"We may have fought each other and been otherwise unjust in life, but in how we treat the dead we have one final opportunity to show what sort of ethic really guides us. Antigone died declaring her duty to family and the gods over the state; from the rest of us, the quality of our attention may be all that we have to offer. But attention to the ordinarily invisible dead can have radical potential, asking us to rethink who makes up our body politic, and who counts as victims of human rights violations."
Boston Review, “Exhuming Equality: The Forensics of Human Rights”
"Neoliberalism turns a sow’s ear into a silk purse by elaborating a narrative of female empowerment. Invoking the feminist critique of the family wage to justify exploitation, it harnesses the dream of women’s emancipation to the engine of capital accumulation."
"How Feminism Became Capitalism’s Handmaiden - and How to Reclaim It", Nancy Fraser, The Guardian
Fuck, he thought, then shit. Also he thought the word cunt. Because he could think whatever he wanted, and what he wanted to think about was swears.
“I have to go,” he said. “I have to go do crimes.”
Mallory Ortberg, "A Day In the Life of a Troubled Male Antihero"
A couple months ago, I came across this DIY and loved it. When B and I moved to our new upstairs apartment, he was really excited because he would finally have a real office, instead of cutting and editing on our living room couch.
Since we finally have the space, I ordered the legs and went to Home Depot to get a nice, straight piece of pine. I also got a nice stain and had a Polycrylic finish in the shed. After sanding down the edges and lightly sanding the face of the pine, wiping it down and letting it dry, I applied a few coats of stain and finish over the course of two or three days, and assembled the table last week.
I’m super proud of it and love the way it turned out. The pine took the stain beautifully and the table will be both a desk and a dining room table for when we have company.
I had been staying away from Occupy Wall Street. I wasn’t sure why; I, like every other progressive in the city, had been exhorted to attend, reminded that it was both my right and my duty. As a recession casualty, and a woman from a working-class family, I often thought that my lack of money controlled my life, and brought violence and suffering into it, just as much as my gender had. But the exhortations made me resentful, for reasons I couldn’t name. It was something to do with the big, sexy, non-specific targets; something to do with the language of duty; something to do with the fact that men who had routinely given me gentle or not-so-gentle crap for my own activism were now Tweeting constantly about the power of the people and the obligation of the masses to protest.
It wasn’t until I marched in SlutWalk that I finally got it. It was simply this: No matter how hyped SlutWalk had been, no matter how long the marches had been going on or how global their reach was, no one ever imagined we could book Radiohead. We had all known that wasn’t our place; it wasn’t a degree of recognition we felt entitled to, even in our fantasies. Even on the day we marched, we weren’t the biggest show in town. We had accepted that. We didn’t tell the Wall Streeters it was their duty to join forces with us; we didn’t express resentment that more of them hadn’t come uptown. We were just feminists, after all. We might well be the next wave, but to the progressive community we looked a lot like the feminist waves before us: A sort of women’s auxiliary to the real movement. Maybe admirable, mostly irrelevant.
This invisibility and erasure, as much as anything else, is responsible for women in their twenties not knowing about Take Back the Night. It was also what had fueled much of my own pre-SlutWalk protest. But here I was, in 2011. The men I knew who had been Occupying Wall Street were still not there with me at the year’s most heavily promoted anti-rape protest. I still couldn’t rationally expect them to be. The “next global feminist movement” still wasn’t moving strongly enough to occupy the city for three weeks. Or even one whole day.
Last week I went to meet with a bunch of OWS organizers. One of them proceeded to flirt with me, after I suggested a OWS contingent come to Slutwalk. He said, “Yeah, we’ll bring the dicks to your vagina march.” I told him there were already “people with dicks” organizing Slutwalk and “people with vaginas” organizing OWS. And he said, “Yeah, but they’re smelly vaginas.”
DIFFERENT DAY, SAMO SHIT
(Source: brujacore, via lightningleslie)
this is why we march
Like 17.7 million American women, I have been raped.
Like 73% of survivors, I was raped by someone I knew and trusted.
Like 50% of survivors, I was raped in my own home.
Like 40% of survivors, I reported my assault to the police.
Like 94% of survivors, I never saw my rapist spend one day in jail
Not because there was a lack of evidence, but because I was too ashamed to take the stand.
I was wearing sweatpants and had not been drinking. I was not walking alone down a dark alley in a bad neighborhood. I followed all of the “rules” for not getting raped.
Stop teaching women how to avoid being raped; Teach men to not rape
"All I can say is that if punk is challenging the comfortable conventions of the bourgeoisie, there’s almost nothing less punk than demeaning a woman by calling her a whore and pretending it’s not sexist."