no, not a feminist

“i can see right away, you have a real man in the house,” she said.

“why?” i asked her.

“all your knives are very sharp,” she replied.

and i took offence.

even when she said it was only in jest, i felt offended. there has never been, and never will be a man, real or otherwise in my house. not for sharpening knives (i do it myself, and quite well, thank you), not for building shelves, not for installing software or repairing hardware. not for the reason that ‘any woman needs a man to be a real woman’.

to give up my freedom and self-determination just because i need some boards sawed, knives sharpened, or whatever else it is the society has designated as ‘not a woman’s work’? why should i. and no, i do not speak of love or sharing a soul – these are things that happen between two humans, and thus are sui generis. i speak of conventions so deeply ingrained into the consciousness that it is very hard to see that they lead to unbalanced agreements, sick relationships and destruction of self-awareness.

of course, there are moments when height or strength come in handy doing stuff round the house. and there are superior intelligences to that of mine. but neither of those are sex-related.

and, no, i am not a feminist. feminists have fallen into the trap of segregated thinking, only from the other side. they become what they deny.

i am simply a woman who sharpens her own knives, and if possible, kills her own chickens which she cooks later on, and eats.

how difficult is it to understand that?

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