A Womans Place Ch 01 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I originally wrote a first version of this story in early 2024. I have massively edited and revamped it, and more chapters are on the way as well. For now, enjoy this massively improved redux!

I also want to give a shout out to the story that originally inspired this one: PLEASE, SIR, PUT ME IN MY PLACE, by FlyingDecadent.

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CHAPTER 1 - A WOMAN'S SPEECH

Language is power.

This idea -- simple, yet radical - is at the basis of so much feminist thought and queer theory. Language shapes thought and reality. If you can reshape language, it follows that you can reshape the world as well.

It's an idea that fills me with such deep passion. It makes me feel like we have agency. That we can temper this world's cruelty and flaws - even a little - if only we develop, and use, the right language. The right words.

That's what it boils down to, in the end. Words can be socially transformative, they can hold power. All that is required is for an activist to know how to wield them.

That's why I eagerly participate in the annual debates here at Mount Hurst College. That's why I always pick the debates centering around issues of gender and social justice, of course.

And it's why I always win.

That passion, that enthusiasm, is the very same fervor that made me stare down Brad in this year's edition of the debate earlier today. It's also the same fervor that's making me talk to him right now, in the privacy of his dorm room.

It sounds silly to think that I could talk him out of his sexism, or something like that, but it wouldn't be me doing it. Words direct the way we think. Why should he be an exception?

I even have the perfect hook to try and convince him. The debate we just competed in, well, let's just say it was interestingly named. "A Woman's Place."

Even just the title speaks volumes, doesn't it?

Doesn't...

"You were saying, Claudia?" Brad asks me, casually sipping his tea. For a second, I feel surprised that we're in his room. That's dumb, since we've been here a while. But for a second, my vision spins. How did we end up here again?

My memory is hazy, but I remember that we left the hall together after the debate -- no animosity between competitors, even if we find our respective ideologies abhorrent - and continued our heated discussion while on the way.

On the way here, I guess?

"Sorry, bit of a headache," I say, trying to gather my thoughts. "I was saying... the title of the debate says it all. Even that reeks of subconscious sexism."

"How so?" Brad asks, feigning disinterest, taking another shallow sip of his tea.

"It suggests that there even is such a thing as a place for women," I say. "A place they belong to. A place that is proper. Predetermined, natural, and unquestionably correct. And the purpose of the discussion is merely to determine what that place is."

"With you so far," he says, nodding for me to continue, which I gladly do.

"That's a completely false way of framing it. Women, like all other human beings, can self-determine. Their place is where they choose it to be."

He waggles his index finger at me, as if in acknowledgement. "Ah, I see what you mean when you say that language is power, Claudia. That argument sure does sound very compelling."

Is that a slight undertone of sarcasm in his voice? He certainly looks quite smug and happy with himself, though I don't see why.

Then again, if it is sarcasm, what else should I expect? Under that clean-shaven face, the nondescript face you could lose in a sea of jocks that all look the same, he has one of the most chauvinistic attitudes I've ever seen from someone of my same generation.

I know I can make him see the error of his ways, but I shouldn't expect miracles.

Still, I feel a little... out of place. There is something about the way Brad's eyes twinkle mischievously and the playful curve of his lips that... troubles me. Well, if he's not actually willing to discuss, I suppose I shouldn't be wasting my time, so let's make sure.

"Are you just saying that to mock me?" I ask him. "Or are you actually willing to listen to me?"

Brad chuckles softly, swirling his tea absentmindedly. "Oh, come on now, Claudia," he says. "You know I always enjoy a good verbal sparring. It's like we're dancing... not that I've ever danced, myself, but I'm sure you get it."

That's... not really an answer. But well, it's not a no, either. And I really, sincerely do believe, that if only people could have actual, real conversations with one another, the world would be a much better place.

If I can just push past the divide between us, actually talk to him, I can change his mind.

Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I look Brad directly in the eye and say, "I'm going to level with you, Brad, I don't expect you to understand the struggles that women face. But if you're willing to listen, maybe we can find some common ground."

Brad's smirk fades, replaced with a more neutral expression. He sets his tea cup down and leans forward, giving me his full attention. It surprises me how easily he can switch from arrogance to genuine curiosity. Or what looks like it, anyway.

"Alright," he says, his voice sounding more sincere than before. "I'm willing to hear you out. Convince me."

I clear my throat and adjust my glasses. I'm going to give this a honest try. It's not really me he needs to listen to, just what I have to say. If words can transform society, of course they can also transform him.

"So, language," I say. "The title of the debate is really just an example, but there are so many. Like the word chairman. It builds this subconscious expectation in people's minds that only a man can hold such a position of power."

"I guess," Brad says, shrugging. "Nothing I haven't heard before. This very morning, you had a whole list of idioms, you kind of built your speech around those. Not saying it wasn't a good effort, but why just parrot that back now? You made it sound like you had new material for me."

For an instant, for a single heartbeat, I get a glimpse of a truth I can't recognise or tell, like it's been eerily illuminated by a flash of lighting, but only for a brief moment. What did I say at the debate?

God, my head is pounding. I'm not even sure why I feel so weirded out. Structuring my performance in the debate around sexist idioms sounds like exactly the thing I would do. So where does this feeling of wrongness come from?

"I'm trying to remember..." I say, pressing my fingers to my temples. It feels like my brain is trapped in morass. "I think I said, uhh... I touched on something connected to the proper place thing implied by the title."

"Are you feeling alright?" Brad asks, one eyebrow arched, but I wave the question away. It wouldn't do to look weak in front of him. It would make it impossible for him to take me seriously, he would think I'm just some silly girl. If he doesn't already.

"You know," I continue stoically, "you'll hear people sometimes say stuff like, women should know their place. Or they should be put in their place. Or they should be reduced, relegated back to where they belong."

Brad sits up a little in his chair. "Well, that phrasing sounds a little specific," he says, "but sure, I've heard stuff like that, I guess."

"Of course you have, it's everywhere!" I say, speaking a little too loudly, too excitedly, trying to push past the pounding and confusion in my head. "There is inherent, violent control in that language. What people don't realise is that these seemingly innocent phrases carry layers upon layers of evocative meaning, all rooted in misogynistic beliefs."

There's a smirk playing around the corners of Brad's lips. "Evocative meaning? What do you mean by that, exactly?"

"It insinuates..." I start, and then stop. The hairs on my arms are standing up. I feel like an animal that's sensing a trap without quite seeing it. Evocative... what is he asking for, exactly?

Maybe more importantly, why did I use that word?

"You're the one who always says that words carry weight and power," Brad says, matter-of-factly. "So, describe this weight and power to me. Make me see it."

"Well, these idioms..." I say, uncertain, my fingers tangling and twisting as I fidget in my chair. "They conjure up images of suppression and control. When someone tells a woman to 'know her place,' it implies that she's stepping out of line, challenging the established hierarchy. Imagine a woman..."

I stop, double-checking that I have his attention, and I do. Brad nods for me to continue.

I speak deliberately, carefully choosing my words. "She stands tall, her presence commanding and powerful. She's unapologetic for taking up space, for expressing her opinions, for challenging the status quo. She defies the societal expectations that confine her to a predetermined place."

"And then," Brad interjects, a sly smile still playing on his lips, "going by your idioms, she is... what? Reduced? Relegated?"

I hear the unspoken implication. She fails? My body tenses at the thought, an unfamiliar sensation stirring within me, a shiver down my spine that is almost... alluring.

"Yes," I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The image of a strong woman being overpowered and forced into submission flashes through my mind. Reduced indeed. Such power, in that word, it's hard to explain it. It really captures this image of just pushing a woman down to the ground. Relegated to her rightful place as an inferior being... an object to be controlled, stripped of autonomy and power...

Brad's smile widens at my discomfort and I realise with a jolt that he's enjoying my squirming. I mean, of course he is, he was my competitor only this morning. Feeling flustered, I gather my thoughts, and continue. Inferior being... that reminds me...

"Inferiority," I mutter, feeling a tingle run down my spine at the word. "That's what I was trying to point out."

Brad leans in closer, his fingers supporting his chin as he studies me. "Mmm, yes, inferiority. You're saying that's what these idioms ultimately convey," he muses in a low voice.

"It is," I say, my voice a little shaky. But his seeming willingness to actually entertain my arguments lends me some confidence. "Like we're dainty, delicate flowers or something."

"Okay..." Brad says, and I sit a little straighter, sounding a little more like my usual, preachy feminist self.

"Think about how many expressions and idioms exist that suggest inherent female inferiority," I say. "The gentler sex. The weaker sex, fairer sex, second sex... Hysterical and emotional, or nurturing and soft, where men are strong and logical, commanding and protective."

I pause, taking a deep breath before listing even more idioms. "It's a man's world. Being in charge in a relationship is wearing the pants. And then there's stuff like barefoot and pregnant... at home, under the control of her husband..."

Brad seems lost in thought for a moment, as my words trail off. Strange, I can keep an audience absorbed and captivated through long and firey speeches, but now, I fall into awkward silence. He's swirling his spoon in the mug, making soft clinking sounds. He's focused on it, not looking at me.

"This morning," he says at last, "you were making a similar point, and you used a... peculiar expression. Now, since your argument is that words have deep meaning, I'm curious about that expression you chose."

Cold sweat trickles down my back. Why don't I remember saying any of this stuff?

"You said," Brad continues, his eyes lifting to meet mine, "that these idioms do not just suggest inferiority. They insinuate that women have a, what was it you said? Ah, yes. A fundamental predisposition to being governed."

Hearing those words makes me shudder. Did I really say that? I don't remember saying that. I mean, it makes sense, though. That's what those hateful misogynistic idioms are trying to convey, right?

That we naturally respond to being taken in hand firmly. A masculine hand.

It's important to push back against toxic, misogynistic ideas like that, they do incalculable damage. Why does the room feel so hot, all of a sudden? My glasses look clear, so it isn't actual temperature, and yet I tug at the collar of my blouse, trying to cool down.

"You also said something else," Brad continues, in a slow, deliberate, calculated tone that feels out of place. "That the continued endurance and staying power of these expressions poses a latent danger to women. That we men might come to see feminism as a strand of female ambition, and..."

And for an instant, I remember.

My mind spins, faster and faster, around a centre of gravity that is a memory - a fragment, just a shard, a still from a fever dream, but a memory all the same. I remember...

I was on stage, saying exactly the same things. Female ambition. I felt enraptured at what I was describing, but it wasn't the normal sort of exhilaration I felt when thinking about feminism, no. I was thinking about feminism failing.

Even as I spoke to the audience, I was visualising in my mind what that horrible scenario would look like. Men getting fed up with us, defeating the women's rights movement in a single stroke, driving us swiftly and unceremoniously down to our knees...

Sweat beads on my forehead at the sheer intensity of that imagery. How did I let myself imagine such vivid scenarios? Impressionist worldwide vistas of men overpowering and silencing us, shutting down our silly pretensions and corraling us like... like cattle.

I never think about images like these. Why do they make me squirm so much now? My thigh muscles feel like they're about to cramp, as I twist on the chair. God... I hope this untethered imagination hasn't compromised my performance at the debate. I wouldn't be able to look myself in the mirror if I sounded any less committed to the cause of gender equality during such an important event, because of an intrusive thought.

Brad looks at me in silence. It makes me feel like he's dissecting me, searching for answers, or perhaps weaknesses. His gaze cuts through me like a scalpel, as I stumble over my words, trying to explain myself and shake off my unease.

"I-I said that was the worst case scenario... It was just a hypothetical, a warning..." I mutter, still confused, as the memory of the debate continues to elude me.

"A warning?" He asks.

"That we would overreach," I find myself saying, "and men would step in and utterly crush us. That on our knees, we would be forced into an unconditional surrender... female ambition, snuffed out by the hand of male power like a flickering candle..."

"Sounds very vivid," Brad says, and even  though his voice is flat, his eyes look... amused. That makes my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Does he really enjoy how flustered I look, when contemplating this horrific hypothetical downfall?

Sigh. Of course he's missing the point. This vivid imagery is not meant to entertain him, but to emphasise the stakes. Why it's crucial that feminism succeeds... and the dire consequences for the world, if it were to fail.

"I mean, obviously I was just trying to explain to our audience what's at stake in the fight for gender equality," I say, and I'm not sure if I'm directing that comment to Brad, or to myself. It has to be the truth, though: what other explanation is there?

"You know what? I think you're onto something," Brad says, leaning back in the chair. "Elaborate on these... stakes for me. You might convince me yet."

I bite my lower lip, trying to express my discomfort without losing his attention. "Look man, I have maybe a weird comment but... this isn't meant to be titillating," I say, my voice quivering.

Brad simply stares at me, impassible.

"It's about painting a picture of the consequences that could befall us if we don't continue fighting for equality," I say, and by now I almost sound like I'm pleading for him to listen. "It's about highlighting the real dangers women face in a society still rife with misogyny."

Brad smiles, a gentle smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "I understand that," he says, and I pointedly note he doesn't say he agrees. "So, give me a better idea of what the stakes would actually be. What's the worst-case scenario?"

I feel a blush creep up my neck at Brad's words. I could just stand up and leave... but on the off chance he actually is going to take me seriously, I should at least finish my argument.

"Okay," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Imagine a world where the struggle for gender equality has been futile. Men reign supreme, their dominance unchallenged. Women are... reduced... to mere playthings, objects of desire and servitude. We exist solely to please men, stripped of their autonomy and agency."

As the words escape my lips, an unsettling thrill courses through my veins. My stomach feels queasy, and I can barely meet Brad's eyes, boring down into mine with such calculating intensity.

"Women kneel, with heads bowed in submission, contrition, defeat," I continue, my voice growing shakier. "They acknowledge men as their..."

Brad arches an eyebrow, silently inviting me to continue, but the word that sprang to my mind is an evil word.

Language is power, and by extension, evil words have evil power. Equally transformative, but in negative space. They should not be spoken out loud, because to do so is to invite disaster. And yet the word leaves my lips anyway, in a breathless whisper that seems to echo across the room.

"...  masters."

Brad solemnly nods at that, and I continue, trying to recompose myself... without much success. "Their dreams and ambitions are forgotten, replaced by a singular purpose: to cater to the whims of men. They are kept in cages, their bodies on display for the pleasure of their owners."

He steeples his fingers. "Wow. Quite the stakes indeed. Most people don't imagine things might go that far if feminism were to be defeated."

"Yes! Exactly!" I say. As I close my eyes and let the words flow, I desperately try and ignore the involuntary squirming and rubbing of my thighs. "Eventually, women become commodities, bought and sold like possessions. Their worth determined by their physical attributes, their ability to satisfy men's desires."

Brad leans forward, his eyes fixed on me with a hunger that mirrors my own. The air between us thickens, charged with an intoxicating tension. His voice is low and husky.

"Alright. Those do sound like pretty devastating peace terms," he says, and again, those words, those evil words with evil power... peace terms... they trigger an echo of something I must have talked about during the debate, even if I can't remember the details.

Peace terms. Behold, once again, the power of language. Saying peace terms implies that feminism was not a rightful quest for gender equality, but a zero-sum battle of the sexes... a gender war that women lost. And the victors, the conquerors, then impose their will upon the vanquished...

"Yes. The terms would be devastating," I say, in a low whisper, "ensuring that we can never challenge male privilege again; that we can never rise again from our position on our knees."

Brad sits forward so rapidly that it startles me. God, I can be so silly, sometimes... but there's something about the way his eyes pin me to the chair, that makes me quiver with a primal sort of fear.

A very feminine sort of fear.

"I'm not supposed to agree with a competitor," he says, slowly, softly. "But I must say, I found your logic quite compelling... during the debate."

I blink, slowly. "I... spoke of peace terms at the debate?"

"You sure did," Brad says, and my head spins, because it doesn't make sense, why don't I remember doing that? And if he's heard all of this already, why is he having me rehearse it now?