“To protest a bill that would require women to undergo an ultrasound before having an abortion, Virginia State Sen. Janet Howell (D-Fairfax) on Monday attached an amendment that would require men to have a rectal exam and a cardiac stress test before obtaining a prescription for erectile dysfunction medication.”—Huff Po (via rachelfershleiser)
Anti-femme culture (and feminists aren’t immune to this) thinks the effort put into femme presentation is a waste of time and energy – or, at the very least, time and energy that could have been spent doing something more important. Anti-femme culture thinks “pretty” probably means “dumb” even when struggling against a culture obsessed with an impossibly narrow beauty standard. Anti-femme culture thinks you can’t do math AND do your nails.
We are humans! We contain multitudes! I do not think it is a problem that teenaged girls are interested in experimenting with presentation via fashion; I think it’s ridiculous and misogynist that they are ONLY encouraged to do that – and that boys don’t have the same freedom of expression.
Hey you. :) Just wanted to stop by and let you know that I think you're wonderful. You live such an admirable life, even if things don't always go exactly how you want them to. You are amazing. The future is yours. <3
Hey! You linked to me and now I have some new followers and also want to cry a little because sometimes I forget how kind people can be and then they do something sweet and generous and my cynicism goes away.
You are the amazing one. If you visit Knox again, let me know. I’m here until May.
(Publishing because I think everyone needs a reminder that good friends are there for you, even (and especially) when you don’t expect it.)
I quite literally laid on the floor and cried after I read the email. I won’t be in Vietnam next year. I won’t be a Fulbright grantee. I don’t know why. I feel dumb and sad and silly for getting my hopes up.
I called my baby sister, my mom, and my boyfriend in that order. I cried as all of them told me that no, no I am smart. I am capable. But it really doesn’t matter much after you read the words, “We regret to inform you.”
So, I took a deep breath, and I went to my friends’ apartment. We opened up a bottle of champagne and toasted our futures. No matter what they bring. Whatever happens is what’s meant to happen. I might not be in Vietnam next year, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be in China or Taiwan or L.A. or New York City or Mexico or Russia or Greece or Chicago or South Korea or Iceland.
Honestly, everyone may reject me from every program that I apply to. Shit like that happens. This isn’t a movie. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t just move there on my own and make things happen for myself in the moment. Because I am smart and I am capable. And I am friendly and I am kind and I am hard-working and I am funny and I am Kate.
Things will be okay. They won’t be what I planned and what I hoped and what I daydreamed. But they really will be okay. And I may be tipsy. But that is the truth.
I attended a workshop last week on Race and Disability. It was great to be in a room with other POC with disabilities and having an open dialogue about our experiences. I was able to snatch the below info that was a handout given to the white allies in a separate room…
“The difference between loving yourself and not loving yourself is not in the things that you do it is in the way that you feel when you are doing them. It means being honest and brave, and not spiraling into a pit of self-hatred when you don’t like what you see or how you feel. It means reassessing, doing what is best, and being very, very sweet to yourself when you are scared. It means proving to your body that you are capable of providing a safe and healthy environment to grow and flourish. It means melting away the shame that you’ve developed over the years about your size. It means going to bat for yourself, the way you would for someone that you love.”—
The Federal Bureau of Investigation moved against a group of suspected online pirates Thursday, targeting the popular file-sharing website megaupload.com a day after Washington lawmakers were besieged by complaints about legislation designed to crack down on the online sharing of pirated copies of music, movies and other material, people familiar with the matter said.
Investigators said there was no connection between arrests in their two-year investigation and the political firestorm that erupted this week over a pending vote on the Stop Online Piracy Act.
This is a big deal, and even if it’s not related to SOPA, the timing certainly does a lot to put it on the minds of those worried about the law.
One evening in August of 2006, I was celebrating my 18th birthday with my cousin and a friend. We were staying at my sister’s house on 96th Street and Amsterdam Avenue in Manhattan and decided to walk to a nearby place and get some burgers. It was closed so we sat on benches in the median strip that runs down the middle of Broadway. We were talking, watching the night go by, enjoying the evening when suddenly, and out of nowhere, squad cars surrounded us. A policeman yelled from the window, “Get on the ground!”
I was stunned. And I was scared. Then I was on the ground — with a gun pointed at me. I couldn’t see what was happening but I could feel a policeman’s hand reach into my pocket and remove my wallet. Apparently he looked through and found the ID I kept there. “Happy Birthday,” he said sarcastically. The officers questioned my cousin and friend, asked what they were doing in town, and then said goodnight and left us on the sidewalk.
Less than two years later, in the spring of 2008, N.Y.P.D. officers stopped and frisked me, again. And for no apparent reason. This time I was leaving my grandmother’s home in Flatbush, Brooklyn; a squad car passed me as I walked down East 49th Street to the bus stop. The car backed up. Three officers jumped out. Not again. The officers ordered me to stand, hands against a garage door, fished my wallet out of my pocket and looked at my ID. Then they let me go.
I was stopped again in September of 2010. This time I was just walking home from the gym. It was the same routine: I was stopped, frisked, searched, ID’d and let go.
These experiences changed the way I felt about the police. After the third incident I worried when police cars drove by; I was afraid I would be stopped and searched or that something worse would happen. I dress better if I go downtown. I don’t hang out with friends outside my neighborhood in Harlem as much as I used to. Essentially, I incorporated into my daily life the sense that I might find myself up against a wall or on the ground with an officer’s gun at my head. For a black man in his 20s like me, it’s just a fact of life in New York.
A good television show writer understands that Oscar Wilde wasn’t kidding when he said, “I can resist anything but temptation.” Drama holds its audience in a perpetual state of anticipation, joyful in the knowledge that answers will be doled out only sparingly, that no resolution will ever be as powerful as the growing desire for it.
Theater and film do this for a few hours; television can do it for years. Audiences form an intimacy with television that they do not have with other visual mediums, not because television comes into their homes but because television comes into their heads. And stays there. To “watch” a series, one must interact with it, carry the characters and plotlines around in between episodes, consciously or unconsciously thinking about what will happen next, talking about it with friends or, nowadays, taking the pulse of other viewers via the Internet.
“Today there are more African-Americans under correctional control — in prison or jail, on probation or parole — than were enslaved in 1850, a decade before the Civil War began.”—Michelle Alexander, on the number of blacks in the criminal justice system. On Monday’s Fresh Air, Alexander details how President Reagan’s war on drugs led to a mass incarceration of black males and the difficulties these felons face after serving their prison sentences. (via nprfreshair)
“Once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”—Haruki Murakami (via brinabrina)