This Married White Woman Objects

“[Democrats] do not do well with white men, and we don’t do well with married white women. Part of that is ongoing pressure to vote the way that your husband, your boss, your son, whoever, believes you should. All of a sudden, you know, white women who were gonna vote for me and frankly standing up to the men in their lives and the men in their workplaces were being told, she’s going to jail, you know, you don’t want to vote for her, you know, it’s terrible, you can’t vote for that.” — Hillary Clinton

I’ve been waiting for a Social Justice Warrior to defend married white women since last weekend, when that married white woman, Hillary Clinton, smeared us as brainless patsies kowtowing to men.

But five news-cycles have passed, and no one’s stepped forward. Indeed, the Washington Post, that bastion of Social Justice, actually dignified Hitlary’s hate-speech with studies and statistics and all the other indices they ignore when Donald Trump’s in the pillory. And so, as a married white woman, I sally forth into the breach. I do so freely, without any ongoing pressure from my husband, boss, son, whoever. But I’m also reluctant: I hate to accord anything that shrew says even the slightest attention, let alone a rebuttal.

Granny’s outburst both scares and encourages. It scares because aren’t women as a class immune from criticism, even Clinton’s silly, ineffective version? Whether we’re applying for admission to college or a contract with the Feds, we receive special protection and consideration. And that includes all women, even married white ones: we’re as incapable of competing on our merits as all the other colors out there.

But Hellary’s words may signal an end to that status. I’d assumed our gender was powerful enough yet sufficiently beaten down to overrule our race—but perhaps whiteness now outweighs femininity. If so, what will Nancy Pelosi, Fauxcahontas (who, minus her Indian blood, becomes irredeemably white), Ruth Bader Ginsburg and, yes, even Madame Not-President do? Anyway, ladies, brace yourselves: if race now trumps sex in the ever-changing Marxist hierarchy, we’re heading for the same abuse those dead white males—and all those white males who wish they were dead—have long suffered.

On the other hand, Cankles implies that husbands, bosses, sons, whoever rule the roost, at least when it comes to elections. And that’s heartening. Surveying the beta males, metrosexuals, homosexuals, and trannies that dominate TV, the bath- and fitting rooms at Target, movies, advertising, New York City’s Council, the armed forces, and hair salons, I often fear no real men remain. What gal hunting a husband hasn’t despaired that feminism has pretty much triumphed over Hominem Americanum? Now Shrillary confesses that not only have she and her fellow harpies failed at their mission to emasculate, they’ve failed big-time: more than half of white American male voters, 52% to be exact, dare think their own thoughts and form their own opinions without first asking, “Mother, may I?” So inspiring!

And not only are the 52% thinking for themselves, they’re strong and confident enough to influence the folks around them—half of whom are generally women, or at least so assigned at birth. This sits ill with the feminists, of course: any influencing will be done by them and them alone. But it’s refreshing for those who prefer rationality, freedom and prosperity to a subjective dystopia.

Alas, I admit that Cankles got it right as far as my household, for I am firmly and irrevocably under my husband’s thumb. Last night, for example, when I suggested oh-so-nutritious bean sprouts and bone broth for dinner, Hubby insisted on Chinese food instead. Out we sashayed to Ming’s Palace, where we feasted on shrimp in lobster sauce and pork lo mein. Oh, the gall of the guy.

Given Hubby’s propensity for personal dictatorship, you can imagine our discussions of the election:

Me: Can you believe that moron called half the electorate “deplorable”? I mean, I’m no politician, thank God, but even I know–

Hubby [head and shoulders well inside fridge]: Hon, where’s the ice cream?

Me [frankly standing up to the man in my life]: Look, this is important. That witch called us “deplorable”!

Hubby: It’s not more important than ice cream. Come on, get your priorities straight.

He then twisted my arm until I helped him devour half the carton of Cookies ‘N’ Cream. And when I demurred that pouring chocolate syrup over it gilds the lily, he absolutely refused to listen. Talk about your “ongoing pressure”!

Meanwhile, is it me, or is there something nauseatingly hypocritical about Nanny Clinton’s bashing anyone else’s husband for any reason whatever?


5:17 pm on March 15, 2018