Wow, what happened after all these years… I don't want to go to the Women's March this weekend!

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 I ran volunteer networks for Planned Parenthood, and attended founding meetings of women centers and academic meetings ranging from the National Womens' Studies Association on down.  I've marched in every major women's march since the 70's—and a bunch of great local ones (I still get teary-eyed on Broadway in NYC recalling the excitement at some of those Take Back the Night marches in the 80's).   I even got arrested at the women's peace encampment at Seneca Falls.   I'm the real deal…a feminist man.   My resume is great!

So why the fuck don't I want to go to the march this weekend?   My habits are so strong that I've been planning sign painting events and group meet ups, blithely ignoring my honest feelings.   I'm not interested.

What happened?   Did I get bored?   I don't think so…maybe I'm numb to my heart here too, but I feel like I've been getting more animated about my politics in all spheres rather than less.   It would surprise me to lose radical energy right when there's such visceral ugliness around us.  I know my pacificism is intensifying.   So what's wrong with my male feminism?

Here's my answer—and if you're a woman reading this, cut me some slack for once.   I'm not sure I understand myself or trust myself.   But this march, timed to coincide with the MeToo stuff, is hitting some sort of additional nerve.  As best as I can see my feelings:

1.    The driving force behind this march is separate—more than any other feminist meme since perhaps Andrea Dworkin and "all sex is rape," the genesis of this activism is around the idea that men are guilty and distant (statistically we are).    There are no fellow travelers for MeToo…none are wanted and none should apply.
2.    This 100% stereotype has put me in a state of mini-depression because it's cast all my previous marching and standing up and supporting in a worse light.   Why?   Because I now see that at least some of my motivation has been less altruistic than I'd like to believe…I was partially hard at work trying to convince the women in my life that I wasn't "one of them" –i.e. that I wasn't a troglodyte.   I was noble!  And caring!   And in touch with my feelings!   Hey, look at me being unique and cool!  So I run into this event where there's no joining, and I can't hide.   Further, I can't hide the fact that I want to be me.   I don't want to waste energy proving to you that I am me. (That's an equal opportunity desire—I'm sick of proving that I'm a cool lefty guy to men, women, the entire LGQBTetc. community, the IRS, every one outside the United States—to any one.)
3.    Like women, I hate being stereotyped…and at this moment it seems like women I know well are stereotyping with abandon.   It's not pleasant to be around—it feels intellectually dishonest, as all stereotyping always does, and it hurts me every time.   As all of you who are attending the march this weekend know, it's miserable to be dismissed, unseen, by the broadest and cruelest of wild, broad brushstrokes.   That's how thinking about marching this weekend felt.   Until I decided not to join. Fellow travelers like me are exactly what the movement does not need.

So…sigh…I send my very very very strong support to all of you.  Support to the few women close to me who know who I am.  Support also to other women who will never need to notice that I'm not Weinstein nor Trump, nor whichever slob should be on the front page this morning, celebrity or not (Aziz?  Dude!   Really?).  

I also send my support to the men who march and who are strong enough to not mind having to fight for scarce breadcrumbs of identity for those particularly few hours of taking back decency, and stopping at nothing, as we must, to demand change.   Carry on, my favored brothers, as well. (And maybe keep your hands in your pockets for this particular event?   We haven't been so wonderful on the left, either, at accepting "no.")   

You all have my undying support, love, and respect.  From elsewhere.

Actually, I'm kidding.   Of course I'm going.   There's way too much fighting back to do.   See you there!

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