“Hi, I’m Aragon, son of Gilraen, son of Ivorwen. Would you or your mother like to rest your feet on me?”
“Hi, I’m Celeborn, but you can call me Ofgaladriel.”
“Hi, I’m Gimli/Gloin/Thorin/Ori/Dori/Nori/Oin/Dwalin/Fundin/Balin/Bifur/Bofur/Bombur/Dain, son of a super-dope female dwarf who was so cool that we’re forbidden, as men, to utter or even know her name, ever, which is exactly as it should be.”
“Hi, I’m Legolas, son of a woman so amazing that she briefly turned Thranduil straight.”
“Hi, I’m Boromir, son of Finduilas. When she died, my dad got super grim and weird and ineffectual as a leader, as men so often are.”
“My name is Éowyn. I do not bandy words about with men. Get out of my way, or find yourself on the point of my sword. If later I decide I want to amuse myself with your body, I will send word. You may sleep in the stables.”
“Hi, I’m Dior, son of Lúthien. Nothing a woman does should be questioned, but my mother should NOT have become mortal for Beren. She should have married mortal male after mortal male, burying each of them when they ceased to be useful to her, and in this way, could have lived forever in glory.”
“Hi, I’m Éomer, son of Théodwyn. Had my mother lived, she would never have been taken in by Grima Wormtongue, the name alone would have been a dead giveaway.”
“Hi, I’m Lotho, son of Lobelia. Anything bad you’ve heard about my mother is due to the whining of men who feel entitled to be catered to. She’s actually a delightful, if ‘difficult’ woman. How often we decide that women are ‘difficult’ when they agitate for what they want! May I offer you some tea?”
“Hi, I’m Sauron. I never had a mother.”
