I’m having coffee. Alone. I didn’t go to the protests. My wife went. She’s being seen, standing and marching for equality, and getting into the faces of all these casual racists and ordinary sexist shit that elected a bigoted orangutan.
I’m not. I’m sitting here reading machete wielding poetry (Dena Rash Guzman’s Joseph, which 100% of royalties are going to Planned Parenthood)
and a critique of how, why, and what to do to end cybersexism and harassment of women (Bailey Poland’s Haters).
I’m listening to music that rightly accuses me (Lush Life’s Idols+Enemies which is giving its funds to the ACLU).
I’m not doing anything but reading, listening, and having coffee. I’m failing at being a feminist, at resisting, at challenging, at doing the work to be better than I am. I’m letting myself wallow.
And that’s privilege. And that’s failure.
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