There I go, but for this squeaky wheel...on prostitution

My life is a fight, every day. I am an enraged and reasoning womon. I HAVE to fight all the violence of wars: wars against womyn, wars against people of color, wars against countries of color, wars of the military and prison industrial complex - which thrive on racism & misogyny; wars of lies, myths, twisted truths and the amerikkkan nitemare.

I get soooo tired sometimes in my regular, every day life – this is my life other then my work and my meeting my daily needs work, which can also be exhausting but is as deeply rewarding especially when I do not dwell on how tragically sorrowful it is to have to be doing the work I do.

But I’m talking about my life in general, where I often feel like I have to fight every moment of the day – for something is happening, so many lies, so many careless, thoughtless, racist, misogynist, violent things are spewed in my direction constantly it seems.

And I realize, I went thru my days fighting.

For example, today I’m minding my own business when someone at the library has to mention that prostitution is the oldest profession on earth.

Who the fuck started this idiotic violent slander against womyn – and excuse for normalizing while condoning & rewarding male violence? Well, that was an idiotic question – why patriarchal men (not to be redundant) of course.

Why the fuck do we all tend to accept this as some god-given fact, humorous even?

No one in the library challenged this white man’s misogynist statement. In fact, the typical male snickers abounded while womyn uncomfortably if not shamefully smiled into their feet.

I had to halt this discordant tune flat.

“You are gravely mistaken”, my voice clearly rings out, omitting the asshole. “Womyn were forced to sell their bodies when the patriarchy took over, when men thru brute force decided all resources belonged to them, when men set up a system of selling those resources, and denied women the ability to earn money to access those resources, leaving women with no choice”.

Snickering men look uncomfortably if not shamefully away, the verbal man sputters, womyn raise their eyes to gape at me as if I’m speaking some alien language.

A young stainless-steel laden adolescent girl smiles brightly thru hoops and round dots & gives me the thumbs up!

The speaker, getting more agitated by the moment, wants to argue with me, as his cries follow me out of the library. I turn to him and tell him I have nothing else to say to him. Period.

He of course has to begin calling me names referring to my sex and even my sexuality – yes, I am a womon and a dyke. My bike helmet is on, my bike lock unlocked, & I escape – but as usual, I wonder about the womyn in this man’s life, and their safety, their core, their bodies.

And I wonder if they fight.