A Satirical Letter from The General to Adelaide (part of a fiction project on gender studies)

 I am descended from a long line of warrior women. I have been groomed to lead, to fight, to be unerringly fearless. Yet I find myself a different sort of woman from my mothers and their mothers before them. I find myself sometimes unabashedly whimsical, joyous, and dreamy. I find that, though my curiosities are piqued by the unknown, I cannot march blindly into them without the throat-tightening twinge of fear and even dread when faced with the adversary. I am questioning my femininity.

I have seen pictures of men, scantily clad in fine silks, lying upon chaises, reading poetry, and drinking wine. They are beautiful creatures with soft skin and bright eyes. But more than just admiring their forms, I find myself envious of their social expectations. They are creative and ornamental. They are an accent to the strength and fortitude of a foundation laid by women.

I would rather someone look at me as if I were a man, to be admired not because of my decisiveness, ambition, and dominance, but as a watery softness like a cool drink in the summer, the blurring of smeared ink, and the freedom to explore the more artistic side of existence.

The expectation of our sex is difficult. We should never cry, not even in childbirth while our husbands wail away and hold our hands. We should never be unsure, as uncertainty is weakness of the mental faculties. We should never play with dolls. They are given to boys to prepare them to raise our children in the home after they are married to us. Girls should be given axes, guns, and small engines to tinker with to excite a scientific mind and activate dutiful hands.

Women are raised to be competitive, aggressive, and ready to die if our nation should need us. Men are raised to keep the hearth in preparation for our return.

As I ruminate, perhaps it isn't so admirable to be thus marginalized. We could take men completely out of the equation and survive adequately. Perhaps with less niceties and comforts, but survive we would!

Yet there is the question of missing what they add to the experience of humanity, the blurred lines, the awakened sexuality in their arms and when pressed against their loins.

But there are plenty of us women who are content to match our femininity with those of another woman. And as we are so versatile in interests and abilities, would heterosexuality even be missed?

But I digress, Adelaide, you know my philosophical studies in school did nothing but make me question everything. How has your company fared since you expanded your brand to the coast? I don't get much news of the stock exchange out here, but you have always proven a most capable businesswoman.

I will write you again soon. Tell Harold I miss his cooking and that I'm quite sorry about the death of his mother. She was an excellent senator who did much for men's suffrage over the last thirty years. He has many more rights because of all of her hard work, and he should be very grateful that she devoted her life to helping men become more prominent in society.