Sydney
“We need to find the Her Prophet before Daesh does,” Declan says, referring to Isis’s Arabic acronym. His elbows rest on his knees as he leans towards me. The deep baritone of his voice is pitched low—he expects to be understood and believed. He expects to be right.
“Daesh?” Robert asks as he enters the living room. He was on the phone arranging a meeting with his senator friend about decriminalizing sex work when Declan showed up at our door.
Declan looks up at Robert, his expression bland—he must have guessed that Robert would join us. While Declan’s face remains impassive, something sharpens in his gaze. As if Robert is more dangerous than I am. Declan can’t help it. He’s socialized to see men as more of a threat.
I glance over my shoulder and Robert smiles at me. He knows the threat I pose. That’s why he loves me. We may need couples therapy.
“I thought Daesh was no longer a threat,” I say. “Isn’t that why U.S. troops were pulled out of Kurdish-controlled territory?” Declan doesn’t flinch, but a subtle tic in his jaw gives away his misgivings about that decision.
Abandoning allies isn’t Declan’s style. He likes to think of himself as noble. That’s why he isn’t working in his family business making gobs of money and instead works for Homeland Security.
“No, Sydney,” Robert says, his voice teasing. “Those troops were pulled so that Turkey could go in and start ethnic cleansing Kurds, abandoning one ally to appease another.” Declan rolls his eyes as Robert sits down next to me. “You don’t agree?” Robert asks.
“No,” Declan answers simply.
“In any case,” I say. “You want me to go and help find the Her Prophet.”
“You know who she is,” Declan says. I don’t answer. He forges on. “She trusts you. We need to get her out of there and under protection.”
I don’t even try to stop the laugh that bubbles up. “You seriously want me to help you ‘protect’,” I put the word in bunny quotes so he’s sure to understand how silly I think he sounds, “a woman who has survived in Daesh territory? And who may need more protection right now from people like you?”
“Her demand to raise women up to equal power at the point of a sword is dangerous,” Declan says.
“Seems it’s more dangerous not to do it.” I shrug.
His brow furrows. “We do not yield to threats from terrorists.”
“Now she’s a terrorist. I thought you wanted to protect her.”
“Sydney.” Declan is getting annoyed now. “You agree with her?”
“I’m surprised you’re surprised. Why wouldn’t I? I’m a woman, Declan. And like every member of my gender, I’ve been enslaved by patriarchy. It’s not awesome for men either—do you want to live in such a violent world? Be forced to treat the women in your life as inferior? If men and woman worked together, can you only imagine how much better the world would be?”
Declan sits back into the couch. “You think I’m sexist?”
“Sexist?” I laugh. “You enjoy tying women up when you fuck them.”
“That does not make me a sexist.” He huffs. “If I recall…” His eyes flick over to Robert and then back to me, then to the floor. I glance over at my husband; there is a smile on his lips but a warning in his gaze. Declan would have said something about me liking it if my husband wasn’t perched on the arm of my chair.
“So does he,” Declan mutters, jerking his chin at Robert. The two men do belong to the same exclusive power club that happens to have a sex dungeon—but what man of power doesn’t, right?
“That’s true,” my husband says, looking over at me, a smile cresting his lips. “Do you think I’m sexist?”
“We’re all sexist,” I respond. “We can’t help it. Racist too. It’s internalized. Rooting it out ain’t easy. ”
Declan rubs at his temples for a moment. Women can be so exasperating. “You know I agree women should be our equal partners, but threatening to kill any man who stands in the way of progress…it’s just not how progress is made.”
“No?” I ask, taking up my cup of tea and sipping it. “Tell me then, Declan Doyle of Homeland Security, how should we create planet-wide equality of the sexes.”
“What does that even mean?” Declan is fully annoyed now, his tone going almost petulant.
“I think the Her Prophet put it perfectly—equal representation in politics and corporations. After all,” I glance over at Robert, “we all know corporations are the real power behind the throne on this planet.”
“How can you do that in a year?” Declan asks. “There are plenty of free societies that do not elect women to power. You can’t change people’s minds at the end of a gun barrel.”
Robert and I smirk at each other and Declan shakes his head. “Yes, you can force people into actions by threatening them with violence, but they will come back at you tenfold if given the chance. Doesn’t Joyful Justice prove that? You represent victims who are fighting back against people who have forced them into actions at the tip of a sword.”
“Sure, but men as an entire class of being are not victims, Declan. Women are.”
“You’re a victim?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yes, Declan. I am. Every woman on the planet is. Whether you can see that or not doesn’t change the facts.”
“I never thought of you as someone who would go in for the victim mentality,” he sneers.
“I try not to deny reality.” I keep my voice even. “If you get hit by a car, you are a victim of a car crash. Denying that won’t set your broken leg or remove your ruptured spleen. Admitting you’ve been hit by a car is not weakness, it’s fact. The same way admitting that women are victims under our patriarchal society is not weakness.” I shrug again. “Just fact.”
“Not all women are victims. Some are pretty damn powerful.” Declan really wants to win this argument.
“You’re wrong. Sorry, but you are. The same way every person of color is a victim in some fashion of white supremacy: same for women and patriarchy.”
Robert jumps in. “We,” he points at Declan and himself, “are the bad guys.”
Declan sighs and leans back into the couch, rubbing his temples again. “You’re a bad man,” I say to Robert. He nods, a humorous solemnity around him. “Declan, you’re doing your best. You can’t change society all by yourself, and I know that you respect women. I think you’re doing the best you can at this point, but there is work to be done. For all of us. And the Her Prophet is forcing us to do it. Do you know what the Her Prophet was referencing when she said that women’s bodies would no longer be currency?”
“Yes.” He nods. “The theory that at the dawn of civilization—the advent of the first agricultural and even nomadic societies that went beyond hunter-gatherer—women’s ability to give birth and increase the work force became their most valuable commodity, forcing them into a subservient child-bearing role.”
“Very good,” I say.
He meets my gaze. “I didn’t know that before she said it; Homeland Security just brought in an expert to explain it to us.”
“Some people knew it. There are books on it.” I smile, all calm and not pissed off about the reality of women’s existence on the planet.
“Look.” Declan’s brow furrows and he leans forward again, ready to press me. Robert stiffens by my side, ready to protect me. Ah, the proverbial bone between two Alpha dogs. Too bad for them I’m sentient.
I hold up a hand before Declan can continue. “I’m not going to help you find her. So, give that up. I think she is doing fine.”
Declan frowns deeply but holds his tongue. He stares at me for a moment, his eyes glittering with unspoken words—he wants to make me do what he wants. I stand up and Declan is forced to follow—sometimes we can use ingrained behavior to our advantage. “Good to see you,” I say. “Good luck with your endeavors.”
Declan rolls his eyes but also shakes my hand and then heads for the door. Robert waits for it to close behind him before turning to me. “I love it when you talk about patriarchy and forcing people to act at the end of a blade.”
“That’s because you’re a sicko,” I say sweetly before turning on my heel and heading out of the room. Robert laughs behind me but does not follow.