While I don't condone violence at all, I have seen a few acts of feminist vengeance exacted in self-defense (especially as a brand new lesbian in my early 20s) that could accurately be called glorious.
I'll spare you the details, but the girls responsible were almost always Bad News Babes, and they looked it: worn leather black as pitch, viciously lined eyes, steel-toed boots and crimson lips. They had on torn fishnets and chipped nail polish and wherever there was clothing on their bodies, it was littered with DIY spikes and studs.
It wasn't just a look; it was the blood seething in their veins during a decade when George W. Bush was king, it was the post-punk and dark wave-drenched music scene in San Francisco, it was going to the Dyke March and having to deal with wasted dudes dropping their trousers in front of you and taunting your girl gang in Dolores Park on a rare and perfect sunny Saturday afternoon, effing with your vibe.
Bad News Babes weren't asking for trouble, they were warning it to stay the bloody hell away from them.
Especially on their own turf. You did not want to mess with a Bad News Babe on her own turf.
That agency - something girls like me weren't and still aren't taught, sadly - combined with their rough but potent and unflinching femininity, was profoundly powerful to me.
They looked the way I felt inside. They rubbed off on me.
They taught me the first rule of femme is Don't you ever ask permission for a goddamn thing ever again. And once I learned that, all bets were off.
So this week's Qwearly Dashing is dedicated to all the Bad News Babes out there. I see you, and you're f*cking awesome.