Every since I’ve been five or six, on March 8, my dad would give me a hug and a kiss and wish me, “Happy International Women’s Day!” After I turned 10, there were usually flowers–for me and for my mom.
The International Women’s Day was a big deal in Communist countries. It was how you sold women on the double burden of full-time work-in-the-factory and full-time do-all-the-things-at-home and for the family.
Poster. “We Can Do It!” or Rosie, the Riveter. 1985.0851.05.
My dad–who was and is a very good dad–meant to raise, I think, a princess. He raised a queer feminist bitch who thinks she’s entitled to be treated like a queen. Which, you know–job well done, dad, I say.
And who finds herself looking at the world she lives in, and thinking this:
And who says she writes what she writes to smash the patriarchy one orgasm at a time.
And who, while celebrating International Women’s Day as a political holiday that can be used to highlight the accomplishments of women despite the limitations of the patriarchy and the continuing need for feminism, can’t wait until we do not need to celebrate it. When it doesn’t matter. When we’re all just human, and some of us have uteruses (and some of us don’t), and some of us use them to pop out babies (and some of us don’t), and all of us just do our thing, regardless of what dangles (or not) between our legs.
Probably not in my lifetime, hey?
Nor my daughter’s.
But. We can do it.
Now, if you’ve excuse me… I’ve got things to do…
mjanecolette
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