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"When I started making those weird voices, a lot of people told me how whack it was — ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ they’d say. ‘Why do you sound like that? That doesn’t sound sexy to me.’ And then I started saying, Oh, that’s not sexy to you? Good. I’m going to do it more. Maybe I don’t want to be sexy for you today."
"one of the scariest moments of being a girl is not feeling safe walking down the street, minding your own business when picking up a package at the local post office. just walking, enjoying the slight breeze, tired from a full day of work, and looking forward to your package. you get a few catcalls. you get strange men mumbling lewd comments under their breath when they pass you, undressing you with their eyes. it’s gross, but you can deal. the sad thing is that this is a normal occurrence. it’s just inevitable. three younger guys start coming toward you. you put on your stony-scary-girl mask, curl up your fist, do your best to avoid their gazes. they surround you, in the middle of the sidewalk, and over your music, you hear them say, “hey, girl, you japanese? you japanese?” you walk faster, leaving them behind, feeling disgusting and fetishized. you calm down a bit. you pick up your package, buy some mascara while you’re there, and leave the store. your heart sinks when you see the same three guys coming towards you. you’re ready, though. there are tons of people around; they can’t do anything. you, once again, put on your brave-girl-facade, and they surround you once again, loud. so loud. they say “hey are you japanese? tell me, why are you acting so scared? it’s just a question.” they’re way too close, and you pleadingly look at the woman who’s walking towards you, and push past them, trying to be brave, saying “fuck you” over your shoulder as you pull away. you keep walking til you hit the yogurty’s, and look back, heart still pounding, making absolute sure that no one’s following you. you don’t rest easy til you hit your apartment, and suddenly everything comes crashing down."
i have warriors bones.
don’t try to eat my body
because your father told you
‘a woman is grown only for you, consume her.’
you might not make it out alive.
i have rose acid in my skin.
one way or another
it will teach your eyes how to behave.
when they are trying to pull my breasts
from my shirt.
you think because my hands are small.
they are afraid of carving you away
sending you to the sort of loneliness
only a woman can create with her smell.
it is your ignorance
your denial of us.
that braids our backs into golden rope
that can not break.
you throw us garbage
we make stars. while giving birth.
gross. gross. gross. miscalculation.
"An 8-year-old girl camper began swimming near the edge of the pool by me. She was a tiny girl with a bubbly personality, and she was very attached to me. Upon seeing us talking, the boy swam over and started chasing her around the water. It was clear from the way she was trying to get away from him and her screeching that she wanted to be left alone — her body language and tense demeanor should have showed that she was uncomfortable — but if that wasn’t enough of a clue, the “stop” she yelled in protest should have been enough for him to go away. That’s when it really hit me how serious the situation was. I could immediately picture it escalating. I didn’t see an 8-year-old girl and an 11-year-old boy anymore; I saw the two of them as fully grown and matured adults. The girl was still small and skinny, and the boy was large enough to overpower her with little effort. I could see her running away from him, trying to push off his advances in a more sexual situation, but him refusing to believe that she really wanted him to stop. I saw him ignoring her physical protests right along with the verbal ones, convinced she wanted him there. It horrified me. I reprimanded him immediately, insisting that when someone asks you to stop, it’s important to listen. Almost seconds later, a male counselor standing by the same section of the pool told him not to listen to me and to continue his pursuit of this little girl, despite her obvious protests. Here were two boys, roughly 10 years apart in age, but with the same views on women: that consent doesn’t matter. It’s not a generational thing: this mindset has clearly been ingrained into the public psyche from an early age. How often are we told not to take no for an answer? How often do we see children pestering their parents about getting a new toy until they eventually give in? How often do we hear about a woman’s whims coming with her menstrual cycle? How often do we see on television shows and in movies a woman “changing her mind” about a man who is persistent enough or who just proves himself worthy? The idea that a woman will change her mind is so ingrained that we can’t always recognize it at first."
"We teach females that in relationships, compromise is what women do. We raise girls to see each other as competitors, not for jobs or for accomplishments— which I think can be a good thing— but for the attention of men. We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings in the way that boys are. If we have sons, we don’t mind knowing about our sons’ girlfriends, but our daughters boyfriends? ‘God forbid!’ But of course when the time is right, we expect those girls to bring back the perfect man to be their husband. We police girls, we praise girls for virginity, but we don’t praise boys for virginity … We teach girls shame. "Close your legs!" "Cover yourself!" We make them feel as though by being born female, they are already guilty of something. And so, girls grow up to be women who cannot say they have desire. They grow up to be women who silence themselves. They grow up to be women who cannot say what they truly think. And they grow up—and this is the worst thing we do to girls—they grow up to be women who have turned pretense into an artform."
you do not have boundaries.
on your inabilty
they took no
return it to your mouth.
to your heart. women of color, nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)