“But you’re not fat, don’t say that,” he responded.
Tell that to the hips that got caught in a turnstile yesterday and everyday that she forgets to turn sideways. Tell that to the stores that stop at size 12 (or size 10 if she wanted to look her age). Tell that to the small woman rolling her eyes beside me on the subway as my booty spills over into her seat. Tell that to the holes my inner thighs have rubbed into every pair of jeans I own. Tell that to the rolls on my back & the crevices in my ass.
Tell that to the silence at the end of your sentence that should say “because fat people are ugly, because if I think you’re attractive you can’t be fat because I’m saving fat to degrade a woman two sizes smaller than you but with a flatter chest & a spare tire. Because you’re not fat is a compliment even when it’s not true because what I’m really saying is you don’t repulse me the way fat people are supposed to repulse me. Because I get final say on your body, not you & I’m giving you a pass for the same dimpled ass I laughed at on another woman yesterday because your waistline is smaller than hers and a normal woman would just be happy with that.”” — - On Being A Fat Girl (via marfmellow)
I’ve been to the forums. I’ve interacted with the people. I’ve tried to give the men’s rights movement a chance. Unfortunately the people involved are much more concerned about derailing and dismantling feminism than actually solving any of those issues. As if they can’t make any progress until feminism is destroyed.
"Family court is unfair and biased towards women. Those darn feminists!" Except that the majority of lawmakers are old white men. From federal to state legislature… they created all the rules, regulations, and laws that govern the courts. They think they are doing men a favor. "Raising children is a woman’s job. Just send a check every month and let them take care of the ankle biters." And the whole family court system is pretty dysfunctional. It isn’t a utopia for mothers that grants their every wish. Mothers and fathers both have the same enemy. They have to influence the same lawmakers to improve the system.
Male rape victims don’t get taken seriously. Again, most detectives are men. Most of the police leadership are men. The lawmakers are mostly men. So let’s blame feminism for not getting justice.
You really don’t think women care about male victims of abuse? Many feminists are mothers of sons. Sons who they love to no end. Of course they care. Of course they want the justice system to care about their sons. Which is why feminists want to dismantle the system that says that men are strong and women are weak. The system that says men cannot really be raped.
The problem lies in how MRAs react to feminism. They see people talking about women’s issues and their reaction is not one of empathy. It is always, “What about us? Bad stuff happens to us too.” Just like that fellow who saw women trying to talk about their hardships in a work environment. He pipes in and complains about not being able to wear shorts. And worse, he equates his issue with theirs even though they aren’t even close in magnitude. Yes, it was a ridiculous example, but it perfectly demonstrated this common reaction men seem to have. When someone is talking about their problems, the proper response is not to reply with a list of your problems. No one is saying that your problems don’t matter, just that this isn’t the proper time to talk about them.
If the MRAs continue to derail every conversation by making it about them, they are not going to be taken seriously. There is plenty of space to talk about men’s issues. They don’t need to invade the space of feminism to be heard. And if they keep thinking women are the enemy, even though women are actually trying to make progress with some of the very issues you mentioned, they aren’t going to have much luck actually solving anything they care about.
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.