[ “Even when they’re superheroes, women aren’t allowed to be heroes, only victims. Even when they’re violently murdered, men aren’t allowed to be victims – only heroes or nonentities.
The sexist distribution of violence hurts women, who are told, over and over, that they are first and foremost sexual objects, that they are constantly endangered, that they must rely on men for protection, and that they aren’t able to be heroes on their own account.
But the sexism also hurts men. Onscreen, men are rarely allowed to be vulnerable; they’re always supposed to great violence with indifference, and/or with greater violence. Men are told, over and over, that violence, by and against men, is natural, and not to be remarked upon. Men die, onscreen and in war, and that’s just the way of things. Men, if they’re men, don’t protest.” ]
“Advertising, just like television and film, doesn’t represent as many women as men on screen. Men appear in ads four times more than women and have seven times more speaking roles, according to new research from J. Walter Thompson and the Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media that was revealed during a panel at Cannes.
The agency and institute also found that there are twice as many male characters as female characters in advertising. To conduct the research they looked at 10 years (2006 to 2016) of audio and video content from Cannes’ film and film craft shortlists and winners, according to a rep for the agency. (Though, it’s worth noting that they only looked at English speaking work.)
Next, this is copied and pasted from one of my own posts that I keep open to refute people like you. “Women hold power over men”. Let’s see:
1 out of every 6 American women have experienced attempted or completed rape. This number is higher for certain demographics - for example, 1 in 3 indigenous/native American women will be raped in her lifetime.
This number is even higher for trans women (1 in 5)
Men are told they cannot be raped and their experiences are invalidated.
Being feminine is degrading in our society - hence, gendered slurs and statements
There are still trolls that attack me on Tumblr and Twitter, calling me slurs and threatening to rape me, simply for wanting equal rights. (Almost all other feminist blogs can attest to this). Sorry, but feminists aren’t the ones spewing rape and death threats.
Women are afraid to say no to unwanted advances because they could very well be hurt, but then they are criticized for “not being clear” and showing “mixed signals”.
People like Donald Trump can run for president and actually stand a chance at winning.
People still think it’s okay to catcall women. Street harassment is a problem that affects ALL women and it’s at the hands of men.
Young girls are forced into marriages worldwide (including in the United States!)
There are no regulations to ensure that sex workers are kept safe. Even if they choose to work in the sex industry (as opposed to being trafficked) they can still be assaulted or murdered, and they have no government protections.
Sex trafficking victims can actually be imprisoned themselves for prostitution.
I hate how when you complain about cat-callers, everyone nods in sympathy but nothing is actually done.
I hate how nothing can be done about cat-callers
I hate how, when I told a friend I was going into the city but didn’t want to be wearing shorts, she looked me up and down and told me that “I was probably fine but I should just be prepared for stupid comments anyway”
I hate how ^that is not an uncommon conversation
I hate how I feel the need to wear clothing that covers my body (even in warm weather) to discourage cat-callers even though it’s a testable proven fact that be catcalling has less to do with what you’re wearing and more to do with being female
I hate how my mother ends our conversations with “Be safe. Keep your New York City wits about you.”
I hate how she’s not wrong to be worried and that that is reasonable advice.
I hate how I know I wouldn’t be getting that send off if I was a guy.
I hate how I get anxious when I’m walking through the city and have to stand still at traffic lights.
I hate how, if you stop for too long, there is the risk of some guy trying to talk to you.
I hate how, once he’s started talking to you, it’s hard to get rid of him, even if you don’t respond, even if you walk away.
I hate how on several different occasions, guys have followed me for a couple blocks trying to talk to me
I hate how the only sure fire way to get rid of him is to tell him I “have a boyfriend”
I hate the way I watch the eyes of every guy that walks by me so I can track where he’s staring.
I hate the way I do 360 checks to make sure no one is following me from time to time.
I hate the way I mentally brace myself every time I walk pass a group of guys, or a guy standing outside a store handing out flyers, or the guys outside the Empire State Building, or a construction site
I hate being leered at by guys I pass.
I hate the creepy smiles.
I hate how threatening eye contact can seem.
I hate how sometimes they feel entitled to try and touch me.
I hate being shouted at by guys on the streets.
I hate how, sometimes, the shouts come from unexpected places, like guys on bicycles or guys in cars driving by
I hate how often they don’t say anything intelligible, just a chorus of “hey baby”s and “Omigod”s and “Damn”s and “Look at that”s and “Sexy, sexy”s and whistles and jeers and vocalizations
I hate when they do say something intelligible and you have to hear exactly what he wants to do to you or how he wants to do it.
Most of all…
I hate how you can’t say anything back.
I hate how everyone tells you the smart thing to do is to just swallow your pride, keep your head down, don’t make eye contact, and keep walking.
Because you don’t know how they’ll respond if you say something back.
Because you don’t know if they have a temper.
Because you don’t know if they have a knife.
Or a gun.
Or just a fist.
I hate how everyone is right.
I hate how the smart thing to do is to just endure it.
I hate the implicit threat of violence there is just from being female in a public space
“Twitter user @casualnosebleed shared a photo of a yearbook quote chosen by her close friend Caitlyn Cannon on Tuesday, and in just one day, the image was retweeted almost 4,000 times. In her Twitter bio, Cannon describes herself as a “feminist” and “really gay.” Her senior quote sums that up quite perfectly.
The quote reads: “I need feminism because I intend on marrying rich and I can’t do that if my wife and I are making .75 cent for every dollar a man makes.”
Cannon, a 17-year-old who just graduated from Oak Hills High School in California, said she found the quote on Tumblr and changed the parts that were written from a man’s perspective. She chose the quote because she wanted to leave something behind that was both different and true to herself.
“I was tired of seeing the same old quotes from popular books and movies and authors, and I wanted to call attention to a problem that women face,” she said in an email to The Huffington Post. “I’ve never really been ashamed to say that I am gay, so the LGBT aspect was simply who I am.”
When I was in fourth grade, we had to watch a video about puberty. The teachers separated the boys and girls into two separate rooms and we watched a 20-30 minute video and then the teachers answered questions we had. That’s reasonable, right?
What isn’t though is the fact that they told us girls that the boys were watching a Bill Nye movie.
They told us we need to keep our “puberty talk” a secret from the boys.
They told us we can’t tell them what was going on.
They told us its a secret.
They told us that boys don’t start puberty until high school.
They told us that our period was just a muscle that tenses up once a month, causing blood vessels to pop and bleed.
They never once told us it is part of reproduction, or even that it was an organ, not a muscle.
They never once told us that it isn’t something to be ashamed of.
They never once told us that it literally is okay to go through this, and that its completely natural.
They lied to us. They made us ashamed. They taught us to hide what happens to our body for most of our lives.
Until sixth grade, I thought boys wouldn’t hit puberty until seventeen.
Until sixth grade, I didn’t know that it was an organ, not a muscle.
Until sixth grade, I didn’t even know that dark clumps in the blood is tissue and not some sort of disease running through my veins.
It has been years, and I am still so pissed off that they would do this. They brain washed hundreds and hundreds if little girls into thinking that their period is something to be ashamed of.
I think its time we start telling girls that it isn’t.
At thirteen I used to count the beeps as I walked from my home into town I used the number to measure how good I looked and how good I felt only as an adult did I realise the implications of measuring your self worth by other people’s reactions and the implications of fully grown men peering up the skirt of a newly pubescent girl
My first boyfriend wanted to buy me a dog collar because he said I was his bitch he broke up with me because I wouldn’t let his clambering fingers inside parts of myself that I called my own It was the first time that I realised that to some I was only worth what parts of my body they could leave fingerprints on
My second boyfriend forced my head down with words the expectation weighed my body down to the bed until I was on all fours choking on the word “no” Afterwards, he praised me and I felt sickeningly proud It was the first time I realised that the more I’d do, the more men would want me When he broke up with me he said it was all I’d been good for
My third boyfriend left blackberry marks all over my skin he dug his nails into my lungs and squeezed the breath out of me he broke me into pieces and called it love whilst I desperately searched my soul for the strength that he’d ripped out of me
He found the flesh of other women and I pretended to be brave but I let him ruin me over and over until he had beaten the love out of my soul and I could then find the courage to take back my battered heart The police blamed me for the ways he found to stalk me for the next six years and the shadows he created still seep under the door at night I have a step by step escape plan should he ever be waiting for me
My fourth boyfriend and I stayed friends after it was over until he broke my phone and refused to help pay for a new one he eventually came into my house and climbed the stairs to my bedroom to throw a ten pound note at me as I was sleeping that afternoon he took the time to send me text messages calling me a slut and months later after I gave my blessing I watched him break my best friend’s heart
My fifth boyfriend burned things to the ground including our relationship when my existence was no longer exciting to him six years later he said he had changed and we fucked for months until the time I asked him to make me come and he “couldn’t be bothered” he never asked me why we stopped talking and I realised I had never been worth anything but the clothes I took off: just another lump of willing flesh to add to the current collection
My sixth boyfriend was good in every way but even he lost control when he pinned me to the bed and taunted me because I had said something that made him feel weak I said “get off me” over and over but he wouldn’t and only bursting into tears made him snap out of whatever world he was in They tell us “not all men” but how will I ever know which men will lay their hands on me when even the best ones do?
The first friend I slept with had chlamydia he didn’t tell me until a year later when my body could have decided not to forgive me had I not been the sort to check he never apologised I never asked him to
The second friend I slept with didn’t wear a condom when I asked it was dark and I was drunk and I didn’t know until he acted like it was a victory seven years later he didn’t take no for an answer until the fourth or fifth time his hand wondered down my torso and searched for more The sickest thing is that for a second there was a moment where I could have taught a man that no means yes I have never been good at impulse control but the potential of another man passed out in the same bed stopped me
The third friend I slept with consumed me when I was drowning in darkness he took the last of what I had and then vanished for half a year I made art about him he would never have known it was about what he did
I’ve woken up in a bed with a boy I never even kissed to find his hand running over the curve of my buttocks as I lay on my front I could barely breathe and I didn’t know where he would touch me next he thought I had no voice to say no since my eyelids were closed I didn’t know that the men you trust won’t always ask for your consent before putting their hands on you
The guy tattooing my neck makes suggestions about the sexual acts that he would do to me and I laugh because I don’t know what else to do the boy I was seeing apologises to my abusive ex-boyfriend for taking what was his the men on the street leer and comment on my body like it is theirs to do what they wish with they tell me what shape I should make with my mouth – smile! And the drunken men slur and follow me and I try to breathe and smile and hurry at the same time because if you don’t say thank you and giggle he might grab you or beat you or rape you or kill you and so every time when it is dark and men walk past I look at the floor and think please don’t notice me. please don’t hurt me
A guy at the bar leans over and says “Did you enjoy your run earlier? I saw you as you ran past. It’s clearly working for you. You look good.” I don’t know whether to feel angry or afraid or complimented and so I feel all three and then I feel ashamed I don’t know how I am supposed to feel when men I have never seen before talk to me but my whole body tightens when I notice that they have noticed me
I’m out at the pub with a girl friend when a stranger tries to sit with us he tells us all the intimate things that he wishes to do to us and the more we reject him the more aggressive and unpredictable he becomes we try to be polite to stop him from hurting us he bangs the table in front of me with his fist and I flinch and I remember why I am scared of men
My first driving instructor talked to me about foursomes and breast tattoos and whether I’d want to have a lesbian experience he never taught me anything except how to feel uncomfortable for sixty minutes and not say a word about it
The boys who liked me thought that I should like them they thought their eager little hands were better than the hands I allowed on me and blamed me for my inability to see this; blamed me for my inability to want them One threw flowers at me and smashed a glass against a wall as if he could smash my resolve into pieces
I am sick of these being just a handful of stories a handful of crappy poetry lines that I have spent so long trying to sound good
living in fear does not sound good and trying to explain the shivers and the panic and the anger and the licking of dry lips and the dry swallow and the dry eyes as you accept that this is your life; as you accept that this is normal does not sound good I can never explain a lifetime in lines