Showing posts with label choice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label choice. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Whoa, Womyn

     Back in the day, a principal tenet of feminism was that women were more than their reproductive parts, that they must be appreciated for their intelligence, their talents, their skills, their personhood. Fast forward to more recent days, in which women in Austin drew genitalia and reproductive organs on their shirts and bedecked posters with a fringe of tampons, all in order to protest a restriction on the abortion of larger babies. Warned of a plan to throw used feminine items at legislators, police began to confiscate said items, used or not. They also found jars of urine and feces in the ladies' possession, because they're so necessary to public discourse. Now, persons of female genderhood, I ask you, how is it that you wish people to see you? You, in the vulva suit, do you offer a principled and logical case for your position? Or is your rhetoric limited to "If you can't say it, don't regulate it"? In the name of women's rights, you are presenting yourselves as brainless sluts, who want nothing more than to screw around, kill the babies, and screw around some more.
     Choice, choice, you cry, but there is no choice-- certainly not for women who love their husbands and children and want to be home to care for them.  Actress Kirsten Dunst felt the wrath when she said in an interview, “I feel like the feminine has been a little undervalued. We all have to get our own jobs and make our own money, but staying at home, nurturing, being the mother, cooking—it’s a valuable thing my mom created. And sometimes, you need your knight in shining armor. I’m sorry. You need a man to be a man and a woman to be a woman. That’s why relationships work.”
     Making up your own mind is good, right? Not to Erin Gloria Ryan, fervent feminist writer on a site called “Jezebel.”  She wrote, “Kirsten Dunst is not paid to write gender theory, so it shouldn’t surprise anyone that she’s kind of dumb about it.” In feminist circles, they used to say that women should never bad-mouth each other, but I guess that only applies to lousy novels. The charming Miss Ryan seems to think one must be a paid feminist theoretician in order to be allowed to have an opinion. Actual women living actual lives? “Shut up,” she explained.
     By the way, the title of her commentary was “Kirsten Dunst Thinks Ladies in Relationships Should Wife the F**k Out.” She’d fit right in with the militants of Austin, for whom noise and vulgarity are the keys to success. This former (thank God) feminist has an opinion, authorized or not: Abortion-obsessed haters of men and marriage, you have thrown away the best of womanhood--and adulthood, come to think of it--betrayed the early ideals of feminism, and become obnoxious harridans. You should be ashamed.


Monday, January 21, 2013

Don't Worry Your Little Head

A scientist/artist marvels at infant development.

Thousands of comments greeted Alexander Tsiaras's artistic presentation of life in the womb. Many were hostile. His biggest crime? He called it a baby. In other words:



     Don’t tell me about the vertebrae that form to hold a spinal cord. Don’t tell me about the neural cells that meet to make a brain. Don’t tell me how the eyelids form. Don’t tell me about the little hands that meet across the heart. When the heart beats, don’t tell me. Don’t worry my head with fingerprints, or DNA, or bones. I have a right, you know, to choose.
     So don’t you dare say “baby.” I have a right to words that sound not-human--zygote, foetus, embryo. I don’t care what your dictionary says about “unborn humans.” No “baby.” That word is anti-choice. I will not say what I have chosen. Damn your transitive verbs. I choose a choice. A choice to choose. No “what.” No “whom.” Don’t ask me.
     You try to show me pictures. I won’t look. How dare you try to make me see. I’ll keep my mass of cells, my blob, my thing no different from a chicken, no better than a lizard. Those can be cut and crushed and burned, and I don’t have to feel a thing. That’s all I will remember. A wart, a fingernail, a cyst. It’s gone.
     Besides, I’m just a teen. I’m starting my career. I have to finish school. The guy doesn’t care. Besides. It’s my body. It’s my life. It’s my choice. I don’t want to be tied down. Adoption? That’s too hard. Besides. Some kids are poor. Wouldn’t it be better not to live?  Unwanted, wouldn’t it better not to live? Besides, the baby… no, the foetus… no, the product of conception might grow up to be a criminal. Might grow up. Might grow. Wouldn’t it be better not to live? I’ll decide.
     Keep your scans and sonograms. Keep your physiology. Keep your scientific observations and your logic. Keep your photos and your Bible and your wonder. Keep it. It’s only propaganda. It’s only meant to deny me choice. Don’t use it. Don’t tell me. Don’t show me. I will not see.