Don't Make the Boy Sweep, That's Women's Work
A manifesto from the Old Loafer on the broom, the stake, and the invisible woman
There are phrases heard in childhood that lodge in the chest like a splinter that aches with every movement. One of those woke me in the early morning, like a cry from another time: "Don't make the boy sweep, that's women's work."
I lay there with my eyes open in the dark, thinking about everything that sentence carries. It is not the simple order of an ignorant old man. It is a fossil. It is the whole "plague" packed into a kitchen phrase. There you find machismo, classism, and discrimination, squeezed into a single line, like three poisons distilled over centuries.
Machismo spits first. Sweeping is women's work, it says. As if woman were an inferior caste, born for what man refuses to touch. They teach the boy that being a man means being above. And the girl, that her place is the floor.
Classism is second. Sweeping is for the poor, for maids, for those at the bottom. It is unworthy work, work that dirties the hands, not for "decent people." And so the "plague" plants in the child the idea that a person's worth is measured by their trade, not by their soul.
Discrimination is the final sentence. Woman is not only inferior for being a woman: her work is also inferior. She is doubly despised. She is the last link in a chain called contempt.
And I ask myself: what kind of world have we built on such a lie?
The Invisible Woman
Because we must speak of the invisible woman. The one who does not appear in books, nor in statues, nor in lists of the "important." The one who rises before the sun, lights the stove, packs the schoolbags, cools the fever, listens to silences, cries in secret so as not to worry.
The one who earns no salary, takes no vacation, receives no medals. The one who sweeps, cooks, washes, raises, and at the end of the day, lies down without anyone saying: "Thank you, rest."
That woman is the one who has held up the world. While men played at war, she sowed peace in the kitchen. While they wrote treatises, she taught her children to speak. While they divided the spoils, she shared the bread.
Woman is the backbone of humanity. And without her, everything collapses.
The Stake of Wisdom
And that is why the history of woman is a history of fire. Because the wise woman was called a witch. And they burned her.
The church did not burn witches. It burned knowledge. It burned love. It burned tenderness. It burned relief for all ills.
Those women had no pact with the devil: they had a pact with life. They were the healers, the midwives, the ones who knew the herbs to lower fever, to calm pain, to bring children into the world. They were the doctors of the poor in a world where the doctor was a privilege of the rich.
And they were killed for exactly that. Because their knowledge was counterpower. Because a woman who knows how to heal does not need to kneel before the priest or pay the apothecary. The alliance of throne and altar saw in them a threat. And turned them into scapegoats: "witches."
They burned them, hanged them, tortured them. Not for being demonic, but for being wise. And as the flames consumed the healer, centuries of knowledge turned to ash. Botany, natural medicine, popular gynecology... everything was delayed. Science was delayed. Art was delayed. The progress of the world was delayed.
And the most terrible thing is the reason: fear and envy. Man intoxicated by machismo could not bear that a woman knew more than he did, that she held a power born not of the sword, but of life. That is why he called them witches. Because it was easier to burn them than to learn from them.
These angels were far superior to us men. And for that superiority, the stake. Because it is difficult to accept that woman is the one who holds up the sky when man falls. Because it is difficult to accept that the hand that rocks the cradle is the one that stops the chaos.
The Wounded Bird
And of course, the exceptions are few. There are women who, after so much cage, upon escaping do not sing: they beat their wings with rage, with revenge. And I understand them. Because when a bird spends too long locked up, when they steal its sky and force silence upon it, freedom, when it comes, is not always celebrated with serenity.
That is not a defect of woman: it is the wound of the cage. The "plague" does not only imprison; it sows the pain it later calls "defect." And even so, the exceptions are few. Most wounded women do not become executioners: they become mothers who break the chain, grandmothers who mend what is torn, daughters who do not repeat the contempt.
Because woman is not born vengeful: she becomes vengeful when too much is stolen from her. And even then, she chooses bread.
The Prostitute and the Executioner
And it must be said, however uncomfortable: the prostitution of woman is, in its majority, a wound caused by man. I do not speak of the woman who sells herself by whim; I speak of the one pushed by hunger, by abuse, by indifference. Behind every prostituted woman there is a man who pays, a system that uses her, and a society that points at her.
The "plague" turned woman's body into the oldest and most tormented merchandise. And today, with the "Religion of the Algorithm," it exploits her with new tools: pornography, digital trafficking, loneliness. Woman is not the sin; she is the mirror in which machismo looks at itself without shame.
That is why, when you teach your son not to despise the broom, teach him also not to buy the body. Because he who buys a woman's body also buys her soul. And a woman's soul has no price. It has memory.
The Colossi Without Permission
And yet, despite everything, there are women who broke the cage. Hypatia of Alexandria, philosopher and mathematician, dismembered by a fanatical mob. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, the nun who defied the Inquisition with her pen. Olympe de Gouges, who wrote the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and died on the guillotine. Frida Kahlo, who turned pain into color. Malala, the girl who won a Nobel for defending education. Rigoberta Menchú, the voice of those without a microphone. Rosa Parks, the seamstress who refused to give up her seat and ignited a revolution. Joan of Arc, the peasant girl who led armies and was burned alive.
But there are also the anonymous ones: the grandmother who shared bread, the mother who raised without a voice, the wife who sustains without a crown. Those are the true backbone of humanity. The "plague" silenced them, but did not defeat them.
Because tenderness is the revolution that does not surrender.
The Hope of the Old Loafer
And now, the question: what do we do with the broom?
The broom is not a symbol of submission; it is a symbol of dignity. Because cleaning is an act of love: we clean what we love, we care for what we inhabit.
When I teach my grandson to sweep with love, I will be giving him the only freedom that cannot be bought. I will be telling him that there is no unworthy work, that there is no inferior woman, that there is no superior man. I will be teaching him that the world is held up by everyone's hands, not by the arrogance of a few.
And when he grows up, and has children, and teaches them the same, the chain will be broken. Because the greatest revolution is not in the palaces, it is in the kitchen. It is not in speeches, it is in the broom.
Woman is not the weaker sex. She is the strong sex. Because her strength is not in the shout, but in the silence. Not in the sword, but in the cradle. Not in revenge, but in forgiveness.
And whoever does not understand that has understood nothing of life.
And lastly, a final recommendation: love, care for, and respect these givers of love and life. Because without them, there will be no bank high enough to stop us from falling into the precipice of despair. Woman is not an ornament; she is the shore that saves us from the fall.
Author: The Old Loafer.