I wonder how many of us hold, deep inside, a terrible fear of flying monkeys. I blame the annual ritual of watching the televised version of the Wizard of Oz.
There was something particularly horrifying about those flying monkeys. As a child I judged them to be the scariest thing I had ever beheld. They inhabited my nightmares. It wasn’t just that they bore a malevolent, wicked grimace on their nasty-looking faces; I was terrified by the way they moved. My fear of them was very specific: I hated that little bounce-leap movement they made just before becoming airborn. And those wings! The way they flapped was terrifying.
As much as I hated those flying monkeys, I adored the good witch. Ahhhh, Glinda. She was so lovely in her sparkling dress and long wavy hair. When she spoke in her melodic tones, I swooned. I fell hard for Glinda; she was my first crush. Never mind that she was a fictional character. At seven years old I didn’t know, or care, about such details.
Recently my sister-in-law, who has a quirky sense of humor, told me that she has a sign in her house that reads, “Don’t make me call the flying monkeys!” I need to have a sign like that. The sentiment is a perfect way for me to communicate, “You have pushed me too far. Shape up or I will bring down on your head the most terrible creatures I can imagine.” The very idea that, now that I’m grown up, I could actually control and direct those flying monkeys fills me with a sense of empowerment.
So watch out, all homophobic, misogynistic, patriarchal power mongers. You have pushed me too far. I’ve got flying monkeys, and I’m not afraid to use them.
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