It’s been awhile. I’m off the dating apps again, so forgive me if I’ve forgotten how to talk to you.
I love you, I really do. I know some of you personally, and have many great friends that are men. Granted, some of you are criminals, some are rapists, but some, I assume, are good people.
I may even marry 1+ of you someday.
But I swear to fucking God, if I hear from one more of you that things are going to be “fine,” I’m going to lose my shit.
We’re hurting right now, women. Trump’s election is a blow straight to our heads, hearts, and parts (you know the ones). This is a pain that not even Beyonce can heal, and trust me, I’ve called upon her a lot over the past two days.
I’ve noticed that some of you want to be helpful and want to be supportive. Thank you! That’s great and amazing and I’m glad. I’ve had no less than five of you text me to tell me that you’re sorry.
Yes, you’re right. They will be fine. They will be fine for you because they’ve never not been fine. For you.
Shit, I have it pretty good. Too good. I’m white. I’m heterosexual (hard for my parents to believe since I never bring any of you guys home). I have a college education. A job and a roof and a cat and a Birchbox subscription. Sometimes, I can use that privilege to ignore a lot of terrible things that are happening to women who are not white, straight, educated, or generally comfortable in their environment and day-to-day life.
In the past, I’ve felt guilty for calling you out. I don’t want to be That Girl! The girl I tend to roll my eyes at the second she starts talking about “The Patriarchy. ” Or “Privilege.” Or “Narratives.” She’s a real buzzkill.
But you know what else is a buzzkill?
Feeling guilty for offending you when I call you out for being dismissive of things I perceive to be very real threats.
Getting a mansplanation about how Facebook isn’t the correct platform for me to ask for a display of male solidarity when our presidential candidate makes crude comments about women.
Getting hit on on my way to work. Before 7:00am.
Being accused of drinking that Hillary Juice full of high fructose corn syrup and social issues, and not understanding “real” policy even though I have a degree in politics. (Never mind that I channeled Kanye during a college presentation on blood diamonds.)
Getting my ass grabbed at the bar.
Being made to feel like I’m at fault for getting my ass grabbed at the bar because maybe I shouldn’t have been drinking so much anyway.
These stories aren’t new to anyone. But they’ve almost all come at the hands of well-intentioned men. Not the shitty dudes we think are to blame for the result of this election. The cool dudes. Friends. The ones we laugh with. The ones that text us to say they’re sorry.
Please, let us mourn. Let us mourn the death of our first real hope for change. Don’t ask us to be understanding, because we don’t understand. Don’t ask us to unite with people whose opinions differ from ours, because we’re not being united for. In fact, don’t say anything. Just be there. And be quiet for one second.