Biology for Dummies or how to fall foul of twitter’s women hating algorithms.

So, I’ve been shadow banned from twitter for what appears to be two reasons. Firstly, I am banned because I have a vagina. Secondly, I am banned because I refuse to relinquish my belief in the political significance of said vagina.

Now, obviously, I can’t do much about the vagina. I was born this way.

The latter is a little more complex. I could pretend to be a liberal feminist who believes that prostitution is a service industry, and that there is very little difference between serving up teacakes and serving up tits and ass. I could pretend to believe that women and men were biologically interchangeable, and therefore oppression was not rooted in our differences, and the patriarchal exploitation of them to the advantage of men, but was actually based on our gender. This, of course, would require me to redefine my understanding of the word ‘gender’, and indeed, the word ‘oppression’.

In order to come to believe that women are oppressed because of their femininity, and not their female bodies, I would have to first believe in an in-ate femininity. Liberal feminism suggests that I, a female, that does not openly define as trans or non-binary, must be, by default, cis.

Only, I’m absolutely not cis. In order to be cis, I’d have be to be aligned with my femininity, and I’m not. In fact, this absence of alignment has got me in so much trouble over the years. My big mouth, for example, directly conflicting with a feminised woman, whose mouth is small and dainty, and above all else, shut. Except, when she’s performing oral sex for money, which is a perfectly valid way to earn a living, and absolutely no different than being an accountant.

Then, there is my flat size nines, that I use to wade in to situations and offer my opinion. In stark contrast to the feminised foot, which is smaller, higher and dances around stuff a lot, careful not to knock things over. Perhaps, having an opinion on matters trans is a perfect illustration of this. Feminised women, often simply self refereed to as cis, defer to their trans sisters on matters of gender, especially trans gender. The logic is that a biological woman lacks the lived in experience of a biological man, who thinks he’s a woman, and therefore, has no skin in the game, and no right to debate the issues. Yet, here I stand, steadfast in my right to a view on what constitutes a woman. And, I do this, with no nail varnish adorning my toes.

Another non-cis thing I do is all the household chores, even the manly ones. This week alone, I’ve emptied bins, changed light bulbs and put together a five tier bookshelf. Admittedly, my young son did most of the technical stuff, and it took nearly two hours, and I got incredibly frustrated… but, I did not manifest that annoyance in a girly fashion. In fact, I kicked the wall and swore, twice, which, when you think about it, is setting a bad example to my son, thus making me a bad mother, itself defying the feminine ideal of always being a good mother.

Truth is, I can’t help but give two fingers to society’s expectations of how I should do femininity. But, I also give those two fingers to femininity itself. What a pile of incoherent, ill conceived, constantly shifting, entirely baseless bollox it is? Being feminine doesn’t make me a woman. In reality, it mostly gets in the way of it.

I am a woman because of my biological make up. That is not to say, as patriarchy would have it, that I am not more than the sum of my parts. That is not to say, as patriarchy would have it, that I am less than the sum of my parts.



Do the wheels on the bus still go round, or is that subjective now?

I woke up this morning with a banging headache and a child banging on about sport’s bags and missing math’s homework sheets. I medicated the migraine and mitigated the impending math’s class crisis, fed and watered the child and cat, and took the former to school. On arrival home, I filled a sink with water and piled in the dishes. As they soaked, I paid a few bills on-line, and had a ten minute conversation with my landlord, where he lied constantly. Now I’m bent over my laptop at the kitchen table, hoping to bang out five hundred words, before I have a much needed shower.

None of this seems particularly remarkable, until you consider, I do not exist.

I have been erased.

You may think I’m speaking metaphysically, but I’m not. Metaphysics is dead. It went down a year after irony, and just before literally. Literally now means not literally. Facts are no longer objective, and objectivity is no longer a thing. Here, in this post modern minefield, all that matters, at any given moment, are the thoughts in your head. As long as they are the right thoughts…obviously. If those thoughts are wrong, then they must remain forever in your head. You must never be allowed to speak them publicly, for fear you will contaminate the subjective thought pool.

It probably sounds more ominous than it is. In reality, the rules are quite simple.

Are you a biological woman? If you have answered ‘yes’ to this, then we are not off to a good start.

Let’s try again. Are you a biological woman? If you are afraid to answer, then we are getting somewhere. I’ll help you. There is no such thing as a biological woman. The closest approximation we have to it is a cis woman.

But, what if you are not cis? What if you don’t even know what cis is? So, ignorance is no defense, and actually no-body knows what cis means.

If you are not cis then you are a trans, and deserve a seat at the front of the bus. If you are neither cis, nor trans, then you are probably non-binary, which makes you infinitely more interesting than cis, but not quite as special as trans. Go to the middle of the bus.

Everybody else, to the back of the bus, and away we go…

But, what if you are neither cis, nor trans, nor non-binary? What if you were born female, and identify as none of the above, or none of the other inane multi gender options available? What if you are politically opposed to the subdivision of the clear sex classes into meaningless, abstract, entirely subjective gender categories? What then?

Anyone following the bus metaphor can see where this is going…