How I Have Shamefully Benefitted from Patriarchy

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How I Have Shamefully Benefitted from Patriarchy

Illustration: Akshita Monga

W

hen you’ve based your life’s work in trying to make something happen, what do you do when it does, and within your lifetime?

As a feminist, I can’t wait for a time when I don’t spend days and weeks and months with rage headaches over the roaring sense of entitlement that men around me — friends, family, colleagues, even partners — carelessly and unabashedly wear on their sleeves. I can’t wait for a time where worrying about my safety is not a full-time job — for me and those invested in seeing me alive until at least 87. And like my pack of angry, unshaven, potty-mouthed, man-hating wolfish sisters, I can’t begin to put into words how desperately I’m waiting for a time when my vagina and my womb don’t have to pay arbitrary taxes when we want to study, access healthcare, land a job, expect to be paid the same amount that a man would if/when said job has been secured. When I take a break from complaining about how garbage men are on Twitter so I can bask in the delightful glow of being told by garbage men that I’m just bitter because I’m fat and ugly and I actually just need to get laid, I daydream about what it would be like to walk the streets whenever I damn well please, wearing what I damn well please, without men concluding that it’s obviously an open invitation for them to plant their palms on any part of my anatomy that appeals to them most.

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