mondie-the-great said:

I'm curious if you got the same impression about the whole Ted Anderson kerfuffle. In that one blog post of his, he claims that inverting the hatred that women constantly face from society is acceptable simply because men do not face systemic abuse from women or other sectors of society. First of all, isn't that based not even in empirical fact, but only in perception? And secondly, do you get the impression that his support of the radical opinions espoused by dragondicks was disingenuous?

White male privilege does exist. That is irrefutable.

It’s wrong, not fair, and needs to be fixed.

But punishing while males doesn’t solve anything, it just generates more friction, more hate, and more resistance to change.

Why should the white male in power want to sympathise with people who hate him and block him out?

We need to work together, build bridges, promote equality, and that cannot be achieved through organised hate speech and aggravating t-shirts.

Being downtrodden and pissed off does not justify doing the same to others. It’s exactly how bullies work, by trying to bring the same negativity on others.

I want to believe Ted merely bought into the propaganda, and was trying to show support for feminism, but simply fell in with the wrong crowd.

Ted losing his job was not the outcome I wanted - but if he’s out to promote hate speech, it’s the only outcome there can be.

The moment for him to set all to rights came and went, and in that moment, instead of saying “Hey actually, this isn’t something the Mane 6 would say, so why should I say it?” he opened his shiny new SJW bible and started quoting it verbatim.

Crying shame.

What the fuck even...

So my boyfriend and I are sitting here in bed and I’m scrolling through tumblr, and I come across a post about how women can be shown being beaten, raped, and murdered in a pg-13 movie but if a woman’s face shows during an orgasm it was to be R and I was raging about how awful that is and my boyfriend (as usual) can’t even be bothered by what I’m saying. Then he proceeds to tell me “baby, I love you, but please stop with the feminist shit. It’s not like you can take any action or do anything to make a difference, so stop ranting about it all the time.”

Oh I’m sorry! Jesus if you find it so annoying to listen to how women are oppressed, IMAGINE LIVING IT. Maybe your straight white male privileges are getting to your head. And here I made the mistake of actually thinking I was dating someone who respected women, and someone who respected me and my views on society.

He insults my feminism, he insults my passion for marine biology, he doesn’t take the hardships as a deaf/HoH person seriously, and he wonders why I don’t respect him as much as I used to. He’s turning into my FATHER.

anonymous said:

Okay so first of all this blog is fabulous and I adore it. Second, I have a lot of friends who just don't understand any het/cis/white/male privilege and post the whole 'not all men' 'straight people deserve rights too' shit and I just don't even know how to relay these concepts to them in a way that they'll understand because it's just so simple and frustrating. Do you have any tips on how to explain it all in a way that they won't just brush you off as being an extremist nutcase?

well, first off, i would stress that privilege is often unacknowledged. it’s sort of like the submerged state in policy, if i can make that analogy—something like 60-70% of people who say that they have never used government benefits actually have, especially in the form of tax exemptions for interest paid on house mortgages. the reason these people say that they haven’t used government benefits is because it’s kind of hard to notice that they’re helping you out by not taxing you—as opposed to say mailing you stacks of money. it’s the same thing with privilege. there isn’t some master list of straight white males out there getting a quarterly newsletter and a semiannual free luncheon, but a lot of the things that they do have and take for granted—not being fired for their sexuality, not being denied housing, etc.—are things that lgbtqiap+ people and other oppressed groups don’t have. second, let them know that having privilege isn’t what makes a person a bad person, and screwing up and saying/doing something problematic on occasion because of that privilege doesn’t mean that they’re horrible people forever and ever. our lives would be a lot easier if it was just homphobes (or equivalent) vs. everyone else, but that’s not necessarily how it works. everyone does something problematic at some point in their lives, the idea is to recognize that it’s problematic, and recognize your privilege, and try not to do it again.

anonymous said:

earlier I had a weird urge to check the autism tag because "it can't be THAT bad!" and then I saw a shit ton of sjws who were possibly self-diagnosed (including one who said self-diagnosing was okay and if you don't agree you're ableist)

ive gotten death threats from self diagnosers when i criticise that bullshit.  Along with accusations of flaunting my class privilege, my white privilege, my male privilege and my diagnosis privilege

You can imagine what I thought of all that.

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TRIGGER WARNING …

So, by now you have all heard of 22 year old Elliot Rodger who went on a killing spree in Isla Vista, a community in Santa Barbara, California. One Friday night, Elliot shot and killed 7 people, including himself, close to the University of California Santa Barbara campus.

Prior to his violent shooting rampage, Elliot recorded a video titled, Day of Retribution in which he states, “college is the time when everyone experiences those things such as sex and fun and pleasure. In those years I’ve had to rot in in loneliness, it’s not fair.” and “you girls have never been attracted to me, I don’t know why you girls aren’t attracted to me, but I will punish you all for it”.

About a month ago, after seeing some of Elliot’s YouTube videos, his family contacted authorities. Law Enforcement interviewed Elliot and said they found him to be a ‘perfectly polite, kind and wonderful human’ and took no further action.

Now we have media outlets labeling Elliot as a “mad man”, “spoiled brat”, “misunderstood”, “good human” etc and continuing to file this mass murder under mental health.

Understand that no one is saying that he did not suffer from mental illness, I’m sure he does. But we CANNOT ignore the fact that this mass killing was rooted in his hate of women (misogyny) and inability to properly deal with rejection. There is much to unpack about this incident, how it was handled and how it will be portrayed in the media, but for now I’ll post some tweets from those of us responding to the shooting on twitter.

For more info about the shooting: http://bit.ly/1mjerdo

Elliot Rodgers, Day of Retribution video: http://youtu.be/FWWGtee14pA

Elliot was also racist: http://bit.ly/1h0BniC

Three more bodies found at Elliot’s apartment: http://bit.ly/RnzYWP

Elliot Rodgers 140 page manifesto, My Twisted World: http://bit.ly/1nGaWwX

From: Julia Maddera, Georgetown University ‘13.  

To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better.  Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore.  Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth.  Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge.  Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry.  Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love.  Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences.

To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library.  Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his third-world home country to teach at its eight-year-old university.  Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American.  Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me.  Who won’t take a hint. 

To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything.  Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of?  Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that.  Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis.  Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.”  Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date.  Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times.  Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro.  Who has called me three times since.  Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics.  Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me.

To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years.

To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid.  Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home.

To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater.  Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once.  Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives.  To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me. 

To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street.  To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face.  Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight.  Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here.

To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention.  Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway.  Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.

But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration.  Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys.  Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique.

And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain.  Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me. 

And that’s just two months in Paris. 

To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times.

To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor.  Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment.  Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking.  Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first.

To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to.

To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top.  Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood.

To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?”  Who was not being ironic.

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To be white, or straight, or male, or middle class is to be simultaneously ubiquitious and invisible. You’re everywhere you look, you’re the standard against which everyone else is measured. You’re like water, like air. People will tell you they went to see a “woman doctor” or they will say they went to see “the doctor.” People will tell you they have a “gay colleague” or they’ll tell you about a colleague. A white person will be happy to tell you about a “Black friend,” but when that same person simply mentions a “friend,” everyone will assume the person is white. Any college course that doesn’t have the word “woman” or “gay” or “minority” in its title is a course about men, heterosexuals, and white people. But we call those courses “literature,” “history” or “political science.”

This invisibility is political.

—  Michael S. Kimmel, in the introduction to the book, “Privilege: A Reader”
When people of colour are expected to educate white people as to their humanity, when women are expected to educate men, lesbians and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world, the oppressors maintain their position and evade their responsibility for their own actions.
—  Audre Lorde
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