But Amazon doesn’t.

To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t started watching the show before I heard of its cancellation. If I had, I probably would have watched, but there is only so much time in the world, and though I’ve become somewhat more of a homebody in the last year or so, I have never been too keen on watching television for hours on end.

But this brought something back to me. I love Dick, because it disturbs the order that has disturbed me now for a long, long time. Dick is uncomfortable. He has every right to be. We all have a right to feel uncomfortable, confused, and angry when we become an object.

I see now that much of the downtrodden world is pissed off right now, reeling from the realization that we have actually had a right to be angry for a long, long time. And now, we have a government that is so glaringly obvious in its disregard for human decency that we can slap ourselves in the face and say, YES! It has not been all right for a long time. We just went along with it as long as it had a nice, shiny surface. Fade to fascism. Goodbye yellow brick road. It is owned by someone else now. (It always was, we now learn. Ha!) Good if you own it. Not so good if you don’t.

I was a wild thing in my 20s. I liked the night, and wanted to run down hills and dive into fountains late at night without worrying about who was there, who had a gun, who wanted to hurt me. But it was there. It was especially obvious when I left my home town and didn’t have the friends around to watch out for me. I remember vividly the frustration I felt after a year in France. Oh yes, the French life can be nice, but what does get old, especially as a foreign girl with light hair and a faint Germanic-sounding accent, is having men follow you around the streets then wait FOR HOURS outside your door, just so that they can follow you again until you turn around and start screaming in some public place… and then it gets old always ALWAYS having to come home, and to know that they are there, still, it gets old having to watch to see who is in the next dark alley, the lack of freedom that men have, the lack of opportunity, too, my brother made twice what I did in his stupid internship. It was real. His girlfriend with the same degree he had was the first to be laid off from her job. Then there is the quieter, more private harassment, my professsor–my advisor, no less–pushing my hand into his pants and then pressuring me to go to a conference with him–I did not go–he then pushed me out of the tribe, found a way to malign me, pushed me out of the career I wanted. I am bitter. Still. My story can be repeated with somewhat different details by nearly every woman I know.

So, my creativity has come in fits and starts. I cooked, made beautiful things, and grew children. This was wonderful, and there I have absolutely no regrets, nor many complaints.It is good when we females are compliant. We are often amply rewarded for our pregnancies and shoelessness.

It’s just when we get a little raunchy, A LITTLE LOUD, a little inappropriate, that things go wrong. Or, they did for me. My marriage ended because I thought the pediatrician, a brilliant man I must say, was hot. I told my husband, thought it was our little joke, you know, like my husband having crushes on redheaded girls who crossed his path from time to time. A threat? Hardly. I thought. It’s not as though anyone else actually knew about it, and it was kind of funny, I thought, and maybe it was, long as I stayed in the kitchen, quietly humming around the house, not speaking up too much. But well, just try saying more, doing more, reaching beyond and flying a little. Not to fly away, nor even to meander on garden paths that might mar the marriage, but just to taste the sweetness of an orange, to feel the light of the sun, to dance, to show a student a new way to think, and to smile, to create and express and to be. Ah, now that was going too far. So I am divorced.

But that’s all for the best. Still, the circumstances that caused it make me sad, and mad. Makes me mad that I thought I always had the choice of yes and no, the capacity to voice an opinion, to be more than pretty, or just good. Makes me mad that I am 50 and feel I have so much more in me, the best of me, really, and it gets left, trampled while the younger things are chosen, fine, don’t want to be chosen, but rather want to choose. But also want to survive.

So, it is in this that I love Dick, too, want, too, the nerve, the throw-it-all-away, the rawness, the I want, I don’t care, I need, I am. I take, I make.

The show was brilliant. I wish they hadn’t killed it.

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