PART TWO: Going Rogue
I looked around the room. Menacing white faces stared back at me. I prayed underneath my breath to the goddess of feminism that she would blind them from the 3% Somalian genes that turned up in my AncestryDNA report. I wouldn’t be found out as a spy. Not like that.
I could feel testosterone in the very air itself, filling my lungs with its misogyny. I know it goes against the laws of progressivism to ever assume gender, but by the looks of it, only two other female-identifying people were in the room. The cisgender females’ long, apparently naturally colored, blonde hair gave them away as un-liberated anti-feminists. I stood out like a period stain on a maxi pad with my contemporary style and blue-streaked pixie cut.
Ever since I made my courageous decision to infiltrate the headquarters of the conservative underground on my beloved college campus, I gave it my best at fully immersing myself into far-right culture. Every night, I forced myself to watch Youtube videos from Pewdiepie, Lauren Southern, Ben Shapiro, Jordan Peterson, and even (shudders) Paul Joseph Watson.
At first, my trans roommate Erica helped me force my eyes to stay on the videos, but after the first few days, she could no longer take the emotional violence emitting from them. She was a wreck for weeks. I couldn’t blame her.
To me, it felt like that scene from A Clockwork Orange. Like Alex being forced to undergo the Ludovico technique, I became nauseated each night as I endured repeated attacks on my psyche.
Eventually though, I started becoming more and more numb to the pain in my heart caused by each word uttered by the influential bigots. I attributed that to the strength of my womanhood. I was a martyr for feminists everywhere.
Even so, I was wholly unprepared for the sheer horror I was faced with at the first “Conservative Voices & Free-Thinkers Unite” club meeting.
I had assumed that the first meeting would just focus on introducing ourselves and getting to know our fellow club members. You know, the whole sit in a circle at equal lengths away from each other (so as to avoid any implication of club hierarchy), go around the room, stating your name, favorite historical revolutionary (mine was Clara Zetkin, by the way) and preferred pronouns sort of thing. I was wrong.
Just after we all introduced ourselves to each other (in the most ignorant, archaic way I’ve ever seen. We said our names and college major, but there was no mention of sexual or gender identity, at all), these guys got straight to business.
Jonathan Schmidt, who called himself the “club leader,” not even pretending to support equality, sat at the front of the room, looking down on us as his inferiors. It was the sheer image of patriarchy itself.
Having previously mentioned that over the next few weeks, we would be discussing an “enlightening title,” Jonathan pulled out a book.
I squinted at the cover. My heart sank.
It was Atlas Shrugged.
They wanted me to read Ayn Rand.