It’s ironic I received as little feminist pushback as I got in the sourpussed ‘80s. Some women made snide comments suggesting my activity was hurtful to women. I couldn’t hate their judgmentalism. I’d felt exactly as they did before Celestria dragged me into this. I explained and, hopefully, educated.
But most women’s eyes lit up when I danced, and wanted to learn “after I lose a few pounds.”
“That’s how you lose a few pounds!” I replied. “We all did!”
In the ‘90s, feminism and I broke up, citing irreconcilable differences over female power (I argued it existed), agency (I argued women had it) and responsibility (I argued it comes with power as a matched set).
Honestly, they should have joined me. Becoming a belly dancer is one of the feminist-empowering decisions I ever made. Those fauxminists don’t know what they were missing!
Belly dancers photo from Pxfuel
What I did on my summer vacation for the next seven years.
Music & sound effects:
Beep from FreeSFX
Arabic music free, no artist, Pixabay
Egypt Jelly Dance - Thomas Meier, Pixabay
Belly Dance Desert Nights - Tech Oasis - Pixabay
This is a June 2020 repurposed article that originally appeared on Medium, which is one of the most victimist-infested, ‘Patriarchy’-obsessed cesspools of woke fauxminism anywhere. I understand they’ve gotten even worse. You can find the original on my website. I rewrote this for the older, more sophisticated Substack crowd. I had a little editing help from Google Gemini, but all verbiage is mine!
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