You think you can just tell me to “make [you] a sandwich?”
I’m disgusted by the institution-endorsed entitlement of Wesleyan boys like you, whose woefully inadequate sandwiches have led to the creation of the godforsaken Usdan deli station to which I have been assigned.
“Make me a sandwich” is a phrase loaded with connotations. It is a trigger word in my personal history, and in the history of female oppression. When Catherine of Aragon was asked to make a sandwich, she punched Gregory de Casale in the scrotum. Virginia Woolf was once asked to make a sandwich and she waded into a river —
Hey, come back here!
I have repeatedly asked the Usdan staff to reposition me so that I will never again hear a male deliver this infernal command. But at the panini press they derided me with calls of “Squeeze it good!” At the Mongolian Grill, they shouted, “Char my meat!” The Grazin’ station was okay, butI didn’t particularly like standing in that part of the kitchen. So here I am at the sandwich station, and my contract stipulates that I am “not licensed to cut bread,” so do not even think about asking.
Despite his role in the phallocentric technocracy, perhaps I should make like Harry Truman and “get out of the kitchen.” But alas, I am a female, and so eternally damned to stand here.