Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Wordsmith and Rebel

My books are available on Amazon here or for an inscribed copy, write to Con[email protected]. Enjoy all of my low-priced books:

A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories

Lillian in Love (a novel)

Lillian's Last Affair and other stories.

I'm available for interviews, readings, visits to book clubs, being the entertainment at your party, talking about senior sex at your senior center, talking about love in senior housing, and any other creative ways to get the word out about my work.

Some of these stories are 5,000 words long, some of them are 100 words exactly. Some protagonists are old and some aren’t.  Several stories feature gay men or lesbians, while several do not. So what unifies this collection? It is the interplay of heart and smart, facing off against the dangers of a viral wedding smooch, a scary staircase, a runaway supermarket cart, a disastrous online date, and a stolen sausage. Of course, you'll also learn about the raisin that falls where it shouldn’t.

Lillian’s life at 84 is tumultuous. She is moving to Manor House to be near Sarah, abandoning the demands of her own home, which has been colonized by her children. How will she and Sarah deal with the reactions of relatives, ex’s, and neighbors to their romance? How do two old women negotiate new love? Will slow-dancing, vibrators, and pot brownies help smooth the way?

 

“If I’m going to go after one more affair of the heart at 84, I’d better get my ass in gear,” says Lillian, speaking for all the characters in these six stories.

Ruby has a run-in with a waterbed and Catherine tokes her first joint in the bathtub with Victor. Elegant Anna’s introduction to kinky sex is bittersweet. And then there’s the neighbor with the strange attachment to the grocery cart. Sue Katz’s hilarious, tender, and impeccably written stories confirm that age fails to erode our eccentricities or dull our ardor.

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On Facebook? 'Friend' me at Facebook.com/sue.katz. 

Vancouver West Coast Swing Celebrates Pride

Even though my legs are still injured from the ebike assault I suffered a few days ago (see previous blog), there was no way I was going to miss the Vancouver Pride West Coast Swing dance which the organizer, Dalynne Roberts (at left), had invited me to weeks ago. We have been Facebook friends for some time and were looking forward to meeting in real time when it turned out that my vacation overlapped with her event.

The studio belongs to well-known professionals Tessa Cunningham Munroe (at left below) and Myles Munroe. I’ve met these champions pre-Covid at Summer Hummer, a weekend dance event that used to be organized by my former teachers.

I arrived at their gorgeous air-conditioned studio (although it involved a difficult staircase to the second floor) in time to see the end of the special Pride workshop for beginners. What a crowd! The many dozen students totally jammed the beautiful studio with its sprung wooden floor as Dalynne and Tessa taught basic figures.

When social dancing began, I popped a couple of acetaminophens, put my cane aside, and started to dance. There were many contrasts with my home dance base in Boston, but three things stuck out:
1. Myles was the evening’s DJ and he played real swing music – every song had an actual beat.
2. Not a single other dancer questioned why/how/if I was a leader.
3. And finally, and most amazingly, the upper-level dancers danced with everyone. No one seemed to sit out a single dance. It was astonishing to watch the seamless integration of beginners, intermediates, and high-ranking dancers, the mix and match, the enjoyment the better dancers got from encouraging the newbies. Almost all the top dancers asked me to dance. Likewise, many beginners, even people after their first lesson, asked me to dance.

West Coast Swing gives a lot of lip service to the principle of mixed level dancing, but I see very little of it in practice. I have danced in the same room for years without a single dance with those (mostly young) dancers who are coming up the competitive ranks. They don’t even say hello to me, unless they’re at the door taking money, let alone consider dancing with me. Some have even turned down repeated invitations. It’s not personal – although yes, I’m an elder dyke – because every other non-competing but committed dancer I know tells the same story. The exceptions are young, beautiful newcomers – often welcomed warmly by their hetero advanced counterparts. These ambitious dancers colonize the front of the dance floor and dance exclusively with each other. Three-quarters of the floor is left to us plebeians – an area these top dancers never deign to traverse or visit.

Another Boston venue has instituted a fresh, new tradition in which some advanced dancers volunteer to spend the first period of the social dance asking newbies to dance. Alli Reese deserves congratulations for attempting to change the culture and foster cross-level introductions. But many of the advanced dancers have a corner of that space where they congregate all night to emphasize their exclusivity.

Congratulations to Tessa, Myles, and Dalynne for creating such a democratic dance culture, for living up to the principle of cross-level dancing, and for having such a grand Pride dance just when I am visiting Vancouver for the first time! As I have seen throughout my time here, people are simply nice. Especially to strangers.

A Nuclear Family Takes Me Down in Stanley Park, Vancouver

I was taken down and injured by a nuclear family in Stanley Park (Vancouver) this week. Let me set the scene. There is a good reason why, in 2014, “Stanley Park was named ‘top park in the entire world’ by Tripadvisor, based on reviews submitted” (Wiki). It is a magnificent mix of six miles of accessible bike and walking trails, fabulous landscapes, and resources galore. At 20% bigger (1,000+ acres) than NYC’s Central Park. Although it is a peninsula, it also borders on a bunch of Vancouver’s neighborhoods. Rather than being designed by a landscape architect, it evolved organically in response to the natural geography and the peoples’ usage.

Together with Barry and David, I rent an ebike to explore. I had already done a test drive in Boston thanks to the bike shop Wheelworks, and fell totally in love with ebiking and with the thin, small, swift model they provided. However, the rental shops near Stanley Park offer “one-size-fits-all” (and we know whose size that is) step-through ebikes, with handlebars wider than twice my comfortable arm span. As the bike shop person on the phone said, “Our bikes are made for 6’ German men.” Luckily David was able to adjust my seat so that I could be reasonably comfy.

I speed ahead of the two men, who prefer a leisurely pace. It is tourist season so the trail is packed with bikers and ebikers of varied abilities and attitudes. As people pass each other, they say, “On your left” – a seemingly universal method of giving a heads up.

I am about half-way around the trail which follows the waters of Burrard Inlet and English Bay when I sense someone coming up on my right. It is a youngish woman passing me against the rules, and I move slightly to the left to give her room for this rude maneuver. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, her husband has slipped past me on the left, tangling my front wheel and taking me down with the bike on top of me. When I look up, I see that the man has an infant in a little seat on his ebike and all I can feel is grateful that the baby is ok. “You drifted to the left,” hubby says accusatorily. His wife says nothing. Neither of them had made any indication of passing.

Barry and David pull up. They right the ebike and then help me stand. Each of them has a story about being incorrectly passed by this same family before I was. The adrenaline keeps me going for the rest of the 6 miles, but my left knee is sliced and bleeding, I have the start of what will be a half dozen large, ugly bruises on both legs, and both knees are swollen. I am 75 and have opposed the institution of the nuclear family since the late 1960s. I have successfully avoided being part of any nuclear family since I was 17. I did not foresee, in my dotage, that I would be ambushed by one in such enchanting surroundings on such an agreeable trip.

I am dealing with the injuries using a combination of Epsom salt baths (thanks Barry), Arnica cream (thanks Vicki), frozen moist washcloths for icing (thanks former days in Tae Kwon Do), and a cane for walking. I will elaborate on the attractions of Stanley Park when I publish my Vancouver travelogue.

The 10th Anniversary of Boston's LGBTQ Elders of Color

 

My piece in the revived Z Magazine that I wrote for many times in the past. Now revisioned as ZNetwork and online.

 

Read it HERE.

 

 

 

 

"Somebody Somewhere" – Review of Season Two in 270 words

I was excited when Season Two of "Somebody Somewhere" dropped (HBO Max). But I could barely watch the first two episodes. Season One had been all about alienation, exclusion, and then finding community. It was nominated for a plethora of queer and general television awards and scored 100% on the Rotten Tomatoes Tomatometer. As Rebecca Nicolson (Guardian) said, “This is television that asks big questions on the sly.”

In Season One, Sam (Bridget Everett) returns to her small Kansas town to take care of her sister who dies. She is left grappling with her ailing parents and a judgmental married sister. Sam feels alone and alienated until she hooks up with a gay workmate Joel (Jeff Hiller), who introduces her to his choir of freaks, characters, and queers of various ilks. She re-discovers that she can sing and builds a new chosen family with Joel and his friends.

I knew Season Two had lost its way when Sam and Joel attend a singing concert at the middle school, and laugh and snicker at the recital of an awkward adult male. This contradicts everything we have learned about the friends. These two – having been bullied and ridiculed all their lives – turn around and act shitty to another “different” person?

When they get food poisoning and we are treated to the two of them having loud and explosive diarrhea while they talk on the phone to each other, I turned it off.

My conclusion (completely made up out of thin air): The first season was written by saavy cool women. The second season was written by adolescent boys drinking their first six-pack.

Season Two Official Trailer

Book Review: Cheating at Canasta by William Trevor

I’ve just come back from a trip to Ireland, and perhaps the biggest thrill along the way was my purchase, in a second-hand bookstore in the seaside town of Kinsale, of a collection of short stories Cheating at Canasta (2008) by William Trevor, who is considered one of the all-time greatest Irish short story writers.

William Trevor (24 May 1928 – 20 November 2016) spent much of his adult life in England, but identified as "Irish in every vein." He wrote novels as well and won the full array of literary prizes.

The first story in this collection, “The Dressmaker’s Child,” haunts me still. It combines elements that run through many of his stories, but does it with a deep grey brilliance. There are troubled characters who become entangled inadvertently. There is trauma that lingers unspoken. There is human connection that is as painful as it is sustaining. There is a cloudy environment expressed with mastery prose.

Many of these pieces, not the least the title story “Cheating at Canasta,” plumb alienation and a sense of difference that perhaps only an emigrant or a person in mourning can convey. There is love, but too often it is lost, even squandered. Writing in the third person, Trevor creates a novel’s-worth of a world in each of these short stories, and, as a voracious reader of short fiction, I leapt hungrily into them.

AAMARP (African American Master Artists in Residency Program): Incredible talent!

Housed in a large warehouse building, AAMARP is a collective of photographers, artists, and writers who are devoted to representing “the world as seen through the eyes of African-Americans.” A remarkable photographer I follow, Hakim Raquib, had posted about the collective’s latest show, and I went last week to see it.

This working space is full of studios in which artists are actively creating. I met the brilliant photographer Gloretta Baynes Cook, AAMARP Chair Emeritus and both an inspiration to and a pillar of the collective. She was kind to spend over an hour taking my friend and me around the two floors, introducing us to the breathtaking work of multiple artists, including the impressive photographic work of Hakim Raquib. The work of individuals in the group has been widely exhibited. For example, Gloretta and another AAMARP artist, Susan Thompson, have a joint show at JP Licks (Jamaica Plain) right now.

As a very special treat, Gloretta generously took us into her own studio to explain some of the processes she uses in her powerful, hard-hitting photographic creations.

Gloretta also described some of the background to the long-running campaign to hold onto the space, which is owned by Northeastern University. It is a shame that instead of basking in the pride of housing so many insightful and commanding artists of color, Northeastern seems to be more concerned about grabbing back this building.

This outstanding resource is located at 76 Atherton Street in Jamaica Plain, just a block from the Stony Brook T-stop.

Below are two images by Hakim Raquib on display.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REVIEW: “Seven Guitars” by August Wilson in Boston

Boston area people: If you want a superb theatre experience, see if you can score tickets to “Seven Guitars” by the Actors’ Shakespeare Project, appearing at Roxbury’s Hibernian Hall.

All the best elements are here: spot-on direction by Maurice Emmanuel Parent, seven remarkable actors, perhaps the finest 20th Century playwright August Wilson, and an intimate community theatre in which every seat is a good seat.

One of Wilson’s ten “Century Cycle” plays set in subsequent decades, “Seven Guitars” starts with the funeral of Floyd “Schoolboy” Barton and then looks back at what led to this budding musician’s death. All the action takes place in the backyard of a house in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, where both August Wilson and I (two years later) were born.

This production perfectly catches every nuance and complication in Wilson’s incomparable writing. Hurry to experience this reasonably affordable, accessible night out (there’s an elevator and plenty of free nearby parking); this show ends March 5th.

REVIEW: The Oscar-Nominated Live Action Shorts (2023)

The Live Action shorts are my favorites. There are also Animations and Documentaries, which are a treat as well. I always assume that the people involved with making shorts are less likely to have resources and support, and more likely to have a point of view that hasn’t been fully explored by big filmmakers.

In past years, I’ve been aggravated by Live Action shorts because they were violent, vicious, war-themed, crime-themed – in short, same ole, same ole.

This year, all five films have a humanity to them that made for both easy and interesting viewing. After I turned 75 I decided that I would allow myself not to finish a book or a film that did not have a single character I could give a shit about. I found myself empathetic to each of these stories.

THE ONE I THINK MIGHT WIN
Eirik Tveiten’s “Night Ride (Nattrikken)” takes place on a Norwegian tram that has been hijacked by a Little Person when it was too cold to wait a half hour for the driver, on his break, to let her in. What starts as playing “driver,” ends up in a mad ride. She stops and picks up passengers, but when a transwoman rider is attacked by some dickheads, she has to make a daunting decision.

THE OTHER ONE THAT MIGHT WIN
The Luxembourg film “The Red Suitcase,” directed by Cyrus Neshvad, is the most gripping of the films. A head-scarfed young Iranian woman stands alone at a baggage carousel watching her small red suitcase go around and around. She is terrified to exit into the main airport where an older man with red flowers is awaiting her. Her hesitation draws the attention of security and they search her bag which is full of drawings and art supplies. The man outside is getting increasingly pissed off as she attempts to escape him. This is a gripping, emotional film with little dialogue, but a plethora of punch.

THE MOST EXQUISITE AND PAINFUL ONE
“Ivalu,” adapted from a Danish graphic novel by director Anders Walter, counterposes exquisite Greenland landscapes with excruciating abuse. Ivalu, one of two sisters, goes missing, and the other, Pipaluk, searches all of their private play spots – across fields of ice, craggy mountains, and dangerous fjords. Her terror for her sister dredges up memories she has been trying to exile. So many sweet girls around the world are experiencing the same devastating childhoods.

THE ONE I DOUBT WILL WIN
Two Irish brothers, one with disabilities who has lived on the family farm with his mother, and one who is making a life for himself in the city, meet over their mother’s ashes in the country in “An Irish Goodbye” by Tom Berkeley and Ross White. This film is funny and fun, as the rural brother tries to convince the urban brother to stay on the farm with him, during their challenge to complete the mother’s 100-item bucket list.

THE ONE I DON’T WANT TO WIN
Set in an Italian orphanage for girls during the 1940s, Alice Rohrwacher’s “Le Pupille” centers around the struggle between a little girl and a stern Mother Superior who dangles a luscious Christmas cake in front of the kids and then makes them “volunteer” to forgo a piece. The whole thing is rather predictable and in light of the heinous crimes of the Catholic Church to the children in their care, it’s a bit silly. I wasn’t surprised that Disney was behind this film. And that it was produced by the award-winning Alfonso Cuarón.

Book Review: “American Sirens” by Kevin Hazzard

American Sirens: The Incredible Story of the Black Men Who Became America's First Paramedics (2022) by Kevin Hazzard is the inspirational story of the invention of street medicine, of medically-equipped ambulances, and of the profession of EMTs (Emergency Medical Technicians). What made this history especially resonant for me is that this medicine-changing first initiative took place in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, home of playwright August Wilson, the jazz pianist Mary Lou Williams, the Negro League’s Pittsburgh Crawfords baseball team, and me in my early years.

The idea of creating an ambulance service in an area of town where the police and fire departments’ makeshift “ambulances” wouldn’t go to because of racism, was the brain-child of an acclaimed white Austrian immigrant, a Holocaust survivor, Dr. Peter Safar, an anesthesiologist. He was opposed by the other first responders, who had at most six hours of first-aid training and basically just gave a rough ride but no life-saving care to those in need, and by the local Pittsburgh government, particularly the white mayor Peter Flaherty, a nasty, racist piece of work.

Dr. Safar connected with the local activist non-profit Freedom House and they scraped together a way forward, recruited often uneducated, unemployed, sometimes unmotivated, but ultimately brilliant Black men from the community, and put them through the most rigorous medical and social training imaginable. Twenty-four men graduated. From their first calls during the uprising after the 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., the Freedom House service was a huge success from every point of view – except financially.

Their initial funding came from President Johnson’s job creation funds, but once Nixon came into office, that all dried up. A young white doctor, Nancy Caroline, took over the training of the medics and the running of the service with a fierce determination that kept them afloat until their betrayal by Pittsburgh’s politicians and police. She ended up writing the EMT textbook that would be used for many generations of students.

The author, a former paramedic himself, has researched this slice of progress and its roadblocks with remarkable detail, following certain of the players from start to end. It reads more like an action script, with valiant medics performing beyond their own expectations and the imaginations of all who were offended that Black people were spearheading an amazing new service.

For those with a connection to Pittsburgh, most especially the Hill District, you may feel, as I did, a special thrill to read of the familiar streets and institutions, to learn of yet another amazing moment in Pittsburgh’s hidden – or repressed - history. This non-fiction book has it all: challenges overcome, fascinating characters, heroes and villains, and adrenaline-fueled action from start to finish.

Postscript: In researching photographs, I discovered this 2023 Pittsburgh PBS program on the Freedom House ambulance service.

Film Review of “Elvis” in 100 words

This is a review of the first hour of the choppy, repetitive film Elvis. Within minutes I was wondering why they hadn’t budgeted for a film editor. And was curious which accent Tom Hanks was aiming for. His makeup was cringe-making as well. Austin Butler is pretty, but the choreography was nothing like Elvis’ movements. There was no one to love; I felt no emotional connection amidst the multiple overlaid fragments. The jerkiness of what my friend called a “fever dream,” reminded me that life is too short for an unsatisfying movie that stretches to 2 hours and 40 minutes.

 

Here is the trailer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBDLRvjHVOY&ab_channel=WarnerBros.Pictures

 

 

Photographer Hakim Raquib: YESTERDAY, TODAY, AND TOMORROW

If you are anywhere near Boston before January 30, bust your ass getting to the Midway Gallery (15 Channel Center Street, Boston MA 02210, everyday 8AM-8PM) to see the exhibition of Hakim Raquib. Titled YESTERDAY, TODAY, AND TOMORROW, it includes selected works of this sensational photographer, spanning 50 years. Luckily it’s run has been extended until January 30, so you have time to rush there. You can thank me later.

Hakim Raquib’s sublime Egyptian landscapes blew me away. I once spent two weeks on a camel tour of the Sinai desert and viewing his desert work was like returning there in emotional technicolor. His compelling manipulated images flashing back to the Civil Rights Freedom Riders, to the Black Panthers, to Spike Lee, moved me, reviving my own memories of that period. Click here to view his project on Winter.

As Michael Thierry, a senior art Director, said on Raquib’s Linked-In page, “Hakim is an amazing photographer of a scale beyond imagining. His work transcends and transforms the viewer.” I fully agree.

 

P.S. I took these photos myself, so they don't do the work justice!

Masking is a Diversity Issue: A Letter to the Dance Community

I am 75 and it has been nearly three years since I’ve been able to dance my beloved West Coast Swing regularly and freely. All of us have lost time and great dances, but when you are 35 or 45, you have time to catch up.

Allow me to establish two points:

1. Covid is out to kill older people:
Out of more than 1,000,000 US Covid deaths between January 2020 and January 2023, over 90% were people over 50. If you just look at people over 65, it is about 75%
2. Vaccinations and boosters help you protect yourself. Masks help protect others.

And it is not just old people who are vulnerable. People with compromised health may also be excluded from maskless dance. Then there are the younger or healthier people who are caretakers for the vulnerable. They don’t want to take risks either.

Why are instructors and event organizers happy to exclude us? Masking should be part of everyone’s diversity toolkit. If your goal is to make West Coast Swing as available as possible to as wide a range of dancers as possible, require masking, at least for the early part of the evening. You may not have noticed, but you’ve lost the income and the company of many vulnerable dancers who are not attending dances. I know this horse has left the barn, but I feel devastated that I have to follow.

I’ve made every effort to keep myself well, but the reality of the statistics hovers over me. I’ve been doing partner dance since the 1960s. I cannot imagine life without dance, but first there has to be life.

BOOK REVIEW: Never Be Afraid: A Belgian Jew in the French Resistance

Never Be Afraid: A Belgian Jew in the French Resistance recounts Bernard Mednicki’s intricate memories of his courageous life history. Ken Wachsberger - author/editor/book coach extraordinaire - brings us this man’s unique narrative. “It’s his story, but I wrote it,” Wachsberger explains, clearly a feat of close listening and empathetic understanding.

From Mednicki's childhood, when his father moves the family to Belgium to escape the Russian pogroms through his marriage, his decision to pass as Christian after Hitler’s invasion of Belgium, his work with the French Resistance, and his arrival in 1947 to America (with its dramatic twist), Mednicki shares his emotion, describes the painful roadblocks, and discloses every clever survival scheme.

In Volvic, France, the description of the rats in the stable where Mednicki had to house his family caused me a sleepless night. The efforts he made to protect his sick son tore at my heart. But the tale of turning a porcupine into a rabbit and that into a rooster was a riot.

Fundamentally, this is a story of resistance which serves as a negation of the myth that Jews went to their death like lambs to the slaughter. Mednicki joined the French Resistance, spending his first night as a fighter with a group of men and women, hidden from the Nazis on top of a mountain. He managed to balance his two constant struggles: to keep his family and himself fed and to fight against the Nazis.

This is the Third Edition of this volume, a book that wants to continue to live, much like its hero Bernard Mednicki. Wachsberger is the respected writer/editor who brought it into life and who continues to nurture it, knowing that within these pages is an unusually textured picture of one Jew’s experience of facing down the fascism that defined the 20th Century. In a time when Holocaust denial and anti-Semitism are sky-rocketing, this is a reminder of why we need to start now to fight the good fight.

The Kennedy Assassination Changed Us and Changed TV

I must have been 16 on Friday, November 22, 1963, when Kennedy was assassinated. At school we were brought into the auditorium for the announcement and students and teachers alike sobbed. I cannot imagine a political figure today who could engender such a national tender reaction to their violent death (except perhaps Obama?).

Parents left work; we were sent home from school; and everyone was glued to their tvs. The Kennedys were so young and exciting compared to their predecessors Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower. They brought color and hope and style into the White House for the first time in living memory. There are parallels with the Obamas. Barack brought Blackness to the Presidency; Jack brought Catholicism, which at the time was a major breakthrough. As I made my way home from school, I saw children and adults alike crying. It was intense.

At home my parents set up the card table in the living room where we had quick meals - like hot dogs - that didn't require much time away from the television. A dazed and blood-splattered Jackie stood beside Lyndon Johnson, at his insistence, when he was sworn in as President a few hours later aboard Air Force One.

On Sunday, as Lee Harvey Oswald was being transferred from the city jail to the county jail, I saw Jack Ruby kill Lee Harvey Oswald live on tv. For all those who watched January 6th unfold live, you probably have a sense of the shock it provoked. But Ruby’s attack may have been the first act of fatal violence ever broadcast on television. It changed the way news was delivered. As a Pew Research report noted:

The nation collectively tuned in to non-stop coverage that pioneered a new form of wall-to-wall television news delivery. Veteran CBS newsman Bob Schieffer told Reuters, “The Kennedy assassination became the template for coverage,” while Newseum official Patty Rhule called it the moment when “America became a TV nation.”

It would be the start of a series of high-profile assassinations that would rock my world in the 1960s: Chaney, Goodman, & Schwerner (Freedom Summer) in 1964; Malcolm X in 1965; Che Guevara in 1967; Martin Luther King Jr and Bobby Kennedy in 1968; Fred Hampton in 1969.

Here you can see what we saw when Ruby shot Oswald.

 

Duh, MIT. You just discovered that it’s a man’s world

As I was getting out of my morning shower, NPR radio announced that MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology – one of the most prestigious universities in the country) had discovered, after exhausting research, that: “overall, the [surgical] masks fit women’s faces much less closely than they fit men’s faces.”

Instead of just asking any woman whosoever, they have developed a “sensor, which measures physical contact between the mask and the wearer’s face,” and have concluded “that the masks that we use in daily life are not very suitable for female participants.” This is headline news? I remember the happy moment that my best friend found a KN94 mask that came in small, medium, and large. I now have a stock of many dozens of mediums and they keep me safe. Up until then, fully aware that other masks did not properly fit, I double masked.

Very little that we use in daily life is suitable to women. It took me two years to find a swivel chair small enough that my feet touched the ground when my own back was touching the back of the chair. There are few upper cabinets in my apartment that I can reach without climbing a step stool, not really the smartest move for elders. I once stayed at an Airbnb in which the entire bathroom mirror was higher than my head. Those kitchen islands with the high bar stools? I can’t reach the foot bar where others rest their feet – mine remain dangling. American packaging is impossible to open without major muscle. Perhaps most annoying of all is that women’s clothing rarely has meaningful pockets.

One of the scariest results of design built around the male body is the disaster known as air bags, which seem to injure as many women as they save.

You can probably add a thousand additional examples, and feel free to do so in the comments. And yes, I know that some women are taller than most men and some men are shorter than most women. Yeah, yeah. But let’s get real.

Without hiring women designers, men will not get it right. It’s like that facial recognition software that doesn’t work on Black people. How many people of color do you think were hired for that development team? As long as all of us are not included on the ground floor, we’re going to have situations like this. How many women died of Covid because they couldn’t locate a properly fitting mask in the first years of the pandemic? I would call this violence against women by design.