#being skinny was and is indeed a beauty standard for women. not men. we get judged for not being manly

[garrettwrites]

Some of you should try looking at the real world sometimes. "Skinny men (actually skinny, not twinks) who are feminine are a beauty standard ://// where's the love for my bigger hairier masc dudes" what world do you live in where masculine men are deemed an ugly minority and not the average. Not the desired. "Gnc queers get love but straights don't :/// it's not just gay men/lesbians that get to be gender non confirming!!!" WHAT world so you live in where it's acceptable for queer people to be like that. As if gay men don't get harassed and killed for "looking like women" or daring to not be masculine. As if women are allowed to freely shop on the male sections and "look like men" without being insulted or assaulted. WHAT world do you live in.

Some people are so corroded by the binary code on their devices they forgot the real world is not, in fact, a bubble made of equally socially reserved people who get all their information from fandom wank circles.

[fictionalmenmistress]

🌸🍡Taehyung with a chubby darling🍡🌸

In which our best boy reacts to having a bashful girlfriend who happens to be volumptous and curvy... and chubby and soft... and he finds it to be SO SEXY she has no ideaaaa! *Y/N insert story!*

Some NSFW but mostly SFW, some angsty self image views, but soft and fluffy praises. Not requested, but I felt like doing it for a little self-gratification since he'd likely be exactly like this... enjoy lovelies~ 😚

All of my work is labelled under the hashtag #fictionalmenmistress, in the tags 🌸🍡🌸

"Hey baby~" Taehyung devilishly smirks, tucking his head into your shoulder.

"AHH!" You shriek, as your boyfriend squeezes you from behind. You pull out your earbuds and pause your music, spinning around to face him before you. "You SCARED me, Taehyung!"

Taehyung softly chuckled, taking you into his arms. "Awwww my baby... I'm sorry." He cooed, not taking your scolding seriously.

You pull your face away from his gentle hands, as he leaned closer to cup your cheeks... but pouts when he's denied.

"What if a sasaeng broke in and grabbed me or something? Its scary enough to be in such a big house all by myself, you know I'm always looking over my shoulder... because I'm scared of ghosts, and stuff going 'bump' in the night."

"But not us going 'bump' in the night, right?" He mischeviously smirks, taking your hand into his, examining your face with half-closed, lulled eyes.

"Taehyungieeee-" you whine, playfully scolding him to pay attention, as a blush surfaces over your whole face. "You know I scare easily."

"I do too, precious." He quietly assures, before groaning. "OKAYYYY, I won't suprise you off guard anymore... no matter how cute or amusing your reaction may be-" he murmured in submission, letting out a long sigh. "Can't I just... hold you now?"

You blush, as he guides your hand to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss against the back of your hand. "I missed you all day... you're usually with me at the studio, or waiting with those yummy muffins after dance practice."

You giggle. "You mean the ones I lie to PD-nim about? Saying they're faux muffins, that are really veggie-based, to enhance protein and carb burning?" You ask, lifting your eyebrows in an amused way.

"Yeah, those ones..." Taehyung sighs with a pout. "All the guys love them... even Mister Bang now."

"He does, doesn't he?" You grimace, remembering the tray you made their boss recently, per-request. "I feel bad about lying, now that he thinks they're okay to eat all the time..."

"NOOO we can't lose our muffins!!" Taehyung playfully whines, clinging onto your arm. "He'll make us diet if he knowssss!"

"It sounds like you miss my muffins more than me." You smirk.

Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head, before planting several, slow kisses, up your arm.

"No, there's nothing I wouldn't give to have you by my side. Every day... muffins or no muffins." He giggles, towering over you and gazing into your eyes. "I missed you today."

"I missed you too, Tiger. I had been needing to do some artwork for my webtoon panels." You smile, booping his nose. "I'm trying to build an audience for my own work!"

Taehyung gently groans, pulling you in close by your waist. "You know... I can reccomend it to army on weverse or twitter. You've always been the best story teller I know... so its not like I'd be making up any praises about how amazing it is..."

You run your fingers through his soft hair, as he nuzzles into your neck. You can feel his breath slowing, huffing against your skin to breathe you in. He sends a shiver down your spine, slowly squeezing his hands over your hips, almost like... he's kneeding dough.

"Tae... y-you know I want to make something for myself..." you blush, as his hands sensually explore their way up your back. "I want to have self-made sucsess, doing what I love. It means a lot to me, to say that I did it, without anyone's help."

"Mmmm... my pretty little buisness CEO... I love it when you're ambitious and driven."

You scoff, wriggling in his hold. "Oh please, Tae... I'm not little, c'mon." You blush, this time out of embarrasement.

He can feel your body grow stiffened in his arms.

"Why can't I just praise you?" He whispers, almost saddened that you won't accept the admiration.

He leans back and stares into your eyes, with a small childish pout of dissapointment on his lips. His eyes are big and glossy as they penetrate your soul... like that of a puppy.

Its so wonderfully strange how he can look so intimidating and sexy sometimes... then all of a sudden so soft and baby-ish.

And right when he had you where he wanted you, softening your attention to be on him and distracted... of COURSE he would try to snag a move on you again. There went his large, manly hands... gently gripping and easing into a subtle squeeze on your waist skin... before sliding so slowly and delicately down to your bubbly buttcheeks.

Ah those thick buns and 'thicc' thighs. You love them then you hate them... they jiggle when you move, they always have. And... they have those small dimples in them. You always felt hesitant to let your boyfriend touch the soft spots, worried he may be turned off by the texture of your squishy skin, or how your body isn't tight like his own body. And yet... his gaze and hands always wandered there most... he was so needy for those areas, always trying to weasel his way into exploring them.

You were pretty confident about your big breasts, however. Those didn't make you feel like 'too much' for him. Well... besides the faded stretchmarks from them growing so quickly during middle school. Puberty... it just kinda hit you like a truck. You went from looking like a scrawny child to looking like a shapely woman with a baby doll face.

Parents would get mad at you trick or treating, assuming you were a college student dressing up and requesting candy. And those pervy older men were always such a pesty, creepy problem. All this to say, you became very aware of your body, very fast. Your other classmates were still skinny and shapeless, with more boxy frames than curvy frames, and none of the boys in your class ever seemed to be attracted to you, over the girls like them.

As Taehyung has said once before though... a young boy wants to knaw on bones, while a grown man hungers for the meat.

"Did you just compare me to meat?" You asked him after the fact.

"No! No... that's not what I..." He giggled, shaking his head. "Its just an old saying, that I only really understood when I grew up. Basically, women with shape are the sexiest to men... but teenage boys are attracted to a more child-like, thinner look." he quietly said.

His words echoed through your head, before you attention re-gathered in the moment happening now.

"You're little to me..." he innocently cooed.

Yes, I suppose height-wise you were shorter than your tall boyfriend. But you always wondered if you looked too... big... standing next to him. He was so lean... with practically no fat on his firm, toned body. But you were soft all over. And seeing Taehyung at award shows... surrounded by all of those dainty, tiny girlgroup idols... they looked like they could fit in his hands. But you... you felt so big sometimes, with your foreign genetics.

Taehyung never seemed to care, and he never said anything but praises, but you still wondered in the back of your mind. Did he think you were too much for him?

Taehyung liked a challenge. The more you shyed away, the more he pressed into you, cradling you in his grasp. (He knew the difference between you being shy versus being non-consenting, and NEVER went against your limits or desires. He read people quite well, especially you...)

"Taehyung..." you gulped, feeling your lips trembling to get the words out. "D-do you think I'm... f-fat?" You stammer. The look on his face is almost appalled, angered. Who would make you have such a false impression?

"What?" He repeated. "Fat? Absolutely NOT." He corrected, tilting up his chin confidently.

"B-but... according to Korean standards..." you muttered, beginning to ramble now that pandora's box had been opened. "I'm-"

"Don't say it." He coldly ordered. "Korean beauty standards are unrealistic and drive even the skinniest and prettiest of Korean women to get surgeries that promise an 'ideal image'. But, everyone is perfect exactly as they are. I know you know that, and you know I know that too. So, screw what advertising comanies call the 'ideal image' in my country or yours. Ideal image, my ass."

"Taehyung!" You gasp, suprised that he swore. Your boyfriend wasn't one to swear... it was a rare quality about him.

The way he worded it made you chuckle at a realization.

"Well, your butt is indeed the ideal image..." you murmured, making Taehyung smirk to see you amused and feeling a little better.

"I'm glad you think so, Jagiya~" he cooed, guiding you to the couch without his arms leaving your waist. You trusted him wholly, to guide you backwards, or anywhere.

Taehyung suddenly slipped his arm under one of your knees, making you yelp as he pulled your thigh up against the side of his body. He confidently smiles all the while, his intimate gaze never leaving your eyes. You feel his hand squeeze the thigh, and you could tell he was doing it less for support to lift you onto the couch, and moreso to feel your volumptuous form in his grasp. Ohhh he loved your thighs... your soft, lovely thighs...

He slowly leaned into you, guiding you to recline back onto the expensive, large, comfy couch.

You giggled, as he leaned all of his body onto you, squishing you playfully under him.

"Taehyung!" You laughed. "You're squishing me!"

"I want all of my body to be against your perfect body." He sweetly grinned. "There's not an inch of me that doesn't belong to you."

"Well, you're suprisingly heavy..." you playfully pout, succumbing to the comortable pressure his body was pressing into you. It was arousing, actually...

"And you're suprisingly light." He gently remarked, flipping you both so you were on top of him. You knew he didn't mean that in a bad way.

"Or you're just strong..." you sighed.

"Maybe I'm strong... but your body is perfect to me. The way you FEEL..." he began, greedily squeezing his palms over the softest parts of your thighs. "The way you LOOK..." he hungrily growled, almost an octive deeper... sending a shiver through your core as he drank in the image before him. His eyes widened as they scanned over your bouncing large breasts in his view, as he watched you sit up, straddling him as he lied there. The smile on his face was pleasured, pleased. He was a happy man to have you on top of him, no matter how light or heavy you were... he WANTED you to press your lovely form into him. "The way you walk... so bouncy and sexy... I feel jealous about how the hyungs check you out when your back is turned." His voice turned devilishly lower... deeper... as if wrathful for revenge. "Its a crime that any man gets to see your godess-like form standing before them, besided me."

"Th-they do that?" You blush, not realizing the rest of the boys saw you in that way.

"Mhmm... all of them do. Its soooo not fairrr..." he grumbled under his breath, almost purring as he took in the sight of your squishy tummy against his chest, and your juicy thighs around him. "Kitten~" he desperately sighed. "I get so HARD, just IMAGINING how you look IN clothes that cover you completely... let alone the f-fantasies of you naked~" he humms, with a hitch in his breathy whispers.

"Hh-huhh..." he sighs, his breath hitching again, as his eyes lazily roll into the back of his head, before re-drifting back down onto you. Just the remembrance gets him THAT hot and bothered??

"For realsies?" You coyly, bashfully ask.

"Of course, kitten. Would I lie to you?" He asks, raising his eyebrows with a confident smirk.

"Maybe... if it would make me feel better..." you dissapointedly assume.

He sits up, supporting himself on one of his arms, making his chest press against your breasts through your shirt. You were face to face now... just staring into one another's eyes.

"NEVER." He assured. "I would never lie to you. There's no reason for me to lie to make you feel better, Jagi. You're literally a goddess."

You feel your cheeks flume red. "G-goddess?"

"Yes! Renaissance masters didn't sculpt ideal greek godess statues with soft curves for nothing..." he grumbled, blushing at the sight of your innocent face.

"Ohh Taehyungie..." you dreamily sighed, leaning fully against his chest as he slowly lowered you both down, to lie against one another horizontally.

"The way our bodies are so different... the way yours is so soft comared to how hard and stiff mine is... its perfect." He gently cooed. "I'm surpised that you're so comfy in my arms."

"Oh Tae, you're my safe place. I love how you feel... I love how you hold me." You intimately whispered.

He stared deeply into your eyes, as a gentle smile rested on his admiring, sculpted, handsome face.

"Didn't you find me during our Love Yourself era?" He asked, cocking a brow.

"Mhmm." You responded, rapidly nodding your head up and down in such a soft, innocent way.

Taehyung giggled, endeared at your cuteness. "Okay then. I want you to love yourself... because I love you. All of you."

He gently lifted your loose shirt up enough to grab onto your waist, running his hands slowly down the sides of you, to squeeze your soft tummy in his hands, his eyes practically glistening with desire.

"Ever inch of you... every hair, every patch of skin, every tint and shade, every texture. You belong to me, and you're the sexiest being in existance. And all of me belongs to you, only you, forever. Alright?" He romantically assured, gazing hopelessly into your eyes.

The soft smile that pulled into his lips, let you know the fullest sincerity of his tone. "Okay." You smile, leaning into his lips to kiss him.

Slowly, passionately you kissed, deepening the intimate act with every second. Soon enough, your hands were running all over one another, tilting your heads to reach your tongues into the deepest parts of your mouth. Body to body... you both were perfect, together and apart, exactly as you are... he loved you.

🌸 the end 🌸 (for more, visit my hashtag: #fictionalmenmistress in the tags 🥰 requests and headcannons are also open!)

[dayanaaa2021]

Blog post #6 due 10/07

Can “pretty privilege” be affected by racism?

I think pretty privilege exists to a certain extend. Pretty privilege is indeed affected by racism. For example, models tend to be tall, white, and skinny. Why? Men set the beauty standards for women. Some might argue that women of color are in the model industry; however, white women dominate the industry. Furthermore, racism plays a massive role in pretty privilege. Another example of racism playing a considerable role is on social media. Twitter is another social network where individuals can post pictures, tweet, or share anything. Over the years, I observed that white women get more likes and retweets on their photographs. Is it because they meet the beauty standard? Probably. Sometimes these women get recognized by agencies and offered a modeling job etc. However, women of color are not given the same exposure. Recently, Gigi Hadid shared a picture on Twitter about a woman of color and gave her direction. Luckily, the woman was offered a job. If Gigi Hadid didn’t give her an opportunity, who knows where her future would have led her. In other words, pretty privilege does not relate to being pretty. It’s more than that. I think pretty privilege is equivalent to white privilege.

Does colorblind casting exist today? What are the problems with colorblind casting?

Colorblind casting is defined without considering the actor's ethnicity, skin color, sex, body shape or gender, etc. Colorblind casting exists today; however, many problems come from it. The first problem of colorblind casting is that sometimes producers and directors hire actors that fit the character's stereotype. For example, if there's a role for a seductive waitress, producers/directors will be open to casting anyone; however, they'll cast Latinas and white women. Although it's colorblind casting, the actor fits into the stereotype of that character. If a Latina is cast for that role, society automatically forms this stereotype of all Latinas being seductive waitresses due to past movie interactions.

The second problem that arises from colorblind casting is that society (white supremacy) is angry with the casting. For example, the Broadway musical "Hamilton" had a backlash. The viewers were disappointed that the actors weren't white, so it didn't tell the true American story. I don't know if there's a way to change an individual's feelings and mindset about color casting. Overall, color casting isn't the problem. The problem is that not everyone is colorblind, so anything out of the ordinary will trigger people.

What are ways to overcome racial microaggression?

Racial microaggression will never go away. Microaggression may seem harmless at the moment, but it will continue to build up if action is not taken. It’s hard to confront someone when they show racial microaggression; however, we can try to minimize its usage. One way to overcome racial microaggression is by first analyzing your relationship with the other individual. For example, if you don’t see the induvial being in your future, you can let go of the person and the racial microaggression. If the individual continues in your life, then actions need to take. Some acceptable actions are having a conversation about your feelings or teaching them how to express themselves differently by other vocabularies. The other way to overcome microaggression is to let it for the moment then respond later since it’ll give you more time to gather your thoughts. For example, I went to a Dodgers game the other day, and I told my friend, “I wouldn’t want to live in L.A. for various reasons like insurance is high and you’re more prone to accidents, etc.”. My friend responded with “Day, you can say it’s ghetto,” and I tried to change his view of it by saying, “it’s not ghetto. You can say that it’s not the best place to live in based on various factors like money, etc.”. Although the conversation didn’t result in anything, I expressed my feelings and reversed his microaggression.

How is the internet harming and shaming minorities?

The internet is harming and shaming minorities by praising the white culture or anything that's American-related. Going back to my example of models, when you google Victoria's Secret models, then google shows images of white, tall, skinny women. Google is indirectly diminishing a child's dream by not showing pictures of minorities. In other words, kids believe you need to fit a specific category, shape, age, gender, race, and ethnicity to be someone in life. Furthermore, gender and race/ethnicity neutral words are hurting and shaming minorities. For example, the term "criminal" and "doctor" allows the viewer to have two opposite images in their head. Most people associate the word "doctor" with a white male and a criminal with a POC. Why? These words are ingrained into our brains from parents, the internet, movies, and shows or stereotypes from a young age. The examples hurt and shame minorities because I think minorities feel that they are not enough, and their best efforts will never be the best.

Benjamin, R. (2020). Race after technology abolitionist tools for the new jim code. Polity.

Daniels, J. (2009). Cyber racism: White supremacy online and the new attack on Civil Rights. Rowman & Littlefield Publishers.

Hunsinger, J., & Senft, T. M. (2015). The Social Media Handbook. Routledge.

[bettinaerquieza]

New Media, New Beauty Standards

"Beauty is an enhancement and not a replacement for who they really are on the inside. The key is being comfortable with YOU." - Ayesha Pough

As a child, I had never associated myself with any Disney princess. Instead, I would just wonder what it is like to be them. Upon growing up, I was judged on my capabilities solely based on my weight. I was convinced that I would never be called beautiful, because according to TV commercials and billboard ads, body hair, discoloration, and acne are unattractive. In generations, beauty is a slender build with a proportional amount of chest and a tight waist. Its skin tone is as bright and flawless as a white pearl. It also has a well-defined jawline, sharp and high cheekbones, a pointed nose, and a sensual full set of lips. Its eyes are large and bright like sparkling diamonds, and hair is as soft and shiny as newly woven silk. It has a greek god's face, symmetrical, and blemishes are nowhere to be found—indeed a magnificent work of art.

That's why seeing diversity nowadays in campaign ads and people advocating for body positivity—calling out whoever dares to label a fat person ugly or a skinny person anorexic, had given me so much joy and hope that society might be starting to change for the better. But until now, I still don't see something or someone I could relate to.

I understand that advertisements are made to attract the audience they are trying to reach. Though, as an aspiring media practitioner, I firmly believe that you can get through your target viewers without pinpointing people's insecurities or giving them an unattainable glamorized version of who they are or who they want to be. The impacts of how media portray a particular look can potentially affect so many people's way of seeing themselves whenever they look in the mirror. I also stand entirely behind the concept of improving yourself and aiming to be the person you want to be. However, you shouldn't lose yourself in the process by doing such. Your mental and physical well-being should never be jeopardized.

The rise of new media has enhanced communication among people through the utilization of technology. It is now integrated into our daily life because society depends so much on it for communication, such as contacting friends and family, staying up to date on the latest news and trends, and sharing memories, especially since the pandemic deprived us of meeting people in the flesh. Yet, while it advances, media has given us also the power to distort and reshape perspectives and realities—the complete opposite of its purpose. One of these is setting and presenting more beauty standards, impacting one's self-esteem, developing depression and anxiety due to body image dissatisfaction.

But now, as new media continuously develop, it includes individuals of different races, genders, ethnicities, and sexual orientations. Thereby focusing more on breaking stereotypes, also causing beauty to emerge and give us variation, making room for people of color, plus size, hairless, and people with gray hair and wrinkles. Gone are the days where we lack diversity. We are shifting towards a culture of being open and not only giving one representation of beauty.

Everyone is welcome. Every single one is beautiful.

But do we really believe that?

Everyone's concept and version of beauty can now be seen serving looks in New York Fashion Week, TV commercials, online posts, or on runways. Although, we cannot deny that media still gives us unrealistic beauty standards. In today's day and age, there is now an "appropriate-looking" plus-size body. Stretchmarks are now being glorified and considered attractive, but only when it's not dark and you have it on your thighs or butt and not on your stomach. All skin tones are now being recognized and appreciated, as long as they are glowy and flawless. Yes, we have evolved. However, our unattainable standards have, as well.

There are many outlets for beauty and fashion tips, yet these are not a guide to beauty. Instead, they are just another way to make many women and men feel as though they are worthless (Skolnick, 2020). The constant pressure to look sharp and perfect is still there, regardless of our body type and skin color. Social media often portrays augmented images and distorted truths, such that social platforms have become flooded with "ideal" qualities. No matter the platform, whether a social networking site like Instagram or a micro-blogging site like Twitter, people yearn to present their best self to the public (Washburn, 2018). With technology advancing by the minute and newer apps surfacing online, social media has an immediate effect on beauty. Due to the ever-changing body images depicted online, individuals are turning to social media handles for acceptance and support. (Henriques & Debasis, 2020)

That's why the evolution of beauty standards will never stop. If we keep on seeking validation and affirmation on social media, then solving this constant ongoing problem will never be achieved. Emphasizing that beauty is supposed to be subjective will never be firmly embedded into our hearts and minds.

Don't get me wrong, I, too, have allowed myself to be intoxicated by the poisonous notion that my beauty is based on the number of likes. I know getting compliments on your latest post can be so gratifying. Because all my life, I've always felt so out of place. Then whenever I get a notification that someone reacted to my photo, the sense of belongingness instantly sinks into my veins—I finally feel as though I am genuinely accepted by the world. But little did I know this was the one that would ruin me even more.

Beauty is subjective. As Margaret Wolfe Hungerford once said, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," meaning we all have our own definition, concept, and image of what it is to be beautiful. No one can ever dictate who you want to be and how you want to present yourself. We have to stop expecting everyone to understand it; what matters is that you appreciate your beauty, truly embracing every inch of it.

Let us learn to grasp that no amount of likes or comments people leave on our social media accounts will ever be enough to define your worth as a person.

Beauty is like a self-portrait. It is personal—yours to create.

Let us make that the beauty standard.

References:

Gee, R. A. (2018, July 25). Beauty By Soul Definition. . .. Thrive Global. https://thriveglobal.com/stories/beauty-by-definition/

Givhan, R., & Morales, H. R. (2020, January 7). The idea of beauty is always shifting. Today, it’s more inclusive than ever. Magazine. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/article/beauty-today-celebrates-all-social-media-plays-a-role-feature

Henriques, M. (2020, September 21). Social Media and Its Effects on Beauty. IntechOpen. https://www.intechopen.com/chapters/73271

Mbabazi, B. D. (2019, October 31). Society and unrealistic beauty standards. The New Times | Rwanda. https://www.newtimes.co.rw/lifestyle/society-and-unrealistic-beauty-standards

Skolnick, S. (2021, June 12). Modern beauty standards and their effects on society. The Inkblot. https://theinkblotnews.com/10701/opinion/modern-beauty-standards-and-their-effects-on-society/

Washburn, A. (2018). Beauty Imbalance: Social Media's Dictation of Worth. Brigham Young University

[gershwinn]

GLAMOUR’s November coverstar Lili Reinhart: A powerful interview on anxiety, depression, therapy and body image.

“Depression has affected me in so many ways. It’s something that never goes away,” Lili Reinhart confides to me over the phone. She’s in Vancouver, I’m in LA, but the distance doesn’t stop us having one of the most open and honest interviews of my career.

Many interviews with Lili seek to get the lowdown on her relationship with her Riverdale co-star, Cole Sprouse, who she’s been officially dating since 2018. Indeed, after much talk of a break-up over the summer, Lili notably uploaded a series of photobooth PDA shots with Cole, leading to an internet meltdown and more than seven million Instagram likes. But it’s the conversation around her other, more long-term relationship – with anxiety and depression – that she wants to talk about today.

“I’ve experienced depression and anxiety. Not constantly, but I’m still experiencing it,” she shares. “I have spells of time where I feel completely unmotivated, I don’t want to do anything and I question myself. I don’t know how to handle stress very well. I find that talking about it and sharing my experience with other people, and reminding myself that I’m not alone has been incredibly therapeutic.” At 23 years old, she has found an open and honest voice on social media, sharing everything from body image to her acne with her 20.8 million Instagram followers. It’s an outlet that has no doubt empowered others, but has also helped herself -no wonder Lili was just named as one of Time Magazine's 100.

Speaking openly is something Lili believes strongly in, since attending therapy in her teens. “When I first started going to therapy, it was out of my incredible social anxiety. I was having trouble going to school every day. I was crying before school. I would fake being sick so my mom would let me stay home. When you hear the term ‘crippling anxiety’, that’s what I had when I was 14 years old.

“Seeing the therapist allowed me to be understood. The goal for me has been to always leave therapy feeling a couple of inches taller. Feeling like I’ve alleviated myself of a problem by learning how to solve it. Not everything has a straight answer – it’s not just going to take one session – but I start to think, ‘I’ve grown, I’ve done this, I’ve figured this out, now can I go off into the world and try to put what I’ve learned into action.’ That’s how I look at therapy. I am not crazy, and I am not problematic. I am just a human who’s feeling something in a different way than some other people would.”

Having battled with anxiety for nearly a decade and actively seeking help for it, I wonder what Lili’s relationship with anxiety is like now? “Frustrating. It’s something that I’ve accepted, but I don’t understand it,” she sighs.

“Sometimes I wake up and I’m like, ‘OK, I have anxiety today.’ I’m not really sure why, I’m more irritable than usual. It’s like an undercurrent that lives within me, and certain social situations can obviously trigger my anxiety. I work a lot of hours, sometimes I don’t get a lot of sleep, and that makes me anxious. I’ve found a way to talk myself down when I’m getting super anxious.”

The small act of writing a list to help rationalise her big issues has helped. “I will take a pen to paper and write out a list of everything that I’m feeling anxious about, then when I step back and look at my list of things I’m like, ‘That’s really not that much to be worried about and there’s really no need for it to be causing you this much turmoil.’ That’s how I’ve learned to put things into perspective.”

When Lili isn’t hustling to deal with her mental health, she’s negotiating the greasy pole of Hollywood, which is apt given her recent big screen role in strip club drama Hustlers, alongside Jennifer Lopez. Jenny from the Block herself has taught Lili a lot about the power of hustling. “Jennifer Lopez has said about herself, ‘I’m always the hardest worker in the room and I never stop,’” says Lili. “I admire that and that’s what I’ve been doing. At least this past year has been trying to take advantage of where I am in my life. I don’t have kids, I’m young, in my 20s – I can take the time and energy to put into my career.”

Lili is booked and busy. Aside from Riverdale, she has just landed a coveted CoverGirl beauty campaign, finished her first producing role on the Amazon movie Chemical Hearts, and recently put the final touches to her book of poetry, Swimming Lessons, both of which will drop in 2020.

She says poetry has helped her to understand herself. “It’s therapeutic,” she adds. “I would rather feel too much, than feel nothing at all. Poetry gives me that feeling that my feelings are normal, justified. That other people have felt heartache and grief. I know that the things I’ve written are what 99% of human beings have felt, when they read my book.”

It’s this knowledge of struggle that meant playing strip club worker Annabelle in Hustlers really spoke to her. “I love how Annabelle doesn’t have her sh*t together, because that’s very real. There’s been a large amount of times in my life – like when I first moved to LA, away from my parents’ house and living on my own for the first time, I almost felt like a baby bird jumping out of a nest. You’re just told to fly, without being taught how to fly. You can learn how to balance your cheque book in school, learn how to pay taxes, but no one teaches you how to live on your own, how to take care of yourself, and how to be an adult. It’s very much a trial by fire.”

Meanwhile, alongside her rise to fame, Lili was managing her well documented issue with body dysmorphia – something Lili attributes to acne and to social media, which both contributed to it, but also helped her to manage it by connecting her to a like-minded community of people.

“Even today, I see myself in the mirror and think, this doesn’t look the way the world tells me it should. I don’t have a cinched, minuscule waist. I do have curves, I have cellulite, my arms aren't stick thin,” she says. “This is my body and we’re told that it should fit certain proportions. There’s such a disgusting problem right now with people photoshopping their bodies. Obviously, there’s a reason why people do it, they’re insecure, they feel like they’re not good enough, and that’s incredibly sad. When I see someone who’s authentically themselves, like models Charli Howard or Ashley Graham, who promote healthy, real body images, I think that is so refreshing and important. Our community values need to reflect that.”

She adds: “Charli’s messaging talks to me on social media. She makes me feel like my body doesn’t need to fit these impossible standards, and she’s a model, my body will never look like that. It just won’t, and 90% of women’s bodies will never look like that, but we are still only used to seeing one body on the runway and in magazines. It’s an incredibly stupid and confusing thing for that to be shoved down young men and women’s throats. Being told: ‘This is what beautiful is.’ And it’s often unachievable to regular people.”

Lili has equally been very vocal about airbrushing – having once taken a magazine to task after they photoshopped her waist. “I would love to see a world where people who are already thin don’t need to photoshop their waist even more, to make young girls, like me, when I was 14 or 16 years old go, ‘I thought I was skinny, but maybe I’m not. Maybe I need to have an eating disorder to make my body look like that.’ Life is not a FaceTune app.” Can we get an amen up in here?

One body insecurity Lili has been conditioned into dealing with and won’t tolerate any longer is “this idea of cellulite”, as she angrily put it. “It really pisses me off. It’s this weird thing where people think that it’s unnatural or a symbol of being fat. It’s so f*cked up because cellulite is just a part of the human body. It’s just genetic, it’s like having freckles on your face. It’s something that is there, you’re born with it, and it’s become this disgusting thing. We’re told: ‘We need to laser this away, no one wants to see that.’ There's nothing more beautiful than when I see stretch marks, or cellulite, and people’s real skin.”

Taking a new healthy mindset into the gym has also helped Lili overcome her body insecurities. “I’ve started to go to the gym out of the want to feel strong. I’m not going into the gym thinking, ‘I want to be skinny, or I need to lose 10 pounds, or I need to not have cellulite, or my arms need to be thinner.’ There’s so much power in feeling strong and physically healthy. It’s badass to be strong.”

Having overcome so many self-confidence issues while simultaneously rising to fame, I wonder what message she would want to give to that insecure girl who was sleeping on a mattress only three years ago. Without hesitating, Lili replies, “You’ve done good! But also, the struggle that you’re going through right now only makes your success so much more profound. There are people who have been given fame and fortune on a silver platter, but I don’t think there’s anything inspirational about those people.

“I was from a small town in Ohio, from a middle-class family, I knew no one in the acting business. I didn’t have a baton passed down to me from an actor in my family. I did it on my own from sheer passion and knowing that this is what I was good at, and this is what I wanted to do. There truly is a lot of power in struggle and survival, and that’s what makes you a strong person,” she finishes, defiantly.

People don’t come much stronger or more honest than Lili Reinhart. As we hang up the phone so she can fly to LA – the place where, she says, “I want to settle down and have a home” – I only hope she finds a happy ever after with her own mind.

Source: Glamour

[xxxthe-grammar-nazixxx]

Shoot

This is a Robert Sheehan fanfic.  All liberties taken are mine alone. Medium level sex scene.  Based on a photo shoot that was very inspiring!  

‘OMG it’s him!’

‘Who him?’ I was too busy going through the last batch of prints at my desk to pay much attention to what my two off-siders were whispering about. They’d been giggling by the water cooler like Beavis and Butthead for the last five minutes, staring at someone in the foyer, no doubt. It never failed to amuse me how, no matter how many celebrities we met and photographed for our online entertainment magazine, my makeup artist and hairstylist could still turn into a couple of total fangirls at the sight of a pretty, famous man.

They either didn’t hear me or weren’t brave enough to say the name out loud for fear of him – whoever he was – overhearing, so I let it go and walked the prints over to reception. ‘Stella these have the name and contact details on them, can you mail them off for me?’

Stella nodded. ‘Of course. Standard post or express?’

‘It’s pretty urgent.’

‘Express post then.’

‘So, who’s my next lamb to the slaughter?’ I asked her.

‘Robert Sheehan.’

‘Who?’

Stella’s brown, perfectly made-up eyes widened. ‘Are you actually kidding me? The guy’s show is one of the biggest things on Netflix at the moment! The Umbrella Academy?’

‘Haven’t had time. Seriously, how do you people manage to binge-watch TV all day with full-time jobs?’

‘Because we’re not workaholics like you.’ Stella replied, with a laugh. ‘Seriously, you should watch it.’

I screwed up my nose. ‘Superheroes, right? Doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing.’

‘How do you know it’s not your kind of thing unless you watch it?’ Stella said, reproachfully.

‘She’s got a point, you know.’

I sighed. ‘He’s right behind me, isn’t he?’

Stella exploded into giggles. I shook my head at her and turned to find my next subject indeed right behind me.  

He smiled. ‘Not a fan, I take it?’

Hm. Roughly six foot or over, lean but not too skinny, nice green eyes, dimple – okay, I had to admit, I could sort of see what all the fuss was about. His curly dark hair could do with a comb and some product though. I knew I was thinking like a photographer but that was my default setting.

‘It’s not that,’ I told him. ‘I just … haven’t seen your show. I could be a fan.’ I winced. ‘Don’t go over to the competition, please. My boss will kill me.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t even know who the competition is, so I think you’re safe there.’

 I liked his accent too. ‘What part of Ireland are you from?’

‘Port-Laoise,’ (He pronounced it Port Leesh).  ‘I know… practically nobody’s heard of it. It’s not well-known like County Cork or Dublin. It’s a little country town.’

‘Nice. Well, Stu gave me a bit of a heads-up on where to go with this, so are you ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Great.’ I turned to Britt and Ella. ‘You two want to stop standing over there like props and get organized?’

Britt’s jaw dropped. ‘Can we watch?’

‘That would be up to Mr. Sheehan.’

‘Just Robert’s fine. I’m no Mister,’ he joked. ‘I … okay … sure, I guess.’

‘Girls, he’s probably sick to death of being ogled at from all angles,’ I told them. ‘Ten minutes, and then you’re out.’

                                                          ****

 To their credit, Britt and Ella did an amazing job. Not that this guy needed much of anything in the way of makeup or what Britt liked to call “floofing”.  But they’d taken one look and decided on the theme. His hair had been straightened and worked into a kind of punk rock bouffant. Like Elvis, but more extreme. Black kohl liner exaggerated the olive green of his eyes. Ella had decided on a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons unfastened to mid-torso. The black and white striped stretch pants looked like something Freddie Mercury would wear in the 70’s – or Michael Hutchence might have worn now, if he’d been alive. Had to admit, for all their fangirling, my employees knew how to dress a man so that you’d want to undress him!

‘Is this okay?’ He walked out of the dressing room patting down the back of his hair, self-consciously. ‘Leave it alone,’ Britt laughed, ‘You’ll wreck all my good work.’

‘It looks great. Suits you.’

‘Thanks. So um … what’s the plan?’

We worked steadily for the next ten minutes while Britt and Ella stood watching from the doorway of the dressing room. After that I gave them permission to buzz off for the day, but I hardly believed they’d take me at my word. Either way it didn’t matter – the door stayed closed. Even Stella left as she had to catch an early train.  I was on my own with a client – not something I regularly planned for as it bent the rules a little bit – but you had to see this guy to understand. I’d photographed male models before, guys whose natural beauty gave me goosebumps in all the right places. But the trouble with them was they knew it and played on it.  I’m not saying Robert didn’t fully realize the effect he had on women.  He knew. He just wasn’t arrogant about it.  In fact, if anything it was the opposite. He was hilarious. He had me in stitches in minutes. It was a good thing the camera was on a tripod because I would have dropped it for sure!

It was when I asked him to improvise a bit that things took a turn for the … well, strange. No, that’s not the word. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the narrow, horizontal windows near the ceiling of my basement studio were a little bit steamed up …

 He walked toward the camera, slowly, like a tiger biding his time, waiting to pounce. I zoomed in on that face and was glad I did. His grin was like a slow burn, working its way from the pit of your stomach to your thighs. That was when I realized I was holding my breath.  He narrowed those hypnotic green eyes slightly and lifted a finger to his mouth, biting down on it seductively.  My camera kept taking pictures, but I barely noticed my role in their creation. Later I’d go back over the shots and struggle to remember taking some of them. But I never forget the video. I always film a photo shoot, especially if it’s just me in the room with a male client, which doesn’t happen all that often. I always ask permission but it’s more for my protection than theirs. Anyhow, when I returned to the video to make sure I wasn’t running out of battery or flash drive space, I watched Robert in the monitor. He was staring down at his feet, and I wondered what he was thinking about. He lifted his head slowly and glanced at something slightly to the right of the camera, letting out a shaky breath. There was a vulnerability in that one little movement where I kind of felt sorry for the guy, even though there was nothing to pity him for. He was rich, he was incredibly talented, and drop-dead gorgeous. What’s to feel bad about?

‘Are you okay?’ I asked him. ‘Do you need a break?’

He smiled as if the previous moment hadn’t even occurred. ‘No, I’m fine! Honestly, let’s keep going, I’ve got my second wind.’

‘Robert … you would tell me if you felt … objectified, right?’  

He blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m just saying … you must have people taking your picture all the damn time. Does it ever get old?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But that’s the job, you know. Why?’

‘I just … how can I explain this. so it makes sense …’ I bit my lip. ‘You’re a good-looking guy.’

He grinned. ‘Thank you.’

‘And you don’t even fish for compliments. That’s rare. Even when you’re telling some celebrities how great they are, they want to hear more.’

‘Yeah, I’ve met some like that. Quite a few actually.’ He motioned to the sofa under the window. ‘Come to think of it, I might take you up on that quick break, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’

I went back to reviewing some of the photos until he cleared his throat. I glanced up.

‘You’re not taking a break?’

‘Um … I wasn’t going to …’

‘Come on. Sit down for a bit. Put your feet up. I heard your receptionist say you’re a workaholic. You can relax for five minutes, you know.’

I laughed. ‘I know … All right.’ It wasn’t taking a break, in itself, that made me nervous.  I might have been driven but as far as I knew, I didn’t suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It was having to sit so close to one of the most attractive men I’d ever met, and not allowing myself to get flustered or unprofessional.  All I could think about was whether I had lipstick on my teeth or bad breath.  I ran a hand through my short blonde hair, which had recently been chopped to resemble Gwyneth Paltrow’s ‘do in Sliding Doors (thank you, Britt, you’re a doll) and wondered if he thought I looked too butch.

‘I like your hair,’ he said. ‘Is that a new cut?’

‘Yeah … I mean, thanks. How did you know?’

‘I didn’t. You just have that look of someone who had their hair cut recently but isn’t sure of it yet.’

I chuckled. ‘That’s awfully specific.’

He shrugged. ‘I like to read people. I think I’m pretty good at it.’

‘Really? What am I thinking now?’

Robert settled into the vintage chesterfield sofa and crossed one long, lean leg over the other, in my direction. He tilted his head, speculatively. ‘You’re on edge. Nervous. I have no idea why. I’m a fun guy. Not intimidating at all.’

You’re half right, I wanted to say, but that would beg the question – what was he wrong about?

‘Okay, I’ll try to remember that,’ I told him. Relaxing back against the sofa I added, ‘Better?’

‘Marginally, but you still have that tense little line between your eyes.’  He reached over and before I knew what was happening, stroked the skin between my eyebrows with his thumb. It had the odd effect of making me feel sleepy.  ‘There, that’s better.’

I managed a smile despite the tension that still sat in my neck and shoulders. ‘Is that Reiki or something?’

‘No. Just something I picked up somewhere. I forget where. I think they do it to newborn babies who are stressed. It puts them to sleep.’

‘Nearly put me to sleep,’ I admitted, feeling a blush creep into my cheeks.

‘Ah well, then, it worked.’  God, that smirk. That dimple. The confidence, along with the complete lack of arrogance, was undeniably hot. I suddenly wanted to remove my blazer, even though it was roughly 10 degrees outside and not much warmer in my studio.

‘Okay well, we’ve … we’ve had a long enough break. Let’s get back to it …’

Robert laughed. ‘It’s your shoot. What do you want me to do now?’

My face grew warmer. I could think of a few things, but they weren’t appropriate at the time and certainly aren’t printable!  ‘Well first off, a wardrobe change. Why don’t you go and have a look at what’s there?’  While he did that, I took off to the bathroom in the hallway, just outside the studio.  Splashing some water on my face, I managed to dial down the red.  Breath, check, I thought, going through the drill. Pits, check. Heart rate … going a mile a minute. Need to get that down!  Think of something totally not hot. Rupert Murdoch. Dead … anything. Warts. Yeah, that’ll do it. Rotten big carbunkles!

No matter what I did, though, when I walked back into the studio and saw him in a pair of black leather pants and a patterned black and silver shirt open all the way down, with nothing underneath but bare skin, my heart-rate spiked!  I’m going to have a bloody stroke, I realized. He’s gonna make me stroke out, the gorgeous bastard!  

Shucking off my blazer because it was now far too hot in that claustrophobic little studio, I complimented him on his choice. ‘You look like Michael Hutchence,’ I admitted. ‘If he was into wearing guyliner.’

Robert laughed. ‘Well, I’m flattered cos he was one hot piece … am I allowed to say that?’

‘Of course! I’m not about to stop you.’ Damn, I thought. He’s gay. Just my luck!

‘I’m not gay, though, not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ he added, quickly. ‘Not that you care, either, I just …’ he shot me a sideways glance. ‘I just wanted you to know.’

‘Okay.’ I think my heart stopped beating altogether somewhere amongst his garbled confession. If in fact it was a confession. I felt a bit like Forrest Gump – too slow to figure out something that should have been obvious.  Wait, I thought. Does he want me to know he’s straight because he’s into me? Or because he’s worried I’ll go to the ‘zine and spill my guts?  Inside I knew the answer to that but my self-esteem, little destroyer that it was, wouldn’t allow me to gloat.

I’m not sure how it happened. I don’t remember how I got from A to B; I just knew that I had to be kissing him right now, before I lost my nerve. He tasted like coffee and pistachios.  His cologne was something altogether fantastic: citrusy and woody and musky all at the same time. Or maybe the musk part was all him, I don’t know.  

He was a freakishly good kisser. Once the shock of my making the first move wore off, he took charge without overstating it. Which was easy for him because I’m less than five feet two in heels and he towered over me. In less than a minute he had managed to trigger every cliché in the romance writer’s arsenal: my knees were weak, my skin was covered in goosebumps and my heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I had to wind my arms around his neck to keep from dissolving into a puddle of lust on the floor, because his lips and hands were doing things to me that are illegal in some countries!  We kind of shuffle-walked back over to the sofa without breaking contact, and suddenly I was lying beside him, reaching into his shirt to hold my hand over his heart, to see if it was racing as fast as mine.  Not quite but close enough. He responded by slipping his hand beneath the hem of my shirt and running it up along my flank until it reached my bra. His lips left mine and started kissing their way down my throat.  My breath caught as his cool fingers grazed my nipple through the silk. He reached around and unfastened my bra with one hand. Hm, clever, I thought. Dexterous at the very least. How many times have you done that, I wonder? It should have been enough to put me off; to change my mind about this. But he started kissing me again and I lost all notion of caring how many women he’d been with or even what day it was.  His hand cupped my breast, this time free of the bra. He moved from my mouth to my collarbone, and pushing up my top, kissed the skin over my heart. I removed the shirt and bra in one, anxious to get as close to him as possible.  I wanted his shirt off as well. As good as it looked on him, this guy was born to not wear clothes!

He let me push it off his shoulders as his mouth made my nipples so hard they ached. My fingers delved into his thick dark hair, messing up the ‘do Britt had so carefully made look careless. His lips traced a path down the center of my torso, the short whiskers on his chin and upper lip alternating between scratching and tickling my skin. When he reached the waistband of my jeans, I had to stop him. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Not that. I’m not … I’m not comfortable with it.’

He glanced up at me. ‘You mean, you don’t want me to go down on you?’

I nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ He shuffled back up beside me. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘I don’t know … just … not today. Okay?’

‘Okay. That’s cool.’  He leaned in and kissed me. ‘I have other ways of making you squirm.’

I quivered at the thought. He unzipped my jeans and tugged them down a little, his hand disappeared between my thighs, cupping me and making its way beneath my underwear. ‘Actually,’ he said, in a husky voice, ‘this is almost better.’  I gasped as he started to stroke, and he grinned, and winked at me. ‘Better vantage point.’

When he had me as wet as I could possibly be, he finally let me move enough to unfasten his leather pants. Before that he’d been determined to make me ‘squirm’, as he put it, and squirm I most certainly did. I was still catching my breath when he produced a condom from a pocket I didn’t even know those pants had. ‘Should never leave me alone in the wardrobe room,’ he joked. ‘I get up to all kinds of hijinks.’

‘You brought that with you?’

‘I always have at least one with me,’ he explained. ‘In my position, I sort of have to. You have no idea how many girls throw themselves at me just because I’m famous. I do have a policy where I don’t shag my fans but … when it comes to women in general, sometimes I’m not as disciplined as I’d like to be. Like now, for instance.’

‘Oh good,’ I murmured, ‘Because I don’t have any.’  I looked up at him. He looked so beautiful lying there on his side, practically naked except for a pair of black jockey shorts and the leather pants around those knees. He kicked both off and hurriedly rolled on the rubber.

‘No rush,’ I said, with a giggle. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ I reached up and stroked his cheek. I could feel the bristle of new stubble growing through, even as Britt or Ella must have given him a shave in order to apply the makeup for the photo shoot. Those beautiful big green eyes were luminous even in the shadow from the photo-lighting. His skin was golden and his lips … suddenly I regretted my earlier reticence about oral sex. I’d experienced it before of course but it was always awkward, messy and felt almost like an obligation, on both sides. And it almost never, ever made me feel like he’d made me feel a moment ago, with his hand. I wanted to be able to explain that to him but felt stupid and almost prudish. Instead I took him in hand and fondled him until he closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lower lip. Taking that as a signal he was ready to go, I shucked my own pants off and pulled him close, sliding my leg over his hip. He was cautious at first, probably worried about blowing his load too early, but the feel of him inside me was almost too much, anyway. It reignited what had been simmering away for the last few minutes, with a pleasure so sharp it was almost pain.

‘Are you okay?’

I nodded. ‘Keep going.’

He did, but slowly, and we kissed as if we had all the time in the world. He raised himself up on his elbows over me, and I responded by wrapping my legs around his slim hips, holding him inside. His new position gave him leverage, and strength to go harder and faster. Pretty soon it was only a kiss every other thrust, and I don’t know about him, but I felt like I was about to burst out of my skin.

Suddenly, just as I arched my back with release, and he did the same seconds later, I heard a shrill beep, and remembered.

I hadn’t turned the camcorder off.

 THE END.

[archinamorata-blog]

Skinny Privilege and Intersectionality

TW: Dysphoria, Eating Disorders

Scale of Impact To the phrase, “skinny-shaming is exactly the same as fat-shaming”, I say, “not quite”. To be frank, I’m not going to tell people how to feel. Certainly, on an individual basis, skinny-shaming can be incredibly damaging and lead to dysphoria. However, the difference between the two prejudices is found in scale and systematic reinforcement. Fat-shaming has it, skinny-shaming doesn’t. Society at large still says that thinner is better and thinner is happier. It can trap the “haves” into feeling underwhelmed and the “have-nots” into an inferiority complex (not always -it can be rejected -but frequently enough). The prevalence of size-related eating disorders says enough, all whilst pro-anamia blogs remain rife.

“But curves are in!”

In this time of influencer culture, the women on social media who seem to profit the most from having curves are still quite slim. No, it’s no longer the mainstream cool to be completely flat and “nineties skinny”, but that older beauty standard has not gone, it has been moulded. Science must be passed down by those with power and so the definition of “health” is controllable. This new healthy image is now exclusive to being smaller as well as with curves. It mixes the familiar with the new and so this change has been easier for people to adjust to and aspire towards. I can’t help but observe that the dawn of this new standard occurred at the same time the authenticity of black culture (that has always celebrated larger, curved bodies) became more aggressively appropriated - but more on that later. The easiest way to spot skinny privilege is to look at where the money is. Haute couture models: all still one body type. The Plus Size movement: doing wonders socially (the impact of role models like Ashley Graham, Lizzo, Oyama Botha etc.), but still far less lucrative. I find that their runway shows are still seen as “for the greater good” politics and this undermines the fact that they are naturally very beautiful. Upon sight, the stage design is generally *snob voice* not as extremely elegant because of the smaller budget. If elite models were to personally, outwardly, and more widely support plus size campaigns and individuals, it’s capital would spike, its image would improve, plus size desirability would become more mainstream and less fetishised, elite runways may eventually become more mixed, and skinny rule would dwindle. As thin women, that is their power and that is their privilege.

Chat Shit, Get Surgery

Skinniness is a widespread mentality that, without self-education, we are all complicit in. Its main driving force is its profitability for those already possessing power. Being a healthy-minded skinny woman protects a person from feeling personally targeted by falsely marketed health teas, diets that promise the ‘beach body’ result (I think you can guess what I think about the term). These products are a hint towards the falsehood of neoliberal happiness and corporations benefit from this standard having been so deeply entrenched in people’s minds.

A key example of this involves the recent LulaRoe pyramid scheme lawsuits. LulaRoe is a business model that allows American suburban women to provide their own income by selling clothes online as ‘consultants’. Consultants at the top of the scheme (called ‘Mentors’) are earning up to $30,000 per month. The company primarily earns money, not by customer sales, but by hiring more and more recruits who need to buy $5000-$9000 clothes packages just to start selling. To be honest, the clothes are average at best. So what entices these new recruits? Image. The high earners use their salary to live a lavish lifestyle and post on social media. One of the biggest attractions comes from a group chat called the Tijuana Skinnies. Members are flown out to Mexico to undergo gastric band surgery and come back looking ‘slim and beautiful’. One Mentor tried out a temporary gastric band in America, almost died, and was still encouraged to go through with the real thing in Tijuana. It’s believed that the company directors push this because the surgery they fly the women to gives them commissions for referrals. This is a multi-billion dollar company that profits most from its image. And it’s a skinny one. Obviously, on the flip side a person can just reject fat-shaming and not pay any mind to it. But with messages everywhere that tell you not to, it is not as easy.

“The obesity epidemic shouldn’t be supported and you’re just letting people give themselves excuses.”

I find it quite funny, Susan, how the health and welfare of larger people seems to only be cared about when arguing against the idea that they should even have body confidence in the first place. Comme, do you empathise or not? Body health can’t exist without mental health. To say otherwise is to advocate for dissociation and correct me if otherwise, but that doesn’t sound very caring. The above argument works on the assumption that all those who could possibly be targets of subjective fat-shaming (i.e. everyone who is not obviously skinny)  are obese. This is false equivalence as the number of people in each group is vastly different. It reinforces the idea that slim is the only moral way to exist and that all weight gain is unhealthy. This mentality is what stops people from appreciating themselves and intensifies self-rejection. As a result, a person is less likely to take responsibility and act towards improving their health if they don’t know or even want what’s best for their body in the first place. Working hard and not allowing any feelings of self-worth in the process just sounds like burnout to me - but I’m no expert on this type of experience so any and all opinions are welcome.

Intersectionality

The intersectional aspect of skinny privilege is clearer when you consider how particular groups are viewed, including plus size men, women of colour, disabled people and so forth. The topic I’m most qualified to speak on concerns women of colour.

The ‘angry black girl’ narrative falls more heavily on darker-skinned (the treatment of Michelle Obama, Joanna from The Apprentice, Alexandra Burke, Leslie Simpson, it goes on) and plus size women. Within colourism, privilege exists because Eurocentrism is idealised. White femininity is the set of traditional standards set within that demographic and being skinny is one of them. So, indirectly (heavy emphasis on that one), being skinny may help a person be subconsciously seen as more ‘Eurocentric’ and have an increased likelihood of being heard.

“Privilege is an absence.” - Reni Eddo-Lodge, Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race.

One of the most lucrative exports of the black community is its music. Here, female skinny privilege is harder to spot. If we’re talking uber-popular music, I would say the most successful women in the game are currently Beyoncé, Rihanna, Cardi B and Nicki Minaj.* Indeed, none are that skinny. However, when women are larger, they are made to reach higher standards in order to get the same level of respect as skinny women. I’ve observed that only hourglass/pear plus size figures are universally accepted. You must have a conventionally pretty face. Don’t be loud if you’re not light-skinned, a trait all four of these artists have. As mentioned, this absence of dark skin (and often coupled with straighter hair/wigs) puts them closer to oh so pleasant, placid, harmless Eurocentricity. They can be firm, self-assured, loud and carelessly sensual whilst getting less criticism than dark-skinned women. They have bodies that conform to the standards of both colourism within the black community and Reni Eddo-Lodge’s definition of Whiteness. They are an intersection of preferences within the two mentalities and profit from it. This privilege allows their black identity to remain authentic and something different that non-black people will speculate on, listen to, and enjoy. $$$. Even so, when Nicki Minaj and Cardi B praise fuller figures, it’s often in comparison to skinny women (I remember the amusingly whiny uproar after Nicki’s “Fuck the skinny bitches” line in Anaconda). Even in this community, it’s as if plus size beauty cannot exist alone. It’s often within the context of skinniness and rarely receives full attention outside of being fetishised. Skinny is seen as the obviously beautiful standard that everything else revolves around.

“What can be done?”

I’ll keep it short:

Continue to increase representation in advertisements, television and especially runways.

Reduce demand for unhealthy weight loss products through educating yourself and others and not buying them.

Vocally support plus size movement individuals and encourage equally paid photo shoot and runway contracts. This includes everyone, but especially celebrities with large platforms.

Charity starts at home, so analyse your own body artistically. Temporarily ignore beauty standards whilst doing this and make your own judgements on its different organic shapes. If you can like unconventional shapes in art, why not something as complex as yourself?

[helshades]

idk if you watch rupaul's drag race or have any interest in drag queens in general at all but opinions on this dress+the censoring of it on the show for ~bad taste~ reasons? (i find it gorgeous and smartly funny esp when the theme was "padded for the gods" i mean, you can't get more padded than that lmao. almost a feminist look/statement imo) instagram. com/p /BsUaPvenYcj/

I can appreciate the tongue-in-cheek literal-mindedness of the dress and the model makes an interesting comment about intent:

Nevertheless, such statement may be a pad, sorry, a tad misplaced considering the fact that exactly none of the participants in that reality show happens to be someone who could menstruate, and that there is more than one argument that could be weighed against drag-queens, of all artists, trying to make feminist statements, of all things…

In passing, I really wish people would retire from using the term ‘empowerment’ every five minutes about things that have nothing to do with this concept, which was coined to refer to marginalised people, usually in the Third World, chiefly women, gaining self-determination through economic and political means, aiming to become self-sufficient. Empowerment is a sociological concept rooted in Marxist theory, intertwined in the very basis of democracy—peoples’ right to govern themselves. In other words, we are rather far remote from putting on extravagant gowns to wriggle one’s equally padded arse in the face of people meant to elect one individual the best performer in a group of individuals obsessed with being gazed at admiringly for their looks.

One comment I found on Instagram about this post:

‘You’re absolutely fantastic. I would have loved to see this on the runway. This is not distasteful at all, it’s beautiful couture and art that normalizes an unfortunately shamed experience that many folks go through regularly. It is so important to honor and celebrate the bodies that inspire drag. It warms my heart the respect you bring for female-organed folk.’

‘Female-organed folk’. It is more than a little disheartening (though it doesn’t exactly surprise) to see ‘woman’ become a forbidden word amongst people who supposedly are all about celebrating the luxurious aspects of womanhood, and usually appear to crave femaleness—and not in the way a straight man would, longing for the otherness of femininity that complete his half of the heterosexual union… but, rather, here, femaleness as a template, woman as the typical object of man’s desires.

I am perhaps a divergent feminist—not like other girls!—inasmuch as I tend to regard femininity and masculinity as indissociable from womanhood and manhood, and necessary things, to a certain extent. On the other hand, I am not enough of a deviant yet that I might deem drag queen shows feminist. Drag attire, for all intents and purposes, is a caricature of femininity, whose ambivalence has often verged on the schizophrenic: at once an interesting parody of sexist beauty standards and… well, an uninhibited exploitation of the exact same thing, which, as it is being performed by the one sex that precisely isn’t subjected to such standards in civilian life, makes one wish dearly that men would find a more personal way to subvert canonical virility.

I have no doubt men can be feminists. Of this, a stellar example comes to mind with Doctor Denis Mukwege, the famous Congolese gynaecologist who received the Nobel Prize for Peace in 2018 for his remarkable work on healing women who were victims of genital mutilations. This is feminism—and it is noteworthy indeed that Dr. Mukwege’s help is not only surgical, but economic and judicial as well. This is feminism. A million-dollar reality show about men performing as images of exaggerated femininity? I don’t think so.

On the other hand… on the other hand, I do not happen to believe that not being feminist per se would be drag’s original sin. In fact, I happen to find it a very, very interesting play on masculinity, as no one, deep down, actually doubts the presence of a man, a male, under all that outrageous make-up, getup and beneath the exhilarating wigs. Only, on top of that default maleness, there is an exceptionally loud mask, like one of the painted personae of ancient theatre, never meant to hide oneself, but to show, on the contrary, the truth of the character behind. In more ways than one, drag costuming is a support for the expression of all emotions and sentiments that men are traditionally expected to reign in and dissimulate in order to perform virility.

Sharon Needles:

‘It can be perceived as misogynistic, and I can understand why, but I don’t think there’s any drag queen who intends it to be. Most drag queens dress up as super women, as an over exaggeration of the female form, because we like women, usually powerful women. I think that’s why we are so over exaggerated; we are an amplification of the women who empowered us in our youth. The most powerful woman I know is my mother, and she doesn’t wear any make up at all. We’re exaggerating the western consumerist culture that happens to plague women more than men; and thank god, because it’s so much prettier.’

Alaska Thunderfuck 5000:

‘Since I was a kid, I’ve always been skinny and frail framed. I felt powerless as a child, but I always saw so much power in femininity and female sexuality. I was always drawn to beautiful women. We don’t mock anything innate about femininity, but some of the trappings that come alongside.’

Sharon Needles:

‘Look at her, over there, look who you see in the mirror. When I’m fully done and look in there, the real you inside is pushed way back.’

(x)

At the end of the day, this is only a reality televised show where vulnerable people with self-esteem issues go to masquerade and parade because our society confuses personal success with fame and a controlled appearance of self-satisfaction. All it says is not said wittingly—but it never does mean that there is nothing to be said, I suppose.

[sapphic-sex-ed]

idk what to do anymore. my self esteem has never been lower. i feel so ugly and gross and my friends are all thriving and skinny and everyone loves them. i’m so happy for my friends but i feel like utter shit. i’m trying to eat healthier to stop gaining weight but it’s sO hard. we always have sweets in the house and i just eat them and feel so bad about it later i start crying. what can i do to stop hating myself.

It seems to me like you have some disordered eating and internalized fatphobia.

The world has distorted our ideas of what “healthy” is (and ableism has assigned our value to our health). Skinny doesn’t equal healthy. Fat doesn’t equal unhealthy. There are Olympic athletes who are fat (like powerlifting champion Holly Mangold!). “Eating healthy” -should- mean getting all your nutrients and enough calories, but it’s come to mean “chronic undereating”. I see so many teenage girls getting only 1200 kcal a day or less, which is well less than half of what a growing kid needs (yes, “kid”. girls don’t need less than boys.) and it breaks my heart.

If you honestly want to have a stable weight, eat. Whenever you’re hungry, you should eat. Your body knows what it’s doing. To an extent, it even gives you cravings for the nutrients you need. If you don’t eat enough, your body will refuse to use the energy you put into it because it thinks there is a famine. You will lose muscle and bone mass before you lose any fat. Dieting indeed causes you to -gain- weight and if you don’t stop trying to force your body to lose weight you -will- get permanent organ damage like me. Not fun.

If you menstruate that will make your weight fluctuate by as much as 10% so don’t worry about that. It’s supposed to happen. Weight fluctuation happens to everyone for all kinds of reasons and it is 100% normal and okay. Throw out your bathroom scale if you can’t stop looking at it.

Ask older women about how the beauty standard used to say ‘skinny’ was a bad thing. If spite helps you, know that diet culture exists to control women. Men are nowhere near as affected as a class (though fatphobia kills them too of course) because it’s their creation.

Here are some blogs you might want to take a look at:

@bigfatscience, @fatphobiabusters, @heavyweightheart (ed tw), @gloriousfatpoc (sometimes nsfw), @ok2befat

You are loved. There’s nothing wrong with being fat. If people don’t like you for not meeting their idea of what a body should look like, that’s their problem. Your worth is not determined by your health, real or perceived, or by how much you fit or don’t fit the beauty standard of the day.

Hugs if you want them

-*Mod Star, Fat And Proud Of It*

[carterrollins96]

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[thecorteztwins]

✍️ Toad with an acolyte that might like him?

(using WATXM so the first-gen Acolytes and second-gen ones can be on the same squad! Also assuming this is for @toadlingscentral. I also wasn’t clear on what “might like him” meant so I went with friendships.)Toad neverbeen lucky enough to know other physically mutated types. Okay, technically there was Blob, but…Fred still looked human. Not a type of human that other humansliked, but still…better fat than a freak.After he’d joined the Acolytes, however, he’d been introduced to Seamus Mellencamp (no codename) and Mortimer Everett (alias Barnacle), both of them physically mutated in…less than attractive ways…and had found companions in them both. Of course, Toad wasn’t friends with themjust for that, he was sure they’d have gotten along fine anyway(especially Barn, he was really nice—and his real name was Mortimertoo!) but  there was a certain unspoken sense of solidarity betweenthem. Without ever having had to talk about it, they knew theyshared certain experiences, certain feelings, certain realities. Theyall understood what it was like to be like them in a way that the others,even the kindest, just couldn’t comprehend. Indeed, Toad actually wondered ifthese two didn’t have it worse than he did. Mellencamp looked even more inhuman than Toad did, frighteningly so, and poor Barn…his mutation had given him dry cracked scabby crusts and scars all over his skin, not to mention a big lumpy abscess that hung over one eye, rendering him half-blind. To top it all off, he also had a speech impediment, possibly from having crusts and scars on the inside too. So yeah, it was hard not for Toad to feel a certain connection with these guys.Not that the other Acolytes were all bad either. Some were bullies, like the Kleinstocks—though atleast unlike Fabian, they didn’t seem to hate him for how he looked,they were just jerks—and some, like Senyaka, were just plainscary….but Milan was great. He looked totally human, but he was a big nerd who the others picked on a lot. This and a shared love of technology connected him and Mort.Amelia Voght was nice enough if not exactly his friend, and Scannerand Neophyte seemed as unsure and nervous as he often was, seen them, and he saw them bossed around and picked on too.And, of course, Anne Marie. She had been the first Acolyte he met, and his first friend among them. She’d always been nice to him, and she never flinched when looking at him, nevergave any sign she was looking at anything strange, be it disgust orpity or the natural nervousness that an appearance like his couldinstinctively incite in people not because they were bad or hatedhim, but just because…people weren’t supposed to look like him.Barnacle had been the one to explain why most people were like that.”It’s called kkkst the Uncanny Valley,” he said, “You and—kkkst—I, we look human, but not human enough. It hits a weird part of the brain that–-kkkst–unnerves people even more than monsters do. That’s why clownsand puppets—kkkst— scare people. They look SIMILAR to humans but withsomething just ‘off’.”He paused to take a drink of water; Barn had to do that a lot when he talked. Then he continued,“They use that in–kkkst–movies, to make people creeped out instead of just ‘oh shit a scary—kkkst—monster!’ like when they see someone like Mellencamp.”Barn paused again, and then finished, “”It’s natural instinct, everyone–kkkst— has it.“Idunno, man Anne Marie doesn’t,” replied Mort, “But that girl ain’t got a lot of anyinstinct, I don’t think”He liked her a lot, she was just a bit…screw loose. But in a good way.

“Shefeels bad for you,” said Mellencamp, putting his claws lightly on Mort’s arm, as if delivering some painful news, which he was,”Some people—especiallywomen—they’ve got this Quasimodo complex. They pity us, they wantto be that one special person who sees past our looks, but theydon’t, not really. They can’t. Like Barn says, it’s instinct. Evensomebody blind wouldn’t like us once they touched us—they can 'see’with their hands, you know. ““Anne Marie’s 'bout as subtle as anaxe to the head”, said Mort,”If she thought we was ugly monsters,she’d say so.”“Kkkkst—she has!” Barnacle exclaimed.

“What?” Mort’s jaw dropped, “You sure you ain’t mixin her up with the OTHER Cortez?”“Fabian?” said Barnacle, “kkkkst—No, he’s—kkkst—cool. As cool as anyone can be, But his sister—well, like you said, blunt as a—kkkst– axe to the head.You’re telling me she really hasn’t said anything to you?”“No! Whatdid she say to you?!”“Well, she walked right up to me when we met and said wow, you look like amonster!” Mellencamp told him, his voice full of understandable resentment.“She started–-kkkst– trying to touch my lump,” Barnacle bemoaned, referring to his forehead abscess, “Like I’m a zooexhibit. The others at least give me a little—kkkst-–respect.”Mortcouldn’t believe what he was hearing. Anne Marie? The sweetest girl inthe world? Scary, sure, but sweet. There must be some kind of misunderstanding. He’d try to clear it up–he didn’t want his friends to fight, and he especially didn’t want these two guys to feel bad! Because boy, he knew what that was like.***”Anne Marie?” Mort asked timidly as he approached her. She was lying on her back on the grass, pedaling her feet in the air, bouncing a ball of them.”Hey, Anne Marie, can I ask ya something? Am I…do you think…am I ugly?””Yeah!” said Anne Marie, without hesitancy, and without cruelty, just casual simplicity, as if he asked if she’d like a soda. As earlier, his jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. He always usually assumed people thought he was hideous to start, but he’d come to think Anne Marie was different…and that made it hurt so much more than when people like her brother said it. Because Fabian, he was a douchebag in general, but Anne Marie…she was a nice person.So if even nice people thought he was ugly…Tears began to well in his eyes, but it had been a long time since he’dever cried in front of anyone, so he  wouldn’t start now. Without another word, he hopped away fastas his legs could carry him.Anne Marie, oblivious, got to her feet and began bouncing the ball off her knees***Later that week, Mort ventured into the kitchen when Chrome and Frenzy were having a conversation. Usually, Mort just tuned out their discussions like everyone else did. He could seldom follow what they were saying. Mort was not dumb at all, buttheir kind of smart was very different than his kind of smart. He couldn’t help picking up, however, that they were talking about looks, and how people were treated because of them, and he began to listen despite himself. They were saying stuff about…how beauty wasin the eye of the beholder, you aren’t entitled to have people findyou attractive, but also how people see beauty was shaped by a verybigoted culture hence the existing standing of beauty and how thatshould be questioned…“But ultimately, isn’t that juststill playing into the dominant paradigm?” said Chrome, pointing a finger as if to illustrate some invisible diagram,“Like,okay, let’s say the powers that be say that brunettes are ugly andblondes are the best. If the brunettes go, hey, you know what,brunette is beautiful, then they’re still playing the game, they’restill supporting the idea that beauty matters at all. When a lot ofpeople say “fuck your beauty standards” what they actually meanis “include me in them” rather than dismantle them altogether,which is what SHOULD be done. We’re so entrenched in this system,this way of thinking, that we’re trying to get a piece of the piewhen the pie itself is rotten.”“I agree with your pointin theory,” Frenzy returned, “but in the real world, beauty DOES matter in society, and peoplenot considered part of the pretty pie are getting treated like shit forit—-namely, people of color, transgender and gender-nonformingfolks, the disabled, the physically mutated, none of which YOU are, soforgive me if I think it’s really easy for you to say that beautyjust shouldn’t matter to anyone when you have the privilege of it notaffecting you in the first place.”“You know what, that’s a really fairpoint, excellent point,” Chrome admitted, “So, with that in mind, what would you think of—”“She’s right!”Mort burst out without realizing he was even talking until it was too late, throwing his arms up, “You have no idea what it’s like! Either ofyou!”Both of them stared at him, and Mort felt himself shrink. He seldom spoke to either of these Acolytes at all. They were intimidating people. Frenzy was was even bigger than Anne Marie, andunlike Anne Marie, she NEVER looked friendly. Chrome was scary in hisown way too—not because he was big, he was tall but he was as skinny as Mort— because he….he was very handsome, Toad thought, not like amusclebound meathead like the other men here, but like a willowymodel, with a strange sort of striking beauty. And he was…he wasn’tmean in the way like Fabian or the Kleinstocks were, but he was always arguing withpeople, and he always seemed to be right. It made Mort uncomfortable,he didn’t like the conflict, and he didn’t want to ever risk being onthe end of that kind of tongue-lashing. To his surprise though,neither of them told him to shut up. They looked expectant.“Go on,”said Chrome after a moment.“…go on?” Mort squeaked, confused.“Your opinion is relevant”,said Frenzy, “We’d like to hear it.”“I…I…I don’t have an opinion,I just…I just…later!”And he hopped away again.***The next day, as timidly as he had approached Anne Marie, he hobbled up to Chrome in the hallway.“Um, chrome?”Chrome looked at him.“You’re…you’refriends with Anne Marie, right?”Chrome nodded.“Does she….does she think I’mugly?”“Best way to know is to ask her,” Chrome answered, “Anne Marie doesn’t lie. Don’t thinkshe can.”“Yeah, I…I know,” Mort hung his head, “I did ask her.”Chrome regarded Toad thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “She said said yes, didn’t she?”Toad nodded.“And she probably said it realcasual-like, like it was the simplest thing in the world, am Iright?”Toad nodded again, head still down. Chrome nodded too, but it was more of a thinking nod, and he curled his long thin fingers around his jutting chin as he did. Then he put his hands out in a ‘hear me out’ kind of gesture, his tone matching,“Okay, so—here’s a little thing that’s differentabout Anne Marie. When most people say ugly, they mean bad. Uglinessis culturally linked to evil and inferiority in our society. Like,it’s no fuckin’ coincidence that light skin and straight hair, aka traits associated with white people, getconsidered the prettiest, y'know? And when people say you’re fat,they don’t mean it the same as “you’ve got green eyes” like just another physical trait, they meanyou’re gluttonous and lazy and probably really stupid and gross. All this stuff attached to it. So,you know what Anne Marie means when she says you’re ugly?”Mort whimpered, afraid to hear.“She just means you’re ugly. She doesn’t have avalue judgement attached to it. She doesn’t think ugly things arebad. You know what I was saying, about how we need to embrace aworldview in which beauty, be it societally defined beauty or our ownpersonal definition, does not matter beyond who you’re choosing to fuck? Anne Marie is already doingthat and she ain’t even trying. You know what she means when she saysyou’re ugly? Just that she wouldn’t sleep with you.  Andshe doesn’t wanna sleep with MOST guys, so don’t go feeling specialfor that.”Mort looked up at last,  “But…Barnacle and Mellencamp…”Chrome winced, “Oh yeah, that. Yeah, even I wanted to slap her for that one, though I gotta respect her candor—or I would, if it was something I thought she tried at instead of just, like I said, how she is. But yeah, no, those guys, if they’re mad at her, they got every right. Her delivery is totally disrespectful, she has no idea how her wordsaffect people and she should really fucking work on that. So I’m notgonna tell you, oh, you can’t be hurt because she didn’t mean to hurtyou. Someone fucking opens a door into my nose, doesn’t matter ifthey didnt mean to, it HURTS. But what I mean is…the real reasonsyou might feel bad when people say ugly, because of all the things theyMEAN by it—that you’re bad or inferior or not worthy of love orwhatever—they aren’t attached to it when she says it. She just sayswhat she sees.”“I just…I thought she liked me?”“You think saying you’re ugly means she doesn’t like you? Anne Marie loveslots of ugly things!” Chrome threw his long skinny arms out the sides for emphasis, “Man this one time she showed me these weird newts, and she said they were so ugly, and shesaid it the way most people say cute! Look, I��m not gonna tell you how tofeel, or what to do. That’s your choice. Just, if I were in your shoes–flippers, whatever—I’d go back to her and ask the right questions thistime. For your sake, man.”***”Anne Marie?”Mort had poked his head into her room. She was on her bed, curling in on herself, trying to bite the waistband of her underwear.“Uh huh?” she said, continuing her attempts.“Do you…like me?”“Yeah!” she said happily.“Are wefriends?”“Yeah!”“Would you…ever have sex with me?” He didn’t WANT her too, and he didn’t want her to think he wanted her to, but he remembered what Chrome had said about that, so….“Nope!”“DoI…gross you out?”“Nah!”“But I’m ugly?”“Yeah.”“Isthat…bad?”“Nah” she sat upright properly and beamed at him, “You’re really good.”Mort smiled back at her,

“Youknow, you’re really good too.”

[phroyd]

Say Thank You

Say thank you. Say thank you to the women who gave you a voice. Say thank you to the women who were arrested and imprisoned and beaten and gassed for you to have a voice. Say thank you to the women who refused to back down, to the women who fought tirelessly to give you a voice. Say thank you to the women who put their lives on hold, who –lucky for you — did not have “better things to do” than to march and protest and rally for your voice. So you don’t feel like a “second class citizen.” So you get to feel “equal.”

Thank Susan B. Anthony and Alice Paul for your right to vote.

Thank Elizabeth Stanton for your right to work.

Thank Maud Wood Park for your prenatal care and your identity outside of your husband.

Thank Rose Schneiderman for your humane working conditions.

Thank Eleanor Roosevelt and Molly Dewson for your ability to work in politics and affect policy.

Thank Margaret Sanger for your legal birth control.

Thank Carol Downer for your reproductive healthcare rights.

Thank Sarah Muller for your equal education.

Thank Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Shannon Turner, Gloria Steinem, Zelda Kingoff Nordlinger, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, Malika Saada Saar, Wagatwe Wanjuki, Ida B. Wells, Malala Yousafzai. Thank your mother, your grandmother, your great-grandmother who did not have half of the rights you have now.

You can make your own choices, speak and be heard, vote, work, control your body, defend yourself, defend your family, because of the women who marched. You did nothing to earn those rights. You were born into those rights. You did nothing, but you reap the benefits of women, strong women, women who fought misogyny and pushed through patriarchy and fought for you. And you sit on your pedestal, a pedestal you are fortunate enough to have, and type. A keyboard warrior. A fighter for complacency. An acceptor of what you were given. A denier of facts. Wrapped up in your delusion of equality.

You are not equal. Even if you feel like you are. You still make less than a man for doing the same work. You make less as a CEO, as an athlete, as an actress, as a doctor. You make less in government, in the tech industry, in healthcare.

You still don’t have full rights over your own body. Men are still debating over your uterus. Over your prenatal care. Over your choices.

You still have to pay taxes for your basic sanitary needs.

You still have to carry mace when walking alone at night. You still have to prove to the court why you were drunk on the night you were raped. You still have to justify your behavior when a man forces himself on you.

You still don’t have paid (or even unpaid) maternity leave. You still have to go back to work while your body is broken. While you silently suffer from postpartum depression.

You still have to fight to breastfeed in public. You still have to prove to other women it’s your right to do so. You still offend others with your breasts.

You are still objectified. You are still catcalled. You are still sexualized. You are still told you’re too skinny or you’re too fat. You’re still told you’re too old or too young. You’re applauded when you “age gracefully.” You’re still told men age “better.” You’re still told to dress like a lady. You are still judged on your outfit instead of what’s in your head. What brand bag you have still matters more than your college degree.

You are still being abused by your husband, by your boyfriend. You’re still being murdered by your partners. Being beaten by your soulmate.

You are still worse off if you are a woman of color, a gay woman, a transgender woman. You are still harassed, belittled, dehumanized.

Your daughters are still told they are beautiful before they are told they are smart. Your daughters are still told to behave even though “boys will be boys.” Your daughters are still told boys pull hair or pinch them because they like them.

You are not equal. Your daughters are not equal. You are still systemically oppressed.

Estonia allows parents to take up to three years of leave, fully paid for the first 435 days. United States has no policy requiring maternity leave.

Singapore’s women feel safe walking alone at night. American women do not.

New Zealand’s women have the smallest gender gap in wages, at 5.6%. United States’ pay gap is 20%.

Iceland has the highest number of women CEOs, at 44%. United States is at 4.0%.

The United States ranks at 45 for women’s equality. Behind Rwanda, Cuba, Philippines, Jamaica.

But I get it. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to be a victim. You think feminism is a dirty word. You think it’s not classy to fight for equality. You hate the word pussy. Unless of course you use it to call a man who isn’t up to your standard of manhood. You know the type of man that “allows” “his” woman to do whatever she damn well pleases. I get it. You believe feminists are emotional, irrational, unreasonable. Why aren’t women just satisfied with their lives, right? You get what you get and you don’t get upset, right?

I get it. You want to feel empowered. You don’t want to believe you’re oppressed. Because that would mean you are indeed a “second-class citizen.” You don’t want to feel like one. I get it. But don’t worry. I will walk for you. I will walk for your daughter. And your daughter’s daughter. And maybe you will still believe the world did not change. You will believe you’ve always had the rights you have today. And that’s okay. Because women who actually care and support other women don’t care what you think about them. They care about their future and the future of the women who come after them.

Open your eyes. Open them wide. Because I’m here to tell you, along with millions of other women that you are not equal. Our equality is an illusion. A feel-good sleight of hand. A trick of the mind. I’m sorry to tell you, but you are not equal. And neither are your daughters.

But don’t worry. We will walk for you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you. And one day you will actually be equal, instead of just feeling like you are.

~ Dina Leygerman, 2017

Phroyd

[torturedpoetspsychward]

You Are Not Equal. I’m Sorry.

A post is making rounds on social media, in response to the Women’s March on Saturday, January 21, 2017.

It starts with “I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march. I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman….”

This is my response to that post.

Say Thank You

Say thank you. Say thank you to the women who gave you a voice. Say thank you to the women who were arrested and imprisoned and beaten and gassed for you to have a voice. Say thank you to the women who refused to back down, to the women who fought tirelessly to give you a voice. Say thank you to the women who put their lives on hold, who –lucky for you — did not have “better things to do” than to march and protest and rally for your voice. So you don’t feel like a “second class citizen.” So you get to feel “equal.”

Thank Susan B. Anthony and Alice Paul for your right to vote.

Thank Elizabeth Stanton for your right to work.

Thank Maud Wood Park for your prenatal care and your identity outside of your husband.

Thank Rose Schneiderman for your humane working conditions.

Thank Eleanor Roosevelt and Molly Dewson for your ability to work in politics and affect policy.

Thank Margaret Sanger for your legal birth control.

Thank Carol Downer for your reproductive healthcare rights.

Thank Sarah Muller for your equal education.

Thank Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Shannon Turner, Gloria Steinem, Zelda Kingoff Nordlinger, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, Malika Saada Saar, Wagatwe Wanjuki, Ida B. Wells, Malala Yousafzai. Thank your mother, your grandmother, your great-grandmother who did not have half of the rights you have now.

You can make your own choices, speak and be heard, vote, work, control your body, defend yourself, defend your family, because of the women who marched. You did nothing to earn those rights. You were born into those rights. You did nothing, but you reap the benefits of women, strong women, women who fought misogyny and pushed through patriarchy and fought for you. And you sit on your pedestal, a pedestal you are fortunate enough to have, and type. A keyboard warrior. A fighter for complacency. An acceptor of what you were given. A denier of facts. Wrapped up in your delusion of equality.

You are not equal. Even if you feel like you are. You still make less than a man for doing the same work. You make less as a CEO, as an athlete, as an actress, as a doctor. You make less in government, in the tech industry, in healthcare.

You still don’t have full rights over your own body. Men are still debating over your uterus. Over your prenatal care. Over your choices. You still have to pay taxes for your basic sanitary needs.

You still have to carry mace when walking alone at night. You still have to prove to the court why you were drunk on the night you were raped. You still have to justify your behavior when a man forces himself on you.

You still don’t have paid (or even unpaid) maternity leave. You still have to go back to work while your body is broken. While you silently suffer from postpartum depression.

You still have to fight to breastfeed in public. You still have to prove to other women it’s your right to do so. You still offend others with your breasts.

You are still objectified. You are still catcalled. You are still sexualized. You are still told you’re too skinny or you’re too fat. You’re still told you’re too old or too young. You’re applauded when you “age gracefully.” You’re still told men age “better.” You’re still told to dress like a lady. You are still judged on your outfit instead of what’s in your head. What brand bag you have still matters more than your college degree.

You are still being abused by your husband, by your boyfriend. You’re still being murdered by your partners. Being beaten by your soulmate.

You are still worse off if you are a woman of color, a gay woman, a transgender woman. You are still harassed, belittled, dehumanized.

Your daughters are still told they are beautiful before they are told they are smart. Your daughters are still told to behave even though “boys will be boys.” Your daughters are still told boys pull hair or pinch them because they like them.

You are not equal. Your daughters are not equal. You are still systemically oppressed.

Estonia allows parents to take up to three years of leave, fully paid for the first 435 days. United States has no policy requiring maternity leave.

Singapore’s women feel safe walking alone at night. American women do not.

New Zealand’s women have the smallest gender gap in wages, at 5.6%. United States’ pay gap is 20%.

Iceland has the highest number of women CEOs, at 44%. United States is at 4.0%.

The United States ranks at 45 for women’s equality. Behind Rwanda, Cuba, Philippines, Jamaica.

But I get it. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to be a victim. You think feminism is a dirty word. You think it’s not classy to fight for equality. You hate the word pussy. Unless of course you use it to call a man who isn’t up to your standard of manhood. You know the type of man that “allows” “his” woman to do whatever she damn well pleases. I get it. You believe feminists are emotional, irrational, unreasonable. Why aren’t women just satisfied with their lives, right? You get what you get and you don’t get upset, right?

I get it. You want to feel empowered. You don’t want to believe you’re oppressed. Because that would mean you are indeed a “second-class citizen.” You don’t want to feel like one. I get it. But don’t worry. I will walk for you. I will walk for your daughter. And your daughter’s daughter. And maybe you will still believe the world did not change. You will believe you’ve always had the rights you have today. And that’s okay. Because women who actually care and support other women don’t care what you think about them. They care about their future and the future of the women who come after them.

Open your eyes. Open them wide. Because I’m here to tell you, along with millions of other women that you are not equal. Our equality is an illusion. A feel-good sleight of hand. A trick of the mind. I’m sorry to tell you, but you are not equal. And neither are your daughters.

But don’t worry. We will walk for you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you. And one day you will actually be equal, instead of just feeling like you are.

~ Dina Leygerman, 2017

LINK TO ORIGINAL ARTICLE

https://medium.com/@dinachka82/about-your-poem-1f26a7585a6f#.oc7kduya5

[jenifajalouse]

You Are Not Equal. I’m Sorry. A post is making rounds on social media, in response to the Women’s March on Saturday, January 21, 2017. It starts with “I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march. I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman….” This is my response to that post. Say Thank You Say thank you. Say thank you to the women who gave you a voice. Say thank you to the women who were arrested and imprisoned and beaten and gassed for you to have a voice. Say thank you to the women who refused to back down, to the women who fought tirelessly to give you a voice. Say thank you to the women who put their lives on hold, who –lucky for you — did not have “better things to do” than to march and protest and rally for your voice. So you don’t feel like a “second class citizen.” So you get to feel “equal.” Thank Susan B. Anthony and Alice Paul for your right to vote. Thank Elizabeth Stanton for your right to work. Thank Maud Wood Park for your prenatal care and your identity outside of your husband. Thank Rose Schneiderman for your humane working conditions. Thank Eleanor Roosevelt and Molly Dewson for your ability to work in politics and affect policy. Thank Margaret Sanger for your legal birth control. Thank Carol Downer for your reproductive healthcare rights. Thank Sarah Muller for your equal education. Thank Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Shannon Turner, Gloria Steinem, Zelda Kingoff Nordlinger, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, Malika Saada Saar, Wagatwe Wanjuki, Ida B. Wells, Malala Yousafzai. Thank your mother, your grandmother, your great-grandmother who did not have half of the rights you have now. You can make your own choices, speak and be heard, vote, work, control your body, defend yourself, defend your family, because of the women who marched. You did nothing to earn those rights. You were born into those rights. You did nothing, but you reap the benefits of women, strong women, women who fought misogyny and pushed through patriarchy and fought for you. And you sit on your pedestal, a pedestal you are fortunate enough to have, and type. A keyboard warrior. A fighter for complacency. An acceptor of what you were given. A denier of facts. Wrapped up in your delusion of equality. You are not equal. Even if you feel like you are. You still make less than a man for doing the same work. You make less as a CEO, as an athlete, as an actress, as a doctor. You make less in government, in the tech industry, in healthcare. You still don’t have full rights over your own body. Men are still debating over your uterus. Over your prenatal care. Over your choices. You still have to pay taxes for your basic sanitary needs. You still have to carry mace when walking alone at night. You still have to prove to the court why you were drunk on the night you were raped. You still have to justify your behavior when a man forces himself on you. You still don’t have paid (or even unpaid) maternity leave. You still have to go back to work while your body is broken. While you silently suffer from postpartum depression. You still have to fight to breastfeed in public. You still have to prove to other women it’s your right to do so. You still offend others with your breasts. You are still objectified. You are still catcalled. You are still sexualized. You are still told you’re too skinny or you’re too fat. You’re still told you’re too old or too young. You’re applauded when you “age gracefully.” You’re still told men age “better.” You’re still told to dress like a lady. You are still judged on your outfit instead of what’s in your head. What brand bag you have still matters more than your college degree. You are still being abused by your husband, by your boyfriend. You’re still being murdered by your partners. Being beaten by your soulmate. You are still worse off if you are a woman of color, a gay woman, a transgender woman. You are still harassed, belittled, dehumanized. Your daughters are still told they are beautiful before they are told they are smart. Your daughters are still told to behave even though “boys will be boys.” Your daughters are still told boys pull hair or pinch them because they like them. You are not equal. Your daughters are not equal. You are still systemically oppressed. Estonia allows parents to take up to three years of leave, fully paid for the first 435 days. United States has no policy requiring maternity leave. Singapore’s women feel safe walking alone at night. American women do not. New Zealand’s women have the smallest gender gap in wages, at 5.6%. United States’ pay gap is 20%. Iceland has the highest number of women CEOs, at 44%. United States is at 4.0%. The United States ranks at 45 for women’s equality. Behind Rwanda, Cuba, Philippines, Jamaica. But I get it. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to be a victim. You think feminism is a dirty word. You think it’s not classy to fight for equality. You hate the word pussy. Unless of course you use it to call a man who isn’t up to your standard of manhood. You know the type of man that “allows” “his” woman to do whatever she damn well pleases. I get it. You believe feminists are emotional, irrational, unreasonable. Why aren’t women just satisfied with their lives, right? You get what you get and you don’t get upset, right? I get it. You want to feel empowered. You don’t want to believe you’re oppressed. Because that would mean you are indeed a “second-class citizen.” You don’t want to feel like one. I get it. But don’t worry. I will walk for you. I will walk for your daughter. And your daughter’s daughter. And maybe you will still believe the world did not change. You will believe you’ve always had the rights you have today. And that’s okay. Because women who actually care and support other women don’t care what you think about them. They care about their future and the future of the women who come after them. Open your eyes. Open them wide. Because I’m here to tell you, along with millions of other women that you are not equal. Our equality is an illusion. A feel-good sleight of hand. A trick of the mind. I’m sorry to tell you, but you are not equal. And neither are your daughters. But don’t worry. We will walk for you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you. And one day you will actually be equal, instead of just feeling like you are.

Dina Leygerman, 2017

https://medium.com/@dinachka82/about-your-poem-1f26a7585a6f#.25owle4jl

[1tragicbeauty]

COPIED AND PASTE FROM AN ARTICLE FOR THOSE WOMEN WHO HAD AN ISSUE WITH THE MARCH SATURDAY... A post is making rounds on social media, in response to the Women’s March on Saturday, January 21, 2017. It starts with “I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march. I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman….” This is my response to that post. Say Thank You Say thank you. Say thank you to the women who gave you a voice. Say thank you to the women who were arrested and imprisoned and beaten and gassed for you to have a voice. Say thank you to the women who refused to back down, to the women who fought tirelessly to give you a voice. Say thank you to the women who put their lives on hold, who –lucky for you — did not have “better things to do” than to march and protest and rally for your voice. So you don’t feel like a “second class citizen.” So you get to feel “equal.” Thank Susan B. Anthony and Alice Paul for your right to vote. Thank Elizabeth Stanton for your right to work. Thank Maud Wood Park for your prenatal care and your identity outside of your husband. Thank Rose Schneiderman for your humane working conditions. Thank Eleanor Roosevelt and Molly Dewson for your ability to work in politics and affect policy. Thank Margaret Sanger for your legal birth control. Thank Carol Downer for your reproductive healthcare rights. Thank Sarah Muller for your equal education. Thank Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Shannon Turner, Gloria Steinem, Zelda Kingoff Nordlinger, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, Malika Saada Saar, Wagatwe Wanjuki, Ida B. Wells, Malala Yousafzai. Thank your mother, your grandmother, your great-grandmother who did not have half of the rights you have now. You can make your own choices, speak and be heard, vote, work, control your body, defend yourself, defend your family, because of the women who marched. You did nothing to earn those rights. You were born into those rights. You did nothing, but you reap the benefits of women, strong women, women who fought misogyny and pushed through patriarchy and fought for you. And you sit on your pedestal, a pedestal you are fortunate enough to have, and type. A keyboard warrior. A fighter for complacency. An acceptor of what you were given. A denier of facts. Wrapped up in your delusion of equality. You are not equal. Even if you feel like you are. You still make less than a man for doing the same work. You make less as a CEO, as an athlete, as an actress, as a doctor. You make less in government, in the tech industry, in healthcare. You still don’t have full rights over your own body. Men are still debating over your uterus. Over your prenatal care. Over your choices. You still have to pay taxes for your basic sanitary needs. You still have to carry mace when walking alone at night. You still have to prove to the court why you were drunk on the night you were raped. You still have to justify your behavior when a man forces himself on you. You still don’t have paid (or even unpaid) maternity leave. You still have to go back to work while your body is broken. While you silently suffer from postpartum depression. You still have to fight to breastfeed in public. You still have to prove to other women it’s your right to do so. You still offend others with your breasts. You are still objectified. You are still catcalled. You are still sexualized. You are still told you’re too skinny or you’re too fat. You’re still told you’re too old or too young. You’re applauded when you “age gracefully.” You’re still told men age “better.” You’re still told to dress like a lady. You are still judged on your outfit instead of what’s in your head. What brand bag you have still matters more than your college degree. You are still being abused by your husband, by your boyfriend. You’re still being murdered by your partners. Being beaten by your soulmate. You are still worse off if you are a woman of color, a gay woman, a transgender woman. You are still harassed, belittled, dehumanized. Your daughters are still told they are beautiful before they are told they are smart. Your daughters are still told to behave even though “boys will be boys.” Your daughters are still told boys pull hair or pinch them because they like them. You are not equal. Your daughters are not equal. You are still systemically oppressed. Estonia allows parents to take up to three years of leave, fully paid for the first 435 days. United States has no policy requiring maternity leave. Singapore’s women feel safe walking alone at night. American women do not. New Zealand’s women have the smallest gender gap in wages, at 5.6%. United States’ pay gap is 20%. Iceland has the highest number of women CEOs, at 44%. United States is at 4.0%. The United States ranks at 45 for women’s equality. Behind Rwanda, Cuba, Philippines, Jamaica. But I get it. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to be a victim. You think feminism is a dirty word. You think it’s not classy to fight for equality. You hate the word pussy. Unless of course you use it to call a man who isn’t up to your standard of manhood. You know the type of man that “allows” “his” woman to do whatever she damn well pleases. I get it. You believe feminists are emotional, irrational, unreasonable. Why aren’t women just satisfied with their lives, right? You get what you get and you don’t get upset, right? I get it. You want to feel empowered. You don’t want to believe you’re oppressed. Because that would mean you are indeed a “second-class citizen.” You don’t want to feel like one. I get it. But don’t worry. I will walk for you. I will walk for your daughter. And your daughter’s daughter. And maybe you will still believe the world did not change. You will believe you’ve always had the rights you have today. And that’s okay. Because women who actually care and support other women don’t care what you think about them. They care about their future and the future of the women who come after them. Open your eyes. Open them wide. Because I’m here to tell you, along with millions of other women that you are not equal. Our equality is an illusion. A feel-good sleight of hand. A trick of the mind. I’m sorry to tell you, but you are not equal. And neither are your daughters. But don’t worry. We will walk for you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you. And one day you will actually be equal, instead of just feeling like you are. ~ Dina Leygerman, 2017

[brokenbones-tellstories]

You Are Not Equal. I’m Sorry.

A couple of days ago while scrolling down my news feed on Facebook a post showed up time and time again, stating (as mentioned below) “I am not a disgrace to women because...” and it goes on. When reading it, I got incredibly irritated and mostly angry because I know that as privileged as I am to be a middle class, white woman in America, not all women are. I know that while I have the freedoms and the abilities to do whatever I choose with my life, I STILL am not considered as equal and deserving as men.  There are STILL men up there in their ivory towers trying to decide whether or not it is my right to have an abortion or access to affordable birth control and/or other contraceptions. I know that there are men still making more money than I ever will despite having the exact same job title as me. I still have to carry pepper spray and tasers with me wherever I go. I still have to think about being in a group when taking Uber’s and Lyfts home from nights out with my friends because “I am a woman and you just can’t trust some people.” I still remember not being allowed to have my boyfriend in my room because my stepdad felt the need to “protect my integrity” and quite frankly it just looks bad if I’m too close with or left alone too long with him. What if the people at church start asking questions? Oh, but my brothers, my brothers could do whatever they damn well pleased.  I know that I still, am not equal. I am not equal, but God, am I a lucky woman to be able to say that my biggest problem in life is the minor possibility that one man could single me out of the crowd and try like hell to take advantage of me. I say “minor” because I live in an affluent, safely guarded area and I rarely, if ever, am alone. I am so lucky. so lucky to not live in a third world country where women are raped daily with no repercussions. So lucky to not be sold in the sex market and passed from man to man. I am blessed to be offered a decent and even highly accredited education when there are still places out there where women aren’t granted the same rights. I am lucky to have a voice and to be able to vote, as many women in the world do not. I am lucky that I have the freedom to “waste” an entire day walking around in my beautiful city with thousands of other lucky women expressing the fact that I do indeed have a voice despite countless others who don’t and for as long as I live I will celebrate my freedoms and my rights and I will do my best to be an active voice and supporter of those who do not.  I originally had a lot more to say and it wasn’t nearly as “eloquent” as I wanted it to be, so I refrained. Then I ran across this response by a lovely lady named Dina Leygerman and felt the need to share it. Sorry for the long post, but I’m kid of tired of everyone around me yelling about how “pointless” the marches around the world were this past weekend.  -Sierrah _______________________________________________________________________

A post is making rounds on social media, in response to the Women’s March on Saturday, January 21, 2017. It starts with “I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march. I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman….”

This is my response to that post.

Say Thank You

Say thank you. Say thank you to the women who gave you a voice. Say thank you to the women who were arrested and imprisoned and beaten and gassed for you to have a voice. Say thank you to the women who refused to back down, to the women who fought tirelessly to give you a voice. Say thank you to the women who put their lives on hold, who –lucky for you — did not have “better things to do” than to march and protest and rally for your voice. So you don’t feel like a “second class citizen.” So you get to feel “equal.”

Thank Susan B. Anthony and Alice Paul for your right to vote.

Thank Elizabeth Stanton for your right to work.

Thank Maud Wood Park for your prenatal care and your identity outside of your husband.

Thank Rose Schneiderman for your humane working conditions.

Thank Eleanor Roosevelt and Molly Dewson for your ability to work in politics and affect policy.

Thank Margaret Sanger for your legal birth control.

Thank Carol Downer for your reproductive healthcare rights.

Thank Sarah Muller for your equal education.

Thank Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Shannon Turner, Gloria Steinem, Zelda Kingoff Nordlinger, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, Malika Saada Saar, Wagatwe Wanjuki, Ida B. Wells, Malala Yousafzai. Thank your mother, your grandmother, your great-grandmother who did not have half of the rights you have now.

You can make your own choices, speak and be heard, vote, work, control your body, defend yourself, defend your family, because of the women who marched. You did nothing to earn those rights. You were born into those rights. You did nothing, but you reap the benefits of women, strong women, women who fought misogyny and pushed through patriarchy and fought for you. And you sit on your pedestal, a pedestal you are fortunate enough to have, and type. A keyboard warrior. A fighter for complacency. An acceptor of what you were given. A denier of facts. Wrapped up in your delusion of equality.

You are not equal. Even if you feel like you are. You still make less than a man for doing the same work. You make less as a CEO, as an athlete, as an actress, as a doctor. You make less in government, in the tech industry, in healthcare.

You still don’t have full rights over your own body. Men are still debating over your uterus. Over your prenatal care. Over your choices.

You still have to pay taxes for your basic sanitary needs.

You still have to carry mace when walking alone at night. You still have to prove to the court why you were drunk on the night you were raped. You still have to justify your behavior when a man forces himself on you.

You still don’t have paid (or even unpaid) maternity leave. You still have to go back to work while your body is broken. While you silently suffer from postpartum depression.

You still have to fight to breastfeed in public. You still have to prove to other women it’s your right to do so. You still offend others with your breasts.

You are still objectified. You are still catcalled. You are still sexualized. You are still told you’re too skinny or you’re too fat. You’re still told you’re too old or too young. You’re applauded when you “age gracefully.” You’re still told men age “better.” You’re still told to dress like a lady. You are still judged on your outfit instead of what’s in your head. What brand bag you have still matters more than your college degree.

You are still being abused by your husband, by your boyfriend. You’re still being murdered by your partners. Being beaten by your soulmate.

You are still worse off if you are a woman of color, a gay woman, a transgender woman. You are still harassed, belittled, dehumanized.

Your daughters are still told they are beautiful before they are told they are smart. Your daughters are still told to behave even though “boys will be boys.” Your daughters are still told boys pull hair or pinch them because they like them.

You are not equal. Your daughters are not equal. You are still systemically oppressed.

Estonia allows parents to take up to three years of leave, fully paid for the first 435 days. United States has no policy requiring maternity leave.

Singapore’s women feel safe walking alone at night. American women do not.

New Zealand’s women have the smallest gender gap in wages, at 5.6%. United States’ pay gap is 20%.

Iceland has the highest number of women CEOs, at 44%. United States is at 4.0%.

The United States ranks at 45 for women’s equality. Behind Rwanda, Cuba, Philippines, Jamaica.

But I get it. You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to be a victim. You think feminism is a dirty word. You think it’s not classy to fight for equality. You hate the word pussy. Unless of course you use it to call a man who isn’t up to your standard of manhood. You know the type of man that “allows” “his” woman to do whatever she damn well pleases. I get it. You believe feminists are emotional, irrational, unreasonable. Why aren’t women just satisfied with their lives, right? You get what you get and you don’t get upset, right?

I get it. You want to feel empowered. You don’t want to believe you’re oppressed. Because that would mean you are indeed a “second-class citizen.” You don’t want to feel like one. I get it. But don’t worry. I will walk for you. I will walk for your daughter. And your daughter’s daughter. And maybe you will still believe the world did not change. You will believe you’ve always had the rights you have today. And that’s okay. Because women who actually care and support other women don’t care what you think about them. They care about their future and the future of the women who come after them.

Open your eyes. Open them wide. Because I’m here to tell you, along with millions of other women that you are not equal. Our equality is an illusion. A feel-good sleight of hand. A trick of the mind. I’m sorry to tell you, but you are not equal. And neither are your daughters.

But don’t worry. We will walk for you. We will fight for you. We will stand up for you. And one day you will actually be equal, instead of just feeling like you are.

~ Dina Leygerman, 2017 https://medium.com/@dinachka82/about-your-poem-1f26a7585a6f#.lm03g3f7k