every time an asexual person tells an LGBT person “you don’t know what it’s like to feel broken and abnormal” they owe the nearest LGBT crisis hotline or community centre 500 dollars. 

As part of his reparations to Midgard, Loki is to perform community service. You run a chronically underfunded and understaffed community center for at-risk youth in a poor neighborhood in New York. The last thing you need is some arrogant god from another planet who’s only here because SHIELD told him he has to be. Even if he is in civilian clothes, since a lot of these kids recognize him from the news footage of the Battle of New York, and they’d be even more hostile to him if he were in Asgardian formal dress.

i’m sketching out the finer points of a fic where dennis comes out and he and mac start dating but dennis is concerned that they’re not doing the whole “gay” thing properly and that they don’t have enough “status” in the “community” so he signs himself and mac up to volunteer with some lgbt youth, and i guess the community centre is just understaffed enough that they allow mac and dennis to run the tuesday night lgbt youth group all by themselves, and it goes about as well as you can imagine. one girl asks if mac and dennis can give her a ride to goodwill on the weekend to get some feminine clothes and dennis explains that goodwill is full of bedbugs and diseases and they take her on a shoplifting tour of forever 21 and claire’s instead. a boy comes in upset about his father refusing to let him see his boyfriend, and the very next morning that dad walks out to the curb to find his tires slashed and his windows shattered and a single log of poop sitting in the middle of the driver’s seat. one girl is sad because she doesn’t know where to find a girlfriend and mac and dennis take her to a sold-out tegan and sara concert (i.e., sneak her in through the stage door in an elaborate disguise) and proceed to wingman her all night by pretending to be her overenthusiastic gay dads.

anonymous asked:

Hi Samantha, I would like to ask for a method of practising more on reading the opponent and being slower. I feel like my skill in this is very unstable and escapes me sometimes. I feel like rushing is what I do most of the time, which usually ends up with me being dead.

Thanks for asking! This is a big subject. It is the result of what happens when people wear protective gear and lose fear of the blade, which makes it easy to become reckless when fighting. It is extremely hard to defend against an opponent who is reckless because they don’t hold back, but if you are smart in a real fight, then you will preserve some caution- especially with sharp blades. I don’t think that it’s your skill that varies, just the circumstances that you are learning in.

I think that you need a partner who wants to learn the same way, who is trying to develop the feeling in the blade. If one opponent moves faster then the other will follow so you really need to have someone who can agree to not try to “win” or try to be the fastest during a drill. You have to agree to move at the same speed, keep the bind until you have manipulated the other to a place that is safer for you. The goal is for you to learn together and not by taking advantage of the other in the relative safety of the drill.

This is all in aid of developing ‘fühlen’, or ‘feeling’ in the fight.

(For a good technical breakdown of fühlen within historical German martial arts, see Hugh Knight’s description here.)

Below: Half of the page from manuscript i:33 folio 20v, showing two fencers bound.

What I demonstrate when I teach is all centred on fencing from the bind. The historical treatises largely recommend binding and control, rather than rushing in. However the way that most of the modern sword-combat sports world* are fighting is the opposite, unfortunately. There is very little binding, even though it’s shown all the time in the fight books.

*Just what I mean: the wider international community of medieval sword-centred combat sports fighters, which comes in over a dozen forms and identities.

When fighting, if a person’s goal is to strike the other, they will rush in and be reckless. If their goal is to defend themselves from attack, they will be more conservative and efficient.

I think that part of the problem causing “rushing in” is that in modern competitive sword combat, we generally seek to score points in a hurry to win a bout.

If we changed the rules to be that we started with hit points and had to preserve them, it would make for more careful fencing. There would still need to be motivation for both parties to fight, but the focus would shift and reflect the more cautious approach seen in historical swordsmanship. The key is to still have a healthy fear of the other person’s blade. Then you learn how to be safe against the danger.

It’s the same as working with any hazardous equipment. In my industry, there are so many of these that we use all the time. For example, the table saw is a pretty devastating tool but you don’t replace it with a blunted or plastic version, or wear a lot of protection to work with it. Bulky clothes or thick gloves actually get in the way, and create more of a hazard than working with just a pair of earmuffs and safety glasses.

Instead, you just accept the potentially-fatal dangers of the tool and learn to work with it carefully, in a controlled, precise and mindful way.

Below: Carving polystyrene-foam into organic stone steps as a scenic sculptor for the film industry. I’m wearing chaps because the chainsaw can potentially kick-back, although since this is fine-detail work, the material is much softer than what I usually work with and less of a hazard. Note the fencing stance for stability, and the rotation of my body to agree with the angle of the cut.

I am not advocating an irresponsible approach to training with swords, rather to appreciate the full hazard they present and then learn to handle it.

What I’m talking about refers to historical swordsmanship in the context of self-defence, but there are many, many modern sword combat sports that exist that have already put safety factors in place to protect their athletes.

Not everyone can be good at sword sports. But anyone can be good at at fencing for self-defence.

I have experienced this kind of approach in more than a few sword clubs around the world. To see video examples of it in action you can check out Roland Warzecha/DIMICATOR’s YouTube channel, showing the active practice of swordsmanship using sharp steel and shields that as closely as possibly follow the specifications of museum artifacts.

Lastly, a philosophy that may help prevent rushing in:

You have to control your space, the circle (or sphere) around your body. This is the distance around you that you or your weapon can reach. Anything that is inside it is your space.

(This concept was developed extensively during the Renaissance though Italian and Spanish schools of fencing- the example below is from Sebastien Romagnan’s book on Destreza)

So when your opponent comes into that space, they can be in your control.
You are allowing them in. It’s the same for them- they are allowing you into their space. You just need to help them to make a mistake. Then once they make a mistake you can control them. Unless you also make a mistake, then you are both equal again. The best thing is to be efficient and make fewer mistakes than your opponent.

You can let someone into your space to trick them, or if you already have a better angle and they will struggle to defend. But it needs to be a clear decision to allow them that close to you.

If you practice understanding your circle (with and without a sword), and think about what you allow to come into it, it will give you an advantage when you practice with a partner. However, there is a lot you can do to improve your reflexes and self control for combat, explained in length by many other martial arts practitioners.

I hope that helps!

the skies above us

written for @alittledizzy as part of @fandomtrumpshate

length: 14.8k

genre(s): fluff+angst

triggers/warnings: implied panic attack/anxiety, canonical character death mentions

Baz and Simon meet in a community center art class and become fast enemies; much to the chagrin of their matchmaking therapist. Over the next few months tensions escalate, paint is thrown, coffee is had, and the two of them learn that there’s more to life than just doing what’s expected of you

playlist | ao3

a/n: bless @cherryonsimon for being the most patient beta and best friend and for staying up until 5am reading this over!! and a huge thank you to all of my friends who listened to me talk about this fic for ages and who offered their support throughout the entire process 💜 (this fic will crash the mobile app so if you’re on your phone i recommend reading on ao3 ^__^)


“How’ve you been, Simon?”

I shrug, and Ebb writes something down in her notebook. I crane my neck to see what it is, and she pulls it back. Frowning, I lean back on the couch and cross my arms. It’s not like she’s said something bad, it’s just a habit I’d picked up over the years. Being in and out of therapy since you were a child tends to make you curious about what they’re saying about you, especially if their evaluation could determine whether you get shuffled around yet again.

Not like that would actually happen with Ebb, especially since I aged out of the system a while ago, but it’s still a knee-jerk reaction to seeing someone taking down notes about me. Never mind that I’ve been seeing the same therapist for six months; some habits are hard to break.

Ebb is the best person I know, which is probably a weird thing to say about someone you pay to listen to your problems; but when you don’t have a lot of people in your corner, you learn to appreciate the ones who are.

Her office looks nothing like the small cramped rooms of the therapists I’d been sent to when I was a kid. It’s large and airy, with a red couch covered in pillows and crocheted afghans. The walls are completely covered in pictures of people, of places, of things. The first time I’d visited, I’d asked Ebb about her walls, and she’d just laughed and told me it reminded her of her life.

“What about it?” I’d asked.

“That I’ve lived it,” she’d replied and laughed again.

I love Ebb’s laugh. She laughs like everything matters, and it’s nice to hear. Encouraging. It’s one of the many reasons I keep coming back.

She’s still waiting for my answer, but I don’t feel pressured. That’s another thing I like about Ebb: she gets it. She knows that sometimes words are hard for me and that sometimes you just get sad for no real reason.

Ebb lost her brother when she was young. I know this because she accidentally let it slip during a session one day. I felt like a jerk for not comforting her, only watching as she’d wiped her eyes on the cuff of her jumper, but I know she understood.

Other people’s emotions are hard for me to handle, but I’m getting better at it, I think. I should probably ask Penny, considering she’s basically the only person I talk to regularly, now that Agatha’s broken up with me and moved away to the States. To California. To “find herself”, whatever the hell that means.

“I’ve been…okay,” I finally say, and Ebb nods.

“Just okay?”

“Well–,” I pause, “I did have an incident at work…”

Ebb nods, and I take it as encouragement to continue.

“I got fired again.”

“Uh oh,” she says, but not in a way that makes me feel bad.

“I messed up a customer’s drink and got so anxious as I was trying to fix it that I broke the machine.”

She tuts and writes something in her notebook again. My curiosity is too much this time. “What are you writing?”

“Just a reminder,” she replies, “I’ll tell you at the end of the session.”

That doesn’t completely satisfy my curiosity, but I drop the subject anyway.

We spend the rest of the hour discussing my week–what I’ve done, what I haven’t done, what I should be doing,–until the timer on Ebb’s side table beeps and she uncrosses her legs. Her head is bent, and I want to ask what she was going to say before, but she beats me to it.

“Have you thought about taking up a hobby?” she asks, pen still scratching across the paper as she looks up at me.

That’s not what I was expecting. “I mean…” I trail off, trying to remember the last time I’d done anything that could be considered a “hobby”. I play football with friends sometimes, except…except it’s been years since I’ve actually done anything like that. Christ, has it been that long? “It hasn’t exactly been a priority to me.” I say, avoiding Ebb’s inquiring gaze.

“Well, maybe it should be,” she says in a way that makes me think I don’t have a choice in the matter. Maybe that’s a good thing, because I know if I were on my own I’d never push myself to find something.

“Like what?”

“I was thinking something therapeutic. Like… relaxing. Have you ever taken a painting class before?”

“You mean outside school?”

She nods.


“Would you be interested in trying one?”

I shrug. Again.

She sets her pen down and tears a page out of her notebook, folds it, and hands it to me. “Here’s the information about the class. You don’t have to attend, but I think It’d be good for you.”

I take the paper, and look at the class name. “Why painting and drawing?”

“Well, Simon, I could list all of the reasons it’s beneficial to your mental health, but that’s boring and you don’t want to hear it. Long story short: it might make you happy and that’s a damn good reason, in my opinion.”

I nod, because I feel like I’m supposed to agree.

We make my next appointment, and as I’m leaving she says, “I really do think this will be good for you, Simon.” It’s like she can tell that I’m considering tossing the number, and I make a firm decision not to.

I wave goodbye and duck out the door, shoving the paper roughly into my jacket pocket. It feels heavier than it should, and I know it’s because I’m overthinking this. (As usual.) I’ll probably feel better once I have more information, but the thought of me enjoying an art class makes me want to laugh. I’m not artistic in any way, and I really don’t have any interest in spending time looking at stupid bowls of fruit, or drawing naked people, or whatever people do in classes like this.

But I’ll do it. For Ebb. (And because maybe she’s right about this. Maybe it will make me happy.)

(Something has to.)

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  • what she says: I'm fine
  • What she means: How long has Jurassic World been open? How did they reclaim the island from the rogue dinos from the first movie? Are any of the dinos in Jurassic World the ones that have been there all along, just recaptured? Why didn't they clean up the ruins of the original community centre? How did those kids manage to get a Jeep that's been sitting unused for 22 years into working condition at all let alone so fast? How do you even sell an idea like Jurassic World after the events of the first three movies? How was the T Rex in California from the third one spun in the media? What do animal rights activists think of the park? What about conservationists when they're literally feeding endangered sharks to that water thing for entertainment? Do the employees live on-site or are they ferried in every day? Why is a park in Costa Rica staffed exclusively by Americans? How does Costa Rica feel about having an island full of murder-lizards close by? Are the scientists using this gene splicing and cloning tech to save other endangered species? To fight disease? What are the scientific ramifications of the Jurassic World universe? Is 22,000 people a good visitor turnout for a park that size because I feel like they could do better? What does admission cost? Do they have tacky themed resorts like Disney? Why are people literally no longer impressed by fucking DINOSAURS that they need something bigger and scarier? How did they get everyone off the island when the T Rex was still loose? What were they even trying to accomplish with that thing who thought that was a good idea? Dr. Wu you were there in the first one WHY DID YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA? HOW THE FUCK DID CLAIRE OUTRUN A T-REX IN THOSE HEELS?!??

mr-puppy  asked:

I've really been having an architectural love affair lately with my closest big city of Edmonton, AB. I searched your posts but found nothing, so local pride had me reach out to get your thoughts on some of our favorites along the river valley and downtown such as Hotel MacDonald, the Art Gallery of Alberta, Rogers Place, the Shaw Conference Center, Scotia Place or anything else you find interesting. Thanks for this blog, it's inspiring me to travel.

Thanks! Sorry for the oversight of not including any Edmonton on previous posts. Here are some examples of Edmonton’s architecture beyond those listed on your message:

Muttart Conservatory Peter Hemingway

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A young boy smiles at a community centre for internally displaced people in Sana'a, Yemen, supported by the United Nations Refugee Agency UNHCR.

A brutal conflict is devastating Yemen, where two thirds of the population now need humanitarian assistance or protection in order to survive. A child under age 5 now dies every 10 minutes of preventable causes.

The United Nations and partners are working tirelessly to respond to the crisis and have reached millions of people with life-saving assistance. But without access to affected people and adequate funding, millions of lives will continue to hang in the balance.

📷 : UNHCR / Shabia Mantoo

Zootopia Fanfiction Take A Stand: Star Of Ceartais Ch.7- The Things We Keep Hidden

(AN/ Hey folks it’s Garouge/Crewefox here with another chapter of Star of Ceartais. First off I’d like to thank everyone who has supported this fic and protested against the Troll Mafiaguy2017, whose hurtful rhetoric has no place in the zootopia fandom. And to Jill Fine, if you’re reading this please know I’m sorry for the online bullying you’ve endured and that I will always have your back. Thank you to everyone who, liked, followed, faved, reblogged and reviewed the last update. A big thank you to the development team for this fic @nick-and-judy-daily, @raykamino , @senny74 and @alexboehm55144 who helped me structure this upcoming chapter and gave lots of ideas for future chapters, also thanks Alana for beta reading this, all you guys are AWESOME! So without further ado let’s get cracking with this chapter…)

here’s the link…

Chapter 7- The things we keep hidden.

“Last chance ass hats; leave.” Robyn said, standing her ground.

The horse with the bolt cutters had heard enough and swung the bolt cutters down at Robyn, she dodged them easily and kicked the stallion in the gut with such a force he was knocked into the side of his pick up truck with a visible dent….that was impossible Robyn was around the 17 pound mark in weight yet she managed to kick and launch 1500lb horse with little effort, The medicine!? She thought it gave super strength too! When Robyn realised what she had done she felt a surge of energy course through her, she was going to teach these thieves a lesson she bared her canine like teeth and grinned at the other horse who looked terrified and simply said “Playtime.”

“What the hell are you!?” The thieving horse babbled.

“I’m not sure myself.” Robyn tittered, loving the petrified look on the horse’s face.

“Little freak!” The thief crowed before throwing a punch down towards the much shorter hybrid.

Robyn saw this move coming and easily sidestepped the equine grabbing his arm as she did so, she flipped him on his back with a judo throw then like flash but him in a crippling arm lock “You really are as a dumb as you look.” Robyn sniggered, unaware that Kodi had gotten out his phone and started recording what was transpiring.

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The Battle of Vimy Ridge took place in April 1917, and was part of the Battle of Arras in Northern France.  Canadian troops fought against German Troops.  It was the first time that all four divisions of the Canadian Expeditionary Force had fought as a single cohesive unit.

The Memorial at Vimy is a National Canadian Monument and serves to commemorate those Canadians who fell during the First World War and also those Canadians without a known grave.

The main element of the monument is Mother Canada mourning her dead.  She stands on the edge of the monument, looking over the once blood drenched fields on which so many Canadians fell.

A truly moving experience the first time it is visited, more so on subsequent visits.

I was on holiday in France, 2007 when I first saw the memorial at Vimy, it made such an impression on me, that on the journey back to the ferry, at the end of the holiday, we stopped again to photograph it.  It is unbelievably moving.  Like so many of the War Cemeteries and memorials within the Somme area of Northern France their very presence is to commemorate the fallen of a long, bloody and needless war.  Some of the memorials are beautiful, in total contrast to the very thing that they were built to commemorate.

About 3 hours drive south of Vimy, stands a little village graveyard.  You could quite easily drive past St Agnan Communal Cemetery and not know that it is there.  However, I know that it is there because it contains the grave of a relative.  Walter Alec Clarence Footman was killed on the night of ¾ May, 1944 in the lead up to ’D’ Day.  He was part of a large Lancaster bomber raid on a transport and communications centre.  Unfortunately he didn’t come back - he was 24.

So here we have two ends of the commemorative spectrum, a massive monument in honour of 11,000 Canadians who lost their lives in France, and a single grave to an airman of the second world war.  

One death is to many…

“Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind…“

anonymous asked:

*slapping knees* gUESS WHO HAS A MOTHA FUCKIN' ANGST PROMPT? This guy! So so so imagine middle aged erejeans in which they're getting older and Jean is still super scared that Eren will one day stop loving him (I'm going to draw a thing for my idea, but I may as well leave a prompt before it leaves my head)

Dude, this was so hard to write? I noticed I’ve actually never written from the perspective of a middle aged character before and I had to concentrate so hard to get into a fitting mindset? Anyway, I hope it somewhat worked. Thanks for the challenge!
You should definitely show me your art when it’sa done so I can link it in this post!

The years had been kind to Eren. It wasn’t that they’d flown by without leaving their mark, of course they had. But with every change, every tiny, additional imperfection Eren grew more striking and unique. The silver streaks in his dark hair suited him just like the laughter lines around his mouth and eyes did. Even the scars he’d collected over the years and years working at the fire department were beautiful badges of honour he wore with pride.
Not even the difficult years after his accident where he’d almost died trapped in a burning building and developed serious Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder afterwards had managed to leave lingering shadows on his soul and mind. He still had nightmares sometimes and was uncomfortable in small rooms but he’d learned to deal with the intrusions that had gotten much rarer and look out for himself in unfamiliar situations.

Eren was strong and gorgeous and so full of life. He was happy. And that was really everything Jean had ever wanted for his husband. To see him happy and content with the life they had built together.
But at the same time it was so much harder than expected. To have someone beside him who was this vibrant and energetic and gorgeous, someone who made everyone around them light up with joy and fascination. Someone who was kind and loving and smart and deserved so much better.

Jean hadn’t aged nearly as well as Eren had. His hairline was thinning more with every passing month, his eyesight had worsened considerably over the last few years and his body … well, all the sitting around at the office sure didn’t do him any favours. He’d grown thin and weak, fingers bony and knees knobbly, the lean muscle he’d once been proud of melted away by long hours of overtime and laziness. He could barely stand looking in the mirror.
But it wasn’t just that. Jean was … boring. He knew that. Of the hundreds of things he’d found interesting thirty years ago there was barely anything left. He was interested in work, which was a silver lining in his grey everyday life. Then there were the handful of shows he enjoyed and followed. He liked good whiskey. He liked documentaries about nature and wildlife. He liked Eren. Besides that there wasn’t much.
He was also sarcastic and bitter about a lot of things. Politics, education, art. How any of their family members even tolerated him was a mystery.
How Eren could still stand to be married to him, an enigma.

“Maddie called earlier”, Eren said over the loud bubbling noises coming from the stove. He was preparing soup for dinner and busied himself cutting a few slices of fresh bread while it cooked.
Jean looked up from the article in his business magazine that he hadn’t caught a single word of.
“Yeah?”, he huffed, watching his husband across the kitchen island. “How is she? Still with that loser, what’s his … Chad?”
“Brad”, Eren corrected him, one side of his lips quirked up and Jean rolled his eyes. Right, Brad. Pathetic frat boy.

“She’s fine and yes, she’s still with Brad. But she called about the loan contract for her apartment? I told her you’d call her back…” Jean grumbled quietly, mentally going over his schedule.
“I’ll … call her Thursday around lunch time?”
“She called me Papa, I think it’s urgent”, Eren grinned. He was still clinging on to his image of Maddie as their little girl the way they’d first met her. Seven year old spitfire and constant pain in their asses. They loved her dearly and she’d learned to love them right back. Twenty years later nothing had changed, really.

“After dinner then”, Jean gave in and got a wide smile in return, the way the skin crinkled around Eren’s eyes now would always make his heart stop for a second or two.
“Thanks, darling.”
Eren finished with the bread and put the slices into a little basket they’d bought a few summers ago during their vacation in Italy.

“Is everything alright?”
When Jean looked up from his magazine again Eren was leaning across the kitchen island, handsome face dangerously close and studying him with that intense gaze. Jean swallowed and leaned away from him a bit. He could barely open his mouth to answer when Eren furrowed his brows and shook his head.
“Don’t you dare feed me bullshit. You’ve been grumpy the last few days. Well, grumpier than usual…”

Jean squinted at him even though the little laugh Eren tacked onto the words was quite disarming. But what was he even supposed to answer? ‘Could you stop being so damn amazing so I don’t feel like shit next to you’? Hardly the way to begin this discussion. But was there really an alternative? Should he even talk about this?
They’d been over his insecurities time and time again. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, nor an inexperienced freshman and it was definitely too late for a midlife crisis…

“’m fine”, he grumbled instead, eyes flicking back down to the pages he could swear he’d never seen before.
For a moment it felt like Eren would protest, insist, press on. He knew Jean way too well and there was no way he’d accept this without a fight. Then there was a low, thoughtful hum and Eren pushed himself away from the kitchen island to stroll over to the calendar hung on the wall.

“We should go dancing Saturday night”, he said, his voice light and pretty. “I’m not on call on Sunday, so…” When Jean looked over at his husband his eyebrows were dancing and Jean always laughed.
“Dancing?”, he asked, incredulous. They hadn’t been out to dance in … years, probably. “Where, the community centre? Maybe they’ll let us play bingo before. But we’ll need to take care to not throw out your hip…” Eren snorted but shook his head.
“Come on, we’re not that old!”
“We’re … pretty old, Eren”, Jean grumbled. He could already feel his stomach sink at the thought of people looking at them, wherever they might end up going. Wondering how someone as lively and beautiful as Eren could end up with someone as dull and ugly as Jean…

There was a hand curling around his, tugging him off the bar stool, gentle but insisting.
“Not too old for this”, Eren smirked as he pulled Jean close. The way he positioned their hands said he’d let Jean lead but the pull of his body showed the opposite, sweeping them around the kitchen and twirling around Jean to a silent tune.
Just like that the memories came back. Nights spent in dirty bars and clubs, sweating and sliding and spinning until sunrise. Then, later, ballroom dance at fancy work events and weddings, at their wedding…
Jean swallowed, his chest pulling tight around his heart. He had to hold on to this, this feeling, this amazing man, and enjoy their time together for however long he still could. Before Eren understood how pointless wasting his time with Jean was. Before he’d leave to find someone better.

“Saturday night, then”, he forced out and Eren’s answering smile was blinding.
“I love you, you grumpy old man”, he grinned as he suddenly dipped Jean. It wasn’t as low as it had been years and years ago, but his hands were still warm and broad, his body strong and steady. Jean felt his eyes slide closed.
“Love you too, idiot…”, he muttered and moments later soft lips pressed against his as Eren pulled him upright again.

[If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying me a coffee <3]

It’s so weird when kinky people bring their kink stuff into nonsexual spaces and conversations and then when people don’t want to engage with them they’re like, “oh, you must hate kink and not want me to be doing this”, like honestly I do not care if you and your partner both get off when one of you is wearing a leash in the privacy of your own bedroom I JUST don’t want to have to like, participate in a whole thing about it when I’m just trying to hang up a poster for a rally at a local community centre. I’m fine with doing weird sex stuff myself and could PROBABLY tell you stories about my own sexual history that would maybe even make YOU uncomfortable but I don’t because that would be awkward and unpleasant! Why don’t you understand that this is awkward and unpleasant. Why do you go right to “the problem you have is the fundamental concept of anyone being kinky” instead of like, occam’s razor, which is just that the person in question is uncomfortable with the immediate situation that they are in. 

Men As Feminists

So a few months ago, I stopped calling myself a “feminist”, and started calling myself a “profeminist”, and as much as I think it’s worthwhile that we get men to view feminism in a positive light, I do find it to be a bit problematic that Joseph Gordon-Levitt calls himself a “feminist”.

At its core, feminism is an activist movement which pursues equality of the sexes. But we can’t really overlook the fact that as a social movement, it creates safe places for women to empower themselves. Regardless political views, background or sexuality, men cannot be seen to be intruding on these circles.

By calling ourselves feminists, we’re saying that we feel entitled to the same sort of feminist voice that is entitled to women who have been sexually abused, discriminated against in the workplace, or suppressed in any way because they don’t enjoy the same level of privilege that we do.

Seriously, though. Let’s look at it in the most concrete way possible. Imagine you’re a woman who has been beaten, abused and oppressed by men her entire life. Seeking self-empowerment and solidarity, you go along to a feminism meeting at the local community centre, only to find a bunch of straight, white guys sitting there alongside the women. “Uh, yeah? We’re feminists too, you know?”

And yeah, I think it’s so important that men understand the importance of feminism, and see the value of it in a progressive society. But then I see the likes of Joss Whedon at Make Equality Reality and I’m like, “Come on, dude. You’re not entitled to a voice in this debate. You’re not entitled to announce revolutionary paradigms about how we see gender equality, because you benefit from the inequality in the first place.”

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate that there are men who call themselves “feminists” because they genuinely believe in the movement (I was one of them up until recently), but no matter how well intentioned they are, at the end of the day, all they’re doing is adding another layer of entitlement to their gender. "We can be feminists, too! We want in on your little girls club! Why are you excluding men? What are you, sexist?!“

So now I call myself a "profeminist” instead of a “feminist”. I believe strongly in the feminism movement, and will do everything in my power to further it. But I’m not entitled to a feminist voice. To call myself a “feminist” when I can still walk home at night without looking over my shoulder feels dishonest, and somewhat indicative of my white male privilege.