THE COMFY EMBRACE OF FEMALE VICTIMHOOD
I am old enough to remember women burning their bras. I remember the Women's Liberations movement. I remember the long hair, the bell bottoms and the bra-less-ness. I watched it on television with my mom. She was a housewife. She married at fourteen. She was gorgeous, compassionate, intelligent.... and spineless. She spent her days ruled by my father who was not half the person she was. My father was a selfish bully who was not giving up any of the power he believed he was entitled to. I watch the women protesting the Kavanaugh nomination. The organize, they carry signs, they scream, they screech, they protest. They want their stories to be told. They want their stories to be heard. I am certain my mother wanted my father to hear her. On occasion she told me her story. Her dreams. Her aspirations. But my father wasn't listening... primarily because he was too busy talking. And when he wasn't talking, he wanted quiet. This is what these old white me