March is National Women’s History Month, a fact I note every year, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I am conflicted. And this particular bit of oppositional thinking cannot be attributed to my nutty genetic code. … Well maybe the predisposition for it can. Regardless, I’ve an active distaste for the need of such a month.
"In the end, of course, it will boil down to the nine Justices and, as the world knows, most likely the contest will be decided by just one: Anthony Kennedy, an enigmatic, 76-year-old Republican from Sacramento."
Kit-Bacon Gressitt's return to college proves to be an eye-opener: "Instead of plunging into a sanctuary of intellectual exploration, challenging concepts and collegial discourse, I had to battle a vortex of classism, homophobia and sexism to get through most of my classes."
Equality, equality is a toughy. Which brings me back to the question of what it means to be a feminist today, and I am certain that the first part of the complex answer is to be mad. I’ll let you know when I figure out the rest.