For some time now, I would say that men have been demanding a space. It is not the public, of course, where the feminist revolution and the story it is no longer ours but the women, who have turned the tables on us, an eye for an eye: anyone dares to express themselves out loud! It is the private space, where we dare to be ourselves without fear of what they will say.
I am not talking about spaces where men burp, oil their shirts – a men’s Olympic sport – or tell jokes about Arévalo, a great worker and a better person. I am referring to meetings –almost always around a table– where orphanhood floats before a revolution that makes you feel bad without us –civilized men, children of our time and I would say chivalrous– knowing exactly what we have done to be treated as tyrants , especially for young women, who take their toll despite the fact that we are –for generations– the parents who have never told them that “find yourself a good match”, because their space was the university. On the contrary, we drool over our daughters – also with their girlfriends – who are independent and what they call “empowered”.
There is no doubt that we incur some micromachismo in these meetings. They throw our tits at us, I confess, although perhaps that shouldn’t be the case, attractive women throw us and we like to talk about them, with more respect than these premises can presuppose.
We never told our daughters “find yourself a good match”: we encouraged them to go to university
Every March 8, we turn the matter around. That’s part of it, isn’t it? We do not aspire to defend privileges – the last ones in the Philippines surrendered in Baler – but it is difficult for us to accept what seems to us an exaggeration, nonsense or an unfair condemnation for being born – and feeling – men. Because feminism is not unanimous and it also releases nonsense, different from ours but nonsense.
The issue is better perceived when you live alone –out of attachment to freedom– and there is no guilt about the distribution of domestic stewardship, sexual habits or whether or not the kitchen has to have partitions –as is my preference–.
We are not so tyrants, my friends and ladies.
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