#about how women rejecting corsets was ~~white feminism~~

[gingerswagfreckles]

At this point I am literally just following any feminist who isn't either a TERF or literally just spouting MRA talking points with no self awareness. Completely regardless of what the rest of their blog is about. It's rough out there guys 😭

[stillarandom-radfem]

And now, on today's episode of Libfems Haven't The Slightest Goddamn Clue What They're Talking About ®️, we discuss some of the things these ridiculous women claim are "white feminism," such as:

the #metoo movement, which was founded by Tarana Burke, a black woman, to combat widespread issues of sexual harassment and rape.

the Escape The Corset movement, which was first begun in South Korea to fight against the extreme pressure to conform to beauty standards there, and the severe social consequences for resisting them.

Gender critical feminism, which is the most common type of feminism outside of the Western world, including in the Global South.

Anti-sex trade feminism, when issues like sex trafficking predominantly affect women of color and poor women living in the Global South.

Of course, this has all been said before, but it's still extremely obvious that, not only do libfems not understand the origins of most of these movements, but they also clearly don't actually even understand what the entire concept of white feminism was originally meant to refer to. It's meant to refer to types of feminism that actively ignore and explicitly hurt poor women of color; it's not simply Feminism that White Women Sometimes Engage With, And That's Inherently Bad, For Some Reason. Meaning, if you can't successfully demonstrate how these movements actually hurt women of color, then what you are describing isn't actually white feminism. And I have yet to see any reason why ignoring issues of sex trafficking, which, again, predominantly affects poor women of color, rejecting beauty standards, which are often Euro-centric, refusing to compare women of color to men and/or culturally appropriate non-Western "third gender" categories without doing any actual research on them in order to support white, American men's so-called "womanly" feelings, or turning a blind eye to the fetishization, harassment, and sexual violence that routinely happens to women of color at least as often if not significantly more than white women, could in any way harm women of color. Libfems, explain how refusing to do these things hurts them, or how not refusing supports them. If you can't, then it's not "white feminism," it's just good old fashioned real feminism, and you've bought too much into your own internalized misogyny and white privilege to even realize that. In other words, you, libfems, Haven't The Slightest Goddamn Clue What You're Talking About.

[pussy-in-biome]

What evidence? Because as I've said, I feel like radical feminism is the branch of feminism that most cogently addresses the issues that affect me as a woman of color. The wholesale denial of sex-based oppression and the right of females to organoze based on our sex does far more harm to all women, and especially women of color, than a few overzealous weirdos mis-clocking a celebrity on the internet.

But besides that, it's actually really uncomfortable the way a lot of trans activists will constantly go on about how masculine black women's features are, and talking about how the patriarchy "denies us our womanhood", which is patently false. Actually because womanhood (the gender) is brutally forced upon us.

For example, J. Marion Sims is considered to be the father of modern gynecology. He developed his surgical techniques by operating on enslaved black women without anesthesia. Black women have ALWAYS been treated as women, we just weren't treated as human. This is an example of sex-based oppression, the specific exploitation of our reproductive resources to develop surgical methods that would largely be used for the benefit of white women.

How does this treatment, that was so fully based on our sex, slot into your ideology? Do you think this was based on gender? How does that make any sense? How do you account for how black women were treated like breeding livestock for the purpose of producing more slaves for white owners? Do you think this oppression was sex-based, or gender-based?

Here is an article on the 4B movement

And here is an article on the escape the corset movement

The thing about the "we can always tell" people is that... The rest of us are cringing at them too lol. A few overzealous weirdos latching onto a movement doesnt outweigh the complete inability of tras to even fit the oppression of black women into their framework. I prefer to focus on the stuff that actually matters.

This is in fact what everyone is thinking, yes. And policing language more won’t make it stop.

[hina-akatsuki]

PINK for girls BLUE for boys

During our childhood, I am sure most of us had heard this statement," pink is for girls and blue is for boys". Obviously, it did not make sense in our young minds then, so most of us complied without giving it much thought. I was no exception. It was much later that I came to realize that this idea is one of the many stereotypes that segregates the sexes.

It is curious how something as impartial as color became a distinguishing factor between the sexes. But why only pink and blue from the vast color spectrum? Is there some biological theory behind it or is it a norm structured by culture and society?

Digging into history, this color-gender norm came into being only during the 20th century, probably becoming more prominent after World War 2. In fact, girls and boys were dressed in white and that too dresses till the previous century. With the emergence of pastels(pink and blue were widely used), children were adorned in colors other than white. The earliest reference to this color scheme appeared in a June 1918 edition of the Trade publication Earnshaw's Infant's Department:

" The generally accepted rule is pink for boys and blue for girls. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy while blue which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl."

The idea stuck around for a couple of years, with some contemporary publications also emphasizing that colors should not be decided based on the baby's gender, but based on eye and hair color.

Pretty smart!

However, over time the clothing manufacturers sought to reject this statement and promoted the idea "pink for girls, blue for boys". The practice escalated after World war 2, as corporate marketers promoted color-based distinction between boys' and girls' clothing. The motivation? It prevents parents from handing down clothes between siblings of different sexes, hence increasing the profits for designers and manufacturers. As an explanation of this divide, manufacturers simply stated that girls liked pink while boys liked blue.

A turning point in the history of gender-color norms came during the Women's liberation movement of the 1960s and 1970s which emphasized gender neutral clothing. In an upsurge of feminism, the fashion industry went through dramatic changes- from bloomers to bobbed hair to unisex wear to gender-neutral color.

But as we rolled into the 1980s, making money ruled over all existing perspectives at the time and marketing teams managed to flip the paradigm yet again.

Moving into the 21st Century, color preferences take an interesting turn. The youth of the present day provides us with a mixed opinion when asked about their favorite color. A recent study indicates vast majority prefer blue to pink and that pink is actually one of adult world's least favorite color.

So how did this shift in the spectrum occur? As it turns out, defining gender-specific colors has been a tug of war over the years with the end result being more or less a tie. Both colors( pink and blue) along with their hues are equally favored, regardless of gender.

However, we still tend to associate the color pink with femininity and blue with masculinity in some aspect or the other. Especially, while deciding clothing and types of toys for little ones.

The pink-blue color divide may seem like a trivial distinction between the sexes, but in reality, it paves way for other gender biases and forms the root of gender discrimination. Deciding on what a child should wear or what he or she should play with in order to conform to the so-called societal norms restricts it from exploring and having a mind of its own. Surveys show that children are not born into choosing a gender-specific color or toy, rather they are groomed into making such specific choices.

Be it wearing corsets in the Victorian era or being at home, women are groomed to look the part of what is considered as “feminine”. And it starts from a young, impressionable age when a child is getting to know its surroundings. The quote holds true," One is not born a woman. One becomes a woman".

But we shall not exclude the male party from this issue of gender discrimination for they are affected equally. The need to "be a man" as defined by our society puts pressure on the individual. Boys are told to be aggressive, that they cannot shed tears, that they need to indulge themselves into sports that involve physical strength. Basically don't do anything that is considered to be "girly"( for example- play with dolls, learn dance, etc). Any male indulging themselves in activities that are "girly" are often looked down upon or labeled as "gay".

Boys placing themselves on the pink side of the spectrum are assumed to be hinting at their homosexuality with the well-known logic of " boys who like boys are basically girls." Nazi concentration camp badges included a pink triangle for gay men, while lesbians were lumped into an ‘asocial elements’ group with a black triangle.

However, in the late 60s, with the rise of the LGBT movement, the balance shifted from the color of shame to that of pride. This brought in a new mindset-" Pink and Blue make purple". Purple covers everything between red (pink) and blue, and challenges fixed and extreme gender roles. Instead of just two labels-male and female, we have many, as portrayed by the LGBT rainbow flag.

In the end, we shouldn't associate our sexuality or behavior with the colors we choose. We are free to choose between pink and blue, unguided by society. And this openness comes from a young age, with good parenting. It is crucial for a parent to understand that a child can be whatever it chooses to be. We live in a time where traditional roles are questioned more often than before. A girl can like shades of blue and can love playing with cars and a boy can indulge in cooking and like hues of red or pink. Who knows, that girl grows up to be an F1 racer and that boy becomes a Michelin star chef in the future.

So, choose any color you like, irrespective of gender, society or culture. For, choice of color doesn’t define who we are, it’s our thoughts and actions that do.

Links for reference:

https://www.thelist.com/32342/real-reasons-behind-blue-boys-pink-girls/

https://munsell.com/color-blog/why-that-color-gender/

http://www.todayifoundout.com/index.php/2014/10/pink-used-common-color-boys-blue-girls/

NOTE- I wanted to write on this topic for a very long time and I realized that there is a lot to talk about.. so I decided to provide some links which I referred to for this piece. Opinions would be appreciated on this discussion! Thanks!

[sadmudzines]

EEL IN THE BATHROOM - PART THREE

(Featured in The Salmons Vol 1)

INT. HALLWAY, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle knocks on the door to the bathroom but blushes when Dr Eel doesn’t reply.

Marge eyes him expectantly.

MARGE: Can we watch Inspector Morse now?

EARLE: In a minute-

MARGE: You said there’d be Pringles-

EARLE: There are.

Earle avoids eye contact to protect his lie.

MARGE: I’ve got a hankering.

Earle knocks louder, disappointed in the silence.

MARGE: I don’t need the toilet. I don’t go after 8pm. It’s a health thing.

Earle knocks desperately.  

EARLE: Dr Eel?

Earle goes to knock again when he eventually hears a grumbling noise. He jumps on it excitedly as it grows louder and louder until suddenly, silence.

DR EEL (OS): Come here or fuck there, I don’t care.

Earle breathes a sigh of relief that Dr Eel’s still there. He opens the door and nudges Marge inside but as he goes to follow him Dr Eel’s tail whips and the door slams shut.

Earle sweats, locked out, panic rising.

EARLE: Dr Eel? Marge?

Violent splashing.

EARLE: Everything okay in there?

Earle knocks tentatively. But no answer.

The splashing sound grows wilder, then screaming. Louder and louder screaming.

Earle panics. His knocking desperate. He’s shouting now.

EARLE: Dr Eel! Let me in!

No response. Just splashing and screaming.

EARLE: Marge? Marge! You alright in there?

The splashing and screaming zip silent. The silence sounds dangerous.

The bathroom door slowly creaks open.

Earle’s panting, scared to step inside.

Earle steps across the doorway. The once white walls now drip in red, glossy blood. Dr Eel and the multiplying fresh eels swim happily in the blood-dyed bath water.

Pieces of Marge scatter the bathroom, torn as if he was made of wet tissue paper. Earle whimpers when he spots Marge’s head. A frozen expression of fear and confusion on his dead face.

Earle can’t bear to look at it. He picks up a towel and gently lays it across what’s left of Marge.

EARLE: Mum’s going to be so mad… Why’d you do that for?

DR EEL: He just smelt so delicious. Like croissants.

EARLE: People will ask questions, what are we going to say? What are we going to do?  What a mess, what an awful, disgusting mess. I don’t-

Earle stops mid-sentence as he notices his white trainers are stained with blood.

EARLE: Oh. They were brand new…

The eels continue to slosh in the bathtub.

DR EEL: Go on then, go and get your sweeties. Same place as before.

Earle looks around at the bloody mess.

EARLE: I’m not really in the mood anymore-

DR EEL: But look at all this effort you went through.

EARLE: I know but-

DR EEL: It’s not often you get a night like this.

Earle scoffs.

DR EEL: It’s not often it’s just you, relaxing-

EARLE: With a fucking talking Eel.

DR EEL: Do it.

EARLE: Hmm…

DR EEL: I mean it, do it. Do it, there’s nothing else left to do.

EARLE: I really don’t feel like it anymore.

DR EEL: This isn’t an invite to a tea party. Snort the cocaine, Alice.

Dr Eel whips his tail. As it touches Earle’s skin, electric current zings through his skeleton. Earle howls in pain. His hairs on end.

Dr Eel raises his tail again as a threat. Earle jumps to the cotton wool pot. His hands shake in fear as he scrambles for the drugs.

Pinching the powder between his fingers he pushes it up each nostril. Desperately. He snorts and sniffs as chunks fall from his nose. White rings highlight the circles of his nostril holes.

He repeats until the bag empty. He slumps to the bloody floor once he’s inhaled it all.

DR EEL: Now, more.

EARLE: No more.

DR EEL: Another human, a prettier one. A skinnier one.

Earle shakes his head.

EARLE: No more, I just want to go to bed-

DR EEL: These are the final hours of the night. Aren’t you curious about what could happen? How much we could achieve?

EARLE: No.

DR EEL: That’s what you tell yourself now. But in the morning? When the memories are already made…

Earle softens, tempted. Dr Eel hisses in excitement at Earle’s change in heart.

DR EEL: One more human.

EARLE: There’s no-one who’s thin or pretty in Sugar-On-Sea.

DR EEL: Just thin, then. I can use my imagination…

EARLE: What are you going to do with them?

Dr Eel just hisses.

EARLE: I’d feel guilty about Marge if it wasn’t Marge. But another person… I don’t want you doing what you did to Marge.

DR EEL: One more human, one more line.

EARLE: But I don’t want one-

Dr Eel flicked his tail and electrocuted Earle. The flash created shadows from his bones, nerves and organs as if his skin was a silk screen for puppets.

The air smelt of burnt hair, his own. The electric current had singed his extremities including his fingertips. He didn’t want to leave the house, he meant it when he told Dr Eel there was no-one thinner, prettier and awake. Sugar-On-Sea drained the life from people and instead pumped them full of Trans fat and pessimism. It was a lost cause, but he couldn’t face Dr Eel. The shocks were becoming more painful as Dr Eel’s strength gained from the Fanta and blood. It made his bones vibrate, he never felt pain like it. He sank to the sofa, his hope catching a ride out on every exhale he took. His lungs were nearly empty of all air and feeling, his body as flat and flimsy as a pair of tights. He tried to concentrate, but his head swam; neurons darting in directions as a school of fish at a junction. He thought if he could brace himself, go back into the bathroom and tell Dr Eel no – as confidently as the women who reject him weekend in and out– then it would be all be okay. Just as he was to make the long walk back to the bathroom; something stopped him. A book on the shelf. Sugar-On-Sea still published the yellow pages. A mistrust of the internet in this town gave way for long lost relics to still have a functioning place in society such as phone boxes and Marks & Spencer’s.

This edition of the yellow pages was a few years old, Mr Salmon liked 1988 so he tried to hold onto as many things from that year. It was Earle’s last and only shot.

The town’s council had a surprisingly progressive stance on sex work; prostitution was legal and the strip club was more like a town hall than… well, a strip club. But really, to Earle, it was just a veiled attempt for the council men to cheat on their wives in the name of feminism and freedom.

Earle flicked through the yellow pages and came to the section he needed; whores. The council really had a way with words. He ran his finger down the listing from the Angelas through to the Bettys and then to the Catherines. He stopped on one, Daphne. Her shoulders were sharp points, her soft skin fell dramatically from cheek bones which could only have been achieved by a decent few years of an eating disorder. Thin, yes. Pretty, sort of. The decider was her foreign surname; at least if she was to end up on the floor of his bathroom, like a macabre pick and mix, then maybe it best if she didn’t have any family in the area, no-one would miss her – at least not in a one hundred-mile radius. Earle rang and to his surprise she answered straight away. His heart sunk a little as he heard a thick Essex accent. But it was late, and he just wanted this whole horrible ordeal to be over and done with. He imagined her pink lip stick smudging the other end of the retriever.  

He told himself if he managed to clear up all the blood and Fanta and Class A’s by morning. It would be okay to stay up a little later and do one last deed for Dr Eel.

INT. FRONT ROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – NIGHT

Earle nervously scratched the back of his head.

DAPHNE (O.S): 5am? Make it 4am – gotta get the kids to school.

EARLE: Kids?

DAPHNE (O.S): I don’t know what you’re thinking you dirty pervert but-

EARLE: No, no. That’s not what I… I just didn’t think about them, about you having to be somewhere in the morning-

DAPHNE (O.S): I’m a real person, you know that right?  Got jobs on my list that don’t start with blow. Got it?

EARLE: Yes…

Earle’s face drops, the guilt almost weighing down the skin around his eye sockets.

DAPHNE (O.S): Looking forward to it… What’s your name?

EARLE (sadly): Cunt-Fuck.

DAPHNE (O.S): Is that German?

EARLE: Sure.

Earle puts down the receiver. He sniffs and wipes his nose.

Thumping electronic music sounds from inside the bathroom.

EARLE: Dr Eel! The Neighbours, please-

The music is nudged louder.

Earle rests his head against the wood of the door, weary.

The purple light of dawn seeps through the window, intensifying with every minute.

The doorbell rings. Earle’s paralyzed.

The doorbell rings again, but this time the ringing is sustained.  

Earle goes to duck and hide but is too late.

DAPHNE (O.S): I can see you in there! I’m not swapping my jammies for corsets for no money.

The door shakes as it’s banged.

Earle answers the door.

DAPHNE (58) stands on the other side. Older and fatter than her picture.

She barges past.

DAPHNE: What the fuck was that about? Told you I didn’t have the time for games. That’s extra.

Earle stares at the picture in the yellow pages. Looking up and down to persuade himself it’s the right woman. Daphne catches him.

DAPHNE: After the 80s, came the 90s and this is what they did me. Like I said I ain’t got all night.

Daphne drops her coat to reveal her body, like raw sausage meat poking through a complex of leather straps and fishnets. Earle grimaces but Daphne steels.

DAPHNE: Money. Now.

Earle scrambles for the cash.

DAPHNE: Actually, I’m desperate for a wizz. Back in a min-

Daphne turns to go to the bathroom but Earle goes green.

EARLE: Wait!

DAPHNE: I can piss on you, but that’ll be £30 on top of what we’ve agreed.

Earle’s thinks about it.

EARLE: Really?

Daphne takes another step closer to the bathroom.

EARLE: No, stop!

Guilt overcomes him.

EARLE: I can’t do this-

DAPHNE: You called me, remember?

EARLE: I’m not, I-

Daphne laughs as Earle squirms.

EARLE: What I’m about to tell you is… I just need you to believe me. It’s weird, I don’t really believe it myself but-

DAPHNE: Spit it out.

EARLE: There’s an eel. A talking one. In there. And I think it wants to chop you up. I told him no but he wouldn’t take it. He said to bring you here and-

DAPHNE: You were going to feed me to at talking fucking eel?

EARLE: Not feed, I’m not really sure what he wants. I think he likes blood or maybe organs I’m not really sure.

Daphne lights up a cigarette.

DAPHNE: I knew you were into some sick fucking stuff, but this?

EARLE: I was hoping he wouldn’t eat you.

DAPHNE: Where is he?

Earle nods solemnly to the bathroom.

Daphne sighs knowingly.

DAPHNE: £40 now then £40 after.

EARLE: I’m feeling quite vulnerable right now, I’m not sure I could… perform as I’d like-

DAPHNE: I’m not going to fuck you.

Daphne gestures to the bathroom door.

DAPHNE: I’ve seen this before.

EARLE: Oh.

DAPHNE: I should have known by the way you were chewing the inside of your cheek.

Earle claps his hand across his mouth, feeling for himself just how tight his jaw is.

DAPHNE: I need rubber gloves, a bread knife and salt.

Earle stares in disbelief.

DAPHNE: Now.

Earle scrambles for the items in the kitchen.

Daphne lights another fag.

DAPHNE: Nice place…

She picks up a family photo from the side and snorts.

DAPHNE: You a Salmon?

The sound of Earle clattering around from the other room.

EARLE (O.S): Yeah, why?

DAPHNE (mutters): Like father, like son.

Earle returns triumphantly. Daphne swipes the items from his arms and pockets the £40 into the leather strap of her girdle. She pings the plastic gloves onto her hands as if a vet would at the rear end of cow.

Earle watches as she marches towards the bathroom. Naked aside from her bondage.

Earle winces as he sees her stub her cigarette out on the carpet. Daphne bashes the door down with her hoof-like foot. Earle goes to follow but she slams the door shut.

A high-pitched squeal ruminates from the bathroom.

Earle can’t bear to hear it.

The sound of water thrashing. It lasts forever to Earle’s ears.

Daphne eventually emerges from the bathroom holding the decapitated head of Dr Eel. It’s as if a bucket of blood had been poured over head. She coolly slicks her hair back and scoops the blood from her eyes. Two pearl-like peepers peer back through the ruby gloop.

She lights a cigarette. Breathing in the smoke with resolve.

She holds out the palm of her hand and a shaken Earle places £40 within it.

DAPHNE: Let me know what to expect next time. I wouldn’t have worn this.

Daphne dumps Dr Eel’s head next to Earle and leaves without another word.

Earle slumps to the floor, weary and broken. Stunned.

His eyes heavy, he falls into a deep sleep.

INT. FRONT ROOM, OCEAN VIEW HOTEL – MORNING

Hungover, Earle remains collapsed against the wall. The room is blood-stained. Dr Eel’s chopped head next to him. The end credits of Inspector Morse speed downwards on the TV.

The sound of the front door opening and closing. There’s footsteps for a few moments until suddenly they stop. A startling scream pierces the house.

Earle bolts awake. The force almost makes him sick.

EARLE: Shit, shit, shit-

MRS SALMON (59) appears from around the corner. Furious, she stands over Earle.

MRS SALMON: Have you seen the state of that bathroom?

EARLE: I’m sorry, mum.

Mrs Salmon burns red.

MRS SALMON: You’ve been doing drugs again, haven’t you?

Earle hangs his head in shame.

MRS SALMON: I told you, no drugs!

Earle goes to open his mouth but no words come out. She knows when he’s lying.

MRS SALMON: You haven’t even bothered to wipe the tiles.

Mrs Salmon storms from the room.

Earle is left alone, a naughty and sad little boy.

Mrs Salmon caught Earle a couple of times a year in his early twenties. He did it because it felt good – for a while anyway – a pursuit of pure, selfish pleasure where the dopamine hit was only equalled by online shopping and not much else.