When I visited on an oppressively hot early July day, visitors dipped their hands into the reflecting pools and poured the water onto their heads and legs to cool off. They leaned on the marble panels with the names of the dead to eat snacks, even though there are no food vendors or trash cans allowed on site.
“When I playacted with my girl friends, I always wanted a boy’s part. And my model was my father, who drew me diagrams of magnets and the digestive system, not my mother, who intruded on my life of the mind by making me dry the dishes. Later on things got more complicated. On one level I was determined to prove that except for a little accident of hormones, I was a perfectly good man: I was going to be a famous writer/actress/scientist. Domestic chores were contemptible (I would have servants, since I couldn’t have a wife), and children—who needed them? Women were pretty contemptible too, except those happy few of us who were really men.
At the same time, without any feeling of absurdity, I worked obsessively at making myself a desirable object. I followed all the rules—build up their egos, don’t be aggressive, don’t flaunt your brains, be charming, diet, dance, be with it, wear a girdle, never kiss goodnight on the first date—until I learned that breaking them a little, or better yet appearing to break them, attracted the more imaginative boys.”—Up from Radicalism by Ellen Willis - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics (via guernicamag)
Ungggh, this is so good. Bless you, Rebecca Traister. <3
I wish it were different. I wish that every woman whose actions and worth are parsed and restricted, congratulated and condemned in this country might just once get to wheel around—on the committee that doesn’t believe their medically corroborated story of assault, or on the protesters who tell them that termination is a sin they will regret, or on the boss who tells them he doesn’t believe in their sexual choices, or on the mid-fifties man who congratulates them, or himself, on finding them appealing deep into their dotage—and go black in the eyes and say, “I don’t fucking care if you like it.”
When I was 17, I went away to college. I left a small city and went to the state capital, Richmond, Va., to pursue a degree in theatre.
I was cute. I was savvy. I was smart, full of derring do, and overflowing with confidence.
I made lots of friends—girls and boys.
Awesome new tumblr to follow: “Can we use our collective life experience to be a safe haven for kids who need it? Can we tell stories and answer questions and offer solidarity and resources and maybe break some cycles before they begin? Can we do it with humor and transparency, and without coming across like dorky, hand-wringing moms? After all, so many of us are still those kids.”
We’ll tell you about your gross ear hair. We know that your pants are two sizes too big and look really weird, like you’re secretly in a diaper. It’s fine if you are, of course. We have no beef with plushies and furries and diaper kid roleplay. But we know about your bad shoe stank. Most of all, we know how cheap your suit is. Ew, why so cheap? And we’ll remind you that shirts get tucked into pants. What’s more, we know why no one will tell you. Because they hate you. I mean, we kinda do too!
If you read the ruling, SCOTUS even admits that the ruling makes so little sense, that it HAS to be applied solely to the single area of contraceptives, or it becomes even more fucked up:
In any event, our decision in these cases is concerned solely with the contraceptive mandate. Our decision should not be understood to hold that an insurance coverage mandate must necessarily fall if it conflicts with an employer’s religious beliefs. Other coverage requirements, such as immunizations, may be supported by different interests (for example, the need to combat thespread of infectious diseases) and may involve different arguments about the least restrictive means of providing them.
Meaning, the court understands that logically their argument makes no sense in the broad scheme of things, and if you follow the logic it basically puts the US into a feudal system, but if they can carve out this one exception to logic, reason, and the rule of law, they’re okay with doing so.
There’s no reason that a “closely-held” corporation (like 90% of US corps) can’t have a moral religious exception to blood transfusions or organ donations (see: Jehovah’s Witnesses, for example) but those corporations can’t deny coverage of such for “religious exception” under this ruling - it’s just this one category of contraceptionwomen’s contraception that can be exempted, because…well, they never really explain why. They’re willing to admit that overall the whole proposition is fucking nutter, but never get around to saying why this one category is so special that it requires the existence of religious exception, aside from it being an area that people have been trying to limit for decades.
Long story short: SCOTUS recognizes the hypocrisy in their decision, and actively carve out denials against the logical extension of their own ruling. THAT’S the most fucked-up part of this whole thing: the five men in favor of this decision have to admit that their logic isn’t sound, and that if taken to it’s logical conclusion would be catastrophic - so instead of asking why their logic isn’t sound, they say “So it only applies to this one area. No others. And only if you really believe. Like…like a lot.”
Summer is in full swing! Good thing Brian, Denny, Carl, Mike, and Al made a whole catalog of songs that are perfect for anyone who’s out to catch some rays and some waves. Check to see how many of them you know below:
I wasn’t surprised at the subject matter of “Darling Nikki.” Prince had already been writing risque material. But I really liked “Darling Nikki.” I thought, “Okay, you are going to stir the pot again.” And I loved that because I’m a rebel at heart. I was behind Prince all the way from day one with his rebellious, sexual side. He was breaking new ground. Prince played an electronic drum kit live in the studio on “Darling Nikki.” There may have been some acoustic drums supplementing that. And I think there was a real snare on there with Prince playing against that. And when it gets to the end where you hear the drums going double time that was the Linn drum machine being triggered.
I need some fucking high waisted jeans and high waisted shorts. They need to fit my ample booty and smallish waist. This is more difficult to find than it sounds. I also need the shorts to not be SO short that the bottom of my ass is falling out of them.
Here’s a good Times op-ed from last Friday about the contemporary battle over school dress codes, in which “girls, particularly those with ample hips or breasts, are almost exclusively singled out, typically told their outfits will ‘distract boys.’ As if young men cannot control themselves in the presence of a spaghetti strap.”