Roll your eyes when I say the word “feminism,” that’s fine. You’re tired of hearing about “female empowerment” and “equal rights.” So am I. It shouldn’t have to be such an issue, really. And often it’s the squeakiest wheels that just don’t turn. But you’re not used to this f-word from my lips, are you? That’s because effective feminists don’t need to fight with you.
Many don’t scream empowerment from beneath piles of bra-ashes, but simply are empowered. They aren’t women scorned, they are women driven. Men aren’t their fuel, injustice is.

They’re busy studying for a life of high impact, reading up on your body language and graphing the curve of their paycheck disparity against the cost of living in a world that gives zero shits about them.

The quiet feminist doesn’t have it all together, but knows better than to try to beat you at your own game — the time isn’t right for that — but realizes this isn’t a game at all. There are no winners. Her mother worked on an assembly line when she was pregnant; when she worked her way up from the conveyor belt to a job in an office with a cushioned chair, male cogs in the machine gave her the same patronizing look you’re giving her daughter now. Her grandmother gathered up the beer bottles accumulating around her husband, he in an old easy chair, cool blue light flickering from the television. It was a ritual every night when she got home from work.

She thanks God for the men in her life that break this cycle.

You look sideways at your girlfriend, who forgot you were there for a full six seconds. The seed’s planted. Your upper-right lip twitches. If this were a game, it’d be over.