(NATIONAL REVIEW) — In talking with feminists, I’ve noticed two types.
Stereotypes? No! Types. (Please read what I’m actually writing.)
First, the giving sort. This feminist spends her time helping women escape unjust and (often horrifyingly) abusive situations, from exclusion in education and employment to domestic violence, forced marriages, prostitution, and female genital mutilation. She’ll risk her reputation, her friends, her job, and sometimes even her life for females she doesn’t know. Even when I don’t share her politics, I admire her greatly.
Second, the silly sort. This feminist lectures the nice man at the station who only asked if she needed help with her suitcase; demands that a pointless statue of a girl be erected in front of an even more pointless statue of a bull; and sits round a boardroom table, in a fancy office, in a first-world country, eating all the cookies, and exclaiming loudly, “You know what feminism today really needs?” — at which point her male colleagues all slump in their chairs. “It needs Ms. Monopoly! The first game where women make more than men!”
