Woman demonstrates loyalty to patriarchal overlords through apparent voluntary compliance with Feminine Directive (Absurd Footwear Division). Hotel San Jose, Austin TX, November 11, 2006.
If the force required to feminize a fully-realized human man is considered torture by the Red Cross, then why isn’t the force required to feminize a fully-realized human girl also recognized as torture?
Femininity is a humanitarian emergency, but like most humanitarian emergencies, it is invisible.
Invisible, that is, to all but the insignificant nobodies it oppresses and the few agitators who make noise but are usually denounced as crackpots.
Femininity, if you’ll permit a brief review, is a humanitarian emergency because it enforces practices and behaviors (boob jobs, FGM, ‘beauty’ expenditures, the ‘veil’, the flirty head-tilt, pornaliciousness, fashion, compulsory pregnancy, marriage, et al) that are dangerous, painful, pink, or otherwise destructive; that are rooted in female subordination; that exist only to benefit Dude Nation; and that are overwhelmingly represented as inviolable cultural traditions in blind compliance with which comfort, contentment, and personal fulfillment are supposedly found and from which deviation is discouraged by ingenious punishments ranging from diminished social influence, to unemployability, to ridicule, to imprisonment, to death.
Femininity, in other words, is a bad scene.
I’m gonna write a novel where a human woman — let’s call her Jill — is abducted from her bungalow by aliens who, to her great surprise, don’t try to exploit her or probe her or make her clean toilets or insist that she reproduce even if it will bankrupt or kill her. The aliens are surprised, in turn, that Jill does not grasp how a race of sentient beings can exist that is not based on ‘civilization’, i.e. dominance and submission.
Feeling sorry for her, the aliens give her invisible technology that would never be developed on her own planet because of its patriarchy-jamming properties, and send her home. The technology is contained in a pair of really comfortable shoes from which emanates a force field that strips earthlings of their ability to discern physical and cultural differences between members of their own species. The hilarious result is that nobody knows who’s a dude and who’s a chick, or who’s hot and who’s not, or who’s a boss and who’s a slave, revealing once and for all that the pretty concept of ‘inner beauty’ is and always has been a joke. Thusly deprived of the means to properly administer fear and loathing, everybody has a nervous breakdown. They also all starve to death, since nobody can tell the impoverished Mexican immigrant farm laborers from the rich honkys.
The aliens, who had not anticipated that their comfortable force field shoes would cause the total annihilation of the human species, feel kind of bad about all this, especially since their favorites, the atheists, also snuff it, but they cheer up when it turns out that rocks eventually inherit the earth. This ending represents a departure of sorts for me; usually I have bacteria inherit the earth.
The aliens, incidentally, don’t reproduce at all; they are weird, glittery organic minerals exuded from some sort of dripping stalactite in a cave; that’s why they relate to the rocks. Also, at one point in the novel, the President of the United States wakes up from a 3-day-drunk/revival and attempts to have Jesus blow up the alien ship, but before he can stumble over to the Presidential God Hotline, the aliens turn him into a stone crucifix that weeps tears of blood, which Jill hangs on the wall in the amputee ward at the VA, where it briefly enjoys popularity among religious pilgrims as a miracle and among survivors of foreign wars as a cause for celebration.