big fat feminist

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moniquill:

take-mikazuchi:

I’m sorry I’m a male. I’m sorry society treats me better than women, for whatever reason, when I really don’t deserve it.

I’m sorry I’m white. I’m sorry for those who have been persecuted because of their race. I really am.

But please please please stop making me an enemy simply because of the way I was born. I don’t want women or any race to be treated poorly. But please stop making white males an enemy because of it simply because we’re both white and male.

^ FYI this is another thing that makes you creepy, guy who complained that girls and women call you creepy for no reason.

ETA: Some actual education

stfufauxminists:

NO. NO. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU OR YOUR FEE FEES. IT’S ABOUT ENDING FUCKING OPPRESSION.

No one wants you to feel guilty - they want you to feel informed. They want you to feel incensed that others don’t have the same rights and privileges as you, not indignant that someone of a marginalized group had the audacity to say it to you and it made you feel a twinge of badness for one fucking second.

Seriously. STFU.

note-a-bear:

Whether or not your dumb ass feels guilt is none of my concern. What concerns me is how you use your privilege to help others. I don’t give a shit what you do with your own time or your own learning. But if you’re not willing to step up to the plate and put yourself on the line when someone who is less privileged than you is being harmed, then you’re worthless to me.

Fuck your guilt.

Guilt is useless.

witchsistah:

It’s simply this:

“ Let me explain this by giving you an analogy. Let’s say you’re crossing the street and someone hits you with their car. They might have been going at 5 miles an hour, or 60, but either way, you’re now on the concrete, injured in some way; be it a sore body, or a mangled one. Now, let’s say that you’re still conscious, and very cognizant of every way in which your body is hurting, bleeding, burning. Let’s say you’re groaning in pain. Let’s say you’re screaming, “It hurts, it hurts!”


Now, let’s say the driver gets out of the car, start sobbing and goes, “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to do it, so you should stop saying that it hurts.” or “Every time you groan, you’re making me feel bad about the fact that I hit you! I don’t want to feel guilt!” or “I didn’t really hit you, I couldn’t have. I’m a good driver, and good drivers don’t hit people with cars!” or “I wasn’t trying to hit you! I didn’t mean to. I didn’t see you!” or “Shut up, shut up, shut up, your reactions are making me feel awful!” or “I didn’t hit you that hard. Get up and walk it off, you’re just overreacting.” or “Seriously, stop groaning. Stop bleeding. Get up and walk away! You’re making me feel guilty! You’re making me feel bad! I know I hit you with a car, but what about me? What about how I feel?” or “I’m crying because I hit you with a car, and you’re more concerned with the fact that you’re bleeding?! Why aren’t you comforting me?” or “How am I going to avoid hitting you if you won’t make sure I can see you?” or “Y’know, I got hit by a cyclist once.”

Would you feel sympathy for this driver, or would you think, “None of that compares to the pain I feel right now!” and “Stop trivializing my pain!” and “This is not about you!” and, “I don’t give a fuck about your tears, you just hit me with your fucking car!””

Basically your crying out in your pain is harshing their squee.  Please either quit suffering or suffer over THERE where they can’t see or hear you (because that’s how they want their world to be anyway).

“I cannot hide my anger to spare you guilt, nor hurt feelings, nor answering anger; for to do so insults and trivializes all our efforts. Guilt is not a response to anger; it is a response to one’s own actions or lack of action.” Audre Lorde, “The Uses of Anger”

In case you didn’t get it from any of the above:

There is not a single fucking person on earth who wants you to feel sorry about the privilege that you have. You can’t control what privileges you have. What we want you to do is USE THAT SHIT TO END OPPRESSION.

We’re not the ones who ‘made you the enemy’

Society did that.

Take it up with society.

Prove yourself an ally.

(via karnythia)

Feminazi: It’s Totally Legit, Because The Nazis Used Feminine Energy!

This is the justification for using the term “feminazi” that someone gave my friend after “jokingly” calling her one.

I shit you not. Behold:

…the Nazi movement was the product of the feminine energy of this world being used by masculine forces rather than manifesting itself how it naturally would in a life of balance. Like it or not, the “control” aspect of life is feminine in nature. The Nazi movement was a product of feminine energy in the fact that it is a manifestation of complete control of life itself.

Masculine energy when in balance with feminine energy is what allows for the freedom of life

While the feminine energy controls that freedom from every intruding on any  other beings’ individual freedom

While the masculine aspect, when in balance, of freedom ensures that this control does not intrude on any other beings freedom to have control of themselves

And so on and so on. It is a balance of the energies in a cycle.

Ah, yes! Feminine energy means control and masculine energy means freedom! That’s why women are the oppressive force in the world!

And furthermore, we can just blame the Holocaust on “feminine energy,” and therefore ALL women for bringing said “feminine energy” into the world, because Hitler himself had absolutely no part in it! Duh!

God, don’t be so offended when people call you a feminazi, girls. Feminine energy caused the Holocaust! Just own up to it, already! It was just a joke, anyway, you humorless buzzkill!

* By the way, I am taking messages of support for my friend in my ask box, because she is really upset by this exchange. AS ANYONE WOULD BE, FRANKLY, WHAT IS THIS ASSHOLE’S PROBLEM?

An Open Letter to Men Who Cry “Misandry”

Originally this was written as a response to a single inbox message, and then I got a couple more of them, and now it’s a letter to all of you. I am tired of you.

[TRIGGER WARNING: Rape, rape culture; eating disorders]

It must be exhausting carrying all this hate around, huh? You’re right! It is fucking exhausting! And if it makes me seem like a cranky, miserable bitch, then more power to me.

Do you know why I do it, though? You don’t really deserve an explanation, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

I do it because women’s bodies are sold and used to sell products and somehow this has become one and the same. Because a woman’s accomplishments will never be as important as her appearance in this society as it stands now. Because 65% of girls and women have reported eating disorders.

Because so many, many people — most of them men — tell me I am overreacting or hysterical or a cranky, miserable bitch when I talk about sexism. 

Because if I had a dime for every time some privileged, pompous ass doesn’t listen to me or tells me I’m wrong for no reason, really, just because he has a thing for Scarlett Johansson’s hair and doesn’t want to think about the fact that hey, maybe women are represented badly in the media, I could probably pay my rent for a year.

Because men feel entitled to tell me their opinions on women and entitled to be skeptical of my opinions on women as if I am not better able to comment, as if men are considered the experts on absolutely everything — oh wait, because the entire fucking news media thinks that they are.

Because I live in a world where I spend way too much of my time calculating the possibility that I will be assaulted. I do not know any woman who doesn’t do this. I do not know any woman who doesn’t constantly consider and reconsider the risk of her activities, even if she doesn’t do it consciously, even if she no longer thinks twice about going to the grocery store by herself — if she does it late at night, you can bet there’s a part of her that’s thinking it.

Because I live in a world where I have been told since I was single-digits young that men can hurt me. I live in a world where one out of six of my peers will be raped or sexually assaulted in her lifetime, and 54% of those assaults will go unreported, and 97% of those rapists will walk free. I live in a world where nine out of ten reported rape victims are female-bodied and the vast majority of rapists are men. I live in a world where 2/3rds of the women who are raped are raped by people they know and trust. This is the world I live in. This is a world you don’t even have to think about. This is a world that allows you to feel entitled to tell me my opinions don’t matter to you because they were presented in a way that didn’t cater to your ego, and call me a “cranky, miserable bitch” in the meantime as if you have any idea of whether or not I am actually either of those things. 

So no, I do not need to be polite about your “counter-points.” I do not need to say “Ah, yes, good point,” when you’re not making a good point at all. You are not unique. You have said to me what literally hundreds of other men have said to me before.

And I don’t need to listen to your bullshit, or anyone else’s bullshit. Ever.

“I try so hard not to generalize men, you know? I try SO hard. But then the other night I went out with my friends and the car was full and I looked around and realized that every single one of the women in that car had been raped or sexually assaulted and it’s like, how can you not hate them? It’s not fair. But it’s not fair that they do this to us and then act like it isn’t a problem.”

My friend Marissa, talking at the beach yesterday (paraphrased). (via bigfatfeminist)

Yeah it’s fine to hate rapists and people who sexually assault but it is never okay to just hate all men.

It’s never okay to hate a group of people based on their sex, race, sexuality, etc.

Saying “they” and “them” generalizes all men and that is not okay.

(via definitelyevil)

Mmm. Except it’s not the same thing at all.

(via liamisadamnqueer)

“I try so hard not to generalize men, you know? I try SO hard. But then the other night I went out with my friends and the car was full and I looked around and realized that every single one of the women in that car had been raped or sexually assaulted and it’s like, how can you not hate them? It’s not fair. But it’s not fair that they do this to us and then act like it isn’t a problem.”

My friend Marissa, talking at the beach yesterday (paraphrased).

another thing about Nice Guy Syndrome (TM)

newwavefeminism:

the one thing college has taught me about dudes, is that I have this weird feeling of obligation to talk and entertain guys who want to speak to me. Oh, some guy takes an interest in me and feels the need to make conversation everytime we meet? better talk back or get labeled a rude bitch. (or there is at least some semi-natural fear/instinct to never be anything short of pleasant and constantly open, always smiling.)

A girl does the same thing, or even slightly shows a dude attention? “this bitch wants the dick SOOO BAD!!!” yeah, ok.

that’s fantastic…

(via thechocolatebrigade)

Thoughts about weight, ice cream, and how men treat women…

extremely-clever:

fattiesinlove:

As some people who follow our blog might know, I work in an ice cream shop. Last night we were very busy and on two occasions, I noticed something happen with customers. In the first exchange, there was a family with two teenaged daughters, a mother and father. One of my coworkers was jotting down their order while I worked on scooping my own. The daughter ordered a cone with, maybe, two scoops? And the father turns to her and declares, “You’d better fit in that five hundred dollar prom gown I bought you.” The girl said nothing, and her sister cut in with, “Dad, she’ll fit!” If that girl went home and made herself throw up, or at least was completely unable to enjoy her dessert, I wouldn’t be surprised. The man the words came from wasn’t much of a trim athlete himself, and she was honestly gorgeous and fit, so… well. Fuck him.

Next there was a couple that I served. I passed out their sundae and cone and the man turned to the wife (who was a few feet away) and called to her, “I think somebody’s going to have to run a few miles tomorrow!” She couldn’t hear him, so he repeats this to her three times before she nods and responds with a half-hearted, “Yeah.”

Where do men (nay, people in general) get off telling women how to live their lives, what to eat, how to eat it, what to wear and how clothes should look on their bodies? It’s a wonder that society seems so puzzled about eating disorders when we have douchebags attached to girls saying things that make them feel beyond insecure. Now, you could argue that in the second case, she could just dump the man (never mind the fact that they might live together, may have been married, etc…)- but in the first instance, that girl presumably lives with her father and has been since birth, and will until she hopefully moves out. So, she’s stuck with this hyper-critical voice of a man who has no idea what power his words carry. 

From personal experience, nothing made me feel worse than when my dad would grin, pinch my side and chuckle, “You’re getting a belly there, kiddo.” At the time, I was crushed. Now, I wouldn’t care very much and would call him out— I mean, I love my tummy and my goofy-ass dad. But, for the average girl who is unexposed to fat acceptance, indeed, to the average girl who isn’t even fat and just needs to hear about BODY acceptance, no matter how sweet their father/brother/whoever is, the jokes those men make are serious. 

I hope those girls enjoyed their ice cream. I mean, we make some quality shit. And I hope they could get ready for bed, look in the mirror, and see the same beautiful women that I saw. -A

Wow reading this is scary because I actually could have written this.

Truth.

(via )

“To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better. Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore. Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth. Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge. Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry. Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love. Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences.

To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library. Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his developing nation to teach at its eight-year-old university. Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American. Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me. Who won’t take a hint.

To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything. Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of? Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that. Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis. Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.” Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date. Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times. Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro. Who has called me three times since. Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics. Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me.

To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years.

To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid. Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home.

To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater. Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once. Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives. To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me.

To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street. To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face. Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight. Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here.

To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention. Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway. Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.

But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration. Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys. Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique.

And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain. Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me.

And that’s just two months in Paris.

To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times.

To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor. Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment. Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking. Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first.

To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to.

To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood.

To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?” who was not being ironic.”

Julia Maddera (via colporteur)

(via truantwave)