I truly do not know if I’m emotionally mature enough to handle season two of The Handmaid’s Tale.
I mean, the book blew me away a million years ago, when I read it for the first time. I did not expect the badassery that was season one.
Season two, I was certain, would necessarily be a letdown. Who could keep up that pace and level of delivery, after all?
And the first episode, after the opening? I was pretty sure I was right on that count.
Episode three knocked my ass out.
And now I’m ten minutes into episode four and I truly cannot recall the last time I have been simultaneously quite so giddy with anticipation while also so abjectly apprehensive and nauseated.
The depictions of hopelessness and trauma are hard to match. They’re almost triggering, at times.
But I’m so invested.
I just wish it didn’t seen so possible. And I hope that every man watching the series is getting even a fraction of the fragile nature of the rights they take for granted.
The reality is that we are still on tenuous ground. Things like the incel movement are real.
Male entitlement remains well-entrenched and legitimized, not to mention and well-represented in the nation’s highest office.
Hell. I was raised in a church that taught “the divine submission of woman to man.”
As a little girl, that is what I grew up hearing. Is it any wonder I grew up thinking that I enjoyed less than full ownership of my own body?
Give me a break.
I cannot watch this show and not get angry as hell. But June – do not call her Offred in front of me if you don’t want an earful – gives me hope.
That defiance is exactly what we need most in the world. And although there are days where I want to kill that same look in my daughter’s eyes, when it’s directed at me, and when it’s unguided and being fired off willy-nilly, at useless things because they have not yet learned to pick their battles and concentrate the beams of those laser stares at actual issues worth digging in their heels for…I cannot help but hope that I never, ever succeed.
Because seeing June broken at the end of tonight’s episode? The “my fault,” and the “we’ve been sent good weather,” shit? Saddest part of the entire show so far.
My heart broke.
I’m going to need to see Aunt Lydia and the fucking Waterfords brought to hell, though.
Those three are the devil.
Because I don’t have enough anxiety. This is exactly what good storytelling is supposed to do.
God, I’m jealous of these writers.