A woman’s womb is made in the incredible, wonderful and miraculous way. A woman’s womb is made for love and to welcome, cherish, protect life. Yes, I’m a man, I’m not ashamed of being a man, I never have been, I don’t change my mind about my sexuality as the wind blows, and I have an opinion about it. Above all, I have the right to utter it.
A woman and her sexuality, a woman and her physicality, a woman and her being a woman are defined by a woman being a woman and nothing else, those who cannot define what a woman is notwithstanding.
A woman is woman the mystery, woman the beautiful, that reality that I, a man, will never be, but that completes and complements me, deepens and asserts me, defines me and never replaces me, exactly as it happens for her, a woman, with me, a man.
Then came twerking, which is that tribulated rather than tribal way of shaking the buttocks by rhythmically thrusting the hips to shove one’s rear in the face of others for the benefit of cameras and voyeuristic lenses, the very negation of dance, the very opposite of all sensuality, just the sabbath of disgust, the emancipation of the frustrated and the trampling of all sensuality, of all femininity, of all the magic of womanly beauty.
Twerking creeps in, meanders. Tik-toks from the next door, beguiling the housewife, ensnaring the little girl, Instagram prudery worth a dustbin. Twerking is debauched communication and the cinema of unraveling.
It is the banner of misplaced corporeality, of mental unraveling, of the uselessness that sprawls, of the ugly.
Today this tattered banner flies outside clinics where babies are being killed.
On June 24 the US Supreme Court decided to strike down the 1973 ruling that made federal “law” the holocaust of some 60 million American babies still in the incredible, wondrous and miraculous, mysterious and harmonious, beautiful and loveable wombs of their mothers. Of that number, 27 million, one half in fact, were black, as Martin Luther King’s granddaughter Alveda King recalls. The day after, in front of a clinic in Dallas, Texas, the flabby, ungainly buttocks of some women, made stupendously and extraordinarily to be mothers, swirled shamanically in the pandemonium, laughing uproariously to celebrate the culture of death, the triumph of the hitman, the abortion of children. To claim the non-existent “right” to suppress an innocent person, to reaffirm the false freedom to kill. Let us imagine being men next to such women.
They celebrate with a swipe of the buttock, the feminine fascination, the mystery of Eve‒the name of “she who is the source of life” given by the first man to the companion of his life, after first identifying her as “woman,” i.e., practically, in the Hebrew etymon of that essential complementarity between two irreducible differences, “alongside, opposite, a counterpart to” man.
Discussion about this post