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He’d told his daughter Bea the same thing many, many times over the years. Being a woman didn’t obligate her to make men—or anyone—comfortable in her presence. People who said otherwise could contemplate their terrible life choices while she shoved their arrogant presumption somewhere exceedingly painful.
Martin got hints. Martin was watchful. Martin could read and interpret body language. Most well-off, cishet white men couldn’t do either. Didn’t need to do either, unlike the people in their orbit, because they held the power. They created the weather, while others languished in the rain or cringed away from the lightning.
“In my class, I don’t save discussions of women for women’s history month, because if we don’t talk about women, we’re not addressing half the population. If you don’t know what they were doing, what rights they did or didn’t have, how they affected their culture and government and economy, you don’t know history. Period.”
History is written by those in power, but those deprived of power deserve to be seen too.
“I don’t intend to present a more comfortable version of myself for anyone. Even me.”
Swallow enough hurt in silence, and the pain either chokes you or curdles into gut-deep rage.
Martin leaned close and whispered, “Rose, stop eye-fucking the coffee and just drink it.”
What he needed mattered. He mattered.
