The Gospel Of My Delusion

Feminism. Bemused. Insomnia.

In that particular order, the three words with which I have suffered the longest love-hate relationships. Today I’ll focus on the first, and I’ll get right into it by admitting that there was a time when I couldn’t be convinced to touch it. No. Not with a seventy-foot long bargepole. Not if it had just stepped out of the most expensive autoclave. Not, even, if it participated in scientific research and won the Nobel Prize three times in a row. A friend made me promise, some time back, that I would never allow myself to ‘get into that feminism crap’ [sic]. Howbeit, the days go by. They do, really. I must now go back on my word because I’ve gotten to that point where I can only afford to keep the promises I made to people that have since passed on. (John1, you should not be reading this, but if you happen to, I would like to say I’m sorry. I’m just trying to be my own person now. Honest. I hope you understand. Friends?)

Nowadays, days, I’m attempting to figure out why a piece of me has always been wary of feminism. Except it is taking much longer than I anticipated, and though I should like to spare no costs in finding the underlying cause of this mistrust, I am unwilling to consider psychoanalysis. Alas, I distrust Freud more than I could ever distrust anyone or anything else. However, I will let him be. It is far too early in the year to digress.

Onward.

In the heart that beats within my heart, I know what feminism is [supposed to be] about. Continue reading