Being a feminist
I’m pausing my usual nuthin to talk about a celebrity.
The last celebrity death I wrote about was George Michael. Today, it’s about Naya Rivera, who died earlier this month.
I’m writing because I assume that not everyone who reads this blog keeps up with television actresses – or 80s pop singers for that matter.
But Rivera deserves a mention for reasons you’ll soon understand.
All evidence seems to point to the fact that she and her son went swimming on an unmoored boat. Rivera probably realized that the boat was slipping away from her and made a choice – a mother’s choice.
She swam after that boat, carrying her son. She musta used all her strength to (a) get to the boat, and (b) get her wet, exhausted four-year old son onto it.
My kid’s four-years old. He’s heavy as it is; I can’t imagine how heavy he’d be wet and tired.
Yet, this lady got her son back onto the boat. It’s apparent that she used the last of her strength to get him to safety because, according to her son, he saw her disappear under the surface of the water.
Think about that.
She was close enough to him that he could see her die. There’s no way she wanted that but she had no strength left.
Alison and I used to watch Glee from time-to-time, but I don’t know anything about Miss Rivera except how she died. I gotta say, that’s enough. She died saving someone she loved more than herself.
That tells me everything I need to know about her. She died her child’s guard. There is no greater love than that.
Since we’re on the topic, I was asked once if I considered myself a feminist. I never thought about it, really.
I’m definitely not chivalrous because that’s just a bullshit way to say that (a) you’re gonna treat someone differently because they do or do not have a particular organ, and (b) that women are weak and need a man’s help. Fuck that.
Alison was the toughest person – man, woman, or child – I have ever met.
You would not believe the shit that Alison went through to stay with her son. And she did so with complete and utter stoicism.
I find Trump supporters particularly distasteful because they support such a weak, whiny, shadow of a man. Like, shut the fuck up you big whiny crybaby. Jesus Christ, don’t you ever get tired of whining?
Alison’s pinky was tougher than Captain Bone-Spurs entire corpulent gross body. And Alison’s mom and then my mom are the second and third toughest people – not women, people – I know. Mouse is up there too.
Women give birth. Women suffer unbelievably for their family and children. For a man to have anything but a profound respect for women, celebrity or otherwise, is to just admit that they are weak, fragile, bone-spur nothings.
If that means I’m a feminist, sure. If nuthin else, this blog is all about me being a fan of women, which I find ridiculous that I even need to point out.
But we’re living in a time when stupid is full-on run amok, so there you go.
Anywho, I wanted you to know that Rivera died, not as a celebrity, but as mother trying – and succeeding – to save her child.
That’s a life worth remembering. That lady was tough as shit, actress, celebrity, or whatever. Tough. As. Shit.
OK, back to the usual nonsense next week.
Location: my slightly less-hot apartment
Music: She is the best thing that’s ever been mine (Spotify)
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