John is a soldier, following Mycroft’s orders. He knows how to separate his feelings from his work. It’s convenient he’s a doctor too, but that isn’t why he was hired. He has an assignment: find the mole. When that’s done, he’ll move out. Staying was never a possibility.
Never trust your heart to a soldier.
"Where are you taking her?”
“The Landmark.”
A nice restaurant, which explains the jacket and tie. A pricey place for a locum doctor to take his date.
He’s started over again on the tie. I bat his hands away, undo it and retie.
“Thank you.” He smiles up at me. “I’ll have my phone on vibrate if you need me. Don’t wait up.”
Another wink. (Honestly, the only people who actually wink are elderly, flirtatious ladies or dirty old men.) With a final glance at the mirror, he puts on his jacket and heads down the stairs.
...She’s going to ask him to move in with her.
While that might solve my flatmate problem, it creates another. How will I know what John Watson is up to, if he’s not here to deduce?
...I’m… well, not fond of him. Nothing like that. I’m used to him now. And I’m curious. If he moves out, I’ll never suss out exactly what he’s doing for Mycroft.
Almost at once, a plan comes into my mind.
This week's zoom meeting was a blast! A big shout out to all those who made it! and to those who commented that they want to try and hop in next time, I am planning to host a second meetup on:
Friday, August 28th at 1:00 p.m. Pacific Daylight Time
SO mark your calendars!! Hope you all can make it!!
Sherlock Holmes, ACD Holmes, BBC Sherlock, and Johnlock fans all welcome! We're all one big family in many ways! (But Liri, I'm not active in the fandom anymore???) You are welcome as well! Come say hi! What are you up to now? It's nice sometimes to just see that people do exist. 😊😉✌️ Feel free to tag your peeps. Cheers, - Liri
I write this in my private journal to keep it to myself. Not every word I write about the world’s only consulting detective is meant to be disclosed to the general public. If I am in luck, I will be able to conceal this from the man himself. He will be sure to tell me if I fail this, make no mistake, Watson.
I have lived in 221B Baker Street for the length of two months, three weeks, and one day, and I am pleased to say that I have never felt more alive in my life. However, I have never been more aggravated with a person either.
Sherlock Holmes is extraordinary, brilliant, extremely intelligent, which my stories in Strand Magazine bear witness to. What people do not know about the masterful detective, is his peculiar habit of strewing papers and books all around our rooms. Mrs Hudson describes it as ‘a spectrum of chaos’. Quite the apt account in my humble opinion.
In some instances, it can best be described as mayhem, because Holmes can be excessively vocal when he is unable to find what he is searching for.
He looks like a deranged scientist when he is in one of his frenzies. His eyes are protruding from their sockets, his hands make his normally slicked back hair into a bird’s nest, and his clothes are dishevelled.
The first time it happened, I was worried sick. Before that, I perceived Holmes as the most fastidious of gentlemen when it came to personal hygiene and appearance. No wonder it shocked me so. Had not Mrs Hudson divulged to me that this happens on a regular basis, I would have administered a sedative for him, I think.
***
“Watson, I need your assistance at once!”
Holmes is in one of his moods again, and time is of the essence.
When is it not, Watson?
“What do you require, Holmes?” I ask, looking devastated at the disorder he has left our sitting room in.
Finding the needle in the metaphorical haystack, of course.
To my relief, he seems far from the peak of mania yet, as evidenced by his immaculate attire and general behaviour.
“A letter from our previous client. The politician.”
“Do you mean the Prime Minister, Holmes?”
“I don’t know, Watson. Our clients’ titles are irrelevant to me. You have to consult my brother if you want – “
“Steady on, Holmes. Surely, there is no need for insults this early in the day,” I reply calmly.
He harrumphs loudly and continues to rifle through a stack of letters.
His filing system is at present in a state of disarray. Normally, when he is his composed self, he knows where everything is. Today, however, I observe new lines around his mouth, and his eyes are slightly red-rimmed.
A third night without sleep, then.
Shortly after, the letter is found, and Holmes has eaten two bites of fried eggs and toast with his breakfast tea.
“You are a wonder, dear fellow,” he states before he drains his cup.
A blush creeps up my neck at such unprecedented praise, and I have a sudden urge to loosen my tie. I clear my throat before I speak to ensure my voice come across as lucid and not raw with emotions.
“Surely, finding a letter can’t warrant such an exclamation, Holmes.”
“Oh, but it was not any letter, Watson!”
“Nevertheless,” I protest mildly.
As Holmes pointed out, it was not an ordinary letter. To be more precise: he did not look for the letter at all. Not per se. It was the item he accidentally dropped into the envelope he was eager to obtain.
***
“How did you come to miss your folded companion?” I ask that evening.
Holmes took me to dinner at Simpson’s to celebrate that his magnifying glass was secure in his waistcoat pocket once more, and now we are in front of 221B’s lit fireplace with glasses of excellent port at our disposal.
“I… er… I was intrigued by a… pattern, which I wanted to… explore more carefully.”
This abnormal conduct rattles me. Never in our acquaintance has Holmes spoken so hesitantly. His speech is habitually precise in the extreme; he never fumbles with his words like that.
“Pray tell, old boy.”
The warmth from the fire and the alcohol in my veins fill me with contentment, and I relax entirely into my chair.
Holmes sighs dramatically, which is his wont. Still, he seems calmer than usual.
“Your scarf.”
His voice is soft and quiet. I shake myself out of my momentary lethargy when I discern a hint of affection in it.
Does this mean that my devotion is reciprocated?
“John, please do not panic.”
Panic? What on earth does he mean?
Taking stock of myself, I realise that my breathing is too quick. I close my eyes, inhale and exhale deeply and try to control my galloping heart.
When his familiar fingers caress my nape and cheek, hope flares in me like the flames in our hearth.
My mind is in uproar; another spectrum of chaos, but it will all be fine. If I can just manage to open my eyes and look at him; the man I revere above all others. The man who holds my heart in his beautiful hands.
It’s nearly midnight when Watson finally comes through the front door. I’ve been dozing on the sofa, not exactly waiting for him.
Well, yes, I’ve been waiting. I’m curious, and it annoys me that I’m curious.
John Watson annoys me. The red-pants mystery, the smirky girlfriend, the way everyone has adopted him. He’s slotted himself into my life, made himself at home in it. He seems to possess all my qualities, but in reverse: I’m an arsehole, he’s considerate; I’m erratic, he’s dependable. He’s friendly, I’m friendless. How can anyone hate a man like that? It’s no wonder I have no friends.
Because I am a rude genius, I will count on him being a nice idiot.
Mostly because of these two and the show, I have made friends from all over the world. Some I can't put faces to, others I have met in person. I had never thought that within the span of a few years, I would be part of a tribe of people with the same obsession as me. It has been life altering; simply one of the best things that's ever happened in my life. Thank you all for being who you are. It means more than you know 🩵✨
Reading LM Montgomery has got me thinking that in some ways we’ve gotten more restrictive about what a “normal” family structure is. It’s not at all uncommon in her books to have households and families made up of groups rather than a couple and/or children. Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert are brother and sister. Rosemary and Ellen West are sisters. Marilla Cuthbert and Rachel Lynde are friends who move in together. Aunt Elizabeth, Aunt Laura, and Emily all live together at New Moon well into Emily’s adulthood and career as an author.
Now, a lot of this is related to the restrictions that women did face in terms of career options and social respectability. Living alone and being self-supporting is a much more common option for women now than it was in the late 1800s/early 1900s, and that’s a very good thing. I think singleness and living alone has become more normalized than it was then for both men and women (modern appliances probably helped with that shift!).
But the flip side is that living with adults other than your spouse – siblings, or other relatives, or friends – on a long-term basis was treated as much more normal then than it is now! Now it’s taken for granted that if you’re single and without kids, you’ll live alone if economically capable of doing do. And I feel like that could he contributing to increases in loneliness. For most of human history, in most societies, I have the impression that it wasn’t typical for single people to live alone. Having the freedom to do so is great! But having it feel atypical to not do so could be guiding people who are genuinely unhappy alone to think that loneliness or finding a romantic partner are their only options.
After being rescued in Serbia, Sherlock learns that his brother has got him a flatmate - a resident doctor to look after him, and he won't be cleared to do any Work until his doctor says he's fit for that. Even worse, everyone seems to like John Watson. Boring.
“This isn’t a request, Sherlock, it’s a fait accompli. He’s already in residence, and yes, he’s one of mine, the best of my agents, an army surgeon as well. He scored very high on the screenings we gave him when he enlisted, so I plucked him from one battlefield and dropped him into another — your battlefield. Since your demise, Mrs Hudson has been leasing him the room upstairs, but you’ll share the living space with him.”
John Watson is neat, clean, organised. Sherlock hates him.
“Because I wanted to do something new for a change.”
“Ah, so you are finally tired of chasing criminals and watching me deduce at crime scenes.”
“Not bloody likely, Sherlock!”
“So, what, then?”
“Wait and see. Or should I say: wait and hear.”
“You are being ridiculous, John.”
“Maybe.”
“It doesn’t suit you to be cryptical and mysterious.”
“No? Pity. I was trying to impersonate you for a moment. A failure, apparently.”
John sighed deeply, but I knew it was a ruse. I could read him better than anyone, and I had to admit – to myself, at least – that I was rather intrigued by this excursion.
We were in Japanese inspired, high-end karaoke bar in Marylebone.
“What do you want to drink, love?” John asked.
“Single malt, please,” I responded.
“Make that two,” John said to the bartender.
“Coming right up.”
Once he had spoken with a man in a tailored suit, John - drinks in hand - guided me to a black door adorned with a deep-red treble clef. It was quite dark inside the room, which was the size of Mrs Hudson’s living room. A large charcoal-coloured sofa took up most of the space on one side, while an obscenely large tv-screen hung on the opposite wall. Red LED lights were the only light source, but John found a remote control and momentarily turned up the brightness.
“Take a seat, love,” he said softly, and placed our tumblers on the long and narrow table in front of the sofa.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
“Nowhere in particular. At least not yet.”
His low voice reinforced the innuendo, and I felt a flutter in my chest.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you, John?”
“Immensely.”
I hummed and took a sip of the excellent whisky.
“So, you are going to sing.”
It was a statement. John would never have dragged me here to cajole me to some sing-along event, even though we were alone.
“Indeed, I am. The singing I do at home… well, it is rather insufficient in my opinion. I feel more confident when I can hear the tune. Besides, the mic will intensify the experience. Or so I hope.”
His face colour was competing with the red light in the room, and I couldn’t bear to see him embarrassed.
“Come here for a moment,” I said and reached out my arm.
He sat down heavily beside me, resting his head on my shoulder. I pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head. We didn’t speak; there was no need for words. Being close to each other was enough.
John sat up, swallowed half of his drink, pecked my cheek, and stood. He walked over to the tv-screen and hunched down to type something on the keyboard located on the bench in front of it. The screen lit up, but before I could discern which song John had chosen, he dimmed and changed the colours of the lights into blue green.
An unfamiliar and quiet tune filled the room, and then John started singing.
I don’t know how I should say it
His voice sounded so different when he could use the music as a metaphorical crutch. It was beautiful. I leant back in the surprisingly comfortable sofa and decided to close my eyes for a moment to relish the sound of the music and John’s voice properly.
If it's real, and if it's true
And if our love is wrong
Then I don't ever wanna be right
I opened my eyes when he sang:
Why do I care what people say?
'Cause I'm nobody's but yours
The last line made tears prickle behind my eyelids.
Oh-oh-oh, I just want you to be mine
John put the microphone down, typed something on the keyboard again; classical music – Chopin – started playing, and he finally joined me on the sofa. I was speechless; in fact, I didn’t trust my voice at all. A big lump swelled in my throat, and I buried my face rather forcefully in the crook of John’s neck. There, I let my tears fell freely.
“Oh, my darling,” John murmured, not entirely unaffected himself it seemed.
He cradled the back of my head and stroked my back with his other hand.
Eventually, I withdrew, cupped John’s face, and placed a hard kiss on his lips. I couldn’t see his eyes properly in the dim light, but I saw his smile.
“That was extraordinary, John.”
“Really?”
My heart twisted when I heard the incredulity in his voice.
“Of course, it was. You know I don’t use terms like that easily. Not outside our bedroom, anyway.”
That made him laugh wholeheartedly. He was relieved.
“Do you want to come here again, then?
“Oh, yes, John! I would like that very much.
“Excellent!”
***
Where were you last night? Could’ve used your input.
You always need my input, Lestrade. SH
Not going to tell me?
It’s personal. SH
Fine. I’ll just ask John.
He sang to me. That’s all I am willing to divulge. SH
One of the coolest parts about being a fan of fanfic is you can actually contact the author. And they will respond. And then you can message them nonstop until they allow you into their lives and then you’re becoming their beta reader and suddenly you know multiple authors of all types of fiction books and fanfic authors who will drag out their deleted fics for you to read at a moments notice.
Anyway. Comment on fics and message authors. It’s absolutely worth it.
Fan fic readers are great! The ones who write comments and are supportive are the best! I have definitely become online friends with some of these readers.
I doubt I’ll ever publish my writing, so making millions is pretty unlikely!
John discovers that Sherlock has deleted a fact considerably more important than the structure of the solar system, and the art of detection faces a challenge.
“So. We should, you know. Make it an occasion. If we can only find out when it is?”
“John, that’s quite simple. Inquire.”
“That – Sherlock, that’s not how it’s done. It’s always meant to be a surprise. So – so the person doesn’t feel put on the spot, or as if they’re asking to be made a fuss of, or – you just don’t do it that way.”
“How are we to find out, then?”
“You’re the deductive expert. You tell me.”
Read On AO3
Posted in the Birthday Collection for @notjustamumj and NovaNara! Many Happy Returns!
Sherlock is thorough in his education of Rosie. When she starts asking about clocks, watches, and time itself, he dives in like an eager schoolboy.
John thinks it’ll be sufficient to teach their daughter about digital numerals. Of course, Sherlock cannot agree to such outrageous and inadequate tutelage.
“She might come across analogue clocks or watches, John, and what then? They will seem like hieroglyphs to her; she won’t understand them. At all!”
“Calm down, my precious husband. She’s barely eight, you know.”
“The sooner she learns this, the sooner we can move on to other topics. It is never too early to start.”
“What other topics?” John asks suspiciously.
Sherlock just waves a hand in lieu of answering, as if to say: “Oh, you know. Useful skills.”
This does not placate John, but he knows which fights to pick and which to leave behind. For now, at least.
***
Sherlock does his research and brings Rosie to the Clockmaker’s Museum in South Kensington, which is a part of the Science Museum. There are clocks, watches, and chronometers; more than 1400 objects in fact. John is sceptical when Sherlock divulges where he’ll take their daughter on a Saturday morning, but in the end, he decides to trust his husband.
Rosie is in awe of all the different items, and when Sherlock presents the treasure hunt form, she beams up at him.
Of course, they start with the frightening and gruesome section.
Can you find a watch which looks like a skull – ugghhhhrr!
Sherlock shudders at the unseemly collection of letters at the end, but Rosie just laughs and tries to find the correct glass case, which to Sherlock’s delight are all numbered with Roman numerals.
Rosie is obviously not overly impressed by the metallic skull. There is after all a real human skull residing on their mantle back home.
The next object on the scary list, as Rosie calls it, is more to Sherlock’s liking.
A lock of hair from the beheaded King Charles in 1649 is believed to be in this case – please do not faint!
“As if,” he scoffs, while Rosie makes her way to the case with the number VI on it.
They move to the Explosive Stuff after that, much to Sherlock’s delight.
This clever clock rewinds itself by making its own really explosive gas – do not worry it is not workingtoday!
“Pity,“ Sherlock mutters.
***
Once Rosie has found every object on the list, Sherlock decides to start the education for real. They walk around to look at the clocks now, which have larger faces and hands. He avoids the ones with Roman numerals since Rosie’s had enough of those after the hunt earlier.
The girl is just as curious as Sherlock was himself at her age, and she marvels at the ticking sounds the second hands make. She even startles a bit when the minute hand moves once the second hand has completed its revolution.
“Is time broken, papa?” she asks when they encounter a large grandfather clock that has stopped.
“Not as such. But most of these older clocks need to be wound up to work.”
“Do they get tired?”
Sherlock hides his smile and places a hand on his daughter’s nape.
“You could say that. They work relentlessly all day, always ticking and showing the correct time. That does sound exhausting.”
Rosie yawns and nods solemnly.
***
“Look, papa! They have that strange thing Uncle Myc has in his living room.”
“Ah, yes. That is a clock of sorts too, you know. It is called an hourglass.”
“Oh! Why is it called that? Does it only show one hour?”
“My clever girl! Though, the time depends on how much sand there is in them. They have been around for around one thousand years.”
“Wow! That’s old.”
“Hence why your uncle has one,” Sherlock smirks.
“Can we make one ourselves?” Rosie wants to know.
“Of course. There’s an instruction manual we can take home right there.”
“Brilliant! And when all the sand has run through, it will be as if time has stopped.”
“Well, yes. The hourglass is used to measure time, not to show it like clocks and watches do.”
“Like an old-fashioned stopwatch?”
“Exactly.”
***
Over dinner that evening, Rosie tells John all about their excursion.
“It was too bad you had to work, daddy. I had such fun!”
“I’m glad to hear it, sweetheart. Knowing how to read the time is a useful skill,” John replies and winks at Sherlock, who smiles knowingly at him.
“And in the end, I found another weird clock thing which is ill suited to show the time. At least in this rainy weather. Another time breaker.”
John lifts his eyebrows at his daughter, who rolls her eyes in a sherlockian fashion.
“A sundial. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” her parents mirthfully reply in unison.
A little silver bird whispered a few gentle words in my ear (something about a "twin" birthday) and this is the result. I've fixed Sherlock's return. Again.
Happy birthday @notjustamumj @imnova 🥳 🥳
Are You Breathing Better, My Love?
Summary: Sherlock is in no state to seek John out after his return from Serbia. His body is broken and he spends weeks in hospital. To his disappointment, John is not the first person to visit him when visitors are allowed, and when he finally appears, he's got his fiancée with him. A woman who has liar written all over her face. It's all rather hateful.
Open a bank account or get a credit card without signed permission from her father or hr husband.
Serve on a jury - because it might inconvenience the family not to have the woman at home being her husband’s helpmate.
Obtain any form of birth control without her husband’s permission. You had to be married, and your hub and had to agree to postpone having children.
Get an Ivy League education. Ivy League schools were men’s colleges ntil the 70′s and 80′s. When they opened their doors to women it was agree that women went there for their MRS. Degee.
Experience equality in the workplace: Kennedy’s Commission on the Status of Women produced a report in 1963 that revealed, among other things, that women earned 59 cents for every dollar that men earned and were kept out of the more lucrative professional positions.
Keep her job if she was pregnant.Until the Pregnancy Discrimination Act in 1978, women were regularly fired from their workplace for being pregnant.
Refuse to have sex with her husband.The mid 70s saw most states recognize marital rape and in 1993 it became criminalized in all 50 states. Nevertheless, marital rape is still often treated differently to other forms of rape in some states even today.
Get a divorce with some degree of ease.Before the No Fault Divorce law in 1969, spouses had to show the faults of the other party, such as adultery, and could easily be overturned by recrimination.
Have a legal abortion in most states.The Roe v. Wade case in 1973 protected a woman’s right to abortion until viability.
Take legal action against workplace sexual harassment. According to The Week, the first time a court recognized office sexual harassment as grounds for legal action was in 1977.
Play college sports Title IX of the Education Amendments of protects people from discrimination based on sex in education programs or activities that receive Federal financial assistance It was nt until this statute that colleges had teams for women’s sports
Apply for men’s Jobs The EEOC rules that sex-segregated help wanted ads in newspapers are illegal. This ruling is upheld in 1973 by the Supreme Court, opening the way for women to apply for higher-paying jobs hitherto open only to men.
This is why we needed feminism - this is why we know that feminism works
I just want to reiterate this stuff, because I legit get the feeling there are a lot of younger women for whom it hasn’t really sunk in what it is today’s GOP is actively trying to return to.
Did you go to a good college? Shame on you, you took a college placement that could have gone to a man who deserves and needs it to support or prepare for his wife & children. But if you really must attend college, well, some men like that, you can still get married if you focus on finding the right man.
Got a job? Why? A man could be doing that job. You should be at home caring for a family. You shouldn’t be taking that job away from a man who needs it (see college, above). You definitely don’t have a career – you’ll be pregnant and raising children soon, so no need to worry about promoting you.
This shit was within living memory. I’M A MILLENIAL and my mother was in the second class that allowed women at an Ivy League school. Men who are alive today either personally remember shit like this or have parents/family who have raised them into thinking this was the way America functioned back in the blissful Good Old Days. There are literally dudes in the GOP old enough to remember when it was like this and yearn for those days to return.
When people talk about resisting conservativism and the GOP, we’re not just talking about whether the wage gap is a myth or not. We’re talking about whether women even have the fundamental right to exist as individuals, to run their own households and compete for jobs and be considered on an equal footing with men in any arena at all in the first place.
I was a child in the 1960s, a teenager in the 1970s, a young adult in the 1980s.
This is what it was like:
When I was growing up, it was considered unfortunate if a girl was good at sports. Girls were not allowed in Little League. Girls’ teams didn’t exist in high school, except at all-girls’ high schools. Boys played sports, and girls were the cheerleaders.
People used to ask me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a brain surgeon or the first woman justice on the Supreme Court. Everyone told me it was impossible–those just weren’t realistic goals for a girl–the latter, especially, because you couldn’t trust women to judge fairly and rationally, after all.
In the 1960s and 1970s, all women were identified by their marital status, even in arrest reports and obituaries. In elementary school, my science teacher referred to Pierre Curie as DOCTOR Curie and Marie Curie as MRS. Curie…because, as he put it, “she was just his wife.” (Both had doctorates and both were Nobel prize winners, so you would think that both would be accorded respect.)
Companies could and did require women to wear dresses and skirts. Failure to do could and did get women fired. And it was legal. It was also legal to fire women for getting married or getting pregnant. The rationale was that a woman who was married or who had a child had no business working; that was what her husband was for. Aetna Insurance, the biggest insurance company in America, fired women for all of the above.
A man could rape his wife. Legally. I can remember being twelve years old and reading about legal experts actually debating whether or not a man could actually be said to coerce his wife into having sex. This was a serious debate in 1974.
The debate about marital rape came up in my law school, too, in 1984. Could a woman be raped by her husband? The guys all said no–a woman got married, so she was consenting to sex at all times. So I turned it around. I asked them if, since a man had gotten married, that meant that his wife could shove a dildo or a stick or something up his ass any time she wanted to for HER sexual pleasure.
(Hey, I thought it was reasonable. If one gender was legally entitled to force sex on the other, then obviously the reverse should also be true.)
The male law students didn’t like the idea. Interestingly, they commented that being treated like that would make them feel like a woman.
My reaction was, “Thank you for proving my point…”
The concept of date rape, when first proposed, was considered laughable. If a woman went out on a date, the argument of legal experts ran, sexual consent was implied. Even more sickening was the fact that in some states–even in the early 1980s–a man could rape his daughter…and it was no worse than a misdemeanor.
Women taking self-defense classes in the 1970s and 1980s were frequently described in books and on TV as “cute.” The implication was that it was absurd for a woman to attempt to defend herself, but wasn’t it just adorable for her to try?
I was expressly forbidden to take computer classes in junior and senior years of high school–1978-79 and 1979-80–because, as the principal told me, “Only boys have to know that kind of thing. You girls are going to get married, and you won’t use it.”
When I was in college–from 1980 to 1984–there were no womens’ studies. The idea hadn’t occurred in many places because the presumption was that there was nothing TO study. My history professor–a man who had a doctorate in history–informed me quite seriously that women had never produced a noted painter, sculptor, composer, architect or scientist because…wait for it…womens’ brains were too small.
(He was very surprised when I came up with a list of fifty women gifted in the arts and science, most of whom he had never heard of before.)
When Walter Mondale picked Geraldine Ferraro as a running mate in 1984, the press hailed it as a disaster. What would happen, they asked fearfully, if Mondale died and Ferraro became president? What if an international crisis arose and she was menstruating? She could push the nuclear button in a fit of PMS! It would be the end of the WORLD!!
…No, they WEREN’T kidding.
On the surface, things are very different now than they were when I was a child, a teen and a young adult. But I’m afraid that people now do not realize what it was like then. I’ve read a lot of posts from young women who say that they are not feminists. If the only exposure to feminism they have is the work of extremists, I cannot blame them overmuch.
I wish that I could tell them what feminism was like when it was new–when the dream of legal equality was just a dream, and hadn’t even begun to come true. When “woman’s work” was a sneer–and an overt putdown. When people tut-tutted over bright and athletic girls with the words, “Really, it’s a shame she’s not a boy.” That lack of feminism wasn’t all men opening doors and picking up checks. A lot of it was an attitude of patronizing contempt that hasn’t entirely died out, but which has become less publicly acceptable.
I wish I could make them feel what it was like…when grown men were called “men” and grown women were “girls.”
I am 70. I remember all those things. I was a student nurse from 64 to 67 and we were not permitted to “finish” a bed bath on a male or insert a catheter in a male. Seeing male genitals might cause us “harm” or upset our delicate sensibilities. Imagine when we graduated and were “thrown” to the wolves. Imagine if you were a male patient who had to be the first to be “practiced” on by a graduate nurse. (Ha!) At the school I attended no student nurse could be married. Only one school in my city (Atlanta) would even admit married women and Male Nurses weren’t even thought of. What man would want to be a nurse when he could be a Doctor. In all my training I only remember 3 or 4 Women who were Doctor’s and a very few, (less than 5 or 6) female interns or residents (and this was a teaching hospital) and most of those were OB/Gyns and one was a pediatrician.
When I graduated and was going to get married I wanted to go on birth control pills. You needed to be on them for a least one cycle before they were effective. I won’t go into what hoops I had to jump through to get a prescription from my Dr. (a man, natch) but when i went to the drug store to get the prescription filled I ended up having to get my future husband to “accompany” me so the pharmacist “interview” him and see if it was okay with him for me to be on the pill.
Even when we went to get a marriage license I had to get my Father’s signature and we had to go before a Judge because I was not yet 21 (I was 20 and 9 months).
I could go on and on, getting a credit card in MY name, etc., but I will tell you that WE MUST RESIST.
The number of people I know who romanticize gender inequality is frankly terrifying. A world never existed in which the lives of women were simplified by benevolent men who saw to her every want and need. That was not a thing. A world never existed in which women were all ladies, men were all gentlemen, & everything was some great big cishet fairytale. Feminists aren’t a bunch of upstarts who want to destroy a perfectly wholesome and non-harmful system. Just…look at history. Look at the posts above. We. Must. Resist..
This is what they mean, when they say “Old-fashioned values”
When conservatives start waxing lyrical about the ‘good old days’, this is what they mean. They are fully aware how much things blew for women, and they would like to return to that.
At first I re-blogged this with no commentary added because it’s already so thorough and good.
But then I realized I actually do want to add something. This was written nine years ago. In the 9 years that have come to pass the white nationalist Christian fascism ultra right agenda of misogyny has had many victories.
In the United States just off the top of my head a very few examples: there’s no longer a legally protected right to abortion. Countless laws across our country police, how woman you must look or be to enter a public bathroom. We know with certainty the president and countless people around him are pedophiles and rapists. Women’s participation in the workforce has been rolled back to 1980s levels. The pressure to be thin is higher now than 10 years ago.
If someone you know has bought into the MRA line–broach specific details like these, not misty tag lines or impalpable vibes. How okay are they with concrete unfreedoms like the examples in this post? Often, not very–and that’s an essential thin end of the wedge.
(The same goes for other categories, of race, ethnicity, sexual identity, etc.)
Read The Handmaid’s Tale. That’s what they want. That’s why feminism exists. Because until very recently, women were considered property.
Feminism is simply the idea that women are fully functioning adults and should have the right to make decisions about every aspect of their lives, from their body to their health to their finances to their jobs. It’s absurd that there are still people out there, women out there, who don’t understand that their very personhood in the eyes of the law was fought and bled for by the very feminists they are so quick to disassociate from. And that this personhood is what these people want to undo. They want us to be property again. And we must fight against this like our lives depend on it, because guess what, they DO.
Being property can kill you. In so many ways. Don’t want any more kids? Bad luck, that’s your husband’s decision. Get sick? Your husband decides what treatment you receive and what your doctors tell you. Don’t want to marry the brutal town drunk? Not your call, your father has sold you to him, and that’s your life from now on, because forget about divorce or even separation, because you have no money, can’t earn money and can’t own property without your husband’s permission.
That’s what they want to go back to. Women who don’t say no because they can’t. Legally. Women with no power, resources or agency. Women with no personhood. Obedient domestic servants who aren’t allowed to say no to sex. Think about that. And tell me that’s not a complete nightmare.
John delivers the statement in as serious a tone as he can muster.
There’s no reply from behind the newspaper. Sherlock is pyjama-clad, sprawled in his chair, bare feet out toward the fire puttering in front of them.
John clears his throat. “Do you know what day it is?”
“Sunday.” The answer’s quickly delivered, but Sherlock continues to hide behind his paper.
Not exactly what John wants to hear. The world’s most observant detective can sometimes be blind to the obvious, but this time it’s not likely. Wearily, he asks, “Today’s date?”
A sigh. The newspaper is lowered to the point where those blue eyes can glare at him. “The fifteenth of January. But what you really mean is that Watson’s birthday is less than a month away.”
“Good deduction. We can’t wait any longer if we’re to avoid a repeat of last year’s debacle.”
Mycroft clinks his glass against Sherlock’s. “Unless you’re planning to move in with me permanently, you will eventually have to make up your mind. I’d be happy to put you up tonight, but you can’t avoid it forever.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Avoid what?”
“Sentiment.”
Sherlock gives his brother a sharp look, but detects no derision. He takes a swallow of whisky. “I don’t need a lecture, brother mine.”
Mycroft shrugs. “Then go to him. Wish him a happy birthday.”
