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“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”
Sylvia Plath, via Anna at Trouble is Everywhere.
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“I don’t fear death; I fear remaining silent in the face of injustice. I am young and I want to live. But I say to those who would eliminate my voice: I am ready, wherever and whenever you might strike. You can cut down the flower, but nothing can stop the coming of the spring.”
Malalai Joya, who sounds kind of incredible. Do click through. Via Melissa McEwan.
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“Throughout my development, I have felt that pressure, to conform or assimilate to a population more visible, more respected, more feared and envied than mine. And in the past, I have. I dissed my own communities for my own gain, and dealt with the immense wells of self-loathing I harbored for myself and my people. And that temptation, to submit, still exists in me, because really, who wants to be hated for bringing up that loathsome specter called race? Especially for a group of people who are continually told that we have no right to complain, that we should be thankful for what we have?
“A friend of mine just emailed me about this strange phenomenon we face, that we are intensely scrutinized while remaining completely invisible. People talk about us, hate us, and we aren’t expected to ever talk back, fight back. We belong nowhere. We have no rights to anything. Our bodies are not ours, and we have no voices.”
Bao Phi, on being Asian in Minnesota. Read more at Racialicious.
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“All this was much simpler when I only looked up. I looked above me, at those that are oppressing me, and boy was I good at pointing fingers at others and pointing out their privilege. The other day, I royally shoved my cissexist foot into my privileged mouth. And for the first time I looked down, at those below me, those I was oppressing.”
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“For me, being an activist is a way of thinking and engaging in the world. It is not a list of activities. It is a personal decision not to accept things as they are. It is a decision to challenge oppressive ideas and actions – within oneself and in the world around us – in whatever way we are able. And there is NO hierarchy in the different ways in which people do that.”
Turtle, of The Turtle and the Wren, in comments at Raising My Boychick, in response to my post This is what an activist looks like.
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“I’ll only be someone’s inspiration for a speaking fee with 4-5 figures. Inspiration doesn’t come cheap.”
Kaitlyn of Oh Monkey Trumpets in comments on Avendya’s To Whom It May Concern.
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“We’re not martyrs and we’re not saints – we are people. More than that, we are – we exist, and no matter how many times our needs are disregarded, our stories are erased, we refuse to let you define us.”
From To Whom It May Concern itself. Check out Avendya’s DW, I have just found her but she seems to be all kinds of fabulous. (Teenage! Disabled! Feminist! Squeeeeee!)
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“[...] some things are not well defined and these things tend to be the things we consider to be fundamental. It’s much easier to define smaller things at the edges; it’s easy to define a fingernail. It’s harder to point to where blood stops flowing away from the heart and starts flowing back towards it.”
kaninchenzero, writing about intelligence.
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“[...]a trans what? A transformer? Far be it for me to stand against robot-human love.”
Queen Emily, in response to a commenter who said ‘Is it transphobic if a cis person will not date a trans?’ at Feministe.
With a little bit of being parented, too.
Spilt Milk offers Thoughts before Father’s Day, a tribute to her dad I find very moving.
Blue Milk wants you to play gender stereotypes with her. It’s a fun game in which statistics, expectations and observations perform a merry dance in order to fit children in a box. Fabulous takedown of something that often leaves me speechless.
Arwyn of Raising My Boychick goes for gold with The misogyny of denying milk-making moms mental-health medication: ‘This “I don’t want to give you anything until you wean”? That’s not a careful critique of the pharmacological industry, that’s not an intersectionalist examination of the role kyriarchy plays in the creation of women’s mental health issues, and it’s not a sober weighing of the balance of “greatest goods” when faced with exposing a child to an ill mother or minute quantities of probably-safe substances. No, that’s nothing more than an ignorant, authoritarian, fucked up, misogynistic ultimatum.’
At Feministing we find Raising a Feminist/Raised a Feminist: A Mother’s and Daughter’s Perspective. It’s by Sil and Eliza Reynolds and on their relationships with themselves and each other as feminists.
My Kid Loves a Kyriarch is by Ruth Moss, posted as part of Arwyn’s Womanist/Feminist Parenting Primer series, which you should also check out. Ruth’s piece is on her struggles to raise her kid in a feminist way by herself and how this interacts with her ex-partner’s parenting.
You must read Pain as Discipline by Ouyang Dan of random babble. She tells us why hitting children as a means of “discipline” doesn’t work and the range of impacts it can have.
Next we have It’s Not About Me by Jay, guest posting at Feministe. Because a child’s choices and safety are vastly more important than a parent’s control over them.
Over at Hoyden is “How Can Feminist Mums Avoid Being Humourless Childhood-Ruiners?” Seems to me that a good part of feminist parenting is doing exactly that: giving children beautiful childhoods and helping them become strong people. Well, as long as we’re asking, Lauredhel and commenters count the ways.
Veronica of Viva La Feminista writes Be still my feminist mama heart…My daughter and the Emmys. ‘I affirmed her voice. And I think that is one of the most feminist things I can do for her as I help her find her way in this world.’ Thanks to Arwyn for suggesting this post.
Kate of Rebel Raising speaks truth in Is that child crazy? ‘How much of the time are children behaving in the way an adult would if their life were like a child’s life?’ Absolutely brilliant. Thank you to Ruth Moss for suggesting this post.
And this is from back in March, but the cutest thing: Melissa McEwan of Shakesville posts a fatherhood PSA in which a father helps his daughter with cheerleading practice.
By the way, if you haven’t seen blue milk’s 10 feminist motherhood questions series, do have a look.
To recap: I identify as non-white (the language I use to refer to myself changes though; I’ve yet to find anything I’m really comfortable with). I have blue eyes and pale skin. (I have a bittersweet joke that I’m whiter than most white people.) I often take advantage of this and keep quiet about my ethnicity around people I don’t know. Because it’s just another thing to talk about, another thing through which a dominant group constructs me as less than, because it’s just too much.
This leads to some interesting patterns.
Not knowing my background, white people tend to claim me as one of their own. I have sat through so many racist “jokes” cracked by people who thought I was in on them. I think this is a reflection of what I like to call the default human mentality. If you’re a member of a dominant group, and representations of how normal you are are just everywhere, you’re likely to think that everyone else is of that group unless they’re obviously not. I know that’s something I’ve been struggling with as a heterosexual person.
Not knowing my background, non-white people are far less likely to make assumptions. This can be reassuring and comforting, but it can be disconcerting when I’ve decided I’m going to let people think I’m white in a particular situation, especially when I’m outed among white people.
Being able to pass – or, more, being passed – as white is a privilege, it really is. This is never more apparent then when I start to talk about my ethnicity. I watch the faces of the white people I am in conversation with. All too often, there’s a quick series of emotions that run over their faces.
It goes like this. First, there’s surprise. Then, there’s a sheepish look (did I say anything that could have offended her? I should have realised…). Then a bit of internal searching, going through the back catalogue of experiences with me to see if there were any clues. After that comes indignance: hey, wait a minute, it’s not my fault and how could I have known and anyway race is a sensitive thing so I’d best keep myself out of it. It’s then that most of them realise that I can see what’s going on in their heads. I take a moment to chuckle inside. Finally, it goes one of four ways. They continue to treat me as a person, with little deferences to my particular circumstances where required (which is, you know, very nice and exactly the sort of thing you ought to do, white people). They act exactly as they did before (which is also nice, but kind of missing the point). They totally change the way they interact with me, from the way they angle their bodies to their tone of voice. Or, they shut down. With regard to this last, sometimes I wonder, is it because they feel betrayed? Are they embarrassed? Do they just not like non-white people?
So, I am no longer coded as a white person, or there is no longer any ambiguity. And there are mixed emotions there. On the one hand, it’s another piece of oppression I’ve got to wade my way through with this particular person. On the other, it’s so sweet to be identified as what I really am, to no longer modify my speech and mannerisms and what have you to conform to whiteness.
But how do non-white people react, you ask? Sometimes a ‘really?’ but more often a look of non-surprise or a ‘yeah, I thought so’ and, more often than that, happily, thankfully, we just continue with our business.
Being invisible, playing white, has only the illusion of freedom. I’m still racism’s perpetual puppet, waiting until I don’t have to be scared.
Sourced from Ursula K. Le Guin’s site. It’s from an unpublished work by Alice Sheldon, a woman I greatly admire and hope to write about in time to come.
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Consider how odd it would be if all we knew about elephants had been written by elephants. Would we recognise one? What elephant author would describe — or perhaps even perceive — the features which are common to all elephants? We would find ourselves detecting these from indirect clues; for instance, elephant-naturalists would surely tell us that all other animals suffer from noselessness, which obliges them to use their paws in an unnatural way. [...] So when the human male describes his world he maps its distances from his unspoken natural center of reference, himself. He calls a swamp “impenetrable,” a dog “loyal” and a woman “short.”
The only animal who can observe man from the outside is of course the human female: we women who live in his house, in his shadow, on his planet. And it is important that we do this. This incompletely known animal conditions every aspect of our individual lives and holds the destruction of Earth in his hands.









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