This is a feminist blog, but blog entries are typically written from a radfem standpoint: radical feminists challenge, undermine, resist, dismantle, and generally fuck with the patriarchy, wherein the male/masculine is privileged and the female/feminine is subordinated.
Why has she no mother?
Why have I no mother?
Nor Ophelia, Portia, Kate, Cordelia, Hermia,
Indeed, none but Juliet?
I’ll tell thee:
’Tis an obsession with the male.
Consider Prospero, my good father,
‘The male as authority’—
For ’tis to you, father, I must direct my questions
There being none other to answer,
’Cept Caliban who though half beast
Is also (perchance moreso) male.
(And when there arrive a multitude of others,
Strangers to the island from the ship come asunder,
They too are, alack, every one of them male.)
You doth also seem to be ‘the male as power’—
You are parent and thus hold the natural virtue of veto
Further, you are conjurer, with unnatural force as well.
Lastly you are ‘the male as protector’—
For from you comes my safety from hazard and harm
(Though it seems needed only against others of your kind.)
Next consider Ferdinand,
It is you I am to see as my saviour,
You have knowledge of the other world,
You will release me from the power and authority
Of my father. You are my only alternative.
But since you are a man, you are not an alternative
’Tis odd this single stress on male—
The island is a reversal, not a reflection:
For ’tis women who are responsible for the young,
’Tis they who manage their education,
Their care and survival—not men.
This disregard of what is true
Can only issue from a mind deprav’d
And clouded over by sickness—
I fear ’tis envy of the womb:
Bereft of female affect, denied female influence,
I am totally fashioned, created by man—
’Tis a dream perchance of many a small boy
Playing with his penis one day
And crying out the next that he has no breasts.
(Yet ’tis not so simple: this jealousy
Of the ultimate power, the power of creation,
Raises the woman to great importance
And yet at the same time there seems to be
A preoccupation with self that
Excludes the woman to insignificance.)
Forsooth, ’tis a dream indeed
For I am not a vessel to be filled with your desires;
That you think me so is plain:
Ferdinand, it is clear you are interested
Only in my ability to reproduce,
For only if a virgin would you make me queen.
(Queer logic this—if it’s progeny you want,
Better to choose one proven
Than one untried and perhaps unable.)
You are no better than Caliban
Who in arrogance sought to people the isle
With copies of himself, and Stephano
The would-be king desiring also to propagate.
Father, you too are of the same,
For when giving, selling me to Ferdinand
You paraded as my greatest value
Moreover, not only into my body but into my soul too
Would you thrust your desires:
Seeking purity and goodness but failing to attain
These qualities yourself, you hoist them upon me;
Aghast at the pain and responsibility of knowledge,
You would have me remain ignorant;
And guilty with experience, you declare me innocent;
Despising your own ugliness, you demand beauty in me;
And humiliated by the ravages of time passing,
You wish me to be forever young.
But I am not a ship at sea
To be directed by your hand at the helm:
I have my own course,
And will not be what you wanted to be
And could not become.
’Tis said The Tempest is a fitting summation
Of all the rest; if that be true
Then by rule of logic, all the rest
Is unrealistic and unbalanced:
For there are two sexes in the world,
Of equal representation in quality and quantity.
’Tis said I am the ultimate conception of Woman:
Young, beautiful, innocent, pure—
Is this what you want?
Then ’tis no flesh and blood you want,
For flesh ages as the years pass;
And it is not always, not often, beautiful.
And ’tis not mind, heart, and soul you want,
For the mind thinks, the heart feels,
And the soul moves by its own stars.
What you seem to want is something insubstantial,
Something of the air perchance.
Alas, look again, for I am a person
And not such stuff as dreams are made on.
Said to be a summation of Shakespeare’s work (it is the last comedy he wrote), The Tempest tells the story of Prospero (a Duke) and his daughter, Miranda, living in exile on an island. Caliban, “a freckled whelp hag-born—not honoured with a human shape” (I:ii, l.283-284), is the only other ‘person’ on the island (there is also Ariel, but he is a magical spirit); he has attempted, at least once, to rape Miranda and thus ‘people the isle with Calibans’ (I:ii, l.350-351).
Prospero commands a passing ship to wreck (he can do this), and all of its passengers survive, cast upon the shores of the island: Alonso and Sebastian (King of Naples and his brother), Ferdinand (the King’s son and, therefore, a prince), Antonio (Prospero’s brother, unjustly Duke of Milan), Stephano (a drunken butler who, once on the island and hearing about Miranda from Caliban, plans to take over by killing Prospero and making Miranda queen), and a few others.
Miranda and Ferdinand see each other and fall in love (Miranda has been on the island since she was a baby, so this is the first man she’s seen besides her father). Since she is a virgin (“Oh, if a virgin…I’ll make you Queen of Naples” I:ii, l.448), they are engaged (“Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition, worthily purchased, take my daughter. But if thou dost break her virgin knot before all sanctimonious ceremonies may with full and holy rite be ministered…” IV:i, l.13-17); Ferdinand promises to be honourable, as he hopes “for quiet days, fair issue, and long life” (IV:i, l.24).
1. To the extent that a transsexual is someone who experiences body dysphoria, someone who feels they’re in the ‘wrong’ body, someone who feels their body is the ‘wrong’ sex — how do they know? What is it like to feel female (or male)? I was born female, and I don’t know. So how can they know? It’s Nagel’s ‘What is it like to be a bat?’ problem. (1) I know what it is to feel healthy only because I have also been sick. I don’t know what it is to feel female because I haven’t been male. Anything that I feel that I can know for sure is due to being female, rather than due to simply being human, is related to having a uterus (which can ache and hurt during menstruation) and breasts (which can feel heavy).
Other things subjectively felt are certainly due to my body — to its levels of estrogen and progesterone, for example, but also to its levels of dopamine and vasopressin, for example. But given the overlapping range of levels of these biochemicals in males and females (many of which are not differentiated for males and females), again, how can one say ‘I feel this—because I’m female’?
If transsexuals feel like their exterior doesn’t match their interior, why do they (also) get hormone treatment—which will change their interior (as well as their exterior)? Doing that suggests they want to change their sex, not that they were born with the wrong sex. Even if sex is brain-based, and they feel like they have a female brain in a male body — it’s the brain that produces hormones. So if they do have a female brain, it would be producing estrogen, and there would be no need for hormone treatments.
I’m not saying body dysphoria isn’t ‘real’. In fact, I experience every day the mismatch between what’s inside and what’s outside: I look like a middle-aged woman, but I don’t feel like a middle-aged woman. Then again, I do. I must. This must be what a middle-aged woman can feel like. (Similarly, if you’re in a male body, what you feel must be male. Maybe it’s not the male you see on billboards and television, but it is male nevertheless.) (Welcome to our world.) When I say I don’t feel like a middle-aged woman, I’m using my personal and thus limited experience (my interaction with other middle-aged women) and I’m using stereotypes, pushed at me primarily by profit-seeking marketing departments.
But even so, in this case, I can know that my interior doesn’t match my exterior: at forty, for example, I know what I felt at twenty, so when I say I still feel twenty, I know what I’m talking about. I could mean, for example, that my skin feels the same, even though when I look in the mirror, I see that it’s lost its elasticity. Usually, though, I mean something like I still feel energetic and impassioned, not bland and resigned. But this takes us back to my point about referencing limited experience and stereotypes.
What we need are thorough and carefully conducted studies of MTFs and FTMs. Only they know what it felt like when they were male or female and what it feels like after they add or subtract certain body parts. (To the extent that those parts aren’t connected to the whole in the same way, though, any change in subjective experience won’t be very useful.)
More importantly, only they know what it felt like when they were, for example, flooded with testosterone and what it feels like to be flooded with estrogen. Sadly, those studies aren’t being done, as far as I can tell (which may mean they’re just not being publicized). And even if they were, their reliability would be compromised by the nature of subjective report and a self-selected sample, both of which are likely to be further confounded by the subject’s conflation of sex and gender.
2. To the extent that a transgendered person is someone who adopts the gender that is traditionally aligned with the other sex, there are several problems.
If gender is socially constructed, then it’s not dependent on sex—so one need not change one’s sex in order to change one’s gender. In fact, transgendered people don’t even need their own label. Every woman who refuses to wear make-up and shave her legs is as much a transgendered person as the man who insists on wearing make-up and shaving his legs. (Assuming that not wearing make-up is not just not-feminine, but is masculine. If it’s just not-feminine, then perhaps it’s more accurate to call such a woman non-gendered. So would a woman who wears pants instead of a dress be transgendered? Still no. It turns out that aspects of appearance commonly associated with men are more acceptable for women than vice versa. Perhaps that’s why there are more men than women seeking to cross the gender divide. Women already can, at least on superficial matters.)
And if it isn’t socially constructed—that is, if is dependent on sex, how do we explain effeminate men and ‘tomboys’? How is it that many males use their voice and their hands in a very expressive fashion? How is it that many females are strong and aggressive?
3. Are MTFs female? The answer to this question requires an informed understanding of biology, chemistry, and biochemistry that I don’t have. It also requires a definition: how much of how many (and which) primary and secondary sexual characteristics is required to be a member of that sex category? Is a female who has undergone a hysterectomy and a bilateral mastectomy still female? Is a post-menopausal and thus low-estrogen female still female?
4. Are MTFs women? To the extent that being a woman is a matter of gender rather than sex, maybe. Again, we need a definition: which, how many, how much… And does a woman need to be a female?
Of course it is possible, by observation and comparison, to identify what it’s like to be treated as a female/woman. I was born female, raised as a girl, and all of my adult life, treated, by most people most of the time, as a woman. And what does that feel like? It feels like shit. To be patronized, marginalized, objectified…
So perhaps a more useful question is ‘Should MTFs be treated as women?’ Should we pay them less for work of equal value? Should we mock or at least ignore their contributions to society? If we want consistency, yes. If we want justice, no.
On that note, it needs to be said (apparently) that how you’re treated affects the person you become. Kick a dog often enough, and it becomes a cowering, fearful mess. The same is true for humans: ignore a person often enough, and she stops speaking up; make her feel like all of her value is in her body, and she obsesses over it; and so on (and so on, and so on). There is a difference between being a FAAB (female assigned at birth) and being an MTF: a lifetime lived in a female body. That difference is not inconsequential. To understate. And if MTFs had any understanding at all of sexism, they’d know this. (But perhaps they’ve been too busy dealing with their dysphoria.) (Or they’ve just been, well, men.)
So answering the question of whether MTFs are women is a no-brainer for the people who’ve been women all their lives. MTFs make demands, not polite requests. (2) They are quick to resort to insult, threat, aggression. They compete. They dominate. They convey a sense of entitlement none of us has ever had. They don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. They scream “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO KEEP US OUT WE HAVE A FUCKING RIGHT TO BE HERE TO GO WHEREVER THE FUCK WE WANT!”—a response to exclusion from FAAB spaces that is “right up there, ideologically, with demanding that girls and women be sexually available visually and physically, for and with men” (Julian Real, http://radicalprofeminist.blogspot.ca/2011/02/who-gets-to-define-women-only-space.html). (3, 4) In short, it quacks like a duck.
In any case, perhaps the most important question is ‘Why does it matter?’ —whether one is male or female, a man or a woman? It matters only to those who want to maintain a rigid sex/gender dichotomy. And why would someone want to do that? To support a sexist system/society.
So, I say to MTFs, who are apparently among those who want to maintain such a system/society, if you want to be considered a woman, act like one. Sit down and shut up. Understand that your opinion doesn’t count. Be sensitive to everyone else’s feelings, respect them, accommodate them. Don’t assume you know more than anyone else. In particular, don’t assume you know more about sex and gender than second-generation feminists and radfems; they are Ph.D.s (in fact, many of them have Ph.D.s) when it comes to sex and gender, and no man of any kind comes close to their level of understanding: “They lost many of [their] privileges when they started identifying as women, but rather than recognising that this is because of sexism, they decided it was because they are trans. Why? Because, being male, they knew fuck all about sexism” (thebeardedlady, Nov17/09 at https://factcheckme.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/the-fallacy-of-cis-privilege/).
It is no surprise to me that twice as many MTFs as FTMs commit suicide. I haven’t read many accounts of their transition, but in most of those I have read, I see a shocking naiveté with regard to sexism, gender politics, etc. It is as if these people had no idea that they were voluntarily becoming a member of the sexed subordinate class. So no wonder, on top of everything else, they can’t handle, are broadsided by, the sudden and almost complete disenfranchisement …
(So as for the dysphoria, like the person who rejects their leg because it doesn’t feel right, because it doesn’t feel like it’s theirs, isn’t it better to deal with the dysphoria than to go through life as an amputee?) (Because yes, being a woman in the patriarchy is, in many ways, like being an amputee. We are crippled. We are, relative to men, dis-abled.)
Why is the acting category of the Academy Awards sex-segregated (Best Actor in a Lead/Supporting Role, Best Actress in a Leading/Supporting Role)? We don’t have separate awards for male and female directors. Or screenwriters, cinematographers, costume designers, film editors, soundtrack composers, or make up persons.
Is one’s sex really relevant to one’s acting ability? In a way that justifies separate awards?
Of course not.
My guess is that it’s because the award isn’t really for the actor/actress, but for the character portrayed. Probably partly because most people can’t distinguish the two. I’ll bet George Clooney still gets asked what to do by moms whose kid has a fever.
Even so, why do we have separate categories?
Because if we didn’t, women would never win. Not because they’re worse actors (remember the award isn’t for acting ability), but because we honor the heroes. And women never get to play hero.
I’m so bloody sick and tired of men who assume center stage is for them. The way the movie ends, and most of the way it plays out, it’s about the dad, about how he can’t deal with his failure to protect his daughter.
Mom’s not quite so important, apparently, despite her greater empathy with the whole experience: not only is she too beating herself up over her failure as a parent, for, after all, she’s as much the girl’s parent, but also she must surely be saying to herself ‘It could’ve been me — at 13.’
And that’s what the movie’s really about. The real story, the far more important story, is about Annie. She’s the one who misplaced her trust. She’s the one who pays for it, with her life almost. She even says as much, but apparently the director didn’t hear the writers (assuming he chose the last scene and determined how it was shot, who got the close-up, who got their big face in the camera last…).
This movie should’ve been an examination of not only trust (what is trust and how do we know who to trust?), but also an examination of love: with all the shit we force-feed our kids (including the shit ads the dad makes), it’s perfectly reasonable and perfectly predictable that what happened happened (and I refer here both to what Charlie does and what Annie does).
Snowmobilers are often presented as enjoying the natural beauty of the North. Oh please. Not at the speeds they drive. Not while their exhaust pipes spew fumes into our air. And their engines roar at a volume that must be endured by everyone within five miles. And their tossed beer cans litter the forest until someone comes by and picks up after them.
What snowmobiling is all about adolescent males going VROOM VROOM.
Which means that our government has handed over thousands of miles of crown land to a bunch of young men to use as their personal racetrack. How fair is that? And did they ask us first?
When a friend of mine contacted the MNR to ask about putting up signs at each end of a short trail through crown land that snowmobilers are using as a short cut to get to their trail and, in the process, making it dangerous (not to mention extremely unpleasant because of the fumes and the noise) for the rest of us to use (for walking and cross-country skiing), she was told No, they can’t put up signs prohibiting snowmobilers from using it because everyone has access to crown land. Right. Then why do the signs on the snowmobile club trails say ‘No Trespassing – You must have a permit to use this trail’?
Why has the government done this? Because they’re adolescent males themselves. Who still want to go VROOM VROOM.
And because local businesses asked them to, because they want to make money from the snowmobilers.
Snowmobilers are a minority. Local business owners are a minority. Why do they get to determine policy and practice? Policy and practice that affects other people?
When snowmobilers (and ATVers and dirtbikers – essentially, all motorized ‘recreational’ vehicles) use crown land the way they want, no one else can use it the way they want. Consider the trails, mentioned above, unsafe and unpleasant now for hikers and skiers. Consider the lake we all live on. In winter (and in summer too – jetskis, another motorized recreational vehicle), our properties may as well be backing on, well, a racetrack. (So much for sitting outside and – well, so much for sitting outside. Not to mention canoeing or kayaking.) Consider all the backroads we live on, the ones without sidewalks. It’s nice that we can hear a snowmobile coming from miles away so we have time to get off the road, but it’s not enough to get off to the side (assuming that’s not where we already are), because that’s where the snowmobiles drive. It’s not even enough to get off the road and up onto the snowbank, because they like to ride the banks. You have to climb up and over the snowbanks to be safe. In some countries, pedestrians have the right of way. In Canada, gas-guzzling, fume-spewing, noise-farting, male-driven snowmobiles do.
Imagine a game of tiddlywinks being played by men.
Imagine it televised. And broadcast to the whole world on any one of over a dozen Tiddlywinks Channels.
Imagine a play-by-play description of the proximity and angle of orientation each tiddlywink, relative to the pot; of the exact positioning of each man’s squidger, relative to each tiddlywink; of the precise force with which the players flip their tiddlywinks.
Imagine after-the-game interviews with the players, eliciting earnest reflections about their every move.
If you’re laughing, why don’t you also laugh at football, hockey, baseball, basketball, and soccer games?
And if you’re not laughing—behold the legitimizing force of serious-men-doing-it.
Many call figure skating a sissy sport, a feminine thing. To the contrary, and to my unrelenting irritation, it is a very gender-inclusive sport, a sport of both sexes, a sport where men must be men and women must be, well, girls.
Consider the costumes. The men usually wear ordinary long pants and a more or less ordinary shirt. The women, on the other hand, with such consistency I suspect an actual rule, show their legs – their whole legs – and as much of their upper body as they can get away with. And they always wear that cutesy short little girl skirt. What is it with that? Or they wear a negligée. (Ah. It’s the standard bipolar turn-on for sick men: sexy-child.) (Why is child sexy to men? Because child guarantees power over. And that’s what sex is to men – power, not pleasure. Or rather, the power is the pleasure. Probably because they don’t recognize the responsibility of power.) (So even in a sport without frequent legs-wide-apart positions, the woman’s costume would be questionable. But I believe it is actually a rule – the female skaters must show leg. Like most rules women are expected to follow, this one surely was made by men, for men. As if women exist for men’s viewing pleasure.)
(Too, no doubt there’s some compensation going on: the stronger women get, the more feminine (i.e., the weaker) they’re told to be. Men can’t accept women’s superior fitness, physical ability, endurance, and agility; so the women are encouraged to compensate by being child (I’m really young, small, and no threat at all) and by being sexy (I’ll still please you).)
In no other sport – I think of track, basketball, volleyball – do the men and women wear such different outfits. And in fact, not even in figure skating, at least not in practice, do they wear such different outfits: most skaters, whatever their sex, wear some sort of spandex bodysuit, perhaps with sweats, when they work on the ice. You can’t tell them apart then: there’s no difference in speed, in line, in movement. (Ah. That’s the problem: that we won’t be able to tell them apart. Men define themselves as not-women; the greater the difference, the stronger their identity.) (And yet, as one male student of mine once explained, ‘It’s natural to pick a fight with whatever’s different.’ Men are so confused.) (Then again, maybe not – maybe they just like to fight. Hence the need to ensure there’s always something different nearby.) (Men are so confused.)
Consider, too, the pairs. Always male and female. There are same-sex pairs in other sports (for example, tennis) – why the obsession with mixed-sex pairs in figure skating? And yes, there are mixed doubles in other sports, but only in this one is the strong boy – weak girl thing so prevalent, only in this one does the man routinely (seem to) support the woman: he is the subject who throws, pulls, pushes, lifts, and carries her, the object. It’s the perfect metaphor for our deluded masculist world: the man lifts the woman, displaying his strength as he puts her on a pedestal. Deluded, because, of course, the woman, despite her incredible physical strength and skill, appears to be a mere object moved by the man when, in fact, the success of the move depends as much on her: her strength, her balance, her timing.
Given that, why aren’t they called aerial balances instead of lifts? Or better yet, more fair, lifted balances? The very name describes only what the man does. As if the woman does nothing, as if she’s completely passive. You try holding your body horizontal in mid-air and see how much sheer strength it takes, along with amazing balance. Go ahead: climb a tree; now hang over a branch; okay, now straighten your body and hold it; now, add a couple pounds of skate to one end; and now lift both ends not just even with the branch but higher than the branch, that’s it, arch; okay now let’s make the tree move; now smile.
And now get down. But you can’t just jump down. You have to land in the man’s arms. Without slicing his balls off with your blades. That takes some skill. (And yeah, okay, some concern.)
And why aren’t they called throwns instead of throws? Or better yet, more active, soars? Contrary to popular belief, the woman doesn’t need the man to throw her high into the air in order to do a couple twists before she lands. The side-by-side triple jumps show that she is quite capable of throwing herself. And, in fact, wouldn’t it be harder to land when you’ve been thrown by someone else?
The answer to this question about the names is that figure skating, like so much else, is defined by men. The quad is deemed to be the most difficult move; it is the benchmark of superior ability; it is more noteworthy than a spin or a spiral. This is not surprising. The quad is a short-burst feat of speed and strength. These are male obsessions. Perhaps because they are easily mastered by the male body. The spin, less lauded, is a feat of balance (as well as speed and strength). And more easily mastered by the female body. (Unless, of course, you’re Surya Bonaly – she can do both a quad and a spin.) (Sometimes even while wearing a cute little skirt.) The spiral, less lauded still, a feat of flexibility (as well as balance and strength). The quad covers more ground, conquers more territory. The spin stays in one place. The spiral also covers a lot of ground, more, in fact, than the quad, but it’s static, and beautiful, and is therefore demoted. The quad is also subject to quantification – it’s more than a triple. The spin is also subject to quantification, more, in fact, than the quad, but as I said, it stays in one spot, and it’s very small. That there is more comment about women not doing quads (or rather, more presumption that because they can do only triples, they’re not as good as the men) than there is about men not doing the Biellmann spin, a difficult cross between a spin and a spiral (let alone the presumption that they’re not as good as the women because they can’t do it) indicates that the measure of ability, the standard, the norm of reference in figure skating, is male.
Perhaps the polarization, in costume as well as in movement, is perpetuated not by men in general, but by insecure men who are reacting to the ‘real men don’t figure skate’ view. So they emphasize a ‘masculine’ physicality.
There are, of course, thankfully, exceptions. The “Marbles” piece of Gary Beacom and Gia Guddat is one example: skating on their hands as well as their feet, in identical striped three-quarter bodysuits, they emphasize not sex, but technique and humour. The Duchesnays provide another example: in one piece, they each wear the same simple blue pants-and-shirt outfit, and the choreography has no heterosexual romantic undertone whatsoever, they are simply two skaters on the ice, each as apt to support the other; the piece is about, again not sex, but art and athletics.
 This need to differentiate would explain the prevalence of the military theme, the warrior figure, in the men’s solos: I’m not a sissy, I’m a real man, I’m physically strong and emotionally flat, I like to fight. (And kill. So it suddenly occurred to me, when I happened to watch a figure skating competition right after a newscast during the Serbia/Croatia ‘conflict’, what poor taste it was – to act out, on the ice, killing someone, with such pride, such celebration. Especially if there’s a nationalistic edge to the performance, as there often is because of the accompanying music.) (Well, duh. Of course. From toy guns to action movies, it’s not just poor taste, it’s sick – to portray, and to consider, hurting and killing as entertaining.)
Consider too the male habit of thrusting (!) his fist into the air after a successful performance (in any sport), showing this unsettling association of victory with violence, pleasure with power.
 Consider the fact that women leave the sport (or have to re-learn it) once they reach puberty – i.e., once they actually develop female bodies. As is the case with gymnastics. And track. There have got to be moves that a woman’s body can do, for which hips and breasts and a certain amount of body fat aren’t debilitating. Why haven’t we made sports out of those? Well, we have. But the media, and society, in which men call the shots, don’t put a lot of attention, time, energy, or money into distance swimming. (There, our fat is good – the buoyancy makes it easier. There, our anaerobic superiority is good – we last longer, we finish.) Or synchronized swimming. (Which men simply couldn’t do.) (Or at least couldn’t do very well.) (Or, most importantly, couldn’t do better than women. They don’t have that anaerobic efficiency. They’d drown. And they certainly couldn’t get their legs very high out of the water – what with their poor buoyancy and their top heaviness, they’d be, well, pathetic. And few – only the young ones, the boys – could split them to the horizontal. And anyway, that complete relinquishing of the ego – absolutely no grandstanding, no upstaging, allowed – and that continuous adjustment which requires a sensitivity to others, is beyond them.)
There is something objectionable about a perfectly-capable-of-working adult being ‘kept’ by another adult. It seems to me the epitome of laziness and immaturity to be supported by someone else, to have someone else pay your way through life.
But, I suppose, if someone wants to pay someone else’s way, if a man wants to ‘keep’ a woman (or vice versa), and that woman (or man) wants to be ‘kept’, I suppose that’s no business of mine.
But then why should I subsidize their keep? What has your wife (or husband) ever done for me? And yet I must subsidize her discounted income tax. Her discounted car insurance. Her discounted health insurance. Her discounted life insurance. Her discounted university tuition. Her discounted club membership. Hell, even her discounted airline ticket.
If he wants to pay her way, fine, but her way should cost the same as mine. Why is her way discounted just because she’s not paying it herself? Why do we roll out the red carpet for kept women?
Even if she is paying her own way, why should she have to pay less than me just because she’s married? Why should spouses get a discounted rate on all those things?
In particular, access to company benefits irks me: you don’t even work here, why should you be covered?
Two married adults should pay the same as two single adults. End of story.