misandry-mermaid

I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.

I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.

I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?

I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.

I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.

I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.

I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.

I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?

I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.

I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.

I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.

I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?

I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.

An anonymous guest post on The Lady Garden. This is the reality for so many women. #YesAllWomen (via takealookatyourlife)
black-rose-revolution

spell your name in my ask PLEASE

  • A. WHY MY LAST RELATIONSHIP ENDED.
  • B. FAVORITE BAND.
  • C. WHO I LIKE AND WHY I LIKE THEM.
  • D. HARDEST THING I’VE EVER BEEN THROUGH.
  • E. MY BEST FRIEND.
  • F. MY FAVORITE MOVIE.
  • G. FAVORITE PLACE.
  • H. FAVORITE THING ABOUT MYSELF.
  • I. HAVE ANY TATTOOS OR PIERCINGS?
  • J. WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GET OLDER.
  • K. RELATIONSHIP WITH MY PARENTS.
  • L. ONE OF MY INSECURITIES.
  • M. ICE CREAM OR COOKIES?
  • N. FAVOURITE PLACE TO SHOP AT?
  • O. MY EYE COLOUR.
  • P. WHY I HATE SCHOOL.
  • Q. RELATIONSHIP STATUS AS OF RIGHT NOW.
  • R. FAVOURITE SONG AT THE MOMENT.
  • S. A RANDOM FACT ABOUT MYSELF.
  • T. AGE I GET MISTAKEN FOR.
  • U. WHERE I WANT TO BE RIGHT NOW.
  • V. LAST TIME I CRIED.
  • W. CONCERTS I’VE BEEN TO.
  • X. WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF (…)?
  • Y. DO YOU WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE.
  • Z. HOW ARE YOU
romanticosquenocreenenelamor

romanticosquenocreenenelamor:

Mira, hoy tengo uno de esos días en los que me da asco el mundo. Porque hay veces que ves tanta mierda, a tanta gente que hace tantas barbaridades, que no entiende conceptos simples y que está tan en contra de seres humanos siendo tratados como tal que me canso. 

Y es que a veces me da la sensación de que todo este tema de los derechos sociales, el racismo, feminismo,…se toma muy a la ligera. Como si estuviéramos hablando de situaciones hipotéticas, de algo que no es muy importante, algo teórico. Pero no, siento deciros que no. Estamos hablando de personas, de seres humanos, que tienen que vivir su vida día a día y que se enfrentan a estos problemas a cada paso. Porque esto también es sobre mi, sobre mi vida. ¿Que yo tengo privilegios que me permiten no tener que pensar en algunas cosas? Pues si, pero sigo siendo una mujer en un mundo que se hizo para hombres y sigo siendo pansexual en un mundo que se hizo para heterosexuales y sigo siendo neurodivergente en un mundo hecho para neurotípicos. 

No podemos salir de nuestras vidas, no podemos ignorar las cosas una vez que abres los ojos y que alguien que no tiene ni zorra de lo que está hablando viene a darte lecciones, a decirte que entiende una cosa que no entiende y que ni siquiera tiene intención de empatizar, que pide respeto por el simple hecho de existir y de saber que vive en un mundo que no le pone trabas por ser como es, es una puta patada en la boca. Pero se te exiges que estés calmado, que te comportes como si todas esas “opiniones” no te afectaran, a pesar de que estamos hablando de mi vida, mis experiencias, el modo en que la sociedad me percibe. Estar tranquilo cuando se debate sobre derechos civiles es un privilegio de los opresores. 

Porque si, queridos compañeros blancos, cuando estás en un grupo privilegiado, te aprovechas de esa posición, lo sepas o no. 

Y hoy estoy cansada y quiero asegurarme de que mantengo a esa gente a la que yo considero escoria porque sus valores son totalmente asquerosos, lo más lejos de mi posible, así que:

  • Si crees que las mujeres no deben de quejarse de estar oprimidas porque hay gente que está peor/no están oprimidas/…
  • Si crees que se puede ser sexista contra un hombre. 
  • Si crees que se puede ser racista contra un blanco.
  • Si estás de acuerdo con cualquier cosa que haya dicho The Amazing Atheist o parecidos en cualquier momento. 
  • Si entiendes que las mujeres tienen cierta responsabilidad en ser violadas o maltratadas.
  • Si te gustan los toros.
  • Si apoyas al PP/PSOE.
  • Si crees que el aborto no debería ser libre y que el gobierno tiene la responsabilidad de legislar sobre el cuerpo de las mujeres o demás géneros.
  • Si haces bromas machistas, sobre violaciones,…y crees que el humor te da carta blanca.
  • Si Reddit y 4Chan te parecen sitios super geniales que no hacen nunca nada malo y hacen bromas super graciosas. 
  • ETC

Bueno, creo que ya cogéis el estilo, pues nada, que si os identificáis o algo de esto o similar, prefiero que dejéis de seguirme, porque de verdad creo que hay algo mal contigo si piensas eso. 

Y que si me queréis mandar hate o algo, tengo una colección de gifs que lo flipas esperando su momento para brillar.