Sgt. Marcia Rock
Fort Georgia Gordon
Tuesday, July 12th
Faithfully transcribed by J. B. Scott
Dear John,
I may not live to write you again. The enemy is upon us, and I hear their howling, and the hammering of the rolling pins and the frying pans before the bunker door. I finally understand what it’s like to have my life flash before me, and I only hope I can write fast enough to tell you all that I want to say before—well, before I go away.
First thing that comes to mind is the last day I saw you, darling, on the day I began my M.0.S. training as weapons specialist. I have always loved military history, as you well know, and the development of modern warfare has always fascinated me. How very strange you men used to fight. We’ve come a long way, baby. No more are the days when combat was an imitation of the male sex act: those big, hard guns, ejecting the projectiles that penetrated the desired object. Well, you know how we women are about finances. We couldn't stand such astronomical defense budgets, just so you all could buy bigger “boys’ toys” to wrap your fingers around. When we finally took over, that hardware was not only downsized, it was ostracized. We women preferred hand-to-hand combat as opposed to you males’ standoffish style (some asshole once commented that we like that “touchy-feely” stuff). At any rate, we streamlined the economics of warfare, not to mention the fact that our weapons were already fully developed.
And those are the weapons that I have so diligently documented, poring over the files in the archives, and ferreting out their origin for the sake of posterity. Initially, they had passed as peaceful utensils, tools of the domestic trade, trading food for affection and devotion (how did that go?—“the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”). Sometimes, the trade-off didn’t pay off, so some of the weightier utensils were used to quell the rebellion: rolling pins, frying pans, china plates, meat cleavers—all very effective deterrents during household police actions. In fact, the emblem for our flag, the side view of an old Dutch woman charging with raised and ready domestic weapon, used to illustrate the label of a particular home product. And although the men were the formal warriors of the day, it was the genteel housewife who was christened “battle-axe” behind her back.
But of all the weapons the little lady of the house had at her disposal, one was paramount: tradition. Tradition was the big one, and top-secret. In truth, it was downright insidious. For until the present gender role swap was complete, the norm throughout the world and throughout all ages was that Mother got to the children first. She knew very well the old saying, “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.” Now, that saying never specified which gender the hand belonged to, and this became the basis for the Battle of the Sexes. Whoever controlled the children controlled society. And since Mother had the natural head start, controlling the children was a strategic objective that She defended with a vengeance. As society grew through Her children, Her directives became its traditions. And the larger and more complex society became, the more invisible grew the Source of those traditions. I can tell you, as a good soldier, that if your opponent can’t see you, he will be absolutely helpless in your presence.
And helpless as babes were the husbands of angry housewives back then. Males were raised to play the fall guy for women, while Collective Motherhood had shaped society long ago to include such non-egalitarian practices as “women and children first.” That meant that single women would be saved from sinking ships along with mothers and children, while fathers would go to their watery graves along with the single men. As Demi Moore said in one of my favorite old films, G. I. Jane, “Why should a woman’s life be more valuable than a man’s?” Who-ah, Demi! Whoa! Let me calm down here and get back to what I was writing about.
Anyway, the husbands knew from their social inculcation (or should I say “brainwashing”?) that to retaliate in any way against an attack by an angry housewife would mean to suffer being labeled “wife-beater,” or “wimp-pussy-loser-faggot,” or some-such excommunicatory phrase. So the medical reports from the emergency room visits always contained the cover-up story for husband-beating: fractured skulls from rolling pins and frying pans became tripping and falling down the basement stairs; deep gashes from thrown china became “clumsy me stuck my head through the window when it was closed”; mutilations from meat cleavers became lawn mower accidents; and so on. “After all,” they rationalized back then, “we can’t just throw psychopathic housewives into prison. Who would raise the kids?”
But somewhere along the line—must have been about the nineteenth or twentieth century—we women started getting in touch with our true selves. Instead of having all those psychotic explosions (or feeling the need to drink blood in Communion) because we were trying to be something that we weren’t (namely “good girls”), we began to realize that what we were doing was severely limiting our potential to live a full life. By holding on to a decrepit system that our foremothers had set up long ago, we had sabotaged our very existence, and made you men mighty miserable as well. But thanks to the Age of Reason in the eighteenth century, when you men started getting in touch with how crazy our system was—what with “ladies first” and sinking ships and all—and became our blessed alarm clocks, we finally woke up to the light of a new dawn.
And, darlin’, you should have seen us then! During my research at military school, I had access to old video footage from twentieth-century TV, and, my Goddess! The audiences of those sensationalistic daytime talk shows would have put Attila the Hun to shame. That horrifying howling and those flashing teeth and claws became the living-room reflection of the housewife’s soul as she gazed into the talking picture box. And how about that WNBA? Who-ah! Those female dogs could really kick ass on the court. Well—we women finally got enough doses of our real disposition that one day we all opened up our windows, stuck out our heads, and yelled, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this any more!” And it was our foremothers we were mad at.
So that brings us up to the present. You poor men had to suffer so, and all because we were the ones who got pregnant. Darn silly reason for acting the way we did, considering the vast majority of human behavior is learned after birth. You men have been so wonderful with raising the children, and you all know how sorry we are for having cheated you out of that rejuvenating experience. But I swear upon my steadfast honor, as a good soldier and protector of men, that we will continue to make amends to you all. And darling, when you kneel before the blessed statue of Father Marty and Baby Jessica, offer up a little prayer for my soul, and send it skyward from your ruby lips, for now it is certain that it is there I will receive it.
And do not linger in sorrow, for Marcia, Jr., is nearly fourteen, and I know she will be strong for you in my stead. And I will continue to be with you in memory, for as long as—oh, Sweet Jessica! There goes the alarm! The bunker has been breached! Oh Goddess! Their hideous howling! The screaming and the crashing of china! Good-bye, Dear John, my beloved. My last wish is that this letter somehow finds its way to you.
Your lover forever—
Marcia
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