We live in a sexist country. I don't want you to suffer the same things and do the same tremendous effort to get what a man is given by right.
Nine years ago, when I discovered my pregnancy, as those who read to me at the time know, I had a shock. I had made a choice, that of knowingly being childfree; I was convinced of it, I wrote about it, I took the necessary insults (nine years ago it wasn't so common to talk about it freely, in Italy; not that today it is, I am bitterly aware). A handful of months later, with the amniocentesis, in addition to the most beautiful news ("it is healthy") came confirmation:"it is female". Joy of the father, who secretly aspired to harem and also wanted female cats. Sadness and concern.
But how, you're not happy to have a female? No. I was not happy. And to those who asked for enlightenment I answered quite simply:"I am not happy because we live in a sexist country. Because, as a female, I felt discriminated against many times and repeatedly attacked. Because I have done more work and I have been doing it. Because I, not you, I heard myself said from my boss:"Brava, what a nice business he brought me, you broke off your blouse at the meeting, huh? Because finally, I don't think and I hope that this country will be so different from today in fifteen or twenty years, when my daughter goes to the world. And I do not want you to suffer the same things. May it do the same as my own tremendous effort to obtain what a man is given by right.
Exaggerated. Pessimistic. Apocalyptic. Feminist (called an insult, let me be clear). Ecchessaramai. These and others were the answers that came to me.
8 years have passed. And halfway, he would add my daughter, who is in the blessed period of a woman's life in which even half years count, but to climb, not to descend. About half of the time during which, if pregnant, I assumed that nothing would change. I know that some small battles have been won. I know that life tends to improve, that our living conditions are generally better. I know that my great-grandmother, whom I was lucky enough to know, at the age of forty, looked like an old man, covered garment and black clothes and I instead. I know that there is a woman ("wife, mother, grandmother," as per short bio on Twitter) who is running for the US presidency.
But I can't help but see that a whole country, in front of the horrific, repeated rape of a child, says that if he is looking for it. I can't help but see that a man left behind can be transformed into a killer because his companion for him is only an object that can't, must not get rid of his possession. This is followed by numbers, figures, parades of red shoes, another killed dead, ad lib. I can't ignore that Tiziana Canton is killed because someone, betraying his trust, has put on the web hard videos and so if you like to have sex freely you are a slut that deserves the pillory, while if you're a man you're a pussy, we do the T-shirts with your face. Nothing has changed, of a comma, ever since I averaged. If you do so many, you're a bit light, not to say worse. If "you do so many" you are a figo. Means of transport, not received.
And about Tiziana, shame in shame is to keep repeating that she was killed "by the web". From Facebook ". He was killed by the wickedness of the people who first shared those videos. And from the stupidity, from the lack of empathy, from the superficiality with which hundreds of others, on that intimacy violated, have built meme, jokes, photomontages. Or they have hypothesized a wise marketing operation to launch a new pornstar (because we don't do it: we conspiracytists know it long).
I do not believe, I am sorry, I have lost confidence. It will probably come at my age and you'll hear that she has to stop dressing up as a young girl and that she has to cut off her magnificent curls and leave them grey. Because it seems to me that between rape and media aggression, at the moment, this invitation to senile sobriety is also very much brought, it is never that we disturb someone by pointing out when we are no longer in the best of our aesthetic conditions. Better to disappear between shapeless clothes and short hair and salt and pepper, as my great-grandmother did that she, yes, knew how to stand in her place.
I only know that to be sad, nine years ago, I was a little right.