I’ve been jealously holding a piece for some months found linked at another now-forgotten site. A piece from a young conservative lady expressing her personal values and the ideals she yearns to see shared in political representation. It’s a piece that warrants wide dissemination and more than one reading to fully appreciate. Because it’s a piece that properly frames the 19th Amendment and accompanying perspectives subsequently brought to the franchise. It’s also a periscope for unreconstructed patriarchs to peer from burrows into the vibrantly kaleidoscopic mind of a young woman in full political bloom.
Let’s meet the new face of feminism: The Modern Republican Woman. Miss Catie Warren.
There’s a new woman in town. She’s not shy, she’s not timid, and she’s not afraid. She’s not naive, nor is she lost or floundering. She’s not meek. She’s not quiet. She’s not passive. She’s self-assured, self-aware, and, yes, maybe she’s even a little bit selfish. She is here, she is present, and she is not going anywhere.
I wonder what clinical applications there are for word passages able to trigger a maximum roll angle of the human eyes? If you were able to return your pupils to horizontal after that preamble, please read on.
She grew up on a farm or in the city or maybe in a land of strip malls and McDonalds and a 10pm curfew. She went to church or Temple or to the closest mosque located two towns over.
Maybe she found her spiritual calling in yoga, maybe weed, maybe she doesn’t really believe in anything other than herself.
Well the conclusion came before the coda. No matter, there’s much more of herself to describe.
Her parents worked hard to provide for her, whether it be Little League or pageants or dance classes or physics camp. She excelled in some things and she failed miserably at others. Her childhood photos show her in bows and freckles at Disney World, or maybe in a hijab and a toothy grin at the Statue of Liberty.
Whereas her very aura once showed of a life of privilege and luxury, she now cannot be pegged.
I’m starting to believe that’s not entirely accurate.
Her background, her history, her ancestors are, quite literally, now all over the map. Now, her skin color cannot be identified, cannot be categorized, cannot be placed.
I think her skin color and background can readily be identified.
She forgoes ash blonde for whatever God or Allah or Oprah gave her
Her wardrobe is a strange combination of J.Crew, Target, and those adorable little boutiques that are sending her into the same very debt she watches Sean Hannity discuss every night on Fox News.
She grew up with the belief that she could be anything she wanted to be.
Selfless and circumspect.
She dreamed of a life where she didn’t have to choose, a life that allowed her to have it all. So, she set out to make it happen.
She went to college and she worked hard and she played hard, too. She joined clubs and kissed boys danced on tables at frat parties. She skipped class and made bad choices and she really lived life. She didn’t sit on the sidelines. She didn’t watch from afar. She didn’t let it pass her by.
She wants babies some day, but doesn’t want to have to give up her coveted job in the coveted city at the coveted startup — where she makes seventy-seven cents to every dollar her male counterparts make.
The path from cubicle farm to infertility clinic is paved in tears.
She’s the kind of girl who hates being called “sweetheart” and “honey” unless it’s by her father — and even then, she’d prefer to be called by her given name.
I doubt she’d prefer all the names she’s been given.
She’s now living in a studio apartment in a less than desirable part of town, crippled with a job that pays next to nothing and crushing student loan debt that is a product of a bad economy and a shitty stock market crash and her own former eighteen-year-old self who unwittingly signed her life away to a bank. She peruses Craigslist for part-time jobs while simultaneously drafting “this is the last time I’ll ask you for money” emails to her parents and crying into her triple vodka tonic with a lime.
She recognizes that there is, in fact, a war on women, but knows that we’re fighting it in all the wrong ways.
Previous combat from the supine position is now being reevaluated.
She enjoys a good cocktail every once in a while — or maybe every day — and she might even have an unprescribed bottle of Xanax in her medicine cabinet. She is, after all, in full support of the legalization of marijuana. Perhaps she has a bowl on her dresser.
She likely supported Ron Paul at one point or another and thinks that so long as the Tea Party has a voice, the true Republican Party never will.
She’s had enough one night stands to know that’s not what she really wants out of life…but put enough tequila in her and she’ll reconsider.
Is your imagination expansive enough to believe Miss Warren actually continues on with this examination of her entirely fictional composite character?
She has BLT friends. She supports something called “gay marriage.” She thinks everyone deserves to be happy–isn’t that a bit harsh? She wants female fatbodies to be accepted. She wants to take action on mental health. What action exactly? WTF knows. She wants the world to be a better place with a better Economy. She wants a country like the one originally founded–with hijabs. She knows Lynard Skynard is not racist and, “goddammit, she agrees that public, state funded schools have the right to deny children entrance if they did not receive their vaccines.” So go feed that to your pubic lice.
She wants a person in office who represents her, someone who understands that young women are watching, young women are listening, and young women are voting. This young woman, she wants, no, rather, she needs someone — a national figure — who understands that times, they are a-changing. Backwoods, backwards ideals don’t cut it with us. This woman is proactive, she’s progressive, and she’s sick of feeling forgotten.
And that’s that. A fairly rational platform. Though honestly I’m not certain even John McCain is suffiiciently insane to accommodate her Rorschach platitudes. It almost makes me wonder what earlier men were thinking to deny the franchise to young women. Perhaps that those votes might be carried in balance by batteries of incoherent sentimentality and signaling. If so, I suppose interim results have certainly been instructive.
And while ridiculing this emotionally inchoate young woman is probably even less sporting than asking her to name the branches of government on benzos, it’s a stark illustration of why progressivism so rarely begets progress.