On Feminism

I greatly admire Theodore Roosevelt, the 26th President of the United States. For those who are unaware, there are two basic ways to describe him.

The first relies upon your imagination: summon before your mind’s eye a single human being whose physical, behavioral, and philosophical characteristics are a composite of every positive and negative cliché that springs to mind when you read the word “American”. Teddy was that fucking guy.

The other way uses information: T.R. was a literally-saber-rattling warrior, who gave us the “speak softly and carry a big stick” approach to diplomacy, while winning a Nobel Peace Prize for negotiating the end of a war between the Russian and Japanese Empires. The man was crazy-tough and determined; someone shot him on his way to a campaign event, but he shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience, and went on to deliver his ninety minute speech with the bullet still inside him. He was a trust-busting friend of the working man, the scion of a wealthy family who was considered a turncoat by the monied elite. He was a bigger-than-life individual who –despite holding a few of-his-time ideas that would be alarming today– was ultimately one of the most significant progressives of the modern era.

But for my purposes, he was primarily a passionate conservationist. Teddy loved the natural world even more than he hated being called “Teddy,” and arguably did more to safeguard the land and all that lives upon it than any other American, before or since. He was an avid hunter and fisherman who knew our wondrous, complicated planet was a finite, shared resource that must be nurtured and allowed opportunities to grow wild and free.

Teddy cared for Mother Earth and protected her, so that she would always be his to prey upon.

…and now you know how I call myself a feminist.

Drove by a girl and her dad in the middle of the street tonight. She was kneeling over her dog in the twilight, and her desperate, anguished cries nearly cracked the pavement.

I don’t feel like being mean to anyone tonight. Go hug your pets.

Do you think I’ll be broken forever…?

Wounds don’t heal if you don’t dress and protect them. The fucked up part of your life isn’t going to knit itself whole as long as you keep seeking out unpleasant men to toy with your deformities. A guy who gets hard while tattooing his initials on to your stunted self-esteem isn’t going to help you grow past your misfortunes and maladies.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you find a man who wants to see and play with the ugliness in your mirror, it feels better than getting better feels. It’s such a horribly seductive unreality, when he looks past the objective you to the worthless piece of shit you know you are, and decides he likes your peculiar stink. When you hear him say “You’re a stupid little cunt,” it must be like hearing your first honest words, and realizing your truth has always been a vulgar poem no one could bring themselves to recite.

So no, I don’t know if you’ll be broken forever. But if you are, I suspect we’ll both know why.