This summer, the torrid day of my 5X birthday, I was walking alone at three o'clock in the afternoon through the desert historical center of my town, when a group of workers from some municipal works, cooked perhaps in their own juice, commented on my irruption in their visual field in the following terms: "Churriiii!". I do not know if I was more fun than stupefied, or vice versa. So much, that I raised a tweet cackling the anecdote. That the workers had arranged my day, confessed, half jokingly, half seriously. To the point, I received the usual string of responses between those who laughed at me and those who, and I say them because they were all women, severely disfigured my behavior and took pity on how badly I had to leave in life if I needed a compliment. to reaffirm my self-esteem, etcetera. Normal, come on. The extraordinary thing was that, in addition, I had a private message from the mayor himself in person, in addition to celebrating my setback, inquire, solicitously, if I had bothered the behavior of the workers to take action in this regard. That is the new. The social and political alarm provoked by sexism, welcome. But perhaps, also, the overacting and undervaluing of some, and some, about what really matters.
I am banalizing, I am conscious. Going down on foot. Caricaturing, of agreement. One of the tweets of a congener put me more in my place than all the loas and expletives of each other. What would I have thought if the "churri", or another bad-guy complaint, had told my teenage daughter alone at night to come home? She asked me. That is putting your finger on the sore. Yes, indeed. I am a middle-aged lady healed of fright in that and other battles. Many women of my generation have been feminists without bragging about it or verbalizing it until very recently, but through the fait accompli. Working like uncles. Assuming its codes facing the gallery. Swallowing with its norms and customs not to be expelled from the market: that of work and the other. Toreando the miura of machismo based on waist, patience and left hand. The new thing is that the new ones do not swallow, they do not fight, they do not assume or go through any ring or they are silent or under water and they have infected that passion and that energy to the older ones. Blessed are you.
Because beyond the differences in the accessory, or the secondary, or the anecdotal, as the street compliments, feminists agree on the non-negotiable. So far we have arrived, gentlemen of ours, in terms of tolerating public and private inequality in silence. And that plant, that consensus, that quorum of gender and generational in what really matters, is what has so misplaced some very remarkable that, like Javier Marías, argue without blush that they would not know how to behave with a woman with whom they would like intimately sentimentally if they were now 30 years old. Or Arturo Pérez Reverte, who differentiates between serious feminism and the other. Or the Nobel Vargas Llosa, who considers feminism as the most determined enemy of literature, as well, without anesthesia.
Let's take an examination of conscience. No overacting and lack of humor. Maybe on both sides. Because it is also true that women, and I speak with knowledge of cause, we are now allowed to do, say and write certain things about us and about them that today would not be allowed to any man. I usually joke about it, arguing that millennia of heteropatriarchal oppression give us the right to five minutes of historical revenge. Because the ultimate goal of this battle is that there are no trenches. Let's make love and not war. By the way, the most furious tweet responding to my ego rush for "churri" said something like "You're worth it: showing off as a feminist and laughing with a macho joke, you have to be pathetic". It was my daughter's.