Proto-Feminist Beach Party!

I come to you a witness to a bleak, insipid future, twisted from apathy and self-amusement. A future where I awake in the middle of the night and realize that despite the multitude of laughs my faux queer studies critiques of Star Trek: TNG and World of Warcraft may have provided the queer community, ultimately I have done less good for the feminist cause than Kate Gosselin and granola-flavored sports drink. Overwhelmed with self-loathing and despair, I throw myself to the floor, weeping. The cacophony gives away my position to the mecha samurai gender police, who pull me away to die in the high fructose corn syrup mines before I have time to make sure my eyebrows are even.

We must rewrite the future. Or, at the very least, vandalize its Wikipedia article.

Thus I have come to the present day to fight the kyriarchy on its own turf. And get some of those banana waffles from Trader Joe’s that I like.

I’m going to take the fight to The Man or get a million pageviews trying.

Which brings me to the other reason I’ve come before you.

I know you were all really excited about charging into the belly of the beast all cowgirl style getting gunned down in righteous infamy, but the truth is you’re probably better off staying here and holding down the fort. We can’t all be guerilla feminist cyberspace commandos. Commandettes? Nevermind.

What I’m getting at is that the cause needs sympathizers as much as, if not more, than it needs soldiers. No, I’m not talking about when an American pro wrestler suddenly turns bad and starts dressing as whatever country or culture we’re at war with to anger all the white cis hetero fans in the audience. Jesus.

The fuck are you doing watching that haberdashery anyhow? ChickFight or gtfo.

I’m talking about establishing a support network. Grassroots and shit. Setting up safe houses and supply drops and raising morale and stuff.

Hey, don’t rush me. I’ll get to the literal logistics in my own whimsical time. Chill.

We have, as a community, grossly underestimated the effect of activist burnout on our numbers. This isn’t saving the rainforest or getting Facebook to add a polyamorous option in the relationships section. Nobody’s going to burn down your crops on Farmville for speaking your mind or demanding your rights. The threat of harassment in this “line of work” has a money back guarantee. Even if you make it through the jungles without being picked off by the enemy, you can still get team-killed by misinformed allies or other activists who feel your gender identity is an “invasion of their space”. Experts in the field call this phenomena “fucking bullshit”.

Let’s clap our hands and believe very hard that we can achieve unilateral equality within a year. That’s a year you may have to go without family, childhood friends, job security, physical safety, steady housing, social validation, and a whole litany of other basic life necessities that I won’t go into because getting up as early as I do for my day job is daunting enough already. Now add onto that the questions universal (How will I pay all these bills? How much food will it take to keep me alive? Where do I get those shiny metal things that turn on the pinball machine?) Then there’s, you know, that whole “write essays, read lots of blogs, protest on street corners and talk into microphones without drooling all over yourself” business, which shouldn’t take up TOO much of your time if you’re the fucking Flash.

Yeah. Not so “copy and paste”, is it?

So okay. You probably can’t, or shouldn’t, be joining the fray. You have your reasons. A job. A family. Living with illness or disability. Whatever the reason, you just can’t devote as much time to the fight as others. That does not, no matter what anyone (especially me) tells you, make you less vital to the cause.

Here. If you’ll permit me to get all anecdotal:

When I played little league soccer and my team lost or I got a fucking cleat right in the knee or something, the only solace there was to be had was knowing at the end of the game there would be juice boxes and fruit and feigned (but well-meaning) praise from my parents. I played soccer for three years. Without those end of the game morale boosts to mend my frayed self esteem, I wouldn’t have lasted two months.

Soccer kids need juice boxes. Freedom fighters need safe houses. Mix and match as you see fit.

One to do the fighting and one to give the former a helping hand when they need it is more valuable than two who fight, burn out from lack of support, and quit within a year.

Now, before you open another browser tab and bring up my last post and make me eat my words, let me clarify: being a sympathizer, a support, a helping hand, can also be a 24/7 gig. In some cases, being a supporter is a greater challenge than being an activist.

My activism consists mostly of writing and art, both of which I would be doing anyway if I wasn’t an activist. I can’t fucking wait for this civil war to be over so I can actually do this shit for money. I enjoy this. I get an immense amount of gratification for this. Much more, I imagine, than you will doing any of the things I suggest at the end of this article (with maybe one or two exceptions…brown chicken brown cow). I’m not a hero. I just know all the songs.

If there’s any money left over after I make my student loan payment this month, I will buy a hat and tip it towards you.