Cinderella and the Glass Ceiling

by Laura Lane

  Mulan was furious—she knew a man wouldn’t be guilt-tripped like this. Men who asked to get paid more were seen as ambitious, while women were viewed as materialistic. Mulan didn’t have time for this double standard.

  She thought about the reasons to stay at the job: it wasn’t like she could join some other army, and also her troops had planned a fun flash mob for lunch tomorrow.

  But on the other hand, this was dragon dung.

  “I understand—” said Mulan.

  “I thought you would,” replied General Li.

  “I understand that I am worth what I’ve asked you for. I’m putting in my resignation today. Thank you for your time.”

  And with that, she packed up her sword, suits of armor, and secret candy stash and went home.

  This wasn’t about her. Most women didn’t have the option of quitting their job to stand up for what they believed in, because they had bills to pay. This was for them and for future generations of women and women pretending to be men.

  The army went to war without Mulan’s courage, leadership, and Hula-Hooping prowess, and after a few battles, they were losing badly and their hips were stiff. After one particularly devastating fight, Mulan got another knock at the door. It was General Li, sheepishly shuffling his feet.

  “Listen, we need you back. And this time I’ll pay you what you asked for. Also, have I mentioned I’ve added green tea on tap in the mess hall?”

  “I don’t drink caffeine,” said Mulan, stone-faced.

  “I also moved the entire army to equal pay.”

  “Now that’s something I drink. It’s about time!”

  Mulan returned to the army and helped China defeat the enemy while riding her brand-new nonsqueaky chariot.

  At the end of the war, Mulan sat down with General Li.

  “Amazing job!” he exclaimed. “You really are worth every penny. And can you believe we won both wars? China’s War and the Equal Pay War!”

  “Oh no, honey, we haven’t even started the second war.”

  “Come again?”

  “There’s the larger issue of the gender pay gap,” said Mulan. “Even with equal pay, if women are being held back from promotions, they’ll still make significantly less than men overall. I’m the only female lieutenant general in the army, which is great for mirror space in the bathroom, but not great for equality.”

  Mulan went on to fight the hardest battle she’d ever fought: the systemic problems behind the gender pay gap. She rode throughout the country helping women negotiate their salaries, encouraging young women to enter higher-paying careers, tearing down the barriers to education, fixing the lack of paid family leave, and teaching everyone how to do a fishtail braid.

  The Battle for Mulan’s Moola had just begun…

  THE END

  NEVER, NEVER MAN

  NCE UPON A TIME…

  There lived the Darling family and their three children: Wendy, John, and the youngest and most photographed, Michael. The three children shared a nursery together where they would read stories, play checkers, and practice sewing, because that’s what kids did before they stared at screens.

  One night after one of Wendy’s stories, she relayed some bad news to her siblings.

  “John, Michael, tonight is my last night in the nursery. I won’t be able to tell any more stories,” she said. “Mom and Dad say I have to grow up. I get my own room, which sounds really cool except this means I’m one step closer to having to do my own taxes.”

  Just then, a boy in green clothing and a strange pointy hat with a feather flew into the nursery and announced: “No more stories? I don’t think so! You’ll come with me to Neverland, where you’ll never grow up! Oh, and by the way, I’m Peter Pan.”

  “So fun! I’ll grab our passports,” said Wendy, who for some reason didn’t think it was at all bizarre for a boy she had never met to fly in through the window.

  Suddenly, a tiny fairy burst into the nursery, also in green clothing and with a perfectly messy topknot that looked casual but took a good twenty minutes to do. She flew around the room, circling above the Darlings’ heads while making a loud bell noise.

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “What is that shrill bell?” asked Wendy.

  “Oh, that’s Tinker Bell. You can’t understand what she’s saying, because she speaks Neverland language, like I do,” explained Peter Pan. “But don’t worry, I can translate.”

  “Wonderful!” said Wendy. “I want to know what she’s saying.”

  “I hope she can vouch for this stranger who has come into our nursery,” said John, but no one listened to him, because everyone ignores the middle child.

  Little Michael nodded. He couldn’t talk yet.

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “Kids, do not come!” said Tinker Bell, in her Neverland language, which sounded like if every doorbell in your neighborhood went off at the same time. “This guy is a creep. He’s been sitting in your window at night, listening to your stories and staring at you. For months.”

  The children looked up at Peter Pan, waiting for him to translate.

  “Um, yeah, so… she says you should come to Neverland and you will love it,” Peter lied.

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “Peter, that’s not what I said!” said Tink, flying madly around the children’s heads. “Wendy, you are not the first girl he’s brought to Neverland. The others haven’t come back. Ever wonder what happened to that girl Seraphina who lived down the street? She didn’t move away. She got captured by a pirate and then got eaten by a crocodile!”

  But the children couldn’t understand her. All they heard were bells.

  “She can’t wait for you to meet the friendly crocodile,” said Peter Pan.

  “What she said was a lot longer,” said John, but no one heard him, because he was born three years after Wendy and six years before Michael.

  “What she said was a lot longer,” said Wendy.

  Tinker Bell breathed a sigh of relief. They were starting to catch on.

  “Neverland language is long. That’s why it can never be subtitled in movies. ‘Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding’ means ‘bread.’ Linguistics, am I right?” said Peter. “Anyway, you’ll come with me to Neverland and never come back home again!”

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “Girl, he’s not lying about the last part,” said Tink. “If he says, ‘Second star from the right and straight on ’til morning’ get out of there. That’s his line. And it’s not even a good one.”

  Tinker Bell pulled at Peter Pan’s clothes, trying to usher him toward the window to leave.

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “Time to go, buddy,” she said.

  “Why is she trying to get you to leave?” asked John. But nobody heard him, because he was born neither first nor third in the succession of the Darling children.

  “Why is she trying to get you to leave?” asked Wendy.

  “Okay, I really didn’t want to make this awkward, but I suppose I should just be honest with you. I didn’t tell her there’d be another girl here,” said Peter. “And you know how needy women can get.”

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “Needy?” cried Tinker Bell. “You’re the one who needs my dust to fly! And for the record, you said you were going bowling.”

  She flew around in circles and began to tear up.

  “She is so emotional and hormonal,” said Peter to the children as he led them toward the window.

  Ding, ding, ding!

  “Emotional?” cried Tinker Bell. “Yes, I am emotional! Wanna know why? I am trying to stop you from kidnapping these children.”

  Tinker Bell pulled at Wendy’s hair, trying to steer them back toward the center of the room and away from the window. Pulling hair is typically done by playground bullies, unless you’re a small fairy trying to save a young girl and her siblings from being abducted by a dude in tights.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” cried W
endy. “She’s pulling my hair!”

  “Now she’s telling me she’s jealous of you, because you’re her competition,” said Peter Pan. “She thinks you’re trying to steal her man. That’s me. I’m a man. Sorta.”

  Ding, ding, ding!

  Tinker Bell looked deep into Wendy’s eyes hoping she would understand.

  “Wendy, he’s trying to pit us against each other,” said Tinker Bell. “Women have been conditioned to believe that other women are out to get them. We’re told there is only one slot for a woman at the top and you need to compete against other women to claim it. But that isn’t true. Girl, I’m trying to help you!”

  “She says your nightgown makes you look fat,” said Peter.

  Wendy gasped. Peter Pan yanked Tinker Bell over to the side of the nursery, out of the children’s earshot.

  “You need to chill. I’m 1,400 years old. I can do whatever the fuck I want! And what I want is to bring these kids to Neverland. Get with the program!”

  Tears streamed down Tinker Bell’s face. She didn’t think there was any way she could convince the Darling children not to come to Neverland. They’d soon be stuck in a place with vicious reptiles, racist portrayals of Native Americans, and a poor excuse for sleeping arrangements.

  The children’s eyes tick-tocked back and forth between the distressed fairy and the irate man-child screaming at her. This was not the look of a jealous girl. This was the look of someone who had your back.

  “I think he’s lying,” said John.

  “I think he’s lying,” whispered tiny Michael, speaking for the first time in his life.

  “You can talk!” said Wendy. “Also, I think you’re right, Michael.”

  “Oh, come on! That was a whisper. Why can’t anyone hear me?” said John.

  Wendy looked at Tinker Bell and noticed she was motioning toward the window. The fairy had a plan and Wendy understood exactly what it was. Wendy locked eyes with Tinker Bell, saying silently, “I got you.” Tinker Bell nodded back.

  “Follow Tink’s lead,” Wendy whispered to her siblings before walking over to Peter Pan.

  “Peter, do we have to bring her with us?” said Wendy coyly. “Couldn’t we perhaps leave her behind?”

  Peter’s eyes lit up.

  “Wendy, you’re right!” said Peter, giving Tinker Bell a cruel glare. “We can leave her here.”

  Peter took Wendy’s hand and led her toward their fourth-floor window.

  “Come on, Wendy, off we go!” said Peter triumphantly. “Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning. We’re off to Neverlaaaaaaaand!”

  But before they jumped into the sky, Wendy let go of his hand. They both teetered on the window sill. Wendy’s siblings and Tinker Bell yanked her nightgown and pulled her back inside the room. Peter windmilled his arms ready to fly, but with no dust, gravity took hold.

  “You forgot about my fairy dust!” yelled Tinker Bell as Peter Pan fell four stories below. His skull smashed against the cobblestones and bits of his brains and blood splattered on the Darling family’s front stoop.

  The two brothers looked down, horrified.

  “Well, boys. That’s why you shouldn’t lie to women,” said Wendy. “And why I keep telling Mom and Dad we need child-safety window guards.”

  THE END

  BEAUTY AND THE BEAST & THE OTHER KIDNAPPED WOMEN YOU HAVEN’T HEARD ABOUT

  NCE UPON A TIME…

  There lived a confident and bright young white woman named Belle. She lived in a small town in the French countryside with her kind, directionally challenged, and balding father. In fairy tales, bald guys are either evil villains or loveable doofuses. Belle’s dad was the latter. Belle was loved by the town for both her friendliness (she said “Bonjour!” to everyone) and her smarts (she was the only one in town who could read a clock).

  One day her father got lost in the woods. He found himself on the grounds of a castle owned by a beast and was taken prisoner for trespassing.

  Who was this luxury property–owning beast? Well, years ago, an enchantress decided to test a prince’s character by disguising herself as a beggar and asking to stay the night in his castle during a storm. The Prince refused, and as punishment the enchantress turned him into a beast, making his exterior look like his interior: ghastly and grisly, with ingrown toenails.

  Another part of the curse was that all of his staff was turned into animated household objects. Because if there’s one thing selfish rich men in power are good at, it’s sinking the whole ship with them.

  When Belle’s father didn’t return, she searched for him, found the castle, and became prisoner in exchange for her father. A popular buff bro in town tried to rescue her, but she rejected him and decided to live with the beast instead because she wasn’t into butt chins. We know this is complicated, but stories from the 1700s are very plot-heavy.

  But did you know there’s a part of the fairy tale you haven’t heard? You see, this wasn’t the only prince this happened to. The enchantress tested multiple princes in the kingdom and those who didn’t let her stay the night were also cursed. Soon there were many castles run by beasts, full of talking furniture. Apparently entitled asshole princes were a systemic problem in the kingdom.

  And here’s the thing about beasts: they have pretty kidnappy vibes. The beasts captured anyone who stumbled on their grounds, which meant any woman out for an adventure, a nice jog, or a new place to get a brew.

  There were a lot of women being abducted, but you’ve probably only heard of one: that pretty white woman named Belle. So we’re going to tell a tale about one of the other missing women. The reason you haven’t heard this story? As it turns out, kidnapping coverage in fairy tales is just as skewed as kidnapping coverage in modern day media.

  NCE UPON ANOTHER TIME…

  There lived a daring and intelligent young black woman named Jamila, who lived in the French countryside with her generous mother, tenacious father, and sweet younger brother. Jamila was captain of the town’s archery team and currently had an apprenticeship with a gingerbread house architect.

  While out for a jog one day, she took a new route and stumbled upon what she thought was a really beautiful botanical garden. Unfortunately, it was the front yard of a castle owned by a beast named Victor (formally known as Prince Victor Edward George Charles William Albert Henry John Phillip Archie VIII).

  Victor Beast dragged Jamila back to his castle and locked her in a room in the dungeon. Typical basic beast shit.

  “You can never return home!” he said, which seemed like an obvious point for a kidnapper to make.

  After a few days of eating stale crumpets and drinking chalky water, Jamila was really hungry. Fortunately, a few of the household objects snuck down to the dungeon to bring Jamila some better food, including a bag of candy, a bottle of ketchup, and generic-brand potato chips. The Beast was a bachelor and his chef was currently a cheese grater so this was as good as it got.

  Jamila befriended the objects, which included a Succulent (the former gardener), a Bar Cart (the former bartender), and a Doormat (a former door-to-door salesman named Mat who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time).

  It was hard for the Bar Cart to stealthily sneak downstairs to visit Jamila since she was fully stocked and wheels and stairs don’t go together. But luckily Victor Beast shaved his back hair every afternoon with an extremely loud Razor (the former barber), which gave the Bar Cart enough cover to bang down the stairs. Even though Victor was a gnarly beast, he was still a vain, prissy prince.

  Jamila hoped someone would come and save her soon, but it was nice to have company while she waited.

  Meanwhile, back in town, Jamila’s family was desperate to bring attention to her kidnapping. But there was one problem: it was impossible to get the media on board.

  The latest headlines from Town Weekly, Good Morning Kingdom, and Pheasant and Friends were about one woman and one woman only:

  BELLE MISSING! UNRELATED: CHURCH BELL STOLEN!


  WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO THE BELLE OF THE BALL?

  BEAUTY NO LONGER IN EYE OF THE BEHOLDER OR ANYONE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER! WHERE IS SHE?

  “This is complete BS!” said Jamila’s mother as she tossed the newspapers to the ground in frustration. “It’s classic missing white woman syndrome. A cute, young, middle-class white lady goes missing and the media goes into a frenzy.”

  “Where’s the coverage of our girl?” asked her father.

  “Here’s Jamila!” exclaimed her younger brother, pointing to a small sidebar in a tabloid called Shooting Star.

  Jamila’s father grabbed the issue and read the caption:

  “Also missing: Jamila. Last seen out for a jog in tiny shorts and a sports bra. She was probably hanging with the wrong crowd and putting herself in danger. A source says she once befriended a gremlin.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” yelled her mother. “Victim-blaming an innocent kidnapped woman?”

  “That’s it!” said her brother. “We’re going down to the newsroom. Come on!”

  Knock knock knock!

  “What the hell?!” shouted Jamila’s dad, once the editor opened the door. “You barely gave Jamila any coverage—or any of the missing women of color, for that matter!”

  “Look, buddy, we cover what sells. I can’t help it if people read what they want to read,” said the editor.

  “That’s such a bullshit excuse,” said her mother. “You are the media! It is your responsibility to tell people what’s important. Giving these women less coverage reinforces a racial hierarchy and puts less pressure on authorities to solve the case.”

  “Ma’am, it’s a tough industry. If I cover a story no one’s interested in, the advertisers will flee. I can’t help what people in the middle kingdom want to read.”

  “Have you ever considered that if you consistently cover more diverse stories, it would signal the importance of those stories and interest will follow?” challenged her father. “Or let me guess, none of your reporters want to cover the story, because you run a newsroom filled with white knights who only write about white nobles.”