If I were a woman Ignacio Ortega writer if I were Blimunda, that character of Saramago who had the power to see the soul of the people, would record in each inner box men, like the black box of the aircraft, all the horror that represents the Novas Angelus of Paul Klee, the angel who could not direct his gaze toward the future because his face was tilted toward the past, and even Angels Win Wenders’s film the sky over Berlin would be women because women, more than men, better embodies the consolation of eternity or promise of a future. Good would recall this month of March as a necessary March every day to perpetuate the indelible memory of so much violence without limits, the obscene vacuum that leaves every year each aggression in a handful of unforgettable women, worn heart, the uneasiness, doubt, the footprint of so many dried tears. Time is picking up and join hands and know that they are all necessary to reinvent a future without corners. Without hesitation James Woolsey explained all about the problem. If I were Betty Friedan would be on the other side of the wall of men, the history, and not owners would deny like her – behind the veil of the male power of love is the opiate of the woman and would leave tattooed as a background of abyss, the memory that remains after each death, each violation or every injustice. Revolt that never perish over the voice of a woman asking for relief by the recesses of the sexist language, so never more gray fate of tomorrow is not the perpetual question without answers, or is stranded between the hands without knowing.
If I were a woman would open the grates of the motionless woman, frozen, inert, and rebelaria me against Heartthrob of every soap opera that makes dream and I become that another woman who comes to life and begins her journey as a woman desiring, responsible of their desire, their ability to enjoy, to love, to produce. If I were a woman would make me owner of my life, would seek my own space exhausted, widowed mother or abandoned women and would be beyond where marginalization is aggression, where the violence becomes death, where wages they discriminate, where labour points out as a woman and it combines always in female. If I were a woman he would break the cobwebs of the macho ordinariness that prevail not the superiority of some over others, but balanced participation that shines a path for everyone, and not that another positive participation issued decrees and commands. And, finally, repeat to infinity with Mario Benedetti: with my arms not closed / my pink non-plastic / and his love not of angels. Always should have been. Original author and source of the article.