This seems to be a day for spreading the good word. A friend wrote to tell me about a Kickstarter campaign launched by two esteemed filmmakers, Mary Dore and Nancy Kennedy. They are raising funds to finish their documentary about the birth of the Women's Liberation Movement in the sixties.
I cannot even believe this story hasn't been told on film before--and maybe that's why those bozo politicians think they can get away with telling women how their bodies are supposed to respond when we're raped, or why we shouldn't be able to get contraception, or why we're sluts if we need it. They have no idea how hard we fought, way back when the storks hadn't found them yet, to get where we are today. We're not done.
And our own daughters (and nieces) (and sons and nephews) have no idea either. Do you guys realize that girls weren't even allowed to wear pants to school? That's how weirdly controlling of women our society was--and that's just the superficial stuff. We've tried to explain it, but nothing does the job better than seeing it. I've whipped out the trusty credit card, because this film must be made; hope you do too. Just the few clips in the Kickstarter teaser brought floods of memories. And waves of joy and pride. I sure loved being a feminist. Still do. I even have the silver charm a friend made for me--to ward off sexism, not that it worked. I wore it every single day through high school and college....(along with my mother's cameos, which may tell you more about me than about feminism, ahem.)
Bring it on! That movement had a long gestation, at least ten years, because even though I was a thirteen year old feminist, as far as I could tell, when I was in high school in the early seventies the movement was still being born. (Now we need to be born again.) We were "consciousness raising"--one of my all time favorite phrases. We were hell-raising. We were asking for raises. We were raising our fists. We were marching in the streets. We were getting arrested. We were given detention and being grounded. We were arguing, writing, screaming and yelling. We were mad. We were thrilled.
And we sure were beautiful. We still are.