I can relate. A thousand years ago, I got a temp job at Local University, working for the then nascent women’s studies department. The what? I said. The women’s studies department, they said. So, I shrugged, sure, whatever…
Now, before this time, I had been thinking that what a women’s studies department was about was proving to all the world that the male academics of Local University didn’t have hair one. But actually, it was a full employment mechanism for intense, humorless lesbians. Hey! I already know that’s not funny. It’s not even really true, but, damn! some of those women were a stone pain.
Anyway, they were just getting all warmed up, but they had to pretend they were like all the others, they had traditions, and shit. Had a academic journal, with the same ten names. Full of adverstisements for books by the same ten names, with glowing endorsements by the same ten names (“Boldly rips the mask off…Courageously rips the lid off…Exposes the hidden sexism of the Laws of Thermodynamics…”), and citations referencing…you guessed it, the same ten names. It was kinda like you cite me, I cite you, we both pad our CV!
So I ducked downstairs to scarf my lunch, and three of the ten names are in town for a conference, and they plunked themselves in a table close by and started talking shop, about how the most likely candidate for department head, was she a lesbian, well, yes, but maybe not lesbian enough, not a seperatist lesbian, which was the cutting edge. Cutting.
Now, I’m mostly a pretty evolved guy, because the only women I can stand are the ones smarter than me. But I walked away ever damn day muttering “Barefoot and pregnant…barefoot and pregnant…barefoot and pregnant…”