Okay, so you know how there are double standards when it comes to men and women, and there are even additional double standards stacked upon that when it comes to women and trans*women. My question for any feminists out there is: do you feel that just because a trans*woman/girl isn’t transitioning atm, they shouldn’t be included in feminist discussions?
I want to know what my feminist followers think about this. My opinion is already set, I just want to know what the general opinion is. How would a non-transitioning trans*woman/girl be accepted in feminist circles? If there are any trans*women/girls out there who have any experiences to share, I’d give anything to hear!
i’m just cranky enough from some other transmisogynist shit that i saw on my dash earlier but was too mad to respond, so i’ll maybe say something here.
your question essentially boils down to: should this subset of women, not be allowed in feminist spaces?
i mean, despite even asking this question clearly demonstrating that you have little desire to see a feminism inclusive of all women, i’m not sure how you missed the fundamental flaw of this question. like, the inherent contradiction.
“feminists. let us discuss whether or not we should include these women”
already assuming that the women in question, non-transitioning women, are not feminists (i mean… how could they be?? like, they aren’t even women, amirite? so why would they be feminists. like. absurd). and clearly taking the position that non-transitioning women aren’t actually women, because ‘hey, why shouldn’t you support a pathologising of gender???’. and all of this, somehow didn’t occur to you as being massively transmisogynist… which is kinda impressive, when you think about it.
and then the second commentator, actually thinks that ‘opening the floor’ to trans women to share their experiences is somehow including us in this conversation…
that is already and a priori hostile to our inclusion (based on the standards and biases at work hear, this question is a non-starter, since OP and commentator have already precluded non-transitioning women from actually being women or feminists, so even if this super cabal of feminists decide that ‘yes, we’ll include them!’ they’ve made it clear that our inclusion is via their say-so and their permission, and not because… idk, we are women??? who thus, should we decide to be feminists, must be immediately admitted to the sisterhood? but. nope. transmisogyny dictates that our womanhood is only valid insofar as cis women/feminists decide that it is. awesome. i’m so happy to be having this discussion. like literally the most meaningful i’ve ever had in my entire life. nothing will beat this. i’m wondering though… will my heart be able to take the joy, should these cis feminists decide that i’m allowed to be included in their spaces??? idk. idk. ).
The fact that this is even a fucking question tells me that trans women should stay the fuck away from feminist spaces because those spaces are full of transphobic pieces of shit and are not safe.
This is not okay
This sentiment is not fucking okay
You accept ALL WOMEN PERIOD
None of this qualifier BULLSHIT
ALL WOMEN ARE WOMEN
NO MATTER WHAT THEIR GODDAMN GENITALS ARE
This is why I will NEVER fucking identify as a feminist. EVER. Because y’all are fulla shit.
I. the world ends softly—
the sudden absence of answer.
II. the sky burns in pieces—Beijing first,
then Bangkok. The news is full
of men and women in surgical masks,
suitcoats rimed ash-white.
Children are being kept inside, it informs,
but you catch round faces at the edge
of camera frames, small noses pressed
(how to explain Armageddon
to those little grigori, wide-eyed and guiltless?)
your town gets hit between Nashville
and Kansas City, a few chill-sharp hours
before dawn. you stand in the gathering white,
death dusting your eyelashes.
it’s getting harder to breathe.
III. the cities flicker, fall dark. The nights
become silvercold bright; the milky way
a Jacob’s Ladder—ascending, ascending,
and impassible. Sometimes you see dark shapes
pass across the constellations, slipping
from empty to emptiness.
Their wings blot out the stars.
IV. you forget how to sing.
you forget what it was for.
V. you count your ribs one morning—trace
the crescive struts of them with your
ever-lengthening nails. There is blood
in your teeth you did not put there; war rides
a burned-out red mustang, and his mouth
tastes like the wrong end of a bullet. The pale rider
sits on the end of your bed at night, carving
and sealing shem into your skull, whispering,
the harvest is past.
Under the bloated sun, you tear down the last gods.
It is not enough, this slow monstering—
you have remembered the apple
still lodged in your throat and
you are not saved.
VI. the angels come too late,
feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat
as snakes’. The smell of ozone lingers
in their skin, and glory glory glory sounds
like a punchline.
They promise altars and arks;
the hollow earth, the ascending light.
You will be gold, and gold again.
You are not surprised when their throats
are torn open, revealed to be hollow.
VII. it is cold here at the end of all ages.” —by notbecauseofvictories (via notbecauseofvictories)
I remember in elementary school, this one kid kept getting in trouble because he wouldn’t look the teacher in the eye because in his culture, it was disrespectful to look elders in the eye smh
this? does not surprise me at all.
feminists who don’t know the difference between sex and gender, refuse to acknowledge trans* and non-binary identities, and equate women’s rights with having a vagina while proclaiming women are anything but their genitals, are not feminists
they are feminists, actually. lots of feminists believe that stuff, and it doesn’t mean they aren’t feminists, it means they are shitty people whose feminism is fucked up.
you can’t fix the problems with feminism by pretending all the people causing the problems aren’t actually feminists
i met/or was blued by toni morrison
at chinua achebe’s 70th birthday celebration.
i was invited by my friend, a student at bard, to attend.
was warm with folks of color.
we gathered in a small hall.
writer after writer
offering after offering
to the large life in the chair.
i remembered the title of his book, from the roots album.
remembered the contents of his book, from my high school’s required summer reading.
but i did not remember his feeling, the feeling of africa, until i saw his face.
down in the front row
my young mind was hungry for
had no idea how to pronounce with young tongue.
the offerings continued.
in a way
i thought was going to stop my heart.
in that sonia way.
that cadence and voice way.
that steals you while setting you free.
i felt my body weeping, not my eyes.
when it was toni’s turn.
(she was once a professor at bard. as was chinua achebe, a professor at bard. this was a reunion of sorts.)
she asked no photographs be taken.
no photographs were taken.
i noticed her tone became chill when an african american male student asked her a question about the responsibility
of the younger folk to her work/ what we could do to continue her legacy.
it was odd.
a few minutes prior
there had been honey all through her mouth.
oh, i realized, reluctantly, they were white. the first blue.
the elder achebe spoke, gratitude made his voice cinnamon and heart matter.
we gave him our souls to kiss. we kissed his.
the celebration grew into night, then ended.
i stayed around to meet and speak. waited my turn, as any
young black woman
who’d met pecola breedlove at fifteen
she was there, toni, speaking to a friend.
her back turned to me.
i steadied my neck.
stood behind her, gingerly.
pointed to me.
it had come.
i was going to meet pecola’s mama.
the woman who brought me back from the dead.
finally, her white brown locs
she looked over her shoulder.
the eyes of pecola’s mother
was giving me the look of annoyance.
her eyes, ‘what do you want’
her shoulders, ‘i don’t care’.
i was slung. the second blue.
i managed to get a, ‘i just wanted to say thank you, just thank you for your work,’ out.
she returned to her friend. the third blue.
i was confused. wounded by the blue ice. i don’t even know if she had said anything in return before turning back around. that blue ice ate me.
what was i to think. feel. do.
just a few minutes prior i saw her taking pictures with a group of white female bard students.
didn’t she write the bluest eye for me.
why was pecola’s mother so cold.
i was underwater.
trying to build my feet into boats.
when i lifted my head
i saw sonia.
i slowly swam over
to share with her
how her reading of ‘the middle passage’
had brought the ancestors to me for the first time. that i had never felt anything like that from poetry. that it felt like i was there.
in this tender bridging with sonia,
i was still a car wreck.
water in cracking glass.
that mothers had broken my heart before.
it is a wild knife
you can survive it.
as i was gathering my things from my seat
my group of friends and i,
continued our blended conversation.
was a brillant sense of red and moon.
she was soft spoken.
her energy was wolf balm.
was grandmother song.
was happy prayer.
we were all enjoying each others eyes so much,
but it soon became time for the
so we began to share our
deep gratitude and goodbyes with her.
she stopped and said
‘you, young people aren’t attending the dinner.’
‘no, it is a paid, invite only, affair.’
‘i invite you. you will come sit at my table’
found someone. took
out her checkbook
paid for all of us.
‘you are important. you are our future. you must be a part of this, a part of this history, a part of the conversations that will happen in that room.’
we were stunned.
we followed her into the dining room
we ate and spoke with our favorite auntie.
the one with the magic.
in that moment.
i became this writer.
this writer. who
felt the call.
felt it like new name.
my work must be work.
my work must be work.
this night was no mistake.
i did not go blue
because the stars were running instead of walking.
the ancestors showing me.
showing me how
break or unbreak
showing me there is either silence or words.
Lady gaga “speaks out” against bullying
Macklemore “speaks out” against homophobia
Kanye “goes on a rant” about racism.
Kanye “goes on a rant” about George Bush.
Coded language don’t really be coded tho.
Nicki Minaj “goes on a rant” about sexism.
Oop oop oopity oop did someone drop a bunch of truth over here?
I recently reapplied for a forbearance on my student loans, citing financial reasons and figured everything would be fine. I live on my monthly disability check, there is no way I can afford to make student loan payments. Today I got a letter from the student loan company (ACS) stating that they will not process my forbearance request until I make a payment, ($500.66), that is over half of my disability check, and actually impossible since my father already gets $300+ (for rent) from me each month and I send financial support to my daughters. I am actively calling to speak with a representative about my options but I am worried that I will have to pay in full very soon.
I have a donate button on my page. If you are able, anything will help, even a dollar. Anyone who donates over $10 will get a custom drawn thank you card (my wonderful boyfriend has offered to help with postage) as long as I have their mailing address.
Here are some links for those who are not familiar with my artwork. If you want anything specific on your thank you card just put it in the note part of the donation form (or send me a message)
- one of my newest drawings
- a bunch of turtles, i draw a lot of turtles
- this ones really neat
- probably some of my most popular ones
I am also pretty much willing to try and draw anything if I can figure out a way to do it in my style.
Update: I am at about 20% of what I need to make the payment, thank you to everyone who has donated and reblogged this.
I got some really nice big, blank greeting cards that I plan on covering with pretty drawings before sending them to all the generous people who donated :)
who spends an unreasonable amount of money on new books when they already have dozens of unread books at home
the answer is always me
- (A gay couple has just met up in the restaurant and kissed each other upon arrival. Another customer has seen this and is obviously angry.)
- Angry Customer: “Damn f**s.”
- Gay Man: “Excuse me?”
- Angry Customer: “You heard me, you little s***. Let’s not make this into some little pride protest, okay? I have to accept that you’re going to live your lifestyle, and you have to accept that I’ve got freedom of speech.”
- Gay Man: *quietly* “Is it too much to ask for a little human decency?”
- Angry Customer: “Human? Listen up, what you’re doing is not human. I think I have the right to determine what I think is human.”
- (The manager shows up. He’s a quiet Italian man who I assume is conservative due to the Christian imagery and portrait of Reagan he keeps around the restaurant.)
- Angry Customer: *to the owner* “Hey, can you move either them or us to another table?”
- (Instead of responding to the angry customer, the owner instead speaks to his wife.)
- Owner: “I’m sorry ma’am, but we have a strict ‘no pets’ policy in my restaurant.”
- Wife: “Uh, I, uh, what? I don’t have a—”
- Owner: “Well, according to your talking monkey over here, I can determine who’s a human and who’s not. You bring an animal into my restaurant; I gotta assume it’s your pet.”
- (The angry customer storms out. When I left, the owner was giving his description, and copies of security camera footage, to the biggest crowd of police I’ve seen. Apparently it’s a bad idea to not pay your bill at a restaurant that gives free coffee to cops.)
You can kill every single person on the show but those three (especially Sookie, Bill, Eric, and/or Sam), and I’ll keep watching.
Just leave. My babies. Alone.
- me, sees a kid in a captain america costume which is pretty much just the helmet and a t-shirt with the logo: hey that's adorable, you're the best captain america i've seen all day
- kid turns around, clutching a captain america poster: no
- kid: i'm not captain america
- kid: i'm agent phil coulson
just gave a shit review to the beautiful-but-horrendous apartment complex I lived in during law school, mostly focused on the racist, useless, evil apartment manager. It felt good.