“Are You A Feminist?”

I am five years old. My mother just told me to go fetch a sweater because an adult man would be coming over soon, and I need to cover up.

I am seven years old. A boy wouldn’t stop chasing me on the playground and throwing rocks at me. I’m upset. My best friend says it’s because he likes me and she told me boys are mean to girls they like.

I am ten years old. We just had our first health class in school. The teachers were trying to educate us on sexual assault. After class, my friends told me to scream fire instead of rape if I’m ever being attacked, because no one will come if they hear the word rape being screamed.

I am twelve years old. I just got my first period. A pad fell out of my book bag at school and everyone started laughing. Apparently, periods aren’t normal and they should be hidden at all costs.

I am fifteen years old. I’m in the office crying because a boy I don’t know kept following me down the hallway and grabbing my ass even after I told him to stop. The administrator scolds me.
“maybe you shouldn’t be wearing leggings if you don’t want that kind of attention”
she sends me home with a dress code violation. She marked the “distracting” box.

I am seventeen years old. I’ve just been slapped because a boy got angry with me after I wouldn’t let him put his hands down my pants. Apparently, I led him on by letting him copy my math assignment.

I am twenty-one years old. My best friend has bought me special nail polish to wear to the bar. She says it changes color if it’s dipped in a drink that has a date rape drug in it.

I am twenty-three years old. I’m reading this to the first class I will ever teach. A student raises her hand and says, “no offense, but doesn’t this stuff happen to every girl?”

So yes, I am a feminist. And when you ask me why, I will read this to you. Again, and again, and again.

—  v.j.v

“And that’s the end of the news on sports.  We now go live to our reporter in the field for breaking news.  Kagero, what do you have?”

“Well, Charlotte, the breaking news today is that Queen Elincia Ridell of the Crimean throne has had her status elevated to Supergay following a three day feels trip culminating in furious makeouts between her and Enemy General Lucia.  We will have more on this situation as it develops.”

“Thank you, Kagero.  We now go to Alex with the weather.  Alex?”

“Expect rain in the afternoon, and a drop in temperature.  In Queen Ridell’s chambers, expect wet conditions, and rising temperatures.”


Bad prize: a lifetime supply of candy.

Worse prize: a whole chocolate factory that you have to own now.

Like, I am twelve years old, I don’t want a job.  I don’t even want to wear shoes most of the time.  I wanna wear a bathing suit instead of underwear, and not brush my teeth for days.  I wanna get a pet snake, and stay up all night playing Resident Evil 7, and never hug anyone.  And leave one of my socks in the freezer just because.  And burn a hole in the basement carpet with some matches I found, and take the washing machine apart, and put the washing machine back together but “different”, and something something lasers, and hack the server of a multinational corporation until the company has to declare bankruptcy, and play Battleship but with actual battleships, and maybe eat a hot dog that’s been cut up into little pieces with no bun.

Like/reblog if you can relate.

When you are twelve,
you will stand at a crossroads
and make a decision
that you will spend the rest of your life
immensely grateful for
and deeply regretting. 

You will stand, 
half-blind with the naïveté of youth,
staring out at two paths
obscured in the misty haze of uncertainty
vanishing into the darkness of a future
that no one, anywhere, ever, 
can advise you about.

You will hesitate
     and deliberate
          and consider
               and agonize–
and you will make a decision
halfway mad with indecision and uncertainty
never quite sure of your own damn reasoning.

You will rejoice for it.
You will suffer for it.
You will be rewarded for it,
     and you will be punished for it.
You will celebrate it and grieve it,
     bless it and condemn it,
     gain from it and lose from it,
     praise it and ache for it. 

You will cry many a night
apologizing to yourself and your parents and the world
so goddamn sorry 
for something you can’t even name. 

You will never stop looking back,
what if
what if

But you will make a decision–
that I am now certain no twelve-year-old 
     should ever be forced to make–
and I am telling you,

I am proud of you.

—  and I forgive you. ( j.p. )


Ignoring (for the moment) the fact that Watanuki and Doumeki are absolutely discussing eggplants here, i need you all to know that official translation has that last bit of Doumeki’s speech as “they were expensive and hard to obtain”. 

And I am just. Increasingly pleased. With every unintended implication that is fling my way.

anonymous asked:

Hello! I would appreciate your advice. I am twelve years old (and a half, if that matters) and I feel like I need to make some money. Desperately. My mother doesn't want to hear about it but our financial situation isn't that great. I have plenty of ideas but everyone I tell about it calls me naïve and that my main focus is education, etc. But I feel like I am not doing enough. I have to do more but I am not able to and it makes me very stressed. Any idea how to get 'less-stressed'? Thank you!

okay, as someone who is 21 and in my third year in college, i will say this. you do not need to concern yourself with making money just yet, alright? i’m not trying to talk you down because you are significantly younger than myself, i am just saying that you are still young and you should enjoy that to the best extent you can. in fact, i admire your motivation for wanting to make money, because i sincerely lack that and wish i had that motivation myself!

i understand that whole ordeal about financial problems, since i’m in a bit of a pickle myself. and i understand that you want to help out, but the best thing you can do is be there for your mom, keep her happy and motivated, do focus on your studies and you’ll excel in them and become someone that your mom will be proud of. i know you can do it! i never thought i’d make it to college, yet here i am! but getting at least a high school degree is important for most jobs, so please do focus on your education!

as for ways to help you get less stressed, just surround yourself with the things you love most. whether it be your friends or your pets or your family. heck, even mark and jack and any other youtubers you watch are a safe haven to turn to if you want to relax and forget about things for a little while. other suggestions would be to just get your favorite food, or listen to your favorite music, talk and hang out with your friends, go down to the beach if you can, go for a walk even! i adore going for walks and they help clear my head immensely!

i hope this was at least a little bit insightful for you, sweetheart! 💜

Hc that ‘Lancey Lance’ was a childhood nickname that Lance’s family used for him which used to annoy the hell out of him because “oh my god mom stop calling me that I Am TWELVE YEARS OLD NOW its so embarrassingg” but later on once he moved to the garrison, he started missing the people who called him the dumb nickname so much that he basically began every call home with “Greetings, Mother, Star Pilot Lancey Lance reporting from the Galaxy Garrison!!!!”

Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive in every second
to be a bud on a spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with wings still fragile,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and
death of all that are alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time
to eat the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond,
and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence,
feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks,
and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea
and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and

I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my
and I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood”
to my people
dying slowly in a forced labor camp.

My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all
walks of life.
My pain is like a river of tears, so vast it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.

—  Thich Nhat Hanh, Call Me By My True Names

I am nine years old. A man hits me with his car while I am riding my bike in the church parking lot. 

I tell no one because I think it is my fault. 

I am eleven years old the first time a man tells me I have nice legs.

I am twelve years old, and I am followed home by three high school boys who catcall me and throw pieces of trash at my back. I am in my Catholic school uniform.

I start leaving school ten minutes early so I won’t be followed home anymore. 

I am thirteen when I decide to stop eating. A teacher comments on how good I look and I stop eating for six years. 

I am fourteen years old when I am administered an IQ test. My school psychiatrist describes me as “precocious.” It is the first time I have ever heard the word precocious. 

Precocious: adj. having developed certain abilities or proclivities at an earlier age than usual; flowering or fruiting earlier than usual. 

I am sixteen years old when I tell my mother I never want to have children. She says “Oh, you will, someday” and it sounds like every boy who told me “relax, it will feel good.” I am followed home by three grown men in a car. When I flip them off, they circle around my block and pull up beside me. One gets out of the car and grabs me by the arm. I break his nose. 

It is the first time I have ever hit a man. It is the only time it ever works. 

I am seventeen years old. A male teacher offers me a ride home. While his car idles in the school parking lot, he puts his hand on my knee. In a strange French city, three friends and I are followed back to our hotel by a man for ten blocks. On my way back from a funeral, I watch as a marine hits on my mother. I start getting treatment for my bulimia. A therapist says I have anxiety. It is the first time I have heard the word “anxiety” used as an illness.

Anxiety: n. a nervous disorder characterized by a state of excessive uneasiness and apprehension, typically with compulsive behavior or panic attacks; desire to do something, typically accompanied by unease.

I am eighteen years old. One of my father’s friends, drunk at a Christmas party, tells me I should be in porn. Everyone laughs because it is so funny. 

The first woman I fall in love with says that she would marry my brother if I had one. The second woman I fall in love with asks if I’ll be her emergency contact while filling out forms in an abortion clinic waiting room. The third woman I fall in love with says she sleeps with men so they’ll like her. 

I am nineteen years old. The first time I am raped.

The first time.

The first time I am raped it is by a man that I love. Over two years, I attempt to leave him over thirty times. I become addicted to painkillers and sleeping pills. I sleep through two summers. I am diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. I attempt to tell my doctor about my depression and my abusive relationship. I am prescribed more pills. The flashbacks don’t begin until six months after I leave him. 

I am twenty-one years old. I am followed home from class. I am followed home from dinner. I am followed home from my friend’s apartment. I take a 45 minute train ride to work every morning at 5:00 AM. I have been followed on my way to work. I read an article about how our culture makes women so accustomed to psychological abuse that they can’t recognize it as it’s happening. 

“Psychological abuse, also referred to as psychological violence,emotional abuse or mental abuse, is a form of abuse characterized by a person subjecting or exposing another to behavior that may result in psychological trauma, including anxiety, chronic depression, or post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Trauma: n. a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

Every time I leave my apartment, I go to war. But,

this is not the first time. 


In middle school, the lunch room is
the worst place for feeling invisible; I feel like
everyone is looking at my mouth. I think
if I swallow fast enough, maybe
I can pretend that I never ate anything, maybe
someone will even believe me.
My best friend buys candy from the vending machine
and won’t stop talking about what a pig she is.
Sydney is a runner on the track team–five foot one and
barely a hundred pounds and
her favorite word is “fat.”
It’s her own private joke and
it’s fucking hilarious. I guess I just
always forget to laugh. See–
I am twelve years old and
everyone who has ever called me fat
meant it.

Later, when another friend of ours–a girl who is
bigger than Sydney but smaller than me–
pats her stomach and cracks a joke about
“not being the thinnest little thing,” she
looks straight at me.
And while our other friends laugh, we only nod:
the smiles on our faces looking out from some place
far away and vacant. The difference between us and them is
we are in on the joke and
we both know it isn’t funny.

Seven years later, and the poet on the microphone
is talking about her body–badmouths it, like it’s
a warzone of a country we have no business being in,
like she is a factory of fun-house mirrors and amidst
the mirage of distorted reflection, she’s
forgotten who she really is.
She talks about being fat. She doesn’t use the word.
(Poets never do)
And I look down at my body: the one
I am still learning how to love.
The voice in the back of my head that
I thought I’d finally learned how to shut up,
rears it’s ugly little mouth and whispers,
if she’s fat,  just imagine how disgusting you must look.
It’s funny, right? It’s funny.

A year after that, I stand my brutal body on stage.
What nobody in the crowd knows is that the blue puddle
of my cardigan in my seat means that this
is the first time in years I’ve let this many people
see this much of me. What nobody knows is
I used to be bigger than this and it was everyone’s favorite joke.
But nobody knows. And now, I am five foot two,
only a hundred and sixty five pounds.
I am thinner than I used to be but
I will probably never been thin enough.
And I’m sorry.
I know how it feels to hear women smaller than you
talk about their body issues. I know
how it feels like swallowing your tongue.
I never wanted to be that for anyone.

But this isn’t a contest. And if it were,
we’d all lose, anyway.
We’re already expected to be flawless.
And the inside joke of the beauty industry is
making sure we all know
we never will be.
We expect such violent perfection from our bodies.
I know how it hurts listening to a girl who
doesn’t look the way you think they should
talk about the pain that matters to you,
but we can’t turn ourselves into gatekeepers
for heartache.
We are all hurting.
There’s no litmus test for low self esteem;
no one deserves to hate their body.

The fact that so many of us do
is exactly the problem.

—  LITMUS TEST by Ashe Vernon

guess whos writing a trans boy hinata + kagehina fic B)

here’s a blip of what ive written so far. any feedback would be lovely!

tw: dysphoria, ment of periods and kind of sexualizing kids bodies (by other kids, not adults)

He started feeling worse when his dad called him “young lady” or when his mother made fleeting comments about his body, about his femininity, comments that he would later try to wash off as he scrubbed his body clean, scrubbed away the bad feeling. The Wrong stuck like gum in his hair, like the taste in his mouth after taking medicine. He wasn’t alone without the Wrong, and soon it became unbearable. 

Keep reading

A Letter from Fidel Castro to U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt

November 6, 1940

EXCERPT from Shaun Usher’s book Letters of Note, a spectacular collection of more than 125 letters from history—the brightest and best, the most notorious, and the endearingly everyday.

In November 1940, thirteen years before spearheading the revolution that would ultimately see him replace dictator Fulgencio Batista as leader of Cuba, a teenage Fidel Castro—aged fourteen, not twelve as he inaccurately claimed—wrote a somewhat cheeky letter to the then president of the United States, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and asked him for some money: a $10 bill, to be precise. Some time later, he received a standard reply from officials. His request for cash had fallen on deaf ears, as had his offer to reveal the whereabouts of Cuba’s largest iron mines. Young Castro’s priceless letter was rediscovered in 1977 by specialists at the National Archives and Records Administration.

Santiago de Cuba

Nov 6 1940
Mr Franklin Roosvelt,
President of the United States.

My good friend Roosvelt I don’t know very English, but I know as much as write to you.

I like to hear the radio, and I am very happy, because I heard in it, that you will be President for a new (periodo).

I am twelve years old. I am a boy but I think very much but I do not think that I am writing to the President of the United States.

If you like, give me a ten dollars bill green american, in the letter, because never, I have not seen a ten dollars bill green american and I would like to have one of them.

My address is:

Sr Fidel Castro
Colegio de Dolores
Santiago de Cuba
Oriente Cuba

I don’t know very English but I know very much Spanish and I suppose you don’t know very Spanish but you know very English because you are American but I am not American.

(Thank you very much)
Good by. Your friend,

Fidel Castro

If you want iron to make your sheaps ships I will show to you the bigest (minas) of iron of the land. They are in Mayari Oriente Cuba.

Find the book Letters of Note here.