Aw, HELL. Between Kactus being a regular contributor and Donna Darko being this week's guestblogger, I've had to put Feministe in the subscriptions again.
I missed having it there, so I don't know why I'm cussing like it's a huge problem.
Here is my "why Feministe mattered" statement: Reading it always made me uncomfortable. I blame Lauren, a discomforting person if ever there was one. (I mean that in the nicest possible way, Lauren, so don't even start with me.)
Uncomfortable; no more, no less. Had Feministe annoyed hell out of me, I simply wouldn't have read it (see also: how I spent my summer vacation). Had it soothed me like a pacifier to a teething baby, I would have read it but not remarked upon it.
"Ah, Feministe, like a snifter of brandy on a cold winter's day"--I mean? How many times can you write that post before declaring yourself a hopeless fangirl? "Dear Feministe, I wrote you some slash. I hope you are not offended." Uh, no.
No, uncomfortable. Just exactly that word. Just enough irritation to where I'd have to get to wondering: What the hell is bothering me about this? And then I'd spend a few hours figuring that out.
And then I'd wonder, "why the hell is that particular thing bothering me this much?" And then I'd have to question myself.
UNCOMFORTABLE. Scratch that itch. No, lower--okay, a little to the right. No, higher . . . okay, back down . . . to the left a bit . . . oh, there. I am an antisocial person. If I have to leave the house more than twice a week I'm a wreck, but even I'll admit it: To have someone around to help you scratch that itch is a blessing.
What reading Feministe used to make me think was, maybe having that itch in the first place is the real blessing. My reading should ultimately make neither a cheerleader nor a critic out of me. It should make me uncomfortable, just enough itchy that I have to scratch, just enough messed up that I have to sort things out and maybe figure out a better way to deal.