I love feminism because she’s the rebel of the class, the one that makes a farce of all those sexists seeking stars.

     Whilst teacher Liberalism stands preaching untoward, scratching black and white messages on his 2D board, feminism swings on her chair and raises her hand, a girl full of questions she can’t understand.

     “What do you mean she chose to shave her legs, to sleep with him for dregs, to pursue beauty by eating only the white bits of eggs?” The X-chromosomed rebel relentlessly asks, popping sticky pink bubbles rather than completing her tasks.

     “There is a personal sphere and a private sphere, and no third party can cross the line dear” the Liberal teacher drones, bored and boxed and sick to death of her moans.

     She laughs at his pains as she throws paper planes, “But my values are made in public, by the slogans on my screens, they’re built by barbies in my bedroom and mini skirts marketed pre-teens!”  

     I love this lady’s disregard for silence; the way her eyes flash with triumph at her questions of defiance.

     No school can expel her, no Liberal can remove her (not even the school cleaner with a hoover). This rebellious lady fighter won’t grow old or tired or lighter - she’ll just burn brighter. She’ll pass her questions to her daughters, and each girl will add her tone, until a hundred thousand daughters have all the answers of their own.