It is an odd thing to have spent my entire life standing up for women only to see transsexuals now claim to be women, represent women and speak for women. How can we women allow ourselves to be denigrated this way?

Have we not successfully fought for the rights to vote, own property, use birth control, say no to sex, fair education, work, equal wages, maternity benefits, childbirth choices, public nursing, divorce, custody of our children, social security, retirement benefits, scientific studies on unique effects of diseases on women, available supplies for menenstruation, studies on pregnancy and menopause issues, religious ministerial opportunities and burial rights? How can a dysmorphic man understand these uniquely feminine experiences better than women?

Dressing in drag no more gives a man a woman's true perspective than wearing blackface gives the perspective of a person of color. They are not equivalent, nor should they be. Both are offensive.

Even the dysmorphic who choose recent surgical and hormonal medical interventions have not earned the right to claim a woman's experience. They have not bled up to a week twelve times a year (or more) for forty years or so. They don't understand the cramping and breast tenderness, leaky menstral blood embarrassing moments, how to insert a tampon or the suffering of uterine fibroid tumors or cancer.

They don't know the awkwardness of putting feet in stirrups and receiving gynecological exams every year with a near stranger forcing our vaginas open with an instrument, then shoving their hand inside us. They don't understand the mashing of breasts in vises by strangers for annual mammograms either, or the fear when doctors say they saw something concerning and want us to come back for a biopsy, or surgery, or chemo and radiation.

They don't understand the fears and responsibilities of pregnancy, the quickening of a baby moving within our bodies or the gut punch of labor every interval for hours on end, even days. They will never fathom the sheer force and pain, blood and waters released in childbirth, or the miracle of life exiting such a tiny orifice that stretches just enough. And when it doesn't, they have no idea of the terror of emergency cesarean section as our organs are lifted out of our bodies so the doctor can cut out our children while we lie there awake, watching. They don't feel the devestation when something goes wrong and a dead fetus is pulled out from inside us, sometimes in pieces.

They don't know the letting down reflex of milk in our breasts when we hear our child cry either. They don't know the pain of clogged milk ducts or the pain of strapping down our breasts so we can wean our children.

How can they understand our suffering menopause, hot flashes, cravings and urges? They don't know how it feels to choose to allow a man to enter our bodies to impregnate us, to take that leap of faith and risk our lives doing it. We suffer through nine months of vomiting and stretching and protecting a fetus from all things and experience birth only to be willing to do it again every time we bring a life into this world.

They don't know about stretch marks, varicose veins, loose vaginas and urinary issues after giving birth. They don't feel the challenge of recovery after a pregnancy, post-partum depression, substantial weight gain and loss in just a few months, and lack of confidence afterward when our bodies are so changed and our breasts sag. They don't know the fear of pregnancy after rape, or the shame of not wanting that child but also wanting that child and having to make tough choices. They don't feel the vulnerability of pregnancy and dependency on a partner to care for us, and for our children, even if we die in childbirth and the baby lives.

Men will never know these things. Not even if they wear make-up and put on a dress and heels. That is artifice. Empathy for the dysmorphic seeking opportunities and rights is one thing. Handing them the title of woman and all it represents is another. We fought our battles and won many of them. But our journey is not their journey.

They don't speak for women. At least they don't speak for me. We are not interchangeable, and never will be. Don't call us breeders or people who menenstruate, pregnant people or birthers. It's insulting. We are girls, wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, and grandmothers but most of all, we are women. The miracle of life flows through our internal waters. We have the ovaries to prove it.