“True gender equality is actually perceived as inequality. A group that is made up of 50% women is perceived as being mostly women. A situation that is perfectly equal between men and women is perceived as being biased in favor of women.
And if you don’t believe me, you’ve never been a married woman who kept her family name. I have had students hold that up as proof of my “sexism.”
My own brother told me that he could never marry a woman who kept her name because “everyone would know who ruled that relationship.” Perfect equality – my husband keeps his name and I keep mine – is held as a statement of superiority on my part.”—
Also the study where they had women and men talking in a discussion and when women spoke around 30% of the time, men perceived them as dominating the discussion. They didn’t consider it “equal” until something like 5-10% of women talking.
Henry Rollins. Phoenix AZ. Crescent Ballroom. September 15.
I’m gonna be there! The woman who does the booking at the venue my husband works at, who seems to have subtlety modeled her look after Enid Coleslaw, also works for the production company that the Crescent Ballroom uses to book it’s shows. And she just got us comp tickets. I fucking love knowing people in entertainment production.
(Amanda Palmer & The Grand Theft Orchestra have also booked this venue later in September but I guess they’re self producing the tour, and not using a production company or booking agent. Which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. I don’t care through, I’m buying my tickets for AFP as soon as I get my first paycheck from my new job next friday. It will be my first purchase)
“What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell
you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and
seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you
wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t.
You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And
you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are —
underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of
you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your
mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five.
And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like
if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and
needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings
inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the
other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.”—Sandra Cisneros (via farewell-kingdom)
Written by Bria Murray forRH Reality Check. This diary is cross-posted; commenters wishing to engage directly with the author should do so at the original post.
Dear Representative Trent Franks,
Today, I watched you debate during the markup for H.R. 3803, or, as you may know it, the District of Columbia Pain-Capable Unborn Child Protection Act, which would ban abortion after 20 weeks in Washington, DC. I watched you valiantly fight to save “the children” from their pain even in the case of rape or incest, or when a mother has been diagnosed with cancer and the treatment needed to save her life is incompatible with the continuation of her pregnancy. I watched you warn the rest of the judiciary committee that abortions are linked to higher rates of suicide, even though this “fact,” and the basis for the bill itself (that 20-week-old fetuses can feel pain) flies in the face of all accredited scientific evidence.
And all I could think about was September 7, 2007.
It may seem strange to you. September 7, 2007 was nearly five years ago. Why think about that now? And why such a specific date?
September 7, 2007 was the night I was raped.
September 7, 2007 was the night that my rapist’s sperm met my egg and I was impregnated with the child of my rapist.
I thought about all of this as I watched you passionately advocate on behalf of “the tiny little babies” and the only reaction I could muster was “how dare you.”
so my best friend of 20 + years just texted me to say she's pre-cancerous for cervical cancer.
i sent her back this super melodramatic text about how no matter what kind of treatment the doctors decide on, she’s got people to see her through it, i’m here if she needs anything, blah blah blah. She basically replied for me to calm the fuck down, and she’s just nervous about undergoing treatment (most likely just surgery to remove the offending cells)
i wish i could live in a special bubble where nothing that happens to me affects anybody close to me at all. like what's the use of having people who care about me if they're going to just let their emotions and desire to help or comfort drip all over the place. and also in this bubble, the advice that i force upon other people can't ever be used for my own situation, no matter how well it applies. god forbid anything get in the way of feeling sorry for myself.
“Last night I wept. I wept because the process by which I have become woman was painful. I wept because I was no longer a child with a child’s blind faith. I wept because my eyes were opened to reality….I wept because I could not believe anymore and I love to believe. I can still love passionately without believing. That means I love humanly. I wept because I have lost my pain and I am not yet accustomed to its absence.”—― Anaïs Nin, Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love”—The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin (via smatterings)