Older women are relegated to fairy tales. We are the bent crones, steering the hero but never being the hera.
We are the givers of poison apples, running our houses on chicken legs and we exist in the ghost world as the mother who died giving birth to the beautiful daughter, leaving her to the harsh mercy of her evil stepmother, but do you ever hear about the neglectful father?
We are never simply plain. We are hideous or enticingly beautiful.
Rightly you ask, what happens to the Princess? She grows up to be the king's wife, and lives happily ever after.
You never hear about the social programs she starts, the decisions she has to make, the policy she forges.
More often than not, I suspect, she gives birth to the next heroine or hero, and retreats into historic obscurity. That's why you never see her form in lead, waiting for your paints.
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We are the givers of poison apples, running our houses on chicken legs and we exist in the ghost world as the mother who died giving birth to the beautiful daughter, leaving her to the harsh mercy of her evil stepmother, but do you ever hear about the neglectful father?
We are never simply plain. We are hideous or enticingly beautiful.
Rightly you ask, what happens to the Princess? She grows up to be the king's wife, and lives happily ever after.
You never hear about the social programs she starts, the decisions she has to make, the policy she forges.
More often than not, I suspect, she gives birth to the next heroine or hero, and retreats into historic obscurity. That's why you never see her form in lead, waiting for your paints.
Blame the f*cking Brothers Grimm. I do.