For the record:
I have never called myself a feminist but I darn well believe in equal rights based on competence; and I believe in a shared respect regardless of physical attributes… or skin color… or religious beliefs.
My expectation (admittedly unmet) is ALL inclusive.
If a right is infringed upon, be bold and utilize the law that is in place.
Equal rights and respect. That’s really all the women’s march boils down to, right?
I have gotten a few personal unsavory remarks [from men and women alike] for the poem I am about to share but I am going to share it anyway.
Why? Because it reminds me of the sage advice I received years ago from an old woman who truly fought to make a difference — and it feels better than displaying a vulgar [self-deprecating] sign or wearing a vagina hat.
We did not burn our bras but wore them proudly
Holding–supporting–glorifying the mammary glands that would feed the next generation
For the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.
We did not give animated voices to our vaginas for the world to hear
but let them speak in secret whispers that moved mountains.
We did not make a spectacle in the streets to prove our equality
For we knew in our hearts [already] that we were superior.
Page 235 from Getting Me Back