Dialogue with a Closet Feminist

If I don’t ask you if you’re a feminist, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.

“I don’t like isms,” he says. “But I do like angry women,” he adds, biting his lower lip.

The blood floods my cheeks; Isi would be apoplectic if she knew I were somewhere in Israel making out with Lavan, who’s twenty-five, green-eyed, and either a misogynist or a closet feminist. Isi’s twenty-one, three years my senior. I met her in high school when we were in a one-act play together. (It was called Enchanted, I’m Sure, and we both played witches masquerading as mortals).  She and I have the same dark eyes, the same long dark hair that folds in on itself when it rains, the same effervescent affect, and, most notably, the same liberal principles.

“You’re several decades too late,” he continues, “There was a time and a place for your feminism.” He goes on to declare that all men who purport to be feminists are just “douchebags trying to get laid.”

“Besides the fact that that’s a vast generalization- you haven’t met all male feminists- the time and place for feminism is now, is here and everywhere else. Women still make 77 cents for every dollar men make for the same work. In other parts of the world, women are raped and executed for the crime of having been raped.”

His next point is against separatism. That he believes racial and cultural movements should coalesce in support of universal equality. I tell him that’s a fine long-term goal, but we’re not there yet. First, let’s ratify the Equal Rights Amendment, shall we?

“Anyway,” I add, “You’re speaking from the vantage point of male privilege. White male privilege. You’ve never been a woman, and you’ve never been a black man and-“

“I’m Jewish!” He cries out in umbrage.

“Well Mazel Tov!” I reply. “Still, I demand a say, equal pay, and the ERA.”