From 2011, David Ker Thomson writing at CounterPunch:
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I’ve been with feminism for two decades. Where does it leave me?
Friends, employers, family, and so on, seem to have gathered enough information about me to have decided, to their satisfaction, that I am of a certain race, class, age, and gender. Am I not, after all, white, middle, middle, and male?
Of course at the literal level I put no stock in any of this. I’m pale this time of year, but every August my pelt is the same color as that of the “leader” my friends have chosen to conduct the latest wars in the wrack of the dune planet Arakkis. I suppose for comparison purposes we would both need to unveil our torsos at the same time (mine rich in vitamin D, his in history).
“Middle,” for its part, does not seem to describe my most significant relationship to bankers and the world of men, since at eighty-two years of age I will be past any sort of middle when I will have finished paying off the mortgage that I and my wife—if she is my wife—have contracted in whatever fit of nesting exuberance governed our actions at the point of contract.