Post-Modern Theory And The Oppression Of Women

850 Words2 Pages

When I went to college, I was exposed to all sorts of post-modern theory. It was fun to think about, even to apply – to literature, to film, sometimes to politics. But if one had told the nineteen-year-old dyke I was that someday, in the not-so-distant-future, these ideas from academia would be applied in very serious ways to women’s existence, lesbian’s existence, I wouldn’t have believed it.

In fact, this is exactly what has happened in the dominant culture. We have taken post-modern theory and applied it to a subjugated class (women). We say, with straight faces, “Anyone can be a woman!” We say, without stuttering, “A man is a woman if he says so.” What we then are to infer is that “woman” is a meaningless term – a concept, a malleable …show more content…

Truly, I don’t.

If, for example, a man says, “I identify as a woman. I’m going to dress like a woman. Change my name. Get some surgery. Take some pills.” Okay, fine. Cool. Rock on with your bad self. But the problem is, identity doesn’t, and never will, transcend biological reality.

The M2T seems to love this very philosophical idea: “I feel like . . . therefore I am.” M2T activists insist that males (I’m talking biology) who “feel like” females (I’m talking biology) are entitled — because of a feeling, a hunch – to women-only space (MichFest), to lesbian-only space, to shelters, to clinics, to organizations, to academic institutions that have been designed to serve the interests of …show more content…

There were many times when I think I would have been better off with a female therapist. You see, for him, womanhood was a thing to be sought after, an elusive, albeit highly desired, state. For me – as a dyke with breast cancer – womanhood was something of a burden.

During one of my first visits with him, I explained how I had begged my surgeon to “take both of my breasts.” His reaction was to gasp in shock, and fold his arms around his surgically implanted breasts. In the moment, the gesture was subtle, but also profoundly telling. He had bought his breasts, coveted them, saved and planned for those orbs under his sweater. They were precious to him, and he could not fathom demanding their removal.

But you see, for me, losing my breasts did not mean losing my identity. My identity was not contingent on my breasts and my sex would remain female regardless. Sure, it was a sad thought – I’d had those bitches since girlhood, and I quite liked them – but I was thinking about my survival. I was not, as my M2t therapist was, thinking about their value with regard to my

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