There's something I know
And something I'll share
(Something that not every person out there
Knows about, thinks about, or even cares)
It's a thing that I've learned
By reason and chance
The thing is, my darlings,
That slash is like pants.

You're pondering now
And scratching your heads
And thinking I'm possibly
Off of my meds
But I stand my analogy
Right as I said.

See, back in the day
Of twenty and two,
Elizabeth Marigold Bombaster-Kerlew
Said "Pants! What a treat!
I shall wear them and twirl.
My friends will all call me
The Bohemian Girl!"

Well, they didn't, you know,
But they did call her queer.
(A word that means more
In these later years
And something our Bess
Would be shocked by, I fear.)

But Bess the truehearted
And surely true-panted,
Continued to wear them
And never recanted.
"Pants are quite comfy!
They keep out the breezes!
They show off my legs
And cover my kneeses!"

"You look like a boy,"
Said her friends and her beaus,
And many were scandalized,
And many opposed,
But some were intrigued;
There's always some, I suppose,
And soon pants were the rage.
All the ladies were wearin'
And some men were smilin'
And some men were swearin'
And some men were horrified
Seein' shorts on Aunt Karen.

And now there are shortshorts
And there are capris
And there are bell bottoms
To ring in the breeze
There are blue jeans and skorts,
And hip-hugging tighties,
And comfy sweats made for lounging
And pants for your nighties.

And no one cares.

But ...

Katherine Allison Megan Dushay
Prefers to wear skirts thoughout her long day.
She likes them dancing
Likes them still
Likes fine cottons
Likes sweet frills.

All summer long, all summer hot,
With a little shake, a breeze she's got,
And while her friends are sweating
And kind of grumpy
She's one twirl away
From cool and comfy.

"You've been oppressed,
You must be set free!
Dresses are just tools
Of the patriarchy!
Kitchen and babies and drudging await.
Won't you come join us in blue jeans, dear Kate?"

But Katie she laughs
And dances away
And doesn't listen
To what her pals say.
She thinks she's got it better anyway.

But Kate's other friends ...

"You there in your pants!
The awful things that you might do!
Come back to the skirt-wearing,
Or our god's gonna spite you!"
"Yeah? Well our god is bigger,
And is far better dressed!"
I'm sure you can see,
That would end in a mess:
Panted and skirted,
All fightin' and fussin'
And pokin' and pullin'
And flamin' and cussin'
"You shorties are whores!"
"You skirties are bores!"

It. Was. Silly.

And yet, we all do it
(Though not me and you):
We look at the Others
And we sneer and pooh-pooh.
(Okay, I'll admit it:
I pooh-pooh too.
And so do you.)

It's human, it's nature:
Seek out folks like us
And figure the Other
Has just missed the bus.
We trot out our ethics,
We trot out our sins,
We call our side liberating,
We call theirs just dim.

Except when we don't.
Except when we won't.
Except when we get past the "Should" and the "Shon't."
See, when we look down
And look at our feet
We greet something neat
Above our feet and the street:

Clothes!

We're all dressed to the nines
We're in gowns and in slacks
We're wearing grape taffeta
We're wearing deep blacks
We're in shorts and in sweats
We're in miniskirts, too,
We're in all combinations
We're in every hue.

And. We. Look. FABULOUS.

So the next time you LJ
And see that old war:
"All slashers hate women!"
"All het is a snore!"
Remind yourself, please,
That're we're all here together
And in fannish ways
We are birds of a feather.
(Many of whom
Choose to dress for the weather.)

The difference 'tween you
And that weirdo online
Is not a divide:
It's a really fine line
That no one in the Real World
Can see anyway.
They think we're the same
Whatever we say.
We're all showing our colors
We're all showing our bests
And sometimes our worsts
And also the rests.

Because? It is fun.
It is. I speak true,
And really how often have I lied to you?
(No comments from you three;
You were drunk that night too.)

Slash is like pants,
No more and no less,
It's neither more nor less moral
Than wearing a dress.
Sometimes it is hard:
Can two truths be believed?
I ask: does your butt show?
No? Then mission achieved.
(For you gents, this is harder.
But life? Is not fair.)
Be grateful: we could be
*pooh-pooh voice*
Like those nudists over there.