On Your Feet

I’m going to keep this short and not sweet.

Whenever I hear the word “filibuster,” I immediately think of that American classic, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” Now, I never liked the film because it’s, to say the least, antiquated, but it’s an interesting look into the ordinary vices inherent in places of concentrated power.

And boy, is there vice in the air tonight.

I’m not someone who can pick apart the legal intricacies of what happened in Texas, but it’s safe to say that what did happen, in front of thousands of people, in the marketplace of the media, is, not to mince words here, absolute fucking bullshit.

When the hell did open harassment and blatant fraud become acceptable? For that matter, how did this just come into the open now? It’s a small joy that SB5 has since been declared dead, because the fact that it reached the TX Senate in the first place, the fact that the things listed in the bill were opposed by 80% of Texans, the fact that in this day and age, people still think that it’s acceptable to sneakily impose blindly “moral” judgment on women in the form of “protection” because right ladies, this would’ve been for our own goods?!

I envy the apolitical in moments like these. How nice it must be, to observe things like this from the outside, to look in and think “Well this isn’t my fight” or even “I’m just not really into politics.” NEWSFLASH: this isn’t ~*politics*~; this is your life, and if you think you’re never going to be affected by these large-scale assaults of misogyny, that what happened to Wendy Davis was somehow her fault or just an unfortunate situation and will never happen to you,

good luck; how nice it must be, to look upon the world and deem it flat.

There’s no such thing as being a bandwagon feminist because there’s never a bad reason for speaking out against injustice. And for those of you who think that feminism is somehow still a radical thing, perhaps that image only persists because it’s much easier to point and laugh at a militant nutcase than it is to actually address the constant quiet (but not for long) subversion simmering within the status quo. But in this case, it’s not burning bras and bared breasts that are catching peoples’ attention; it’s a pair of pink sneakers marking the border between desperation and hope.

There’s miles to go before we sleep. Surely we could all use some sneaks.

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