all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter
women were the ones who started wars
too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y Jelly
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes
you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
to big sweaty women with greasy hands
who stared at your crotch
in a garage where you are surrounded
by posters of naked men with hard-ons
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year-old boys
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“How to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
“What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
“The truth about impotence”
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “Honey”
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from running
And what if
after all that
women still wanted you
to love them.
For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, written 20 years ago by Carol Diehl.
She wrote a post about the history of this poem that is worth reading.
Malcolm Venville. The Women of Casa X.
The British photographer Malcolm Venville has made a searing photographic record of a deranged reality. Complementing Venville’s photographs is a series of astonishingly candid interviews with the women of Casa X by the well-known Mexican writer Amanda de la Rosa. These are the portraits and testimonies of thirty-five survivors of the monster of the City, with much to say about life in a slum in Latin America: about the Mexico that horrifies, about sex, poverty, love, and the darkest side of human nature.
One night in Mexico City, Carmen Muñoz, sex worker, was roaming the streets looking for customers. Unexpectedly, she found two colleagues, both over sixty years old, sleeping on the street, covered by newspapers. After almost forty years of giving service to butchers, porters, refuse collectors and criminals, they were now long forgotten by their families and society. Carmen was confronted with what would be her own fate, like most women of her profession. Striving for dignity for all of them, she organised her colleagues and led a group that resolved to find a home where they could spend their last days in safety and warmth.
In 2006, after twelve years of work, and with the support of Mexican intellectuals and artists, the government gave them a seventeenth-century mansion, where Carmen founded Casa Xochiquetzal - Casa X. Around sixty women, all over fifty years old, receive shelter, food, and medical and psychological care. This is not just a retirement home - most of the women who live there still walk the streets. But Casa X is the only refuge for prostitutes in Latin America.
Casa X is located in the heart of the notorious district of Tepito. Although only eight blocks from the historic centre of Mexico City, Tepito is a micro-universe, where life is lived in a unique fashion. For nearly 500 years it has been a place of impunity, crime, smuggling, violence and prostitution. The neighbourhood did not submit to the Aztec Empire, or to the Spanish conquistadors, or to the current authorities. Tepito has an identity that goes beyond its boundaries. It has its own social organisation, myths, heroes, slang, and even its own local deity, La Santa Muerte (Holy Death). The women of Casa X are stuck at the bottom of the ladder of this world, and keeping the memories of it in their bodies.
There are no Jack Kerouacs or Holden Caulfields for girls. Literary girls don’t take road-trips to find themselves; they take trips to find men.
"Great" books, as defined by the Western canon, didn’t contain female protagonists I could admire. In fact, they barely contained female protagonists at all."
But the 8-hour workday is too profitable for big business, not because of the amount of work people get done in eight hours (the average office worker gets less than three hours of actual work done in 8 hours) but because it makes for such a purchase-happy public. Keeping free time scarce means people pay a lot more for convenience, gratification, and any other relief they can buy. It keeps them watching television, and its commercials. It keeps them unambitious outside of work.
We’ve been led into a culture that has been engineered to leave us tired, hungry for indulgence, willing to pay a lot for convenience and entertainment, and most importantly, vaguely dissatisfied with our lives so that we continue wanting things we don’t have. We buy so much because it always seems like something is still missing."
"When a white person migrates to Africa, he is going from a position of power, to power. An African coming to Europe lands from power into powerlessness. We Africans cannot do much with our diplomas here. Once I had learned Dutch and went to the job centre, they offered me a position as a cleaning lady. And in the shop it happens regularly that someone follows me around to check that I am not stealing anything. In expensive boutiques I might not even get served. The sales personnel assume I cannot afford to buy anything anyway. Whereas a white person in Nigeria, even if he has no skills whatsoever, always gets opportunities. No Nigerian would dream of offering you a job as a cleaning lady."
Remember that time (as in the 1,345,789 times) that non-American Whites tried to convince me that racism was born in and only lives in America and that White supremacy is not global? Yeah…that time. And that somehow acknowledging this means that the particulars by region, history, culture etc., those nuances, are then erased? Yeah…that time.
Both times I moved here they wanted to hold me back a year. The second time I had taken the IGCSE’s (an international curriculum) and just because they didn’t know it, they wanted to hold me back.
Bless mom for her determination.
Both of my parents faced this problem most of their lives living in Europe and America. (via thegoddamazon)
"I don’t need academia, academia needs me"
It took a long time for me to get to a point where not feeling down for the fact that I couldn’t afford to start my PhD wasn’t bringing me down, but I have finally come to a point where I’ve realised that while I’ll never stop being an academic of some sorts, I do not need a university to do research, meaning that I don’t need to feel restrained by the walls of the Ivory Tower and instead can choose freely what I wish to write and talk about. And perhaps even more importantly - there are so many things one can do in life, and whatever I do, I want it to benefit my communities, meaning that if I don’t spend three years getting a PhD but instead manage to pass on even the slightest bit of either Gaelic or South Saami to our future generations, I have done something that is by far more valuable to both myself and my communities.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to spend my entire life submerged in books, thinking, writing, analysing and criticising things, but even if I only ever encourage one single person to reclaim one of our languages or participate in the revitalisation of our cultures, then that is far more beneficial to my communities than a thesis read by a maximum of 12 people would ever be.
"BECAUSE being a hot fat girl is a lot of work and is undervalued or unrecognized.
Because a fat girl still has to pay more money for uglier clothes or spend 11 hours at the thrift store to find anything hot to wear.
Because if you take the elevator people think you’re lazy but if you’re on the treadmill people laugh.
Because men like John Goodman and Bernie Mac get to have careers on television but most sitcom moms of three still have size-two waists.
Because even feminist magazines publish fat-phobic articles under the guise of it being a “health issue.”
Because anti-capitalist activists still use expressions like “fat capitalist pig.”
Because girls are dieting at the age of nine.
Because side effects of the most popular diet drugs are seizures, heart failure, fecal urgency, breast cancer, lung disease, insomnia, nausea and vomiting, dangerously high blood pressure, abnormal heartbeat, psychosis, strokes, hallucinations and sudden death.
Because the Cooper Institute’s ongoing study of 30,000 people has found that those who are fittest live the longest, no matter what they weigh.
Because the doctor who said that there were 30,000 “obesity-related” deaths each year received over $2 million in research funding from Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers.
Because that study prompted the FDA to approve Phen-Phen and Redux.
Because fat hatred is a money-making industry.
Because fat people who exercise live longer than thin people who don’t.
Because if you lose weight ’cause you’re sick people tell you how great you look.
Because hatred is so ingrained in every single one of us, especially inside the heart of even the hottest fat girl.
Because even the most progressive people don’t talk or write about it.
Because I am tired of being ignored, invisible, de-sexualized and told that I have such a pretty face.
Because it’s not fat that kills, it’s fear of fat.**
For all that and more I am a part of the HOT FAT GIRL REVOLUTION!"
Zoe Whittall (via finedineonmyvegangenitalia)