There is no women’s movement in America. Ignore that teased-up feminist mystique. What we have is just a whole lot of women—moving. At random, pretty much.
Moving now around Bryant Park, where you can get mugged, drugged, and plugged with more one-stop convenience than, anyplace else in New York. This is August 26, 1980: six decades ago today women got suffrage and immediately conferred peace, good sense, and Warren G. Harding on the nation. Women 1980 make a dismal commemoration of it: 2,500 in attendance at best, less if you write off Anderson people, Socialist-Worker pamphlet men—and addicts nodding, drowsing, figuring their heroin must’ve been cut with Desenex to produce such a vapid trip. You do not sense spontaneity or joy: Bella Abzug, out on a 24-hour pass from her crypt, is not spontaneous or joyful in 1980. Women have been draft
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