.

He couldn’t stand the stress of his job. It changed him, made him angry, made him want to blame someone, made hate his family. He realised before it was too late, he took a step back. It changed him, he was calm, healthier, happy. He worked now, but he found the right balance. His wife did better than him professionally. He understood he must help her out. He knew what they said. Her success made him happy but society did not accept it. What he did stopped his family from falling apart, stopped him from falling apart. They did not understand and he wished they could. He knew their opinions didn’t matter. He knew he should try harder to help his wife. But the voices…. Everyday is a battle to keep them at bay.

Can they survive? Can they fight back? Yes. They can and they will.

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A post of no nonsense.

This is what would happen if Edward Lear was to write feminist verses with not so much nonsense!

There was a young girl with spunk,
“you think you own me if you get me drunk,
You disgusting deluded fool.”
Said that young girl with spunk.

There was a woman from Germany,
Who had lovers so many,
She wished she didn’t have to be ashamed.
That wonderful woman from Germany.

There was once a girl on a harley,
She had more tattoos than skin,
Why did she have to spend nights with a monster called Charlie.
Asked the brave girl on a Harley.

There was a little girl from Rome,
She had blue eyes and a stubby nose,
“don’t wander far away from home.”
Thats what they told the chubby little girl from Rome.

There was a country girl so bold,
She loved her whiskey neat and beer ice cold.
She sat on that barstool and asked to be left alone,
That country girl so bold.

There was a mistress from Wales
Who asked everyone she met, “he says he loves me,
Why then to ask for my hand in marriage he fails?”,
That tormented mistress from Wales

There was a boy from Bombay,
His parents told me on his birthday,
They had dozen girls aborted to be blessed with him,
That golden boy from Bombay.

There was a girl from New York,
She walked alone at 10oclock,
They groped her and she tried to run,
That terrified girl from New York.

There was a man from Italy,
He woke up to a different woman everyday,
And every night beat up his wife,
That wicked man from Italy .

There was an actress from California,
They called her Mia,
He said the part was hers but for a price,
that agitated actress from California.

There was a waitress at a cafe,
They called out to her,
“hey hoe, come let’s play”
That distressed waitress at a cafe.

There once was a peaceful person
Who looks upon the world and her anger worsens
She hurts inside, and gets up to fight
That once peaceful person.

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Little Women

Yes I am a feminist. No I don’t wear hipster clothes.

EVERY woman cares about the way she looks (if you don’t you never got laid, never will)

Men are shallow but here is the truth most women are too. There is nothing bad about wanting to look good (imagine katy perry from last friday night before she got all yum trying to strip in a club. No can do.)

But when the pretty on the outside gets fugly on the inside? Enough botox ladies, did you not know your best ‘asset’ will always be your heart(unless you are Beyonce! No guy would care if she had a black heart!)

I have a problem with so many things women are supposed to love,

Fairy tales. A prince riding on a horse comes to rescue me whilst I am dressed in rags. I tried that by the street one day, he was in his Maserati. Our eyes met, I thought we had a moment seconds later I was covered in mud.

Bikinis. Well that is one reason every girl ends up crying on weekends. Baywatch you ruined being fat for me.

Sex in the city. Every woman is a cougar? Will let you know when I hit menopause.

Moon lit walks with the man I love. Sheesh. If I loved him walking isn’t what I would want to do.

Tequila….. Whiskey please.

Super heroes. Sure Thor, Batman, even Superman(rolls eyes). Rich men or Gods or Superman(rolls eyes)…. Pushing it?

True love over one night stands. Its not just a skank reflex, every girl dreams of the no strings attached. Estrogen does work a lot like testosterone.

World peace. I hate most women I know. Give me the missile codes and there will be blood.

Shoes. Of course I love wearing those break my back pair of heels. And yes the diamonds make them SO much more comfortable.

Hummus. Gave that to my dog she gave me her bitch you crazy look.

So ladies if you want to stop being treated like a piece of ass instead of an actual human being all you have to say is,
Yes I am a straight woman in a bar. No I don’t want to see your dick. Yes, I am sure.