Rebel Girl: My Life as a Feminist Punk

by Kathleen Hanna

Before living off the grid was an environmentally friendly, small-footprint thing or something that right-wing Armageddon preppers did, battered women were already doing it. For them, the apocalypse was every day.

In the middle of our set, the janitor started mopping the floor.

A few months after we’d started Bikini Kill, Kurt asked Tobi to be the drummer for Nirvana, and Tobi said no because she was convinced our band was going to change the landscape for women in music. I’m saying that again, for the people in the back: Tobi Vail could have been the drummer for Nirvana, but she chose to be in a feminist band instead.

I scribbled endless shit above his bed with the Sharpie from my back pocket: “Kurt is the keeper of the kennel . . . Kurt smells like Teen Spirit.”

My dad had taught me to emotionally play dead to deal with his creepy behavior, and in my own twisted, unhealthy game of “lemons to lemonade,” I turned his abuse into lunchboxes full of cash.

Running allowed me to learn about so many cities and towns I never would’ve known about otherwise.

If not for male violence, would I have ever written anything at all?