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" "I was a free person."
"Free to what?"
"To…to do anything I wanted to."
Jory laughed, shaking her head. "Weren't you told as a child that one way was better than another, one belief better than another? Weren't you told some things were higher and some lower? That some things were suitable for women, others for men? That your God was more powerful? That your religion was truer? That your language was more expressive? That your customs had more heart, or more soul? That your cooking tasted better? That your way of child-rearing was preferable? That all your ways were so much better than others ways that you would die to keep yours as they were, or die to destroy others if they seemed threatening? Weren't you taught not to change, not to adapt, not to become anything different? Weren't you taught the word 'loyalty'? The word 'tradition'? Didn't they tell you that animals were higher than vegetables, mammals were higher than other animals, man was higher than other mammals, and your kind of man was higher than other men?
"You think you weren't enslaved by that? You think you had freedom of choice? I have said this to Fringe, I say it to you: A man's choice becomes his son's duty and his grandson's tradition! Thus men assure enslavement of their progeny.
Sheri Stewart Tepper (16 July 1929 - 22 October 2016) was a prolific author of science fiction, horror and mystery novels, frequently with a feminist slant. She wrote under several pseudonyms, including A. J. Orde, E. E. Horlak, and B. J. Oliphant. Her early work was published under the name Sheri S. Eberhart.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Our religion is monotheistic. We worship the lifeforce that pervades the galaxy in infinite variety, life that bubbles up from the ferment of worlds, and we know that force may appear in myriad guises. There is no rivalry among these guises, as they are all aspects of the same divinity, one so vast and complex that She can be infinitely divided into parts while every part remains infinite.
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The tallest Father preached. He stood before us in robes of gleaming white, surrounded by the smoke of sweet incense, fondling his groin from time to time as he talked of St. Phallus. St. Phallus loomed behind the altar, erect, massive, as though ready to rape the world. It was not the first such monument I had seen. Wherever men were ignorant and hungry for power, I had seen these things, though never one as large as this. Father fondled his groin and preached.
“Holy fruit of St. Phallus,” he said.
“Clean seed planted in filthy ground,” he said.
“Corrupted by dirty woman-wombs,” he said.