For four days every month since I “became a woman” at the age of eleven, my crampy discomfort coerces me into wishing I were male and afterwards I continue to take delight in the complexities that make me female. At least until the next time, next month.
I’ve regarded the many heated debates about female-male equality/equity with mixed feelings on the one hand and detachment on the other hand. Would it be considered utterly flippant if I was sincere enough to admit that sometimes I couldn’t care less about feminism? Quite simply, I am mostly concerned about being treated fairly compared to the next person, whether male or female, with or without a penis. Period. (this reminds me of crampy discomforts).
Recently, I read an article, and in it the Nigerian writer articulately expressed their displeasure at the use of an all-white cast in a particular Hollywood film. Their main grouse was that the black race was not represented, which to them ranked even lower on the Unfairness scale than being represented inaccurately. Their argument was that the whole thing reeked of lack of diversity.
Nedoux 