La distopia femminista vista da una donna

Andavo a trovare femministe nelle loro case insieme al mio bambino: avevano eliminato qualunque cosa fosse maschile. Niente macchinine, niente camion, niente giochi che potessero incoraggiare il bambino a giocare come un maschio. Ogni cosa maschile le disgustava. Noi mamme sedevamo attorno ad un tavolo parlando di come cambiare il mondo in senso Marxista. Non c’era niente di sensuale nelle loro case. Odiavano cucinare. I bambini erano confusi e piangevano […]

Emergeva la figura del loro “Uomo Nuovo” e non era un bel vedere. Ripetendo come un pappagallo le parole della sua compagna, partecipava alle riunioni femministe, impegnandosi a sembrare coinvolto. In realtà mi sembravano scioccati e scocciati. Le femministe non si sforzavano di avere una relazione paritaria con i loro partners. Si vedevano come esseri superiori. Gli uomini dovevano stare tre passi dietro ed ubbidire. Chi si ribellava, veniva cacciato dalla casa matrimoniale e — in molti casi — allontanato dai propri bambini. C’era una legione di avvocate e psicologhe femministe per aiutare le “sorelle” a distruggere gli uomini.

Testimonianza di Erin Pizzey.

Letto: 2866

Qu’avez-vous fait de la libération sexuelle?

[…] Molte delle leggi attuali non trattano allo stesso modo uomini e donne. Anzi, sono decisamente a favore delle donne.

“Le femministe francesi mi danno della collaborazionista“, commenta Iacub con un’alzata di spalle, “ma ormai mi sono abituata a questo genere di insulti”. La tesi della Iacub è la seguente: negli ultimi trent’anni si è assistito a un totale ribaltamento dei ruoli all’interno della famiglia. Con conseguenze devastanti per il sesso maschile. “Nel XIX secolo la famiglia si strutturava intorno a un uomo, il capofamiglia, e a una donna, la moglie o riproduttrice”, spiega. “I ruoli erano precisi e chiari, ovviamente discriminanti nei confronti della donna che non aveva diritti. Oggi, nel nucleo familiare il pater familias è una donna. È lei che detiene i diritti. Abbiamo formulato delle leggi e dei diritti fondandoli su delle supposte competenze biologiche. Oggi la maternità è una questione di scelta, mentre la paternità è diventata un obbligo. La donna può scegliere di fare o meno un figlio, di non portare a termine una gravidanza, di non riconoscere un figlio, ma anche di reclamarne la custodia, che quasi sempre ottiene, in caso di divorzio”.

Per un uomo è diverso. “Un uomo non può intervenire nella decisione di un’interruzione volontaria di gravidanza ma è costretto a riconoscere sempre e comunque un figlio di cui magari non conosceva neanche l’esistenza. In caso di divorzio deve pagare alimenti di entità spesso ingiustificata, ma ottiene difficilmente la custodia. Se questa non è discriminazione…”.

In effetti la scrittrice critica una situazione che si ritiene politicamente scorretto affrontare: la conquista della libertà sessuale (intesa in questo senso come riappropriazione del proprio corpo) che si è fatta a detrimento degli uomini. Secondo lei i due sessi, invece di arrivare a elaborare una vera parità, sarebbero stati semplicemente capaci di ribaltare alcuni diritti e doveri, senza però cancellare le differenze.

[…]

“La società costruiva i propri valori intorno alla famiglia patriarcale, oggi che questo modello è scomparso, la procreazione diventa la nuova forma costitutiva della società”. Se accettiamo questo postulato, è facile capire che l’atto sessuale non può essere concepito separato dalla maternità. E qui Marcela Iacub lancia un sasso ancora più pesante nello stagno: la sacralizzazione del sesso ha spinto i legislatori a concepire delle leggi che puniscono in modo sproporzionato le violenze sessuali.

Le recenti leggi in materia di stupro prevedono pene di molto superiori a un omicidio colposo: ma come possiamo accettare che il “prezzo” di una vita sia inferiore al prezzo di una violenza sessuale? In quale società si può accettare che il valore più importante e assoluto non sia la vita?”. Con queste affermazioni Iacub si è fatta immediatamente accusare di difendere gli stupratori, ma forse bisognerebbe prestarle attenzione: “Che cosa vogliamo proteggere con le leggi sulle violenze sessuali e lo stupro?

In effetti, trent’anni fa, parallelamente alla liberazione sessuale, la sessualità avrebbe potuto scomparire come problema giuridico specifico. E invece, con motivazioni diametralmente opposte, femministe e conservatori hanno voluto mantenere la sfera della sessualità come qualcosa a parte, attinente alla psiche. Dunque oggi, una violenza sessuale è valutata in base al danno psicologico. Il crimine sessuale è diventato un crimine psicologico, per estensione incommensurabile.

Quindi la pena da scontare deve essere particolarmente lunga per essere “visibile” e proporzionata alla “sofferenza psicologica”. Ma questo implica una deriva pericolosa della maniera di concepire il diritto: la distanza sempre più grande tra la legge e l’approccio psicologico della valutazione delle pene”. Per Iacub l’emergere, nel diritto, di termini quali psicologico, mentale e morale segnala una trasformazione politica importante: l’intervento dello Stato nella sfera più privata dell’essere umano, cioè la psiche. Come se lo Stato volesse farsi garante -arbitrariamente – del benessere psicologico dell’individuo.

“Fino a oggi, nei Paesi occidentali lo Stato ha cercato di garantire la vita, la salute, la vecchiaia, insomma, un certo benessere fisico. Oggi, lo Stato cerca di proteggere la psiche. Basta osservare come vengono mediatizzati e giudicati i crimini sessuali, ma anche le molestie sessuali, le pressioni psicologiche sul posto di lavoro, o sul vicino che ti importuna, le nuove leggi sulle sette. Come se tutto d’un tratto si chiedesse allo Stato non solo di punire i “cattivi” ma di trasformarli in buoni. Insomma assistiamo alla volontà di trasformare le persona invece di accontentarci di fissare delle regole e di punire chi le trasgredisce”. Forse le femministe francesi non hanno ascoltato fino in fondo Marcela Iacub, o forse hanno fatto confusione di termini: Iacub non è una collaborazionista, sta organizzando la resistenza.

[Fonte http://dweb.repubblica.it/dweb/2003/04/19/attualita/attualita/051don34751.html]

 

Letto: 1786

Bambina di 6 anni costretta a telefonare di nascosto al suo papà

Una educatrice d’infanzia racconta la storia di una bambina di 6 anni che telefonava di nascosto al suo papà, per paura che la mamma separata la sgridasse. Episodio triste, che alla lunga potrebbe sfociare in una Sindrome di Alienazione Genitoriale, l’abuso contro l’infanzia che le femministe cercano di nascondere.

Un episodio al quale una volta mi è toccato di assistere è quello di una bimba di 6/7 anni al centro estivo che ho scoperto un giorno in un angolo del giardino della scuola con un cellulare di cui ovviamente nessuno (educatori e compagni) sapeva niente. Spaventata dalla mia presenza temeva dapprima che potessi sgridarla (aveva un faccino triste da testa bassa e sguardo assente) ha improvvisamente quasi di soprassalto chiuso il cellulare mentre stava facendo partire la chiamata, alchè le ho chiesto perché ce l’aveva e cosa stesse facendo…e lei vedendomi disponibile al dialogo mi ha guardato con 2 occhietti tristi, …dicendomi a voce bassa “il telefono me l’ha dato di nascosto il mio papà perché quando mi telefonava a casa ‘della mamma’ per sentire me, lei non me lo passava e io non potevo sentirlo mai perché la mamma non voleva, così con questo possiamo sentirci tutte le volte che vogliamo perché a me mi manca papi”.

6 anni. Una bimba di 6 anni, Aveva gli occhi lucidi e in quel momento le si poteva leggere la tristezza nel cuore. Ma che diritto ha una madre di decidere di tenersi solo per sé quello che hanno fatto in due??? Lei aveva proprio voglia di stare col padre, aveva espresso il desiderio di sentirlo, di parlargli… gli chiesi “e perché la mamma non vuole?” sapete che mi rispose la dolcezza in persona? “perché gli rompe”. Cosa? Gli rompe? Ed è un motivo questo per non far sentire un/a figlia/o al genitore??Ma stiamo dando di matto??? Fatto sta che il cellulare era vietato perchè assolutamente contro le regole della scuola, ma io quella volta né la sgridai né le sequestrai il cellulare, l’ho solo vegliata per quei 2 minuti di telefonata. So che gli altri educatori se lo avessero saputo avrebbero tolto in primis il telefono a lei e poi ripreso me perché “sbagliato”, però mi dispiace, non ce l’ho fatta ad ostacolare un amore.

Fonte: http://www.genitorisottratti.it/2010/08/un-educatrice-dinfanzia-racconta.html?spref=fb

Letto: 2498

Controllare la violenza domestica contro gli uomini

Un uomo sposato con una moglie violenta si trova in una situazione doppiamente delicata, in quanto la polizia che dovrebbe proteggerlo tende a venire facilmente ingannata da calunnie femministe, con conseguenze tragiche anche per i figli. In questo articolo Charles E. Corry, Martin S. Fiebert ed Erin Pizzey forniscono consigli pratici su come gestire il problema.

Abstract

People hit and abuse family members because they can.

In today s society, as reflected in TV, movies, law enforcement, courts, and feminist propaganda, women are openly given permission to hit men. Presently 25%-30% of all intimate violence is exclusively female on male.

Primary aggressor laws usually result in arrest of the male and ignore research showing 50% of domestic assaults are mutual combat. The woman is thus encouraged to abuse her partner further until finally he will take no more. Such provocation of the human male is dangerous.

Studies consistently find women use weapons more often in assaults than do men (~80% for women; ~25% for men). Women are significantly more likely to throw an object, slap, kick, bite, or hit with their fist or an object.

There is no support in the present data for the hypothesis that women use violence only in self defense. Three common reasons women give for male abuse are: to resolve the argument; to respond to family crisis; and to stop him bothering me. Male abuse of a woman, requiring self defense, is one of the less-frequently stated reasons by women for their assaults.

Our research shows that a gender-balanced approach to domestic violence is essential in order to reduce both the frequency and severity of such incidents for both men and women. Present laws and practices appear to commonly have the opposite effect.

Articolo completo in PDF.

Fonte: http://www.familytx.org/research/controllingdv.html

Letto: 1289

Le femministe mi hanno rovinato la vita

La storia di un uomo che credeva che il femminismo fosse qualcosa di buono, e che ha capito troppo tardi che è invece una associazione a delinquere. Per fortuna in questo caso non hanno abusato di nessun bambino.

* * *

Il etait une fois, not so long ago, when the evil penis may have called himself a feminist. Yes, you read that right, as hard as it is for me to say now, I was a total mangina; white knight. However, I look back upon that time of my life now without anger, bitterness, resentment, shame or guilt – not to say that I don’t feel these horrible emotions because I very much do. You see, I was just innocent and naive. Ignorant of the truth, totally unaware of the war that is very real and is very really being waged against all ‘evil’ people everywhere as we speak. You may think this is crazy, you may eventually think I’m a radical extremist or crackpot misogynist. Call me what you will, it will never remove me from my experience or the resolve I have been forced to adopt to simply continue to live.

Does that sound melodramatic? If it does then before you commence your inevitable diatribe of calling me a self-pitying loser, maybe consider that you have misandric tendencies, and think that men shouldn’t be allowed to feel pain, suffering, desperation or any other emotion for that matter. I invite you, dear reader, to analyse my experience and conclude that you wouldn’t have felt or still feel the exact same way. Even if you are the hardest of feminists, with as little sympathy for men as you hold for Adolf Hitler; I dare assert that you, of all people, would still feel exactly as I do. You might even join the men’s rights movement yourself, and take a stand against misandry, as I have.

It is widely accepted, if you want to believe it or not, that men are evil. My experience has taught me as much, and if this anecdotal journey doesn’t teach you the same, then you might just have to discover it the hard way, or remain ignorant forever more. It is totally up to you but, as Confucius once said, “Ignorance is the night of the mind, but a night without moon and star”, I am simply trying to illuminate the sky for you.

I love women, always have done. The first woman I ever loved, and still do, was my mother. Not in the Freudian sense but the purest human sense. My father was abusive to her, and by that I don’t mean abuse by the standards of today’s feminist hysteria – I mean real abuse. I saw my mother with her face swollen to double the size it should have been. I saw her with black eyes and a broken jaw, I saw her lose the entire being she was, reduced to a pile of scars – physical and emotional, with no friends, family or way out. I fully understand that men are not all angels, and can be abusive, however this label of abuse has been expanded and twisted beyond recognition. This relentless expansion of the term makes me feel very sympathetic to my mother, and others like her, as it trivialises their experiences. What a modern woman might complain about really doesn’t warrant the same label, not to say that such a woman can’t be the victim of actual abuse, that would be an absurd position.

When I was at university, I got into my first serious relationship. We stayed together for around two and a half years, and the whole time I did everything I could to appease her and make her happy. This was my job, I thought, to defer and to serve. To put her on a pedestal and to do everything I could to protect her sensitive emotional state. My preferred appellation for her was ‘princess’, and my ultimate motivation was to be a good boyfriend, unlike my own father. I can say this with complete confidence and total honesty; sure I wasn’t perfect, I had bouts of jealousy and could even be a little grumpy at times. Alas, I am only human, and am as subjected to the realities of my body and the pressures of life as anyone else. If you were to ask the lady in question how the dynamic within our relationship was, you would get a very different story – and I only know this because she sat in a Police station, eighteen months later, and gave a sworn statement to them about my unilateral abuse of her, but more on that later.

After we broke up, by her initiation, I was very upset – you may even say distraught. I questioned my own value, my worth as a human, and contemplated suicide on more than one occasion. If you think I sound like a wuss, I make no apology, and I would never feel one iota of shame if you screamed it right into my face, in front of the entire world. Men feel pain just as much as women, and often more. I for one am not afraid to admit this. Hell, I’m exposing it for the entire world to see. This pain left me in a more than slight quandary, wondering what to do with my life, and my heart.

I left university, and became qualified as an English teacher. I got the first job I applied for and I really enjoyed it, it even made me glad of the fact that I had borrowed £18,000 to put myself through an otherwise pointless degree course. My dear mother was ‘oh so proud’ of me, and her pride filled me with the same. I discovered what people might call Game, and my social life changed dramatically. I learnt that pandering to women didn’t make them like you, that I had to be, amongst other things, more self-assured and apparently selfish, more assertive. Suddenly I had lots of attention from women, my ex was a distant memory, and I secretly fantasised about bumping into her around town with one of my new hotties, to make her jealous and realise her colossal error.

I met a new woman, and we started a relationship. She was very beautiful, much more so than any other girlfriend I’d had, my new skills had catapulted me into contention for the most desirable of women, and I felt great. This lady was foreign, and very attentive and charming, adding to her obvious beauty that everybody noticed and commented on. I was sold almost instantly. She told me many stories about her life in her country, about how she was abused by her brothers, and how she feared for her sister and mother because of them. Although I had learnt about how to attract women more efficiently, the chivalrous streak inside me still urged me to help the damsel in distress.

We decided to get married. That way she could get a visa and wouldn’t have to go home. I would keep my beautiful girlfriend and we could have a great party to celebrate our love. ‘What could go wrong?’ I asked myself, how little did I know. I paid for everything, and my wife-to-be sat at home on my salary. I didn’t complain – I still wanted to be a good partner and thought it was my duty to provide for my family. Two months after we got married, she made a false rape allegation against me. To describe my emotional state at that time would be impossible. She then contacted my ex-girlfriend and somehow convinced her to make a statement about me to the police, which she duly did. Not one thing said by either woman could be in any way proven, in fact there was strong circumstantial evidence that it wasn’t true.

This didn’t seem to matter to the police however, and I was charged with the most heinous of crimes. There was a lot of back and forth to court, but luckily I was given bail with the condition that I didn’t contact either woman, and I continued my job – with the support of my employers who knew that this couldn’t possibly be true of me. Over the next six months my wife constantly harassed me. She would call me at two in the morning drunk telling me how much she loved me and how sorry she was. She would come to my school and to my local pub where she knew I would be. I called the police several times to tell them that this was the case, but they weren’t interested. ‘We are prosecuting you Mr Evil Penis’ they said, ‘not helping you’. My solicitor twice wrote to the Crown Prosecution Service telling them about the harassment, we received no reply.
In an almost impossible position, I did what I needed to do. I started recording the phone calls that my wife made to me, and printing screenshots of her facebook page where she was sending messages to me. I allowed her back into my life, and into my bed, and recorded everything. I needed a defence, and nobody was willing to help me but me. I had nowhere to turn. I was an evil rapist – who would sympathize with me?

This went on for a few weeks, and culminated in my wife trying to destroy my evidence by breaking my computer. Fortunately I had back-up copies of everything. After she went to tell the police that we had been talking and sleeping together, rather than take this as evidence that it might have been a lie in the first place (who would ever wilfully go to their rapist’s house and have sex with him, months after the allegation was made?), they came and arrested me for perverting the course of justice!
I told the police about my recordings, about her harassment and a whole catalogue of things she had done and people that could verify my story. Do you know what they did? They ignored everything! I was remanded into custody for six months, losing my job, my career, my house, my entire life. Everything that I had worked so hard to achieve was now worth nothing. It was gone. Let’s get this straight, just so there is no ambiguity; the police and crown knew, for a fact:

• That we had had sex since she made the allegation
• That she had tried to destroy my evidence, but that I still had recordings that would prove my innocence
• That she had been calling me constantly for months (we obtained her phone records, which showed her calling me 125 times, after the allegation!)
• That going to prison would destroy my life, and stigmatize both me and my whole family
• That her story was littered with inconsistencies and outright lies
• That she stood to gain citizenship by making an allegation of abuse
• That she had contacted my ex and specifically asked her to say bad things about me
• That the only evidence they had was the rebutted word of a single person

On top of all of these seemingly obvious indicators of my innocence, the police:

• Lied during the interview
• Hid evidence from my legal team
• Refused to investigate my story
• Completely ignored all the evidence that I had
• Lied at the bail hearing ( they insisted they had evidence that I had been calling my wife, which they obviously didn’t)

When the case finally got to court, it was dropped like a hot iron. Yet that didn’t stop the good old government:

• Compensating my wife to the tune of £12,000
• Giving her a council flat
• Paying her incapacity benefit to the tune of £300 per week for over a year
• Giving her a free place in university
• Granting her citizenship

Why? How could this happen to such an obviously innocent man? How could the law be so skewed that this could happen?
I asked the officer in case after… and you know what he said? And I quote:
“The police are heavily criticized when it comes to the rape cases. Women’s groups insist that the maximum number of alleged rapists are prosecuted, our hands are tied”
So I did a little research, these women’s groups he spoke of, were feminist activist groups. These people were (and still are) relentlessly campaigning to make things even worse! It would be easy to blame my ex-wife for what happened, but the reality is this:
Crazy people say crazy things all of the time, you cannot avoid this. However, it is the police’s DUTY to discern truth, and to protect the VICTIMS of crime. The only reason they don’t in rape cases (and those of alleged domestic violence, they are one and the same issue) is because of this unyielding pressure from fanatic man haters – feminists.
Any amount of research into the legislation regarding gender issues and ‘violence’ or ‘abuse’, anywhere in the western world, shows you that men are classed as evil. Read about the Duluth model. It doesn’t matter if I actually was abusive or not, all that matters is that a woman says she has been hurt by a man.
So… I take a stand. Does that not make me a good man? My life was ruined by feminists. Just like any number of false rape victims, victims of family courts, men who die from prostate cancer, boys who are undervalued at school, men who commit suicide, victims of parental alienation, victims of divorce. Yet the lies of feminists keep coming, ‘1 in 4 women are raped’ Nonsense! ‘100,000 women a year are the victim of sexual assault’. Nonsense! These, along with any number of ‘fem factoids’, aren’t what you could call myths – they are OUTRIGHT LIES, AND THEY ARE DESTROYING THE LIVES OF DECENT, NORMAL PEOPLE EVERYDAY.
Is this a delusion of discrimination? Can you blame me for wanting this to never happen to any other innocent man ever again?
I didn’t think so.
Am I bitter, resentful, hurt, desperate, sad, angry?
You bet I am, and so would you be.

Fonte: http://evilpenis.blogspot.com/2011/03/making-of-misogynist.html

Letto: 2661

Norma chiede perdono dopo aborti, droga, alcool, femminismo, false accuse


La donna simbolo dell’aborto denuncia come le femministe la hanno usata, e confessa di non essere mai stata stuprata
: «La legge che ha ucciso milioni di vite era nata da una bugia… Spiegavo alle clienti che non era un bambino ma solo “una mestruazione mancata“… poi quando andavo nella cella frigorifera e vedevo i pezzi, le gambe e le teste dei feti conficcati a quattro o cinque in una giara, tornavo a casa e mi ubriacavo. .. Un giorno una ragazza alzò la testa, vide il piedino del bimbo e si mise a urlare. Dovetti dirle che si sbagliava… non ce la facevo più. Durante una Messa caddi in ginocchio e chiesi perdono a Dio per tutto quello che avevo fatto».».

* * *

Il 22 gennaio del 1973 la Corte suprema americana aveva pronunciato la sentenza a favore una giovane donna incinta. Sostenuta da un nugolo di ambiziosi avvocati, Jane Roe (uno pseudonimo) aveva fatto causa a un giudice texano per legalizzare l´aborto. La sua battaglia era arrivata fino a Washington, e il caso «Roe versus Wade» aveva trasformato la storia sociale e politica americana, legalizzando l´interruzione di gravidanza.

Trent´anni fa Jane Roe era stata tenuta nascosta ai media, che inutilmente avevano cercato di scoprire chi si nascondesse dietro lo pseudonimo con cui una donna sola aveva osato sfidare le più alte sfere governative. Oggi, invece, uscirà allo scoperto con il suo vero nome: Norma McCorvey. Tornerà alla Corte suprema, ancora seguita da un nugolo di avvocati e dal carosello dei media, per cambiare di nuovo la storia.

La nuova mozione, «McCorvey versus Hill», adesso vuole far vietare l´aborto, elencandone tutti gli aspetti negativi ignorati trent´anni fa. L´annuncio verrà dato due giorni prima dell´inaugurazione del secondo quadriennio di un´amministrazione repubblicana che, su questo tema difficile, ha scelto un basso profilo, ma che non potrà ignorare l´appello di questa signora dalle idee ben chiare.

«Da quell´infelice giorno del 1973, 45 milioni di famiglie americane sono state toccate dall´aborto», ci ha detto Norma McCorvey. «Le conseguenze psicologiche, per le
donne, sono sempre devastanti, e poi di questa pratica, in America, ancora si muore», ha proseguito questa donna sulla sessantina dal vivace accento texano, capelli rossissimi e un sorriso da nonna.

«Oggi sappiamo molto di più sulle interruzioni di gravidanza. Il mondo cambia, cambiamo anche noi e mettiamo fine a questo straziante olocausto nazionale», dichiara. «Io sono cambiata profondamente: ho trovato Dio, che mi ha regalato il dono della fede». Dopo una vita devastata da droghe, alcol e vizi, l´8 agosto del 1995 Norma McCorvey si è fatta battezzare immergendosi in una piscina texana; è diventata anche lei, come milioni di americani, una cristiana rinata. C´erano i fotografi e le televisioni, c´erano i picchetti dei «pro choice» (favorevoli all´autodecisione della madre), che l´hanno definita una traditrice.

«Ma è ora che si sappia veramente la mia storia», spiega la McCorvey con una nota di sarcasmo. «Sono un personaggio scomodo, lo so, ma lo sono sempre stata». Nel 1973 «Jane Roe» non aveva abortito: mentre la sua avvocatessa, Sarah Weddington, portava avanti la battaglia legale, lei aveva messo al mondo una bimba e l´aveva data in adozione. Simbolo per oltre trent´anni di tutte le speranze femministe, fiore all´occhiello del Partito democratico, regina del movimento «pro choice», aveva cercato di interrompere la maternità, ma alla sua legale serviva una donna gravida. «Se avessi avuto un aborto fuorilegge, come aveva fatto in Messico la mia avvocatessa Sarah, sarebbe tutto finito nel nulla. Avevano bisogno della gravidanza per portare avanti la mozione».

«Jane Roe» era solo una ragazza spaventata, con un passato difficile. «La nonna si era guadagnata da vivere facendo la prostituta; poi, invecchiando, leggendo i tarocchi. Mia madre era cattolica, il papà era un testimone di Geova che riparava televisori. Io sono una mezzo sangue Cherokee e Cajun, non ho mai finito le scuole medie. Ho vissuto per trent´anni da alcolizzata, fra droga e rapporti omosessuali».

Ha avuto tre figlie e sono state tutte adottate. «Mentre aspettavo la prima, mio marito mi ha picchiata a sangue, accusandomi di essere incinta di un altro. Poi la mamma me l´ha portata via quando le ho confessato di essere lesbica». La seconda volta, quando si è svegliata in sala operatoria, la neonata era sparita. «E la terza l´infermiera, per sbaglio, ha aperto la porta con in braccio la mia piccola. Quando se ne è accorta ha richiuso di scatto, ma l´avevo già vista. Quella bambina mi aveva spinto a cambiare la storia».

Quasi per caso: appena aveva scoperto di essere in stato interessante, la McCorvey si era recata a Dallas da un avvocato che si occupava di adozioni, e questi l´aveva messa in contatto con Sarah Weddington, il legale che avrebbe preparato la mozione per la Corte suprema.

«Credevo che volesse far legalizzare l´aborto nel Texas», ha spiegato la McCorvey. «Invece mi trasformò in “Jane Roe”. Una volta inserito il mio nome sulla mozione non ebbe più bisogno di me: Sarah mi promise di rimanermi vicina, di farsi viva quando sarebbe nata la piccola, invece mi abbandonò».

Scoprì che «Roe vs. Wade» era stato approvato leggendo i giornali. Erano passati anni. «Chiamai Connie, la mia compagna, e le dissi: “Sai, sono io Jane Roe”. Scoppiò a ridere ma qualcosa nel mio silenzio la convinse».

«Jane Roe» era un personaggio scomodo per il movimento femminista, che ormai aveva preso in mano le redini dell´aborto: «Ero ignorante, bestemmiavo, non mi sapevo vestire, non potevo appartenere al mondo delle giovani laureate di Vassar e di Harvard, che durante una marcia per l´aborto, a Washington, mi tennero nascosta tra la folla. Scandivano il nome di “Jane Roe” ma preferivano restassi nella retroguardia».

Nel 1989 fu scoperta da un´avvocatessa californiana, Gloria Allred, che la portò a vivere in California e fece di lei una star dei media. «La rete televisiva Nbc girò una miniserie sulla mia storia con l´attrice Holly Hunter. Sarah Weddington ebbe un contratto di consulente, io non vidi un centesimo».

Passò da un´intervista all´altra: era l´eroina del movimento per la libertà di scelta, e una notte qualcuno cercò di ucciderla. «Mi svegliai di soprassalto mentre qualcuno su un camion crivellava di colpi la casa. Connie e io ci terrorizzammo ma il movimento pro choice aveva ancora bisogno di me». Quando David Souter fu nominato alla Corte suprema venne invitata a parlare accanto ai grossi nomi del movimento femminista: Kate Michelman, Faye Wattleton, Eleanor Smeal. «Fu quest´ultima che, a cena, mi rimproverò di aver messo i gomiti sul tavolo. “Non è da lady”, disse. Al che risposi: “Ma non siamo femministe? E ci preoccupiamo di fare le lady?”. Il senatore Jeseph Biden mi chiese chi fossi. Risposi che ero Norma McCorvey, cioè Jane Roe. La famosa Jane Roe. “Anche se le altre credono di esserlo, in realtà sono io”. Biden rimase a guardarmi con gli occhi spalancati, ma ero stanca di sentirmi dire che il movimento aveva scelto male. Certo non avevo le loro lauree e la loro classe, ma diventai così scomoda che nel 1993 non fui neanche invitata alla Casa Bianca dal presidente Clinton, per i festeggiamenti del ventennale di “Roe vs. Wade”».

Per anni la McCorvey è vissuta di piccoli espedienti con la compagna, Connie, finché non le fu offerto di aprire una clinica per gli aborti col nome di “Jane Roe”. «Accettai, ma era una bugia: in cambio di sei dollari l´ora divenni la segretaria, la tuttofare: prendevo appuntamenti, spiegavo alle clienti che non era un bambino ma solo “una mestruazione mancata“.

Spesso mentivamo sulla durata della gravidanza perché oltre le dieci settimane le pazienti dovevano pagare il doppio. Poi quando andavo nella cella frigorifera e vedevo i pezzi, le gambe e le teste dei feti conficcati a quattro o cinque in una giara, tornavo a casa e mi ubriacavo».

 

Il 31 marzo del 1995 i «pro life» di Operation Rescue affittarono l´ufficio accanto alla clinica di Dallas, e la sua vita diventò un inferno «Marciavano davanti alle mie finestre con slogan come “L´aborto ferma un cuore che batte”, “L´aborto è l´olocausto americano”, «È un figlio non una scelta”: la corazza cominciò a sgretolarsi. Nella clinica c´era un medico, Arnie, che faceva gli interventi a piedi scalzi. Fino al 1997 le nostre cliniche erano meno regolate del laboratorio di un veterinario. Da noi si poteva fumare anche in sala operatoria. Ero io a tenere la mano delle donne. Quando piangevano dicevo solo: “Tesoro, è logico che tu pianga, ti abbiamo dato una potente iniezione di Valium”».

Facevano aborti anche nel secondo trimestre di gravidanza. Un giorno una ragazza alzò la testa, vide il piedino del bimbo e si mise a urlare. «Dovetti dirle che si sbagliava, ma mentre stava pagando mi puntò gli occhi arrossati in faccia: “Lo sa benissimo cos´ho visto. Mi avevate detto che non era ancora un bimbo”. Non ce la facevo più».

Un giorno un volontario del movimento per la vita le urlò per strada: «Norma, ma hai mai avuto un aborto?». «Entrai in sala operatoria, mi stesi sul lettino, misi le gambe sui cavalletti. Mi immedesimai nelle migliaia di ragazze che vi passavano ogni mese. Scoppiai a piangere. Mi trascinai fino a casa e chiamai il pusher, volevo della coca. “Norma, hai detto che volevi smettere”, mi disse. “Non te la vendo più”. Feci amicizia coi miei “vicini” del movimento per la vita: erano sereni, dedicati, vivevano per i precetti del cristianesimo».

C´era una donna, Ronda Mackey, che lavorava per Operation Rescue: erano su fronti opposti ma divennero amiche. Aveva una figlia, Elisabeth, di sette anni. «La invitai a giocare nel mio ufficio, in clinica. Lei mi chiese di andare con loro in chiesa. Durante una Messa caddi in ginocchio e chiesi perdono a Dio per tutto quello che avevo fatto».

Norma McCorvey adesso tornerà nel carosello dei media per convincere gli americani che l´aborto è omicidio. Visto il momento politico e la grande evangelizzazione di molti Stati, una possibilità esiste. Lei vive solo per quello.

«Una delle confessioni che devo fare è che nel 1973 ho mentito, dichiarando di essere rimasta incinta dopo essere stata violentata da una banda. Sarah Weddington ci basò buona parte della mozione, sapendo che gli americani sarebbero certo stati a favore dell´interruzione di gravidanza per una donna stuprata. Ma non era vero. Avevo mentito. La legge che ha ucciso milioni di vite era nata da una bugia».

Fonte: Il Giornale 17.1.2005, Paladina dell´aborto fa causa agli Usa per abolire l´aborto

Letto: 5339

Rovinai il mio ex con false accuse. Quando colpirono mio fratello, mi sono dissociata dal femminismo

Ecco la mia storia, per quanto vergognosa possa essere.

Prima di sposarmi, ero una femminista radicale […] non era come il femminismo di oggi, che vuole solo il potere totale, vendetta, distruggere tutto quello per cui le vecchie femministe hanno combattuto.

Ho due bambini. Quando decisi di divorziare (ero annoiata) andai da 3 diversi avvocati. Tutti mi chiesero se mio marito mi abusava. Mai, in nessun modo mio marito si è comportato male con me. Con mio grande stupore, tutti e tre gli avvocati mi dissero la stessa cosa: se non accusavo di abusi mio marito, non avrei ottenuto l’affido esclusivo dei figli. Se lo avessi accusato, avrei ottenuto tutto e anche di più. Quando chiesi come avremmo provato le accuse, mi dissero che i giudici non richiedono prove, di andare ad un centro anti-violenza, che mi avrebbero aiutatasupportando le mie accuse di abusi. […] Non avendo soldi per gli avvocati, seguii il consiglio. Con riluttanza, portai i bambini al centro.

Non potevo credere a quello che vedevo. Fuori, appariva come il pubblico vorrebbe vederlo. Dentro, una verità molto diversa.

Era una specie di culto. Odiare gli uomini la prima priorità. […] Seguendo il loro progetto, avrei ottenuto non solo l’affido esclusivo, ma anche la macchina, la casa, il terreno, e soldi per il resto della mia vita. […] Vidi l’uomo che era stato mio marito distrutto: emotivamente, finanziariamente e fisicamente. Ottenni l’affido esclusivo dei figli, l’allontanamento del padre da casa, e nel supremo interesse del minore, la casa e la macchina.

Fu anche incriminato. L’uomo che con me aveva messo al mondo i nostri figli, aiutato a crescerli, che li amava teneramente, fu obbligato a starne lontano, a mantenere me (più di quanto avessi bisogno) e loro. Lo distrussi, lasciando con poco per sopravvivere.

Mio fratello sta ora combattendo per i suoi figli, e la sua ex sta usando la stessa tattica che mi hanno insegnato al centro. Mio fratello è ridotto come il mio ex.

Sapendo come ho distrutto il mio ex, e capendo il male che ho fatto, cerco di aiutare mio fratello. È stato sbattuto fuori da casa sua e vive con me. È iscritto ad una organizzazione di padri separati e riceve messaggi sull’affido condiviso, etc.

Questi gruppi devono smetterla di combattere in modo pulito.

In tutta onestà, è impossibile compiere atti peggiori di quelli che le femministe hanno già fatto. Per molti anni petizioni, campagne… non hanno portato a niente. I media, gli avvocati, i politici, la gente comune già conoscono le ingiustizie subite dai padri, e nulla cambia.
Il cambiamento arriverà solo se forzato. Non so cosa occorra fare, ma continuare così è inutile. […] So che ci sono vere femministe come Erin Pizzey che combattono per la vera eguaglianza.
Dobbiamo fermare le femministe radicali, che non capiscono che quello che ottengono oggi produrrà domani la devastazione. Vogliono solo una cosa, appropriarsi di tutto per loro stesse, senza badare al prezzo pagato da altri.

[Fonte: traduzione estratta dalla lettera originale firmata http://www.ejfi.org/DV/dv-63.htm#marion e riprodotta interamente in calce].

Letto: 2616

Uscita dal femminismo ho ritrovato il sorriso

Vale la pena di imparare l’inglese per leggere questa storia commovente di una donna che ha capito di essersi rovinata la vita con il femminismo quando è ormai troppo tardi per costruirsene una nuova. Ma sorride perché ha imparato ad essere una persona per bene. Grazie, CAFM. Traduzione automatica grazie a Google.

* * *

On the cusp of my 45th birthday, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. It wasn’t the bathroom mirror, it was a photo I had from graduate school. I looked at myself 20 years ago and had a startling and clear epiphany. It wasn’t a happy moment. It was a terribly sad moment. It was so sad that I involuntarily burst into tears, something I haven’t done since the dark days of my divorce. I looked at the photo and came to the conclusion that I had made a real mess of my life. I felt the utter misery of my life come in waves of sadness, regret, anger, and loneliness. For almost an hour I cried as I looked at the photo of a younger me. I was 24 with a fresh MBA from an excellent school. I was eager to conquer the business world. I was eager to prove that women could do anything. I was so much thinner. My clothes looked stylish, almost sexy. Of course the hair style was awful but that was the 80s and such styles could be forgiven. I saw the brightness in my eyes, the sparkle of life, of the great opportunities that were open to me. The world was there for my taking and I was ready.

But somehow, some way, it never came to be. My life evolved into something painful and difficult. But until that moment when I looked at my photo from over two decades ago, I always blamed someone else. It was never my fault for the bad decisions I made. Typically, it was the fault of men – my father, my boyfriends, my husband, my boss, my sons. Never, ever was it something that I had done. When I commiserated with my women friends, they always supported me. They even supported me when I had my affair, telling me that my husband was not giving me the attention that I needed. I read the women’s magazines and every article was about how women were always strong, intelligent, morally righteous, unable to make bad decisions. Worse, I believed that any of my needs, no matter how frivolous, no matter how many times I changed my mind, no matter how miserable I made the men in my life feel, were more important than anything – motherhood, career advancement, a healthy marriage, whatever.

I hate the world for teaching me those lessons. I remember complaining about how my husband never grew up. But as the tears streamed down my face, I came to the conclusion that I had never grown up. I never learned about compromise, trust, tolerance, niceness. I was a bitch, pure and simple. I know now that being a bitch is not about strength or independence. Being a bitch is about being repellent, unpleasant, unhappy, and lonely. Being a bitch is nothing more than being a spoiled princess who is too selfish or stupid to accept the joy in life.

I had become a fat, unpleasant, middle-aged princess because I had refused to grow up. Sure, I had taken on grown-up responsibilities (marriage, career, house, motherhood) but at the core of my psyche was a 13-year-old girl who stamped her feet and whined when she didn’t get her way. Of course, I had stopped whining years ago but I simply replaced the whining with emotional manipulation and ornery bitchiness. No wonder I was still single and my two teenaged sons spent all their free time with their father.

When I was growing up, being a dilettante feminist, I swallowed the standard line that women can have it all. I wanted it all and I wanted to make no compromises, to assume no sacrifices, and to feel completely validated in all of my lifestyle choices. The biggest mistake in my late teens and early 20s was to let other women – women whom I thought to be strong, independent, and intelligent – determine which lifestyle I was to follow. I was simply too spoiled and lazy to look inward, to embrace the kind of introspection necessary to find one’s own path in life, the path that could lead to real fulfillment and happiness.

I remember college well. It was a fun time and I thought, at the time, an enlightening time. The parties were exciting, the political debates intense, the string of boyfriends and casual sexual encounters pleasant. I studied hard and I played hard. I attended the campus feminist meetings and listened to diatribes from sturdy and self-righteous peers about the evils of masculinity. I learned to scorn men when I didn’t need them for selfish reasons – study partners, shoulders to cry on, willing sexual partners. But I was never hesitant to bat my eyelashes or let my skirt ride up on my then-slender thighs if I needed something from a man. Men were handy to have around occasionally, but certainly not required, as my female peers kept insisting.

I learned that the only place for a woman was in the boardroom and that motherhood was beneath my intelligence. I “took back the night” at a few after-dark rallies with hundreds of young women eager to prove to the world that all men were rapists and potentially violent criminals.

When I got pregnant my sophomore year, it was easy to get an abortion. The campus health center was almost eager to make sure the procedure was done quickly and quietly. I never told my parents. I never told the fellow who made me pregnant. I don’t even remember his name, I only vaguely remember a wild night with the college hockey team at an off-campus party. Only now do I consider the irony of how I was attracted to college athletes in school – the type of men who liked being in control.

Pursuing my MBA once I completed my undergraduate studies was a foregone conclusion. I was destined for the board room, or so I had convinced myself. Graduate school was tough. I was competing with some very bright people, mostly men. Those men were destined for success and they knew it. But I had something that I exploited. I had my femininity and I used it ruthlessly when I had to. I tried to convince myself that the affair with my married finance professor had nothing to do with grades. Of course, finance was the most difficult course and when I managed surface at the end of the semester with a B it was hard to rationalize that the secret trysts with the professor had nothing to do with it. But the ends always justifies the means and there was no way I would not succeed. The other few women in my class were doing the same if they could get away with it. We never talked about it, but it was understood and we sometimes giggled about it and gloated that we had something the men would never have.

I met my husband that last year in graduate school. He was pursuing a degree in sociology. The chemistry with him was quite intense in the beginning. He had long hair and a motorcycle. He was the classic bohemian and I felt the need to rein him in, to make him a better man (or at least my definition of a better man). He was irresponsible and sometimes unruly but I loved him with all my heart and soul.

After graduating, I found work in a big corporation. Every day I went to work with my power suit and shoulder pads under my jacket. I walked in my sneakers and changed into work shoes when I got to the office at 7AM to put in another 12 hour day. I was married by then in a wedding straight from Modern Bride magazine. My husband had finally cut his hair after much insistence from me. He would later call it severe nagging but I got my wish so it didn’t matter.

He found work in a consumer research organization. He didn’t get paid as much as me but that didn’t matter. My income was big and growing bigger. We bought a house I found in the suburbs. He had recommended something more modest and closer to downtown where we both worked. I would have none of that. My success had to be readily visible with a big, traditional house and a big lawn. I made sure he took care of the lawn despite his resistance.

After five years, I felt the need to have babies. It wasn’t a mutual decision. I wanted babies. No, I desperately needed a baby. I felt empty inside without kids. It was a completely irrational feeling for a high-flying career woman hell-bent on being the next corporate CEO. My husband was cool towards the idea. He asked how we would balance the demands of being parents and supporting a rather expensive lifestyle. I didn’t care. My womb was empty. I had needs. Neither reason nor logic affected my needs or my feelings.

So, the first baby came. Instantly, life changed. I couldn’t put in the hours I needed to maintain my career trajectory. My husband changed as well. He quickly lost his bohemian attitudes. He sold his motorcycle and became a devoted father to our son. Of course, I had been pushing for this since we had gotten married. His words, as revealed during the divorce, were “shrill, nagging harpy who relentlessly pushed me into fatherhood”. But he loved our first son and even offered to work only part time to allow me to keep on with my career. That would not do. I was the mother, the queen, the all-knowing and wise creator of my son. My husband was clearly an incompetent boob who didn’t know a diaper from a car seat.

My boss saw that I was distracted with my new duties as super-mom. He looked at my productivity and knew I couldn’t perform like my single or childfree colleagues. So, I was “mommy-tracked”. They didn’t call it that then. But when a male colleague was promoted over me, I knew what was happening. I hated it. I was livid. How could I not have it all? So, I played the feminine card again, this time with a stick, not a carrot. I paid a visit to Human Resources with a veiled threat of a discrimination lawsuit. It didn’t work, of course, because it was very clear that I was putting in fewer hours with the resultant loss of productivity. It was all documented and defensible. I was furious. How dare they. I summoned up all the righteous wrath I could. I consulted an outside attorney, a ferocious female lawyer who was quite prepared to sue until she made a pass at me. Open-minded I was, but certainly not a lesbian. I let the legal issue drop and sullenly accepted my reduced role at work. After all, we had expenses to pay and my salary was certainly needed.

I watched my husband evolve from bohemian to responsible father. He was astoundingly good with our first son. Of course, at the time, I didn’t recognize that. I thought everything he did was wrong. Only I, the supreme mother, could raise our first boy. We struggled for a couple of years. It wasn’t easy. So, when I got pregnant again – unplanned by my husband, completely planned by me – the stress continued to grow. Money wasn’t tight but the pressure to maintain our lifestyle and that big house was mostly on my shoulders. I resented my husband for that. He had chosen a career he loved but the pay was not nearly as much as mine. I really had to work and with being on the mommy track, there was no way I could achieve what I had expected in my career.

We did use day-care and a part-time housekeeper. Actually, we went through eight housekeepers. They were never good enough for me. Nothing was good enough for me. My shoes didn’t fit, my clothes looked bad, the car wasn’t clean enough, my husband wasn’t up to my standards. Looking back in brutal honesty, I was a stark, raving bitch. I don’t think I said a nice word in years. I am amazed that my husband put up with me. I didn’t take him seriously, he was just a man, after all.

In my limited social life, I spent time with women like me. We were an unhappy group of 30-something moms with powerful careers. But we also smiled and pretended that life was perfect. We all had the right homes, the right cars, the right schools, the right careers. We convinced ourselves that we did have it all. Occasionally, one of us might vent some frustration at the situation. When that happened, we always had convenient scapegoats – our husbands, our bosses, our housekeepers, the schools, whatever. It was never, ever our fault because we were female.

With one son at five and the other at seven, it fell apart. Rather, it exploded. My husband just gave up. He had been supportive to me and good with the children. So, it caught me by surprise when he just gave up. I guess I should have seen it. I was always using sex as a weapon with him. If he didn’t do exactly what I said, if he didn’t bend over backwards to fulfill my every whim, he didn’t experience any kind of sexual pleasure. I remember I caught him playing with himself one night. I was furious. How could he experience sexual satisfaction without my control being somehow involved?

As a healthy woman, I did have my own sexual needs. So, rather than enjoy sex within the context of a marriage, I had an affair. It was easy. I was still somewhat attractive. There were men around. “Why not?” I easily rationalized to myself. My husband doesn’t give me enough attention, it’s all his fault. The affair was inconsequential, just some sex on weekends and on business trips. I needed it so therefore it was OK. While my husband was being a father, I was being an empowered, independent woman visiting cheap motels with a man who could give me orgasms.

The affair lasted three months. My husband never found out. He didn’t need to, he just gave up. Interestingly, he channeled his efforts into a side business as a marketing consultant. This proved to be quite lucrative for him. Within six months his income had exceeded mine. Our savings account grew substantially. “It’s for the boys’ college tuition” he told me over and over again.

I was unhappy. My career was stressful and unrewarding. My two sons were closer to my husband than to me because of all the hours I was working. He had quit his full-time job and was thriving as a marketing consultant, a job that he could do out of the house with just his computer and a phone. I felt frustrated and unfulfilled. My female friends recommended counseling. So, we gave that a try. I subtly picked a counselor whom I know would be sympathetic to me. The sessions were actually fun in a very unpleasant way. The counselor and I spent 50 minutes picking on my husband. He quietly sat there and took it, apologizing and promising to change. I didn’t have to promise to do anything. The counselor – a woman much like me – made it very clear that my needs were paramount and his needs were completely irrelevant.

Naturally, the counseling didn’t work for us. My husband retreated into fatherhood and his growing business. I contemplated another affair. Unfortunately, I was gaining a lot of weight. At a size 12, it was hard to get attractive men to look at me. My friends recommended that I consider divorce. I look back and think about my “friends” from that period in my life. They were a group of unhappy women trying so hard to validate their own, poor life decisions. I let them influence me when I should have been strong. That was an enormous mistake.

I didn’t hate my husband I just didn’t love him like I used to. I wanted a new and better life. I could raise my sons without him. I had been reading that kids really didn’t need fathers. I was feeling so unfulfilled. When I served my husband with divorce papers, he didn’t seem surprised. I had consulted with a good divorce attorney and she strongly recommended that I go for everything – house, cars, custody, alimony, child support, everything. “It’s a war and as a woman, you have to win” were her words.

The divorce was ugly and despite the fact that I did get the house, the car, the kids, child support, and the savings account that he had filled, I ultimately lost. My ex moved out, leaving me to take care of the house and kids. He moved into a very modest apartment and we agreed that he could see the boys on weekends. The court actually ordered that to happen. I was happy to force him out of their lives completely but he was rigidly insistent and that damned judge agreed.

I was single again. I was ready to date again. But at 38, dating was not like the wild times in college and graduate school when I was young, alluring, and desired by men. No, I was a single mom now. I had cut my hair short and my figure was almost past the point of no return. The kind of man I wanted to date had no interest in me. Those powerful and successful men had younger, prettier, nicer girlfriends.

The divorced men were the worst. They were either so disillusioned that they couldn’t handle a relationship or they were just hopping from bed to bed, not willing to be exclusive. I so much wanted to be swept off my feet into the arms of an attractive man to take care of me and make my troubles go away. I still thought of myself as a princess. I was still silly, stupid, and immature.

Yet the men I was attracted to wouldn’t give me a second thought. The men who did want me were totally unsuitable. It was astounding to me that I wasn’t attractive any more. So many men in college were after me. I remember mocking all the guys who approached me at parties. If they had the slightest flaw, I pushed them away, usually with a pointed insult or two. I never thought twice about the men I rejected, some of them decent and sweet when I look back on it. My girlfriends and I called them “mamma’s boys” while we let ourselves be taken by the cocky, arrogant pricks who always made us feel overpowering attraction and lust.

To make matters worse, I couldn’t fix anything in the house. My husband had tended to all those matters. My boys were pre-teens and very difficult for me to handle. They hated the fact that they could only see their father on weekends. Their grades dropped. They started having discipline problems in school. Naturally, I blamed their father. It was all his fault that we divorced and that he lived apart from them. I tried not to say bad things about him in front of my sons but the feelings were just so strong. I said terrible things about their father, especially when I was drinking, which I did a lot of back then.

If I was unhappy when I was married, I was now wretchedly miserable as a single mom looking for love again. I tried hard to convince myself that I was a strong, independent, and intelligent woman. Sometimes it worked, especially when I was browbeating subordinates at work. I actually hated my job. I made a good living, yes. Yet I had reached the zenith of my career and the board room was not one bit closer. I still felt terribly conflicted about being a good mom and being the corporate woman.

I had lots of blame to dole out. There was no way that the current state of my life was the result of my decisions. My single girlfriends all told me that, many, many times over copious cocktails in sundry singles bars. I read a lot of women’s magazines and the advice I got said pretty much the same thing – a woman is never to blame.

I tried to lose weight but it was so very difficult. When I was hungry, I simply had to eat, usually ice cream or something with chocolate. I had to buy new clothes, again, because the weight kept piling on. I was set up on a blind date and the man had the sheer audacity to say “I’m sorry, I’m just not attracted to you because of your weight.” I never thought about my own hypocrisy about trying to find a man to whom I was attracted to physically. Men must be attracted to me, I am a woman, after all.

The past few years have been kind of a blur. My ex husband had found a new love of his life and I naturally hated him for that. I tried to increase the child support payments. When that didn’t work, I tried to prevent my sons from visiting him. They fought me on this. I took out my frustrations at work. My boss threatened to fire me. Only my girlfriends gave me any support. We had boozy nights where we ate and drank too much. Frankly, we were a bunch of fat, unhappy, single women who heaped blame upon the world for the state of our lives.

So when I saw the photograph from college, the epiphany hit hard. Through the tears of anguish, rage, bitterness, and denial came the incredibly painful realization that I was responsible for my own unhappiness. I finally figured out that I had not grown up and had not truly embraced adulthood. This was six months ago.

I’ve made some profound changes in my life since then. First and foremost, I stopped blaming everyone else for my own problems. This was the hardest. For my entire life I was told – and I believed – that as a woman, I could do no wrong, that I was not responsible, that I was always the victim in some way. Over and over I had to tell myself that only I am responsible for my happiness.

Once I learned to stop blaming the world, I taught myself to be pleasant and nice. This was hard as well. I had always mistaken pleasantness for weakness. This is not the case. A new colleague at work – a woman from the South – showed me very clearly it’s quite easy to be nice and be strong at the same time.

I also dumped my girlfriends. This was easy. This group of unhappy and negative women was actually encouraging me to do stupid things like divorce a perfectly good man because of my selfish and very arbitrary feelings of the moment. I finally learned that acting solely on feelings is the realm of children, not adults. Maybe those women will finally learn that. But I doubt it.

I’m at the gym every day. After being rebuffed by so many attractive and decent guys, I decided to apply standards of real equality to the whole dating thing. After all, if I believe in physical attraction, why should not I understand that men are the same way? Being fat means not being physically attractive to many, many men so it’s up to me to do something about, not be angry with men about the situation. The weight is coming off. It’s a battle, to be sure, but it’s coming off. I’m also letting my hair grow and getting rid of that awful “mom” hair style.

I no longer read those loathsome women’s magazines nor do I watch a lot of TV. When I freed my mind from so many complete misconceptions about men, I learned that men are actually wonderful people. My sons saw my transformation. As they grow older and become men in their own right, I have stopped nagging them about “feelings” and “sensitivity” and encourage them to be men. I doubt I’ll ever mend fences with my ex husband, all I can do is hope that he finds happiness and joy in his life. I have a new respect for him, a respect born from understanding that men are very different, not worse, just different. My ex is also an excellent father, I am blessed for that.

I’ve learned to accept that my needs aren’t the center of the universe. That was actually quite liberating. No longer am I a slave to the whimsy of my often shallow emotions that can’t be reasonably fulfilled. This means I complain less. If I can’t change the situation, why complain about it? Winter is cold, my complaints about the temperature will do nothing to warm the air.

The biggest regret I have in life is being so weak as to not to have made the serious introspection until this point in my life. If I were truly strong, truly intelligent, I would have really thought about what is important to me instead of following the herd. In retrospect, clawing my up the corporate ladder was a very bad decision. Exploiting my femininity to manipulate men was even worse. I love being a woman but using sex to get what I want is no better than a man using brute strength to get what he wants.

I’m still single and dating still eludes me. There is a glimmer of hope, however, a very nice man complimented me on my smile. At 45 years old, that was the first time anyone has noticed my smile. My eldest son noticed it too, “Mom, I’ve never seen you smile until now.” Life must get better for me. That’s my responsibility, no one else’s.

 

Letto: 2893

Confessioni di una ex-femminista

Confessions is the honest and heart-rending account of a woman who was born into a Catholic family, attended parochial schools and fully embraced the beliefs of her faith, but ran into major roadblocks in college. Amidst the radical feminist college environment of the 1960’s, she lost her faith, and her morality, jumping aboard the bandwagon of “free love.” She indulged in a series of love relationships in college, all of which crashed and burned. Despite the obvious contradiction between feminist teachings and her own experience, Murray still believed she had to free herself from the yoke of tradition.

Attaining a doctorate in philosophy, with an emphasis on the feminist writings of Simone de Beauvoir, Murray taught philosophy in college. For many years, she launched a personal vendetta against God and the Catholic Church in the classroom, trying to persuade students that God did not exist, mocking values Catholics hold dear, and touted feminism as the cure for many social ills. When she discovered she was pregnant, Murray followed the route that feminists offer as a solution for unmarried women. Much to her surprise, her abortion was a shattering emotional experience, which she grieved over for years. It was the first tragic chink in her feminist armor.

After her marriage in 1982, she anguished over the decision to have children, but became an advocate of the “child-free” movement, believing children were burdens and life could be happy life without them. Later in her forties, Murray experienced a mysterious series of events in which it seemed that “someone” was inviting her back to God. The mysterious calls came from different ports, including nature, books and other people. Gradually, she realized that the One seeking her was Christ, and the place He was calling her to was the Catholic Church. Eventually realizing it was only in the Church that she would find what she was seeking — the person of Christ and his love and mercy — Murray returned to the Church, and finally found healing and forgiveness for the abortion.

Lorraine Murray’s Confessions are a revelation. They reveal the nasty truth behind women’s “liberation”. Her experiences, and the lessons she learns from them, serve as a timely warning of the folly of feminism and the destructive impact that feminism has on those who fall under its malignant spell.
– Joseph Pearce, author The Quest for Shakespeare

Confessions of an Ex-Feminist is the gripping story of millions of women who lost their religious and intellectual anchors during the tsunami of the fatal sixties and seventies. It is a movingly honest confession of how pride, arrogance, immaturity, ambition, craving to be “liberated”, blinds the female soul. Abortion kills babies and wounds a woman’s soul to its very core. But a prodigal daughter found her way back home, crushed by guilt, driven by repentance, and discovers that God’s mercy is boundless. She is now given the crucial mission of shouting on roof’s tops: feminism is the arch enemy of women. This book should become a vade mecum of young girls”.
– Dr. Alice von Hildebrand, author The Privilege of Being a Woman

“Lorraine Murray’s absorbing and poignant book traces her passage from the heart of the Catholic Church to the epicenter of the sexual revolution and back again. With candor, humor and a knack for storytelling, Murray reveals the mysterious ways God worked in her soul and leaves readers richer for having shared her journey.”
– Colleen Carroll Campbell, St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist, host of EWTN’s “Faith & Culture,” former White House speechwriter and author of The New Faithful: Why Young Adults Are Embracing Christian Orthodoxy

 

http://www.ignatius.com/Products/CEF-P/confessions-of-an-exfeminist.aspx

Letto: 2372