According to the history of water closet technologies, the modern-day toilet has been nearly perfected after almost 250 years of experimentation with valves, flushy tanks and water jets. One could argue that this kind of scientific development is not only an admittedly fine invention, but has also progressed hand-in-hand with equally compelling social revolutions.
This may seem to be an irrelevant comparison, but I’m going to try to bring it all to a point: 150 years ago, toilets (archaic term, water closet) and women’s rights were pretty crappy. Before the reality universal suffrage and the current pleasures of flushing away all excrement in one fell swoop, things were quite abysmal for oppressed and misrepresented communities.
Think about it: if there were no proper technologies for bathrooms, there wouldn’t have been public bathrooms (imagine the horror!), and if there weren’t public bathrooms, then public washroom graffiti would never have existed. How we would have known that we were only a phone call away from Carole, who would ultimately provide us with a “real good time?” And where else could the broken hearted confess to but a blank wall in a public bathroom?
So I’m not sure exactly how many people are aware of its existence, but the second floor of Buchanan B plays host to the most infamous and notable bathroom stalls: the Stall of Impenetrable Feminist Hurt. You know which one that is, the third from the right hand side, two down from the handicap stall.
I stumbled upon this little treasure about two years ago, and have since then seen many new comments and rants made. I envision these angry, perhaps angsty women with too-short hair and Doc Marten boots, their pants around their ankles, the pen gripped and furiously scribbling away. Although I admire the passion and conviction of some of the arguments made in defense of women’s rights and the plight of the urban, educated female, I don’t quite understand the point of it all, as hard as I try.
Surely, don’t we have better things to do between classes? More importantly, ladies, where does all this anger come from? Are there really grounds for such declarations of socially institutionalized, sexist abuse? Or is this just the influence of the setting; you know, wanting to “get it all out” of your system. It’s just ironic that women go there to shit and have to read shit.
I suppose this sounds a little confused, and to be honest I really don’t know how I feel about the Stall of Impenetrable Feminist Hurt. A part of me wishes it to be wiped off the face of the earth simply for its in-your-face, aesthetically displeasing effects, but at the same time I can’t help but chuckle at it.
I therefore have a proposition to all: either write something intelligent or don’t write anything at all. Clearly this stall isn’t going away, and neither is the hurt behind that angry, mean lettering. Even snappy comebacks and refutations are acceptable, such as one defense on the tin door that “You can still be a feminist and fuck men with zeal + love it.” That’s what I came to university for.
