sexism

Periods happen. They just do. This is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It’s just a thing. Like how hunger happens, or or a sneeze happens. It’s a body thing that… happens.

I decided to spend a few hours running errands in the summer sunshine while audaciously wearing a loose-fitting baby doll dress, comfy flats, and a denim vest. Apparently my need to keep my legs ventilated served as a Bat-Signal to the fine men of Gotham, who were drawn by its golden glow to yell stuff at me every five minutes.

I felt unique in my passion for martial arts, my affinity for Call of Duty, my go-with-the-flow attitude toward boyish adventures. I wanted to be “one of the guys,” while still retaining the distinction of my sexuality. I longed to be the quintessential cool girl — desirable yet approachable. But in retrospect, all that really amounted to internalized misogyny.

[N]o one held my molester down and called the police for what he did to me. He was quietly escorted away, and over the course of a few months, the whispers of support turned into accusations.

There is such a dearth of female historical figures that the natural inclination is to assume everything important was said or done by men; barring that, it’s to attribute it to the same rotation of important women in history: Eleanor Roosevelt, Marilyn Monroe, Cleopatra, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and so on.

For the first time in my life, I realized how much time I’ve spent tip-toeing around what I have inherently felt was a “man's world”: from the gym to simply being able to walk down the street knowing my body would be judged.

If you asked me to guess what was going through her head, I would say she was in shock that a fat lady would wear a tight skirt, belly in full sight. This feminist act of taking up space, tacitly but clearly making room for myself in a fatphobic culture, is a bold-but-crucial move if you’re my brand of fat babe.

The best way of bringing in Sanders supporters is not to berate them into party loyalty, but to steal them away.