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But What About Our Sons?

November 10, 2008

Upon his birth, my son (yes, you read that correctly) will have automatic membership to one of the most privileged clubs in this country.

The White Male Majority

He won’t have to do a single thing except be born (and keep his balls and weener), and he will have something that I may never see in this lifetime, and be afforded opportunities that I might not have ever dreamed for myself.

And the more I think about the prospect of raising someone who I have secretly loathed and envied for many of my days, and who, in one form or another, has taken away opportunities, money, and recognition from me and other women before me, I wonder why I’m spending so much time worrying about my daughter.

Maybe it’s time to think about our sons.

Don’t get me wrong. The slut dolls, big naked butts on MTV, and the ongoing fight for our equality are always present on my mind. But thanks to the work of many women that have come before me and who now still work to forward the cause of women (including many of my fellow bloggers who continue this important discussion), I think we’re doing fairly well.
But when I look at the number of rapes and assaults against women, the spousal abuse that continues in this country, and the negative stereotypes that are constantly perpetuated, I don’t think about my daughter so much as I think about my son.

All our sons.

Maybe we don’t need another woman calling herself a feminist. But perhaps we need her husband, her brother, her father, and her son to stand up for what’s right for their mothers, daughters, and wives.

I don’t excuse the male bashing that’s associated with the women’s movement, however if you take two seconds to research oppression, you’ll find that anger, hate, and acting out are not uncommon. People look at the bitter gay man, the angry black woman, and the bra burning feminazi with disdain. But frankly, who can really blame them?

Years of oppression and inequality would make me pretty fucking bitter.

And the more I see how uneven things are in this world, the more I can feel my own negative feelings rumbling within me. Bitterness that I won’t make as much as my equal (or even less that equal) male counterpart. Anger that some men still treat women like objects and property.

Confusion as to why we women put up with it.

It pisses me off.

But part of me wonders if the feminist movement really needs another fist-shaking mother. Granted I’ll be happy to shake my fists as long as I have a breath in me. And damnit, I’ll raise my daughter to shake BOTH of her fists.

But a fist shaking man with a mother?

YES.

A resounding YES.

They can speak to the masses where a woman is turned into an emotional hormonal freakazoid.They can rationalize when we are labeled as “just women.” They can stand up with us when all our legs are tired from carrying the weight of many on our shoulders.

Don’t get me wrong. My fight doesn’t end here. Believe me. It’s only just begun.

But maybe we need to worry less about our beautiful daughters who will no doubt hear the words of their mothers sounding loudly in their ears and think more about how we can foster these truths in our sons who might just be able to help us make a louder noise than we ever thought possible.

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