What do you think?
Rate this book
240 pages, Hardcover
First published March 28, 2024
Alone, we had become the lies he had told us. Together, we were learning to unravel it. We were building the chain. We were learning to replace him with ourselves.
I reached for my keys, but put them away. I turned the handle on my apartment door and expected, rightly, that it would open. The shirts he left in my closet were no longer there. His T-shirts that had filled the bottom drawer, gone. His sneakers that had formed a neat line against my shoes, and some of my belongings too, gone with him. No one should love me. And I believed him. Because I had been taught to.
Comedy is an invisibility cloak for the men who hate women. It’s not objectification, it’s social commentary! It’s not chauvinism, I’m in character! It’s not a rape joke, it’s intellectual critique! It’s not bullying, it’s risqué! It’s not harassment, it’s banter! It’s not a slur, it’s a play on words! “Good” comedy is meant to push boundaries, meant to shock, meant to provoke. If you don’t like it, maybe you’re too sensitive, too literal, maybe you’re just not smart enough to get it.
There is no singular experience of womanhood and we create the chain to remind ourselves of this. We stand beside each other in such a way that we may say, Tell me your story as a woman, and yours, and yours, and yours. I do not know what it is to be a Jewish woman, a Black woman, or trans, or gay, or disabled, or a sex worker, or a prisoner, or a pilot, or a seamstress, or four husbands deep (yet). Where I fall in our flawed verses of womanhood is that I am unlucky in some ways and fortunate in others. What we share is history. What we share is the need to talk, to say we made it or we didn’t. Survival isn’t enough and it musn’t be.