Dear Frank

An open letter to the commenting Everyman

Dear Frank,

Let’s be frank, shall we?

(Forgive me, that was delicious—so sweet and so cold.)

Let’s start again. There’s a part of me that admires your confidence, Frank. To wade into an internet comment section is fraught at the best of times. Granted, it’s easier if you’re a member of a historically empowered group, one that is used to speaking without interruption, one whose every random thought is lauded, but still, it took courage. You’d probably prefer me to say balls or cojones, but that’s not what I do, Frank. I spend my waking hours trying to deconstruct the structures that value one sex over another, including the words we use. Frankly—sorry, I know! I know!—I’ve never understood the fuss about testicles. They’re fragile and timid, and at the slightest sign of cold or danger, they retract like small sea creatures into a cave. Disappearing just when you need them the most—typical. A cramping uterus, maybe? Now that’s a sign of strength! Strong enough to push life into the world. Like yours, Frank—but I know you know that, you’re not an idiot.

Chutzpah. Let’s go with that. That’s not too woke, is it? Too Feminist? It took some chutzpah. The comments section is a dangerous place for a lone male—full of pitfalls and dark alleyways. You need metaphorical keys in your fist before you head in, but clearly, your conviction outweighed any hesitancy. Otherwise, why engage at all? You could have just scrolled on by, like I do when I see posts about fishing or flannel or conservative men who think women should stick to smiles and sandwiches. I’m pretty sure that you didn’t get beyond the title before you started typing, but really, Frank—bravo. It’s not every day an anonymous man attempts to tell a group of women that they’re wrong. Just most days. Some weeks, we get Wednesdays off.

I do wonder if there was a teeny, tiny intimidation tactic hiding in there? Maybe just a wee one? This big 🤏🏼? I’ll show these women what for kind of attitude?

Or maybe I’m wrong. It happens sometimes. Perhaps it was more of a cry in the dark, a stoic male voice out here in the vaster wilds of Feminism. You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wr…—a ghostly echo in the machine.

A clumsy conversation starter? Lord knows we’ve all lost some interpersonal skills in this tech-driven world. Despite my perennial disappointment that vagina dentata is not real—for protection purposes, you understand, not offensive pussy chomping, we don’t bite. You can talk to us if you need to, Frank. We’re here for you.

And your tenacity! The way you kept coming back, wading deeper into the weeds until it was difficult to see your point at all. It’s easy to lose a point in the weeds. And Frank? It happens all the time; there’s no need to be embarrassed.

Or perhaps it was more akin to a soldier planting a flag, like the Marines at Iwo Jima. These pesky Feminists, taking over the internet like a swarm of sharp-toothed harpies. And here you were, staking a claim atop Vagina Gima!

It’s true that there was some fun at your expense, but once it became clear that you were going to camp out and make the comment section home, some others did attempt to understand what you were trying to say. It was hard, Frank. I’m not going to lie. There were some arguments that didn’t seem well thought out, and a hypothesis that was difficult to grasp. But points for trying, absolutely. If the comment section was game show, you definitely would have won a door prize for all that effort, even if you couldn’t quite get there in the end. I think it’s called premature argumentation.

You see, it’s that many of us are used to dismissive and insulting comments. We encounter them time and time again. We get called all sorts of names as well, names that would make your mama blush, Frank. Some of us get death threats or have men slide into their messages to relate, in graphic detail, the sexual assault they would impose upon their bodies if they could.

It’s not nice, Frank. No, not nice at all.

It’s why sometimes when a man talks about protecting women, we get a little confuddled, you know? As Sojourner Truth famously asked, ain’t I a woman? Do Feminists not count? Are we simply a coven of Pinnochias longing to be real girls? It’s confusing, Frank, how some men talk about protecting women all while calling you an old bitch who deserves to die.

You didn’t do that, though, Frank, and I’m 100% serious when I say thank you. Thanks for not getting cre8tive with the spelling of the c-word, or resorting to the same old sexist tropes many women hear. Fat this or stupid that. I call it Misogyny Mad Libs.

Hey, you (adjective) (adjective) (sexualized noun), I (verb) you (verb) (adverb)!

It gets old. A bit like me, which I guess is why I feel like I have the expertise to speak about being a woman, having lived in this body for as long as I have. Plus, as a writer, I find the clichés lazy. Thesauruses are free and readily available.

So there you go, Frank. Maybe I’ll see you around in the comment section one of these days. Oh, who am I kidding? I know I will.

Your Feminist friend,

Dina

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If you dig Feminist voices as much as I do, make sure you check out Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!, a monthly story slam. On Saturday, March 21 I’ll be there with other fierce voices. The only thing that’s left is to choose what color glasses. See you there in eyewear.