WHITE MALE FEMINIST, A POEM*
He asks if he can buy me a drink and it seems like he really wants to know.
(Facial hair and glasses are involved, of course.)
So I say yeah ok, sure.
The conversation turns to politics almost immediately, the way most these days do – not in order to discuss real issues, but as an excuse to assure each other early on that no, we did not vote for the orange fucker.
I ask if he went to the Women’s March.
He pauses and looks up into the pensive middle distance. He very nearly pulls it off without looking like an asshole, which I find impressive.
Explains that he questions – from a purely strategic perspective, of course – the wisdom of expending the collective energy of the masses on marches and demonstrations.
He wonders whether, in an era of global neoliberalism, the only way is to strike at the heart of the bourgeois empire. Economic terrorism. Real consequences. Not a bunch of cute millennials taking selfies with each other’s signs.
There is an awkward silence that he doesn’t seem to notice.
I ask him what he did the day after the inauguration. He sighs deeply.
“I had to work.”
*The majority of white male feminists are lovely. Be more like them. Be less like this guy.
Death By Unga Bunga are a Norwegian powerhouse of infectious punk flavored tunes. Their most recent EP Fight is out now on Jansen Plateproduksjon and they have an LA show coming up next week, March 9, at The Satellite with our good friends The Fontaines. Tickets (and more tour dates) here.