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Nowadays, nobody’s impressed
when I tell them I met Betty Friedan.
Remember her? Author of
The Feminine Mystique? She was
falling-down drunk, foaming
at the mouth, apparently performing
her parody of toxic masculinity.
We’re celebrating my granddaughter’s
third birthday, watching her tear open
a gift from one of her Cuban-American
grand-aunts, a Disney Princess kit,
clip-on plastic earrings, a plastic tiara,
& best of all, a pair of pink plastic
kitten heels, into which she immediately
crams her unblemished, shapely little feet.
As she clatters across the hardwood floors,
I can’t help thanking Betty & the feminists
she inspired. Without their outrage,
the baby might have unwrapped
a foot-binding kit for pre-schoolers.
