Dear Dave....

My father always said, if everyone loves what you're doing, then you're doing something wrong. He used to write for the Star Tribune. Because he wrote about race a lot, he got death threats from time to time. That's back when people actually mailed other people letters. He found them amusing. I found them scary.

Once I went to his house in Eden-Tonka-Burry-Prairie (my father is lily white suburbia's #1 fan) and a package was left in his mailbox. He calmly told my brother and I to go inside the house while he carried the brown paper bundle like it was a sleeping muskrat to the end of the driveway.

"Dad...what are you doing?" I hollered at him from the front porch.

"Stay inside!" He yelled, not taking his eyes off the package.

I can't remember what ended up being in there but it was like an unnecessarily large welcome package from AARP or something. My father returned to the house with a sweat-stache and explained that he hadn't ordered anything and was naturally concerned it was a bomb.

Naturally.

But people don't take too kindly to someone who writes about institutional racism. Apparently, they also don't appreciate the memories of a girl who once kicked dudes in the balls when she was a child.

I logged into my account a few months ago and found a series of comments waiting for me to moderate them. They were all from the same person - let's call him Dave, which is probably his name anyway. Dave's comments started off just sort of grumpy ("That's not a very nice thing to do") and quickly snowballed into some serious psychotic shit ("You should be shot. All women should be shot."). In between A and Crazy, Dave asked me if I was aware of my misandry.

That's when I realized who Dave is.

When I worked for the Minnesota Coalition Against Sexual Assault, we were part of the annual rally at the capitol known as Violence Against Women Action Day. The idea was to bring awareness to the issue of domestic and sexual violence lest the lawmakers forget that it's a thing. Every year, when we arrived to set up, there would be a handful of men standing on the steps of the capitol or just inside the door, holding little signs they'd written on pieces of cardboard and handing out poorly written, rambling manifestos that called for an end to the persecution of men.

These dudes were always the same dudes: totally nondescript in every way except for the fact that they had zero fight in them. Like wet noodles they were, not speaking, not looking anyone in the eye but wanting you to take them seriously.

I realize it's hard to stop whacking off to porn in your mother's basement and come out into the sun, but for crying out loud, make your case. Explain to me why you're at a rally that's intended to bring awareness to the issue of men beating and killing women asking me to stop blaming men. Isn't your very presence an acknowledgement that there's a problem?

Now, Dave, it might be hard for you to distinguish between a pile of goo and a woman, but it's not difficult for me to distinguish between a man who is a sadistic shithead and a man who is not. Does the fact that I found it hilarious to kick a boy in the nuts when I was 8 years old and knew nothing of biology or what harm I might be causing mean I hate men? No. Do your death threats mean that you're a sadistic shithead? Yes.

And by the way...you have nothing. to. complain. about. The fact that things don't always work out for you is not the fault of the female gender, Dave. Maybe your failings in life are the result of your twisted mind. Perhaps you can't hold a job because you're socially incapable. Maybe you've never had a girlfriend because there's something wrong with you.

If I could be a middle class white heterosexual male for 24 hours - oh, the things I would do! I'd get married in every state. I'd be taken seriously in all retail establishments. I'd apply for every credit card I could find. I would go to clubs in an Ed Hardy t-shirt with my big watch and have a scotch on the rocks (ever tried to order a scotch on the rocks when you're a woman of color? It doesn't work). And I would pee everywhere. Everywhere.

So relax, Dave. Have a scotch on the rocks. And maybe call a therapist.