The Circus of Female Empowerment
Letting my inner-bitch flag fly.
In light of the latest P.Diddy legal circus, the clowns in power around the world, and the latest chauvinistic infraction on myself, my partner, and my friend by a Broadway ringmaster, I needed to shout. Literally and literarily.
I preface this by saying, I wouldn’t consider myself a feminist by any feminists’ standards. I’ve always been more of a guys’ girl than a girls’ girl and, maybe at times, shamefully proud of it. Even having been #metoo’ed more times than I’d like to admit, I never tried taking any man down for it because, at the end of the day, I played my part in it. I’m not saying that women who’ve been in abusive relationships allowed it, or “had it comin’” or deserved it. Not. At. All. I never have, never will, and am certainly not now, in any way, condoning the behavior of the Puff Daddies, the Weinsteins, or the Madmen out there. I’m not diminishing my encounter with my “happily married”, twenty-years-my-senior boss from Dairy Queen who, when I turned eighteen, bought me a six pack of MGD Lite in order to get me drunk and try to kiss me (and god knows what else he expected) after work, which, I refused. (At least he waited ’til I turned eighteen.)
I’m talking about the fact that I had my boyfriend go through the drive-thru the next night and threaten him. My boyfriend stood up for me, not me. Couldn’t I have shut that shit down that night? Maybe a slap in the face? A swift kick to the groin? The answer is “no.” Not then. Not alone in a Dairy Queen at midnight. And certainly not in 1993. But today, in 2025, I’m calling myself out for playing a role in not sticking up for myself and allowing things to slide throughout my life: a hand on the knee, an attempted kiss on the lips averted by a deft turn of my head followed by a polite smile, believing in promises made, (and later broken), when I DID get that drink or that coffee or…
We can all agree that a majority of men are arrogant, that “grooming” is fucked-up, and the fact that women have lost out on jobs, pay raises, and overall fair treatment in nearly every aspect of life, including and especially health care/research (which enrages me to no end), is something that we will probably be contending with for another century. Or two. Or ten. And with that, coming from someone with inherited bunions on both feet coupled with Morton’s neuromas, I have not-so-jokingly said, “Personally speaking, the greatest achievement of the women’s movement has been the fashionable abandonment of wearing high heels.”
BUT, last week, maybe it’s because I just turned fifty and am, oh, I don’t know, FINALLY letting my inner-bitch flag fly, I fought back.
I fought back on behalf of our female book writer. I fought back on behalf of my partner and I’s dignity. But most importantly, I fought back on behalf of myself. And isn’t that what the feminist movement actually is? What seems like one, collective, powerful voice, is really just millions of individual voices making micro-protests for their own self-worth? We see movies and read books about the titans: Simone de Beauvoir, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Soujourner Truth, Angela Davis, and SOOOoooo many more. But how many more micro-movements have been made to no acclaim? No fanfare? No credit? All the women who were able to escape the slobbering, Jabba The Hut movie moguls, all the “no’s” said to professors, bosses, and dudes at bars who needed the help of liquid courage, because they don’t have enough confidence without it, to tap an ass or presume a “yes” instead. These, “no” moments are countless. The women are countless. And yet, they add up. And the more women who speak up in the daily mini-moments against oppression, thus relieving their inner suppression, culminating in the female collective’s self-worth could potentially grow to become so overwhelmingly ginormous that one day, maybe, just maybe, the patriarchy won’t even attempt to “grab us by our pussies.”
The words that micro-moved the feminist mountain during a zoom call last week and have now rung-on loud and proud in this essay were, “I AM A WOMAN AND I HAVE A VOICE!”
How did it come to me yelling that on our call you ask? (And even if you didn’t, I’m about to tell you…)
Tor and I were hired to write the music and lyrics for a show along with our dear friend, a book writer who shall remain anonymous and also, happens to be a black woman. This musical also happens to be based on the life of Josephine Baker. The irony isn’t lost on me that we were literally writing a show about a female protagonist who was not only a groundbreaker in racism, sexism, feminism and classism, but she just so happened to risk her life to help the French Resistance against the Nazis as a heroine of patriotism. She pretty much covered ALL of the “isms”.
The producer (who shall also remain anonymous but will from here on out be referred to as “Mr. Producer”) who commissioned us to write this show is a self-proclaimed “old school” producer with ten Broadway credits to his resume spanning five decades. Over the last two years he has verbally belittled the three of us in one way or another during zoom calls saying things like, “nappy haired” when referring to young Josephine which our black book writer was listening to and obviously shocked by. And so were we. Mr. Producer would completely talk OVER me when I was sharing an idea to the point where I just stopped sharing altogether, but he would never talk over Tor…who happens to be a man. When we would have email exchanges, although both Tor and I would write them together, they came from Tor’s email because he would be more inclined to listen to our points when it came from him. As he proudly said himself, Mr. Producer was “old school” and I truly don’t believe that he meant to say racist things or be misogynistic, but, it was tough to experience it all the same. It’s one thing when your nana was born in 1913 and still said the word “colored” when she wasn’t talking about “hues”. This producer was NOT my Nana, therefore, I didn’t HAVE to put up with this shit. But we did. We did because, frankly, all three of us were trying our best to make a beautiful thing about a beautiful woman at the expense of our own dignity.
I’m not going to bore you with the details of all that has gone down the last few years on a project that has been going in circles with whole other sets of writing teams for the past twenty. Suffice to say, we have been professional, tried our best to work with a very difficult man whose reputation on the street when you say his name is, “Oh, you’re working with Mr. Producer? He’s an asshole,” and during a call last week to get on the same page with said “asshole”, we were backhandedly called “stupid” condescendingly questioned, “How come none of your shows went anywhere?” to which I responded, “You’re mean. So, stop that talk, because that’s mean,” to which he responded, “I’m making a point....don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” The point he was making was, “You don’t know shit because you haven’t had a show on Broadway yet so, I’m the boss and I get to keep telling you what to do because I HAVE and I get to talk to you in whatever way I want.” This led me to say, “I’d love to see you talk to Lin Manuel Miranda that way”. And finally, “So, go hire the Broadway people you think are better than us because you clearly don’t trust us.”
But why should I keep telling you about it when I can just let you hear it!
Attached below is an actual recording of moments from MY side of the ACTUAL conversation. But with a twist. Of course. Because…if ya can’t laugh at it…
And the circus continues. And the clowns keep thinking they’re funny. Until the women become the ringleaders. Who’ll be laughing then?
Haha,
LStL
Theme Song from “Curb Your Enthusiasm” by: Luciano Michelini
P.S. We hung up from that call FREE. Not just free from a job, because quite frankly, we could have used the money. But FREE from the energy that binds, that locks, that stifles what’s coming: our greater destiny.
If you like this post, please do ❤️ it as it allows for further visibility on Substack, which allows me to continue doing my thang. xx
You could write a musical about trying to make a Josephine Baker musical.
You go!