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Confessions of a Pomona Soft Boy


My name is Daniel Horowitz and I am the head of Pomona’s Men In Charge of Helping Women Help Themselves and The Straight White Male Philosophy Club Leading Women Today for Tomorrow. As a member of an underrepresented minority at Pomona— the school is 51% women and 49% men according to hard data— my voice is as important as ever here at the Claremont Colleges when it comes to feminist thought on campus. Incited to action by the recent revelations of sexual harassment across the nation, and the discontinuation of my favorite Kielh’s For Men moisturizer, I am forced to reconcile with the inequity between the genders in this country. I write this today, with a sunken heart, and heavy lungs, due to the exorbitant number of hand rolled artisan cigarettes it took for me to steady my quaking hands while writing this.

I have long been a student of Hemingway, a lover of Kerouac and Fitzgerald. From a young age my teachers could sense my burgeoning intellect and encouraged my inner autodidact. Even as young as eight, my first grade teacher Miss Jackson recognized my genius. Coincidentally, every girl I’ve ever dated has not lived up to her image. But as a result of my self immersion in early 20th century American literature, I think my eloquence and lyricism will burst through the clutter — the same way the last Atlantic article I shared on Facebook helped lead the resistance. But, I digress. What I’m here to talk about is how to help women. Some of my favorite people are women, like my mom Carol. I felt neglected by her as a child because she was the only mother who worked in my upper-middle-class suburb of New York (where by the way, the hard data says: 53% women, 47% men), and now I still feel-inadequate-around-women-who-won’t-devote-all-of-their-time-and-attention-to-me-which-actually-makes-me-have-unrealistic-and-controlling-relationship-expectations-but I know she’ll always take care of me because she pays for my fluff and fold out of guilt. She’s such an incredible woman. We all came from women, and if women can raise such wonderful men then we definitely shouldn’t undervalue them as a society.

I’d like to stand-up with all of my fellow male feminists— in our ‘This is What a Feminist Looks Like’ shirts and our Scripps College hats, worn ironically unironically— and say that we support every woman on campus and we all have so much to learn. Not me, obviously, but sometimes it gets tiring interrupting women in my classes to explain to them that Beyoncé isn’t actually a feminist icon because she panders to the male gaze with her provocative outfits and lyrics. That’s a form of emotional labor, and I think I should be compensated for it. I mean she’s a mother. She needs to dial it back. If women want men to respect them, they need to respect themselves. I learned that by watching Mean Girls in 2012. Thanks Tina Fey. I didn’t really like the movie. I thought it was a little shallow and unoriginal. There’s a reason all the best movies are made by men— Tarantino, Kubrick, Hitchcock. But it was an important part of my journey into understanding how women work and their sly and fickle maneuverings.

In short, I’d like to make a formal apology on behalf of all those bad men. They’re all hopped up on toxic masculinity and not in touch with their more feminine and self-flanneled side. My parents say I’ll probably age out of this phase, and grow up to cut off women in the workplace and commit low level forms of sexual harassment toward my personal assistant, but for right now I’m content with lurking behind groups of girls on the dance floor and making fake instagram accounts to try to follow my ex-girlfriend who blocked me six times. In conclusion, if you’re not speaking out, you’re part of the problem.

Love your favorite man-child,



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