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honeytrappaz · 5 years ago

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call out post for @ratsofftoya

TW: GROOMING/PEDOPHILIA AND SUICIDE MENTIONS

recently @i-am-a-fish got suicidal baited off tumblr for the most bullshitted accusation post I've seen so far.

apparently I-am-fish is a pedophile/ potential child groomer, as said by @ratsofftoya

All because he made a joke on twitter about moving to pornhub, and follows artists that draw lolicon/aged-up smut of fictional underaged characters.

but there are some major fallacies in @ratsofftoya 's accusations (as if it wasn't obvious enough).

moral appeal:

ratsofftoya's commentary on goldie's pornhub and sex toy posts were very moralistic despite the posts clearly being a joke.

Humor is subjective so it's okay if you didn't laugh at this post, but that isn't an excuse to take away its humor to demean someone by making hasty generalizations about his fanbase. We can't confirm his fanbase is mostly kids, but because this claim is based on a hasty generalization, it is an inappropriate appeal to emotion. Trying to imply that goldie willingly exposes kids to child porn, classic "but think of the kids!" argument.

• There is no data we have on I-am-fish 's audience age demographic.

• there is no proof that majority of the fanbase are minors. that's just a hasty generalization.

• I-am-a-fish does not claim to be a blog for kids, not including "18+" in your bio does not make you a blog for kids.

I can't believe i have to point this shit out, but tumblr and twitter are not for kids. Nobody on these two platforms should have to put "18+" in their bios because nobody below that should even be on these two platforms. I-am-a-fish is an adult making adult jokes on an adult platform, to imply he could be a child groomer because he makes sex jokes that minors see is unfair because thats beyond his control. Tumblr and Twitter are adult spaces and yet we are not responsible for kids being in a space where they don't belong, that responsibility goes to the parents. All we can do about minors in online adult spaces is REPORT them.

2. cherry picking:

ratsofftoya specifically picked TWO sexually suggestive artworks by japanese Twitter artist Krskii. problem is ratsofftoya uses these two posts to portay this artist as a highly lewd/fetish account, when that isn't the case. In actuality, krskii's twitter page is a fanart page for a duo from IDOL MASTER: cinderella girls starlight stage anzu fubata(the blonde loli) and kirari moroboshi. it's a fanart page for other IMCGSS characters as well. i use to play game, its alot of fun but its japanese exclusive so i couldn't play much due to language barriers. the fanart page is almost all SFW, but ratsofftoya pick TWO out of dozens of sfw pics to solidify her claim.

you can go on Krskii's twitter and see for yourself:

and my personal favorite:

(ooh lawd this is cute i might have it as a PFP with credit!)

anyway, ratsofftoya ignored these possibilities:

• There is no proof goldie liked the two photos, or any engagement at all.

• there is no proof that he had seen it, especially out of dozens sfw art.

• just because he follows this artist does not automatically confim he has a sexual attraction for lolis or kids. especially due to how the page is mostly sfw.

• goldie could just be a fan of IMCGSS.

this isn't a creepy pedo twitter page, just an idol fan page. but what really is illogical is the commentary ratsofftoya has in regards to loli drawings. Now with using two pics racy pics, ratsofftoya came to the conclusion that Goldie is sexually attracted to children. But lolicon isn't real children, it's not real CP and it's not even a realistic depiction of humans children, so what rataofftoya did was simply pass off her opinion of lolis as fact. I'm not trying to debate on whether lolicon is okay or not and im not gonna share my opinion, because the real point isn't the subject of lolicon but the wrongful accusation. the real fact is that lolicon is still legal, but social opinion of lolicon is very mixed, our opinions on such a complicated subject is not enough to convict someone as a pedophile. you're opinions do not hold that kind of power, especially without sufficient evidence. let's actually move on to ratsofftoya's evidenced and how insufficient it is.

3. False attribution of discord chats

the screenshots provided from the discord chats do not add up to ratsofftoya's claims, making the screencaps irrelevant more than anything.

she provided this screenshot of a mod stating their opinion on aged up fanart, and claims that this opinions makes ALL MODS in that discord MAPS and Pedo apologists. problem is that there is no real sympathy for any pedo/maps in both ratsofftoya and nestbian's screenshots. if anything, it's just some bad jokes, and Goldie doesn't even say one himself.

rattsofftoya commits the same fallacy like with the loli argument; the concept of aged up characters is complicated subject, its not illegal but there is alot of debate surrounding it. Ratsofftoya makes her opinion clear that aged up artwork of characters is wrong. she uses small and insufficient screenshots to to help make her OPINION seem like a fact, and accuse the mods of being MAP sympathizers. she's convicted these mods based on a biased opinion, the concept of aged up characters is not legally pedophilic so whether you think the subject is right or wrong, is still not enough to convinct others with opposing opinions as MAP enablers.

Another issue is how she claims minors are talking inappropriately with adults on discord, but there are no such screenshots, the screenshots provided give no evidence of such accusation. With her convictions based on biased opinions, that accusations is not going to be getting any credibility anytime soon. Many of us know how discord works, it's not unusual for adults and minors to be in the same server, it's not a pedophilic thing. But one thing that discord mods do is have NSFW chats specifically for adults, while minors are exluded and stay in the SFW chats. ratsofftoya has no screenshots on minors in a nsfw chat, you'd figure that nestbian would take screenshots of that if it was actually true.

Lastly, ratsofftoya uses these discord screenshots to further solidfy her statement that I-am-a-fish is exposing sexual content to children. But you don't see goldie or any inappropriate/sexual content in the screenshots, just problematic opinions at best.

4. Bad intentions:

from what i've said in this post above, I can conclude ratsofftoya's post overrall was very manipulative and biased. I think the most manipulative part of the post was the last paragraph:

Using the idea of child exploitation and sexual abuse to pull on people's emotions, a huge inappropriate call for emotion. yet, ratsofftoya has not proven or shown any child exploitation or pedophilia at all. we have yet to see any evidence of abuse! How can I believe ratsofftoya has good intentions when I can easily break the accusations apart and see lies?

As a real victim of child grooming, i won't speak for all victims, but as a victim I really don't like my trauma being used to witch hunt innocent people. My trauma is not for woke points, it's not a badge and it's not for your ego to exploit. It's pretty clear that ratsofftoya did NOT make this post for the well being of children and grooming victims, but the post was made for her moralistic ego. If anything, to use sexual child abuse to lie about others, is exploitive.

5. consequenses:

I commented on ratsofftoya's post, mentioning that there are serious consequences to false accusations. Of course the response was immature af so not sure if she'll ever learn, but I'll say it for those who'll hopefully listen to my advice.

Call out post with false accusations can destroy lives, and put you, the poster, in serious legal trouble.

Slander and defamation on its own can get you a lawsuit, you never know who on this platform has money for a lawyer. If this person you publicly slander is to self harm, commit suicide, or lose their job, you can be legally held accountable for it even if it wasn't what you intended to happen, disclaimers cat save you from that. Just because ratofftoya says the suicide baiting is wrong, doesn't mean that she isn't legally responsible for it, I-am-a-fish can legally use it against her. Even with the legal consequences, lying in its own has social consequences and it will be brought to light.

Remember this, you broke ass college students, no amount of woke points is worth the lawsuit. If you GENUINELY see a real predator, report it!

#I-am-a-fish #I am a fish #discourse #fishcourse #call out post #call out

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ettadunham · 6 years ago

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A Buffy rewatch 2x05 Reptile Boy

aka adulting and frat boys

Welcome to this dailyish text post series where I will rewatch an episode of Buffy and point out / hyperfocus on one detail in it in 10-3k words. Mostly. The rules are arbitrary.

And today’s episode managed to heighten the show’s ever present metaphor of Buffy fighting toxic masculinity and rape culture by adding some super disturbing and way too real moments to its supernatural spin. There’s also the question of adulthood vs. maturity, Willow’s totally not jealous, and Angel is starting to be aware of some... stuff.

Let’s start with our ‘gay watch’ which may or may not become a regular segment on these posts, and appreciate this exchange:

Buffy: I'm not going with Angel. I'm going with... Ye gods. Cordelia. Willow: Cordelia?! Did I sound a little jealous just then, 'cause I'm not really... Cordelia?!

Now, that being said, during my previous experiences with the show, I definitely noticed a pattern of Willow being jealous / hostile towards other prominent people in the Scoobies’ lives - specifically towards other female characters. It happens with all of Xander’s love interests, sure, but also with Faith (so basically... Buffy’s love interest), and it appears to point to a fear of being replaced / abandoned more than anything. Probably more on that later.

The Buffy/Cordelia train has definitely left the station at this point though. Like who is Cordy kidding (other than herself) - she just wants to hang out with Buffy. And maybe her friends...

Speaking of said friends, I had to include the above screencap, especially after I saw someone once pointing out the way Xander makes a fabulous braid on his end and Buffy is just fumbling and looking confused at Willow’s hair. I really love these little bits and exchanges on the show, it often builds character and establishes dynamics in unexpected ways. Right now for instance we can clearly see that Buffy never had a little sister whose hair she’d braid as a kid.

...Also more on that later.

But I also want to fold this onto my talk about maturity and adulthood. because of the context of this scene. Apparently the Scoobies are all out of money and don’t really have anywhere to go out as a result - so they’re staying at home, watching a Bollywood movie together instead.

Later on the episode this will be juxtaposed with the whole aspirational idea of going to a frat party, and doing ‘adult’ things like drinking and hooking up with your (slightly older young adult) date; as well as the dull repetitiveness and responsibility of having an obligation that other people rely on you to do. And yet, that scene at the beginning - staying at home watching movies because you’re too broke to do anything else - is actually the most adult experience I could think of.

And I guess that’s sort of the point. Adulthood is much more mundane than what we imagine in high school it to be; while college can be this weird Twilight Zone where you can not only suddenly do all the ‘adult’ things, but potentially have the freedom to do so as well. Especially if you live in a country where higher education is easily affordable and not in some dystopian landscape where apparently only the richest can focus on their studies and not their part-time jobs .

Speaking of dystopian societies that the American culture appears to be to me - what’s it with these fraternity clubs? And why are they so weirdly gender-specific? And why are Americans so obsessed with the idea of ‘legacy’ students? ‘My father and grandfather attended this same college and were part of this same fraternity club’ who the fuck cares, Chris, it’s college, not a cigar club.

You guys are weird. Like we have hazing rituals for freshmen and all these weird parties going down in dorms, but the whole structure of fraternities just seem to give way too much space to up the notch on the worst aspects of college life. Of course my exposure to it is admittedly only through pop culture, but it really does look like a cult from here, ngl.

Anyway, the point is that college is the part of your life where you can be legally an adult, but you don’t need to have the level of maturity that that entails quite yet. Which is basically the polar opposite of where Buffy is at this point - someone who hasn’t yet entered the age of adulthood, but has all these obligations and responsibilities that demand a certain level of maturity from her that goes well beyond her years.

There are two particularly insidious scenes in this episode, one where Obnoxious Frat Guy offers a drink to Buffy that she refuses to which he says: “It’s okay, I wasn’t into adult things at your age either.” And then on the other end of the spectrum, we’ll have Nice Frat Guy talk about how “mature” he thinks Buffy is. So when he offers a drink she finally ends up accepting, because she’s tired of being ‘mature’.

In both cases, these guys are being manipulative and predatory (especially given how the drinks are spiked... I know, this episode gets way too real). Obnoxious Frat Guy is trying to be condescending, and reaffirm the high schooler idea of conflating adulthood with doing ‘adult things’. Nice Frat Guy however is being more subtle in his approach and appeals to Buffy’s sense of being burdened by her responsibilities - if she’s already so mature and has to deal with so many adult themes, she might as well do some of the ‘adult things’, right? She’s earned the right to loosen up in the ‘adult way’ a bit... right?

And then she gets drugged and chained up in a basement because no girl can ever let her guard down in this society. As Buffy says, she went to one frat party and had one drink, and this is what happened. I do kinda wish that Giles’ reaction to that wasn’t just that “let that be a lesson” line, and instead offered a reassurance that this wasn’t on her. But he also promises to put less pressure on her in the future, and he’ll have a great line to Buffy later in the season that makes me want to cry even now, and that evens those scales for me.

Given how the show often deals in caricatures when portraying characters like these frat guys, I also kinda appreciate that Nice Frat Guy actually seemed like... well, a nice guy (but also, a Nice Guy). I mean, as the audience it was easy to see through his manipulative bullshit act but I could also understand why Buffy liked him and was able to trust him somewhat. (This will happen in s4 again, although with much less rapeyness and much more general doucheness.)

This episode also seemed to have heard my 2x02 rant and it kind of addresses my concerns of Angel seeing Buffy as a “kid”. Their conversations here basically leave out the whole vampire pretense, and skip right into what’s this really about... sex. As the older one in their relationship, Angel seems to have come to the understanding, that it’s his responsibility to put an end to things before they get too far. Apart from the obvious age difference thing as well as Buffy being underaged that I touched upon previously, there’s also just the idea that Buffy may not be ready yet. And I do kinda respect Angel for finally acknowledging that.

Again - there’s this idea of adulthood vs. maturity. And how the latter is often recognizing the difference between being able or wanting to do something vs. whether or not you should do it. Being in the moment vs. considering the consequences of your actions.

When I previously talked about their relationship, I mentioned how I saw Buffy being the slayer tilt the power dynamic between them toward her, and making me more prone to get on board with them together. This episode however starts bringing the older guy / high school girl aspect closer to the surface. Even if we look at vampires as beings in some sort of arrested development, Angel was still in his early 20s when he was initially turned - which is just enough to make this a little murky.

I guess no wonder that them eventually going down that road will lead to disaster... But more on that later.

Or not. It’s a lot to sort out and maybe I’ll just want to talk about something nice and cozy like Oz instead.

Let someone else deal with all the heavy stuff.

#buffy rewatch 2k19 #btvs talk #btvs

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judedoyle · 7 years ago

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Magic and Mentions

Well: The baby and I survived our first run-in with the Chapos.

I kept my pregnancy secret from the Internet -- not a very well-guarded secret, granted; my friends knew, my co-workers knew, the people who attended the multiple readings and shows where I was hugely, visibly pregnant on stage knew; hell, I did things like Tweet about my iron-deficiency anemia and post “just wondering” polls about baby names, so I’m pretty sure a ton of my followers knew -- for several reasons.

One was pure superstition. Thirty-four is relatively late in the game for a surprise pregnancy. Her father and I weren’t exactly trying to avoid a baby, but I figured that at my age, we’d actually have to plan one. Instead, we followed time-honored Irish Catholic tradition, in that we got married and I was somehow knocked up within five minutes of leaving the reception hall. For Lulu to just happen, after all this time, and for her to be healthy on top of everything else, felt unreal. Every time we went to get an ultrasound, I’d be possessed by this sudden, irrational fear that the doctors wouldn’t find anything. They’d have to tell me it was all a misunderstanding, I wasn’t actually pregnant, the previous tests were all false positives, this almost never happens, it really did look like a baby last time we did this, so sorry for the mistake. I mean, I was worried about that in the third trimester, when I could feel her skinny little back thumping against my abdomen every time I moved. Lulu felt like magic to me, and magic is delicate. So I didn’t brag about my pregnancy. I didn’t want her to turn back into a pumpkin when I wasn’t looking.

But the other reason to stay quiet, the more practical reason, is just that I attract a whole lot of Internet creeps, and I’ve attracted a record number of them in the past two years.

It’s not a unique problem. Any vocally feminist woman on the Internet gets her fair share of Internet creeps, especially if men get in trouble as the result of things she’s written; my Creeps largely come from a few disgruntled “comedians” I wrote up in the Rape Joke Wars of ‘13, plus a couple of Bernie Sanders fan podcasts. Which, since one of the Sanders fan podcasts is run by one of the rape-joke comedians -- and the other is run by that comedian’s roommates -- is a group with more overlap than you’d think.

I wanted to wait the creepage out. I had hoped that by the time Lulu was born, people would have worn themselves out on having the exact same Sanders/Clinton fight over and over. And yet, they evidently haven’t, so a large percentage of my Internet Creeps are still obsessed with “punishing” me for... something. Disagreeing with them on the Internet, I suppose. Not subscribing to their podcasts. Talking. Breathing. The kid was, inevitably, going to be drawn in to that, for the same reason that my hospitalization for an illness that nearly killed me got drawn in; it’s a vulnerable spot, an easy way to hurt me. These people tend to get so excited about the prospect of hurting me that they rarely pause to consider how they might hurt someone else.

This time last year, when I was getting married, it was not uncommon to go in on my husband. He’s never gotten involved in the Sanders/Clinton debates -- being both very well-adjusted and very unlike me, he believes arguing about politics on the Internet to be stupid -- but they’d still send him the same “funny” threats they sent me, or screencap and send around his Facebook posts to fuel drama, or post thinly veiled anti-Asian stereotypes about how emasculated and “timid” and submissive and unmanly he must be to put up with a big hairy feminazi like yours truly. (The anti-Asian stereotypes, of course, also had the benefit of being anti-feminist stereotypes about how I must be a castrating shrew and needed A Real Man to dominate me and Put Me In My Place. Hurrah for intersectionality!) Or, you know, they’d just call him a ch*nk. It wasn’t because of anything objectionable my husband did or said. He literally didn’t do or say anything. My husband’s first post explicitly acknowledging the harassment campaign was in December 2016, and he acknowledged it only because he was posting to warn our shared social circles not to engage with Jeff Kunzler (Jeevesmeister), a former friend who had been part of the campaign and was facing rape allegations. My husband didn’t bring this on himself or pick a fight or post a “bad take” or whatever excuse these people use to justify targeting someone; he just loved me, so they tried to hurt him.

None of that really got under his skin -- like I say, he’s a stoic kind of guy -- but it got under mine, the same way it got to me when people would be harassed just for being friends of mine, or RT’ing me too often, or whatever. And I was going to be an especially soft touch due to the pregnancy hormones -- at a Trainwreck reading in Portland, I spent the entire day crying because I’d lost touch with a college friend who moved to Portland -- so I decided I would keep my magic baby to myself. Every day I spent growing Lulu, I’d actually be thinking about Lulu, and not about what some toxic sinkhole of a human being said about Lulu on Twitter. They wouldn’t be able to insult her, or threaten her, because they wouldn’t know she existed.

It worked for nine months. But I couldn’t go through life with a secret child. I mean, I seriously considered it. But what was I going to do, teach her to flee from the sight of iPhones? Lock her in the attic like the first Mrs. Rochester? I had to let people know about her eventually. I had to let the world in, for better or for worse.

The first e-mail telling me Lulu would be mentally disabled and ugly and that she should be taken away from me by Child Services came within 48 hours of the birth announcement.

I have to let the world in. But I have to raise her in a world that has evil in it, and I’m still trying to find some way to accept that.

In the days leading up to Lulu’s birth, I started letting myself tune out bad news. I didn’t want to know anything about Trumpcare, for example. Nothing about NICU babies or pregnancy as a pre-existing condition or lifetime caps that made babies lose their coverage before they were a week old, nothing about what could or might or would go wrong. The murder of Charleena Lyles shot across my social feed. I picked up the key words -- pregnant, mother, mentally ill -- and put the story to the side, telling myself it would be all right to read it when every word in that constellation wasn’t viscerally terrifying.

The urge was at least partly white fragility -- I am not Charleena Lyles, I do not face the same injustices or dangers Charleena Lyles did, it is undeniably selfish of me to process Lyles’ story in terms of its impact on me -- but the pain and fear were real. Whatever challenges I face with my mental health, or with sexism, I also have substantial privilege. Women who get sick without the safety net of whiteness don’t end up with platforms to combat stigma or fight back against misrepresentations of their health. They don’t wind up like me. They wind up, an awful lot of the time, like Charleena Lyles.

And Lulu will not have white privilege. I mean: She won’t be a black woman in America, either. Neither of us can appropriate Lyles’ story. But Lulu, unlike me, will face racism. When she meets her first bully, when she comes home from school crying for the first time, I don’t know what she’ll be crying about; I don’t know whether it’ll be something I’ve experienced and can talk her through, or some form of cruelty that is new to me. Or, worse, whether it will be something I’m implicated in as a white woman -- something I do, or have done, without realizing it. Something I can’t even try to fix without making the situation worse.

This train of thought is not exactly linear. But in the days leading up to Lulu’s birth, when I was getting hit with huge surges of hormones every few hours, I wasn’t thinking in linear terms. I felt half human at best. I kept remembering the pregnant barn cats I used to see out on my cousins’ farm, frantic and raw and instinctively, protectively vicious; I remembered them pacing, hissing any time one of us got too close, shredding cardboard, hiding under the porch, and I wanted to do any or all of those things, all the time. Any piece of bad news would spiral out of its proper context and into the terror of Something Happening To The Baby, get swallowed up by that weird animal frenzy of impending labor. And I just couldn’t handle it, hearing about the horrible things the world does to its girls. I couldn’t stomach the thought of sending my baby out there, with a mind at least partly like mine, and none of the safeguards I took for granted.

Yet I can’t tune it out forever. It’s my job to keep track of terrible things being done to women -- a job I’m working my way back up to now, even as I find that my beat increasingly looks like a list of horrible things that could happen to my daughter: ‘90s celebrity found running sex cult for underage girls. President Trump. Newspapers leak nude photos of actress to punish her for taking a traditionally male role. President Trump. Man with several dozen rape allegations not convicted at his rape trial. Beloved progressive journalist repeatedly tried to force female coworkers to give him oral sex because “it’s funny.” President Trump.

President Trump.

The horror is less the violence itself than how the world keeps rolling on regardless. If we really felt what the world is doing to its girls, we would be in the streets, howling at the sky. We couldn’t parse a single one of these headlines as anything other than an atrocity. But we live in this world, where most of these incidents don’t even alter the course of conversation. We live in a world with evil in it, and most of us are used to it by now.

So I spend a lot of time thinking about him, that first bully. Or her. Whoever the first person to make my daughter cry will be. I spend a lot of time worrying about how I can be ready for the attack -- how I can anticipate all the angles, unlearn all my blind spots, have a good defense ready, without being some clueless overcompensating white mom. It’s what I do, instead of howling at the sky. I get ready.

Because every little girl gets bullied, sooner or later. Every little girl is a light the world tries to put out; to make smaller, meeker, quieter, less alive, less assured. What matters is who you come home to. Whether they find a way to protect the light in you or just quietly let you know that it would be a lot less trouble, for you and everyone else, if you let yourself go dark.

There’s another level to all this. I didn’t come into the world under ideal circumstances. I’ve talked about it and written about it; I honestly thought that I was over it. Then I got pregnant, and it all came back to life.

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand my father’s violence, but I know it started when I was born. He didn’t like having children. He didn’t like how it took my mother’s focus off him; “he wanted,” my mother says, “to be the baby of the family.” I can’t imagine that the actual work of a child -- the diapers, the crying, the feeding, the constant need to keep hands or eyes on them; having to re-train your reflexes so that you can force yourself to get out of bed instead of grabbing five more minutes of sleep, having to keep your voice and your gestures calm and sweet when they’ve been fussing for hours and you want to jump out a window -- made things easier. It was just a big dose of adulthood, all at once, and he couldn’t take it. So while my mother cared for their newborn daughter, my father got into bed for a few months, didn’t get up except to grab himself more beer when he needed it, and then, when he felt properly rejuvenated, expended all that newfound energy on doing a bunch of cocaine and beating up my mother. He got better. She got pregnant again. He got worse. We had to leave the house before he killed us.

So that’s it, my origin story -- one that has probably been told, at this point, only slightly less often than Spider-Man’s. I came into this world having to fend off the temper tantrums of a self-absorbed, abusively entitled baby-man, and thirty-five years later, I have not run out of baby-men yet. It has occurred to me, more than once, that I started dealing with men’s bullshit the day I was born, and that I will probably be dealing with it on the day I die. I’ll be in the nursing home, stroking out, hearing some male nurse scream about what a bitch I am for not listening to his podcast. It is my calling.

But you can’t fight fate. You can only make them sorry they didn’t manage to kill you the first time around. Which, for the most part, is what I do. Or did, until I was pregnant. At which point, everything scared me. I was scared that my husband would leave, hate me, hate the baby, lose his mind. Or that I’d get drunk once the baby was born, drop her, forget her, sleep through her crying. Or we would have to leave, the baby and I, we’d have to live with my mother -- that’s what we had to do, when my mother left my father; we lived with her parents -- and there would be no money, just like there was no money back then, it would never stop, we would never have enough, we would always be in the act of losing everything, running in the night and in fear to a cold, strange place where we were poor.

They say one of the strangest things about trauma is how it creates an eternal present. The traumatic event never gets entirely integrated into the narrative of your life, never becomes something that happened. Instead it gets stuck in the present tense; the traumatic event is always still happening, somewhere in your brain. You just have to avoid that part of your brain. I didn’t fully understand this, until I was walking around with my conscious mind in 21st-century Brooklyn and the rest of me stuck in Mississippi in 1985.

We live in a world with evil in it. A world where people hurt each other for no reason and to no great end, where people hurt the most harmless people they can find, or the people they’ve sworn to love and protect; a world where men hurt women for power, for attention, for control, for assurance that they are the most important person in the room. I know that; I’ve always known it. It was probably the first thing I ever saw.

The challenge, for me, is not believing in the existence of evil. It’s believing in anything else. It’s letting myself think that my trauma ends with me. That my daughter will be allowed to have a different story.

Which brings us, I suppose, to the past few weeks.

The actual particulars of the latest Chapo pile-on are pretty banal. One of the hosts went off on some ridiculous supervillain monologue about how, in order for the Democratic primary rifts to heal, all Democrats must kneel, KNEEL BEFORE CHAPO; the supervillain monologue was quoted in a magazine article, the magazine article was screencapped in a Tweet, and the Tweet then floated through my social-media feed, at which point I made a blowjob joke, because men really shouldn’t yell into microphones about how badly they want people to get on their knees if they’re not prepared for someone to make the association.

Anyway, they took it about as well as fearless free-speech warriors usually take any mild joke at their expense; thus, I’ve spent the past few weeks hearing about how I am a wicked identitarian feminazi who makes False Rape Allegations, and also a rape apologist who makes Rape Jokes, and also, of course, fielding hilarious jokes and/or serious suggestions to the effect that I, myself, ought to be raped and/or murdered for my lack of proper reverence to their podcast.

I stand by my joke, for what it’s worth; it didn’t posit rape as fun or trivial, it didn’t posit being a rape victim as shameful, it wasn’t even necessarily about rape so much as it was about some dude being unattractive. It did, admittedly and intentionally, posit “being a dude who demands other people get on their knees for you” as shameful, which it is, which is why the Chapos were upset. But, more importantly, I doubt it’s worthwhile to debate the finer points of tasteful and appropriate humor with folks who not only explicitly defend their friends’ rape jokes, but have mocked actual rape survivors for talking about their rapes online.

I mean: Everyone knows Chapo turns people’s lives upside-down for criticizing them, and at this point, everyone knows what the victims usually look like, too. Parker Molloy gets told that she should have her skull crushed by a Nazi. Alana Massey gets called a geriatric bipolar stripper. Arthur Chu gets doxed because people find his divorce funny. I get accused of making False Rape Allegations. (I’m a survivor, by the way. Life is not kind, and the story that started with my father didn’t stop with him.) Everyone who pays attention to Chapo knows this; the only real question is whether they think it’s a bad thing. Because it’s pretty impossible to keep insisting that it’s an accident or a coincidence, when it’s happened this many times.

So the point is not what I said; the point is not even, really, what they said in response. The point was forcing me to deal with them once again. Anyone who obsessively scans and screencaps my feed like the Chapo crowd does would have known that I’d just given birth. They probably would have known that I’d had a complicated labor that required some pretty major surgery, that I was still in a lot of pain, that I was sleep-deprived, and -- given their obsessive focus on my mental health history -- that I was at relatively high risk for post-partum depression. “the craziest shit is she literally had a baby last week,” one of them posted in a forum during the pile-on. The others then began digging for nasty things to say about the baby. The most common line, so far, is that I don’t love her. Lulu is “the baby [Sady] openly resents for having caused her physical pain with its birth.” Another gentleman concludes that “[Sady] may not actually hate her baby, but she sure as shit wrote a lot of words” denying it. After I posted an old death threat aimed at my potential future children, one dude chimed in to say that he’d combed all the articles I wrote, and had found one article in 2010 that made it seem like I didn’t want children; “if you think the person who wrote that piece liked kids and wanted one, you're deluded,” he chided my followers.

So that’s what it’ll be. It’s an entirely logical sequel to Castrating Shrew Sady and her Submissive, Henpecked Asian Husband -- Selfish Career Woman Sady and her Neglected, Resented Baby. (Or the more virulent version of the same story, Devouring Monster Sady and her Abused Baby That Someone Should Take Away From Her, who shows up in my e-mail from time to time.) Both are stories about how I’m not woman enough to love somebody; both, just under the surface, are stories about how love for women means being dominated, about how women who refuse to be subjugated or erased by their family responsibilities are refusing their proper place in the world, and passing up their only chance at happiness. The tropes being deployed are classically sexist, like something you’d see in a shitty alarmist magazine piece from 1980 or 1960 about “working women” -- something you’d see, to be quite honest, on Breitbart today. But they’re also describing me, a real person, and my relationship with the baby I longed to protect so much that I refused to speak her name, lest the wrong person repeat it.

It’s evil. What makes it more evil, somehow, is that it is so, so pointless -- it’s not police racism, it’s not the rise of fascism, it’s not my father beating his pregnant wife. It’s just small, useless, playground-bully evil, trying to convince the world that a mother doesn’t love her children because she made fun of your favorite podcast. Frankly, it’s the same stupid, petty, pointless bullying many of us heard in that “bend the knee” monologue -- the assumption that you should run the show, that everyone should do as you tell them, and that if they don’t, you are entitled to do or say absolutely anything you can think of, in order to shut them down or intimidate them into compliance.

It’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s silly to even get upset by it; for the most part, it’s background noise, wasps swarming in a pale ugly nest in your backyard. You walk around the nest. You put it out of mind. You hope not to get stung. It’s been going on so long that I more or less take it for granted. But it matters right now, just as a reminder of what I’ve been dreading: No matter what, the world will always have bullies. And despite what we tell our children, those bullies don’t necessarily go away or get better once they’re all grown up.

Lulu knows nothing about the evil in this world. She knows very little. She gets the boob, and she gets a nap, and she gets to wake up when it’s time for the boob again; she likes it best when the cycle is continuous, where she can just fall asleep on my chest while she’s eating and let me know she’s woken up by opening her mouth again. So we do that for most of the morning, me holding her curled up on a little breastfeeding pillow and reading from an iPad I’ve propped up on the arm of the chair. I’m trying to learn to type with one hand, so I can take advantage of the down time. I’m okay at it. Not great. Let this post bear witness to my progress on that front.

She also spends more and more time awake without being hungry, these days. So we read to her -- you have to read to them from the time they’re newborns, it creates a positive association with books; so far, she’s read Everywhere Babies and Green Eggs and Ham and some back issues of n+1 her father meant to get through before she was born -- and we do Tummy Time on a little orange mat we inherited from our friends. There’s a bunny-shaped rattle attached to the end of the mat, to give her something to work for as she learns to crawl, so I sit there and watch her push her little legs around, and Mr. Bunny dances and delivers his various encouraging monologues about how Baby is made of desserts. (”Mommy had a raspberry ice cream, and a rose-flavored ice cream, and a macaron, and another macaron. And the doctor said, stop! You have to make that baby out of healthy foods! And then Mommy had fifty almond croissants. Lulu is a sweet little almond croissant baby...”) She’s very strong for a baby her age, apparently. She flipped herself over on her first try. Which they shouldn’t be able to do for a few months, so we have to check on her in her crib periodically to make sure she hasn’t done it in her sleep.

The thing about babies flipping themselves over is that they can get stuck that way, like a turtle. They can flip from back to belly and forget how to reverse it, choke to death on their own bedsheets. There are just so, so many things to be afraid of, with a baby. Loving someone this much, when they’re this helpless, is just one long exercise in fear.

I don’t know who will make her cry for the first time. Some bully at school, someone on whatever terrifying version of social media her generation winds up using, or one of us -- her father or I, losing patience, saying something she won’t forget. So I sit over my baby and applaud her as she works her arms and legs. So strong, so strong, mommy has such a strong girl, I say, in my happiest voice. And I don’t say the other thing. That she may actually be too strong; that being this strong might kill her. She’ll figure that out on her own time. Girls always do.

And I look at the news. All the terror, all the bullies, all the men harming women to convince themselves they’re the most important guy in the room. It happened the day I was born, it will be happening on the day I die. I left my father. But somehow, as I’m sure any decent therapist would tell me, I chose a career and a way of life that guaranteed I would always be screamed at by some emotionally catastrophic man-baby who behaved just like my father. I left him without leaving him. As long as these guys are calling me an ugly castrating bitch with a fucked-up nose whom no-one could ever love, the experience of living with my Dad is still very much ongoing.

It got to be the worst it’s ever been, right before I had this little girl. In the Hero’s Journey, Joseph Campbell says, the midpoint of the story is always the most dangerous moment. The hero has been called into another world, tasked with finding something so wonderful it passes comprehension -- something that could change the world, or save it. But he must earn it. He must undergo a form of suffering precisely as terrible as his reward is wonderful. So, at the very midpoint of the story, his worst fear, or his oldest enemy, rises up and nearly kills him. Sometimes, it actually does kill him, and he has to find a way to resurrect himself in order to proceed. He has to pass this test, walk through the underworld unarmed, before he can get his reward and go home.

So that’s what I do. I sit here, looking out at the world, the evil in it; podcast hosts and Presidents and whoever will use the information here to send me some horrifically personal string of insults through my Squarespace page. I look into the eyes of my hundred-headed father; my original death, which I escaped without escaping. And I say the only three words that matter.

You missed, asshole.

Because he did. Because they always do. Because I’m still here, and I will be here until their aim gets better, and I do not plan to shut up or become more convenient or submissive until that day. For now, it’s enough to meet the demon on the threshold and keep walking. And so I take my reward, my magic baby, who will grow up with a whole new story about how the world treats girls, and she and I go home.

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xnxxhdporno · 4 years ago

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