I’m a big fan of protests. Or to be more precise, I’m a big fan of the right to (peacefully) protest.
I remember being about ten and watching from the window of my first-floor flat near the centre of Krakow hundreds of mostly young, mostly male pro-Solidarity protesters running down my street, being followed half a minute later by the riot police chasing and trying to corner them in some cul-de-sac. Two young men, probably university students, tried to hide in the entrance to a tenement on the other side of the street (where, coincidentally, I was unreliably told that Roman Polanski lived as a child before war), but were easily spotted by ZOMO (motorised people’s militia, as they were officially known), dragged out and beaten with batons, before being loaded onto the back of a van. It was dusk but there were no lights in any of the apartments along my street, so as not to provoke the riot police into making a special visit to your home.
The martial law could be pretty rough.
So whenever I see people rallying or marching nowadays, I say good on them. Most likely I will be either indifferent or opposed to what they are rallying or marching for (or against), but I think it’s wonderful to live in a country where anyone can do it, without fear or worry – even though so many activists nowadays love to sing the praises of their courage, as if they were really living in a fascist state and facing consequences direr than sore feat and strained voice. I do draw the line though at assaulting police and others, and destroying property. Not cool.
Anyway. Women’s March. Great. March away. I will always cherish and defend your right to do so. But I will also always cherish and defend my right to roll my eyes and snigger when I want to. You probably call it an expression of a patriarchal, oppressive, sexist, misogynistic male privilege; I call it a freedom privilege.
Change that “and” to “in” and we have a cross-political agreement here.
Good news: you’re safe.
I hope all that knitting didn’t go to waste and you can reuse this lovely uterus as a sweater.
But has it got talent?
Don’t rub her head, or she will get even more excited.
We already do. Your next argument?
I’m deleting my Tinder now.
That’s not what Enoch Powell meant when he warned about “rivers of blood”. Also, I’m glad that someone’s finally fighting for all the male women. Speaking of which:
Really glad not be her dentist. Or gynecologist.