The Rare Occasion a Feminist Cries Tears of Joy
Two Thursday’s ago, I sat on a bus after a long day at work and I openly cried. I didn’t give one single f*ck who saw me. It would be a safe bet to think my marshmallow eyes were in some way the result of my outrage at the floodgates recently opened by mainstream media reporting on the abuse of women by men in power. In October 2017, the news of Harvey Weinstein ’s behaviour broke and there was a proliferation of the #metoo hashtags popping up in status updates and newsfeeds across all social media platforms. Men did some fantastic white-knighting, coming to the defence of women through the lens of their fatherhood, as if our humanity is predicated on our position as someone’s daughter. If I read another man say he, qua Dad, feels for all these poor, abused women because he has daughters, I might pop each eyeball out, slowly, and consume them, with a nice chianti. But this is not why I was crying. Despite the rock that still remains in the deepest recess of m