The Hanging Gardens

This. This a thousand times.

My father is an amazing, empathic man. He did most of the work-that-is-not-called-work of raising my brother and me while we grew up - the making lunches, driving us to school, helping us with projects, managing our schedules - since my mother had the more demanding (and lucrative) job. But there are some things he just does. not. get. Like why after half an hour of him playing "the devil's advocate" while arguing about the right to choice I'm near tears and furious. To him, we're having a fun, abstract debate. To me, we're arguing about my right to determine what happens in my own body, a right that's being assailed by both forced pregnancies and forced abortions in the twenty-first century when, as I've been assured, we've "outgrown" feminism. My brother? Is a great guy, for the most part. He's incredibly patient with our ailing grandfather, is one of the gentlest souls I know, and has never used gendered slurs in my hearing. But he doesn't understand why I object to a naked woman being considered synonymous with sex. He scoffs disbelievingly when I mention the verbal abuse I've had hurled at me just walking down the street or on public transportation when I'm alone. He can't imagine the constant weight of hypevigilance while out at dawn or after sunset: Is that guy following me? Are there open businesses around that I can duck into? Will my behavior be held against me if something happens, will I be judged complicit in my own assault?

And I will not e-mail The Terrible Bargain to them, not today. I am just too tired, and this is not a scab I want to rip off right now.