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Not Asking For It.
As a society, the way we treat rape and sexual abuse is back assward. It’s not a woman’s job to avoid rape: It’s the man’s job to – you know, NOT RAPE!!! No means no, and not saying yes means no. I repeat, anything other than yes means no!
Revealing clothes do not equal consent.
Flirting does not equal consent.
Coercion doe not equal consent.
Incapacitation does not equal consent.
Any questions?
I wish our society would stop blaming the victim, and start treating the perpetrators for what they are- violent criminals.
Related articles
- I Don’t Want To End Rape Culture. I Want To DESTROY It. (dumbsainthood.wordpress.com)
- Rape culture and the friendzone (kevbeirne.wordpress.com)
I Need Feminism Because
Dear (Fill in The Blank) Zealots – Shut The F#ck Up!
Fuck you (Photo credit: Stéphane Giner)
No one is coming to take your guns – please, shut the fuck up.
You don’t need an assault gun with a grenade launcher to hunt deer or protect your home – please, shut the fuck up.
The Muslims and atheists are not coming to blow up your churches or rob you of your religion- please, shut the fuck up.
Gays and lesbians getting married do not rob you of your rights, nor do they violate the sanctity of marriage- please, pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top, shut the fuck up.
Obama is not a socialist, nor is he coming to take your big screen TV to give to a poor person. Corporate profits have soared under Obama- please, shut the fuck up.
Climate change is real, and this planet is in grave danger of dying – please, shut the fuck up: your blustering over cyclical temps is greatly contributing to our carbon foot print.
Obama is not out to steal your liberties: He’s too busy killing innocent people of color in third world countries with his killer robot planes – please, shut the fuck up.
Reagan and Bush spent way more, and contributed more to the deficit than Obama – please, shut the fuck up.
Supply side economics doesn’t work – please, shut the fuck up.
Women deserve to have control over their own bodies – please, take your patriarchal, misogynistic views, and shut that whole fucking thing down.
Getting more people to work is more important than austerity: More workers equals more taxpayers and consumers, which equals more revenue – Mitch please, shut the fuck up.
God is indeed in our schools: if a student so desires to bring god with him or her to school, she or he has every right to do so – can I get a please shut the fuck up?
Most people don’t want “gifts” from our government. What they want is a chance for a good education, a good job, and a good life – please, help yourself to a Mitt Romney sized cup of shut the fuck up.
Liberals are not some communist horde looking to tear down America. We simply want to level the playing field in order to make sure that everyone has a chance to work hard, and build America up – please, right wing pundits, shut the fuck up.
If I left any wing nuts out, don’t worry I’ll get to you – in the mean time have a seat in yonder corner, and SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Related articles
- Right Now Lyrics By Korn (lyricsjunction.wordpress.com)
- Portable (zozomacallister.wordpress.com)
- What We Have Done (angelschoice.wordpress.com)
- Random Thoughts – Perspective AKA I Might Not Really F*ck With You (breonajai.wordpress.com)
- Mothers who say F**ck (noplaceforsheep.com)
Yo Willard, Take Some Advice From Ned Stark
I love Game of Thrones, and I love this meme. So much so that I want to throw whipped cream and cherry on top of it, and roll around naked in it for hours 
Much Like Today’s GOP.
Poem about My Rights – June Jordan
I came across this wonderful, angry poem yesterday, and had to share. Though it was written decades ago, it’s message is painfully appropriate now.
Without further adieu I share with you:
Poem About My Rights
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
my self
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and disputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life.
Courtney Martin: Reinventing Feminism
Some good stuff here from feminist blogger Courtney Martin.
Lisa Murkowski Speaks Out on The Republican War on Women.
Hmm, do I detect some dissension among the GOP rank and file in regards to their war on women?
Angry Poetry Week Continues: Powers of Recuperation by Adrienne Rich
Today’s poem was written by the iconic feminist poet and essayist Adrienne Rich, who passed away yesterday at the age of 82. Rich’s literary works inspired countless feminist authors and activists over several decades. Rich was revered for her social commentary as well as her deeply moving personal reflections.
She lived and wrote openly as a lesbian for most of her adult life, beginning in an era when homosexuality was condemned by more than just knee jerk christian conservatives. As an author and activist she fought bravely for not only the rights of women, but for all who are disadvantaged in our society.
Her list of works and awards span over 7 decades, and she is one of the most anthologized authors of the 20th century. Although her writing style may have not been the in your face, bludgeon you with a hammer type poetry that’s been featured this week, her message was always loud and clear, and succinctly relevant. I would be remiss if I didn’t honor her today by sharing with you one of her poems.
Sleep well dearest Adrienne; You are cherished by many, and you are already missed.
Without further adieu, I share with you:
Powers of Recuperation
by Adrienne Rich
i.
A woman of the citizen party—what’s that—
is writing history backward
her body
the chair she sits in
to be abandoned
repossessed
The old, crusading, raping, civil, great, phony, holy, world,
second world, third world,
cold, dirty, lost, on drugs,
infectious, maiming, class
war lives on
A done matter she might have thought
ever undone though
plucked
from before her birthyear
and that hyphen coming after
she’s old, old, the incendiary
woman
endless beginner
whose warped wraps you shall find in graves and behind glass
plundered
ii
Streets empty now
citizen rises
shrugging off
her figured shirt pulls on her dark generic garment
sheds
identity inklings
watch, rings, ear studs
now to pocket her flashlight
her tiny magnet
shut down heater
finger a sleeping cat
lock inner, outer door
insert
key in crevice
listen once twice
to the breath of the neighborhood
take temperature of the signs
a bird
scuffling
a frost settling
… you left that meeting around two a.m. I thought
someone should walk with you
Didn’t think then I needed that
years ravel out and now
who’d be protecting whom
I left the key in the old place
in case
iii
Spooky those streets of minds
shuttered against shatter
articulate those walls
pronouncing rage and need
fuck the cops
come jesus
blow me again
Citizen walking catwise
close to the walls
heat of her lungs leaving
its trace upon the air
fingers her tiny magnet
which for the purpose of drawing
particles together will have to do
when as they say the chips are down
iv
Citizen
at riverbank
seven bridges
Ministers-in-exile with their aides
limb to limb dreaming underneath
conspiring by definition
Bridges
trajectories arched
in shelter rendezvous
two banks to every river
two directions
to every bridge
twenty-eight chances
every built thing has its unmeant purpose
iv
Every built thing with its unmeant
meaning
unmet purpose
every unbuilt thing
child squatting civil
engineer devising
by kerosene flare in mud
possible tunnels
carves in cornmeal mush
irrigation
canals by index finger
all new learning looks at first
like chaos
the tiny magnet throbs
in citizen’s pocket
vi
Bends under the arc walks bent listening for chords and codes
bat-radar-pitched or twanging
off rubber bands and wires tin can telephony
to scribble testimony by fingernail and echo
her documentary alphabet still evolving
Walks up on the bridge
wind-whipped roof and trajectory
shuddering under her catpaw tread
one of seven
built things holds her suspended
between desolation
and the massive figure on unrest’s verge
1pondering the unbuilt city
cheek on hand and glowing eyes and
skirted knees apart
2007
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