the rambling woman

definitely indecisive

keepfeminismindisney:

Sports pundits are still be trying to make yesterday’s Super Bowl all about the actual game (and yes, that 108-yard touchdown was pretty impressive), but let’s be honest with ourselves—the real winner of the game was Beyoncé’s halftime performance. And not just because she didn’t lip sync or because of the holograms, but because of the fact that for the first time in recent memory, women of color were the main focus of the show. Women who could dance. Women who could sing. Women who could play instruments with sparks shooting out of them. 

And yet, still, predictably and sadly, there are people (many of them women) who want to make the show about the fact that Queen Bey wasn’t wearing saggy denims and an ill-fitting University of Somewhere sweatshirt. Instead, she wore a dominatrix-esque boydsuit that got rapidly smaller as the performance progressed. In a thread on the Binders Full Of Women Facebook community, the slut-shaming began with a speed that could make Oreo’s head spin.

It was a strip-tease! Why do women always have to be taking off their clothes! This does nothing to advance the position of women because there was too much skin visible!

Really? Didn’t we just have this conversation like a week ago when she was on the cover of GQ?

Sure, there were some problems with the performance—like, as Slate points out, how very little airtime bandmates Kelly and Michelle got, during which they sang a song that wasn’t even by Destiny’s Child—but the outfits? The outfits weren’t one of the problems. 

Just like the outfit that Beyoncé wore on the cover of GQ wasn’t a problem because, in the interview, she actually had some pretty great stuff to say that advanced the ideas that women can be powerful. To quote Feministing’s excellent piece on the Great Panties Debacle of 2013, “feminism is totally cool with Beyonce posing in her underwear.” 

Because, dear readers, that is part of being a lady in America. We have the choice to show off our thighs or keep them covered. We have the option to be sexy or to not be. And I’m going to be honest: If I were Beyoncé, I would never wear pants, ever. Because have you seen how strong and muscular and amazing her legs are? 

Instead of going immediately to extremely tired lamentations of leather and exposed skin, let’s try to focus on the fact that yesterday, the world witnessed a captivating all-female performance during what is typically a brief intermission during an all-male sporting event.

emphasis mine.

(Source: lipsredasroses)

amaditalks:

As I watched Beyoncé last night, a confident, non-waify, black woman, owning her magnificence, owning her body, owning her talent and skill, owning her sensuality, owning her sexuality, unabashed, unapologetic and unashamed and unafraid I knew.

I knew that within hours, complaints about her…

It’s interesting - I LOVED her performance, but then I saw a post on FB from a Middle Eastern girl BASHING her. “I almost threw my lungs up”.. and every of her friends started defending that it was “disgusting” when I was trying to tell them to STFU. What the mother effing fuck. 

tetw:

with links to 270+ outstanding articles & essays

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Hunter S. Thompson - Electric prose and plenty of bad craziness. Read 20 of Dr. Gonzo’s classic articles here.

Tom Wolfe - A founding father of the New Journalism. Read our selection of 15 pioneering articles here.

Malcolm Gladwell - The New Yorker’s resident mind-reader. A list of our 20 top Gladwell articles is are here.

Susan Orlean - A writer with a rare eye for off-beat subjects and human detail. 20 of our favourite pieces are collected here.

Michael Lewis – Whether he’s tackling sport, finance or life in general, Lewis rarely disappoints. 20 amazing reads here.

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rachelmckibbens:

LETTER FROM MY HEART TO MY BRAIN 
 
Its okay to hang upside-down like a bat,
to swim into the deep end of silence,
to swallow every key so you can’t get out.
It’s okay to hear the ocean calling your fevered name

to say your sorrow is an opera of snakes,
to flirt with sharp and heartless things.
It’s okay to write, I deserve everything,
to bow down to this rotten thing
that understands you, to adore the red
and ugly queen of it, to admire
her calm and steady rowing.

It’s okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet,
to drink all the wine, to do what it takes to stay
without staying. Its okay to hate God today
to change his name to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you.
It’s okay to feel like only a photograph of yourself,
to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down,
it’s okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed.
It’s okay to brick to fuck to flame to church to crush to knife
to rock to rock to rock to rock to rock and rock.

It’s okay to wave good-bye to yourself in the mirror.
To write, I don’t want anything.
It’s okay to despise what you have inherited,
to feel dead in a city of pulses. It’s okay
to be the whale that never comes up for air,
to love best the taste of your own blood. 
 
 
LETTER FROM MY BRAIN TO MY HEART 

This house is dirty, but comfortable.
Behind each crooked door
waits the angry weather of a forgiveless child.
I cannot help but admire this horrible
power of mine, how each small thing
can become a death: the lost house key. A spoiled egg.
A howling dog. There is no prayer or pill for this.
It is a ruthless botany; I might as well
be buried in the yard. I have no one to blame.
Not the mother who sang to an empty cradle.
Not the Dog of Spite who bit my hand,
just this long-legged sorrow
who trails my every joy like a dark perfume.

You have my permission not to love me;
I am a cathedral of deadbolts
and I’d rather burn myself down
than change the locks.


- Rachel McKibbens, 2010

aboutmaleprivilege:

[tw: rape]

viepassionnement:

what if
        all women were bigger and stronger than you
        and thought they were smarter

what if
        women were the ones who started wars

what if
        too many of your friends had been raped
        by women wielding giant dildos
        and no K-Y jelly

what if
        the state trooper
        who pulled you over on the new jersey turnpike
        was a woman
        and carried a gun

what if
        the ability to menstruate
        was the prerequisite of most high-paying jobs

what if
        your attractiveness to women depended
        on the size of your penis

what if
        every time women saw you
        they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands

what if
        women were always making jokes
        about how ugly penises are
        and how bad sperm tastes

what if
        you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
        to big sweaty women with greasy hands
        who stared at your crotch
        in a garage where you are surrounded
        by posters of naked men with hard-ons

what if
        men’s magazines featured cover photos
        of 14-year old boys
        with socks
        tucked into the front of their jeans
        and articles like:
        “how to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
        or
        “what your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
        or
        “the truth about impotence”

what if
        the doctor who examined your prostate
        was a woman
        and called you “honey”

what if
        you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
        as she insisted that sleeping with her
        was part of the job

what if
        you couldn’t get away because
        the company dress code required
        you wear shoes
        designed to keep you from
        running

and what if
        after all that
        women
        still wanted you
        to love them.

—carol diehl, “for the men that still don’t get it”