Age progression you can read
It was a peculiar feeling driving an 8-year-old girl and two 12-year-old boys home from a recreation center. But the universe felt it could do better. One of the boys was in control of the radio dial and, upon finding a station he liked, turned it up and began singing along as a newly hip rapper went on and on about smacking a woman on the ass until she got sore.
What's a feminist babysitter to do? Despite my obvious superiority based on age and legal driving abilities, I felt outnumbered two to one and a half. Good God, they start 'em young. They aren't my kids, but I sensed the young girl's inability to see and prepare for her future as a female. Her naivete was killing me softly, as was their privileged white maleness. As far as she knew, they were just singing. As far as they knew, they were just singing. Everyone was just singing because it's just a song.
And then there's me. An embittered neurotic with a Terminator-like impulse to stop the madness where it might begin. What should I have said? Should I have turned the station and kept quiet? Should I have come up with something perfect, something a group of schoolchildren would find inspirational and formative?
It doesn't matter anymore. This is what I said: "If this young man smacked me, I might have to punch him in the nose."
Nice.
In case it matters, the same song plagued me a month ago when Craig's roommate's young nephew came over and played it on the computer. While I was putting up the Christmas tree.
What's a feminist babysitter to do? Despite my obvious superiority based on age and legal driving abilities, I felt outnumbered two to one and a half. Good God, they start 'em young. They aren't my kids, but I sensed the young girl's inability to see and prepare for her future as a female. Her naivete was killing me softly, as was their privileged white maleness. As far as she knew, they were just singing. As far as they knew, they were just singing. Everyone was just singing because it's just a song.
And then there's me. An embittered neurotic with a Terminator-like impulse to stop the madness where it might begin. What should I have said? Should I have turned the station and kept quiet? Should I have come up with something perfect, something a group of schoolchildren would find inspirational and formative?
It doesn't matter anymore. This is what I said: "If this young man smacked me, I might have to punch him in the nose."
Nice.
In case it matters, the same song plagued me a month ago when Craig's roommate's young nephew came over and played it on the computer. While I was putting up the Christmas tree.
1 Comments:
Two 12-year-old boys sounds like pure hell to me. Good for you that the worst thing they did was listen to rap music. They could have made stuck gum in your hair.
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