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.
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.
- Asked for a price-match on a puppy exercise pen
- Bought a rope toy
- Found a vet to contact
- Explored safe toy options (realized I already have a few!)
- Almost decided on a crate
Still to do?
- Food/water bowls
- Nature’s miracle
- Decide on puppy pads vs. fake grass
- Dental kit
- Poopoo bags
- Food and treats! (Closer to when she comes home)
I’ve also found a place that I will most likely spay her (unless this new vet provides a better/cheaper option) (most likely the OSPCA), but I will need to get her microchipped skanyways. EEP. 3 weeks!
I have a new project with some of my best friends from school called,
And it’s fucking baller.
We’ve been building new pages with links to all the best reads to our favourite authors, here are the first 20:
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
all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter
women were the ones who started wars
too many of your friends had been raped
by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y jelly
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the new jersey turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite of most high-paying jobs
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes
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
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year old boys
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“how to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
“what your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
“the truth about impotence”
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “honey”
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from
and what if
after all that
still wanted you
to love them.
—carol diehl, “for the men that still don’t get it”
I would totally put my face 4 inches from her chest and scream, “I’M SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW!” And I’d make a point never to take my eyes off her boobs until she got so uncomfortable and creeped out that she decided to leave, go back home, sit on her bed in the dark, and think about how completely stupid she was to write “STILL NOT ASKING FOR IT” while asking for it.
This woman’s a disgrace.
But she’s not asking for it. This is a human body, nothing more, nothing less. It’s not being sexualized, in fact, she’s covered her nipples too. I’m sorry, h-plus, that you feel that your body and the body of other women should be considered a disgrace. Do you feel uncomfortable when looking at pictures in the doctor’s office of a woman’s naked body? And do you, leftybegone, get uncontrollably horny at the same sight? Control your python (or garden snake), man, you’re not 12. Have some maturity over the matter. If you did that to that woman, leftybegone, you’d just be putting a bad face on us guys, making us seem like sex-crazed, immature horndogs. Maybe you are one, but I’m tired people making that assumption of us as a gender. It’s disgraceful. She wouldn’t think it was stupid of her to do that if you did. You’d just make her movement more powerful.
Rape (noun):the crime of forcing another person to submit to sex acts, especially sexual intercourse.
Men aren’t primal fucking animals. They’re humans that are completely capable of resisting their urges. I bet you (leftybegone) are a kid with some serious hormones since you, obviously, can’t control yourself.
“She was asking for it”. Really? Can you really blame an individual for someone else’s lack of control? The mere fact that a woman is more likely to be assaulted if she wears certain types of clothing does not make it right. She could walk around naked and that still doesn’t excuse rape. The solution to the problem is not for women to “dress less slutty” but for men to realize that a woman’s choice of dress is not an open invitation to sexual assault.
Snap Snap Snap Snap Snap
Snap Snap Snap Snap Snap
but then again, its kind like putting a meat suit on and telling a shark not to eat you
We (men) are not fucking sharks!
We are not rabid animals living off of pure instinct
We are capapble of rational thinking and understanding.
Just because someone is cooking food doesn’t mean you’re entitled to eat it.
Just because a banker is counting money doesn’t mean you’re being given free money.
Just because a person is naked doesn’t mean you’re entitled to fuck them.
You are not entitled to someone else’s body just because it’s exposed.
What is so fucking difficult about this concept?
Reblogging for bolded commentary.
there is some solid gold commentary right here
To the men who get it, where are you and how can I find you, hug you, buy you a cup of coffee and convince you to marry me?
It doesn’t matter if she’s gone out stark naked pissed out of her mind and came on to you, no woman deserves to be raped. If she changes her mind, you stop. If she says no, you stop. If she’s too drunk, you stop. Take the blame away from the victim and blame the assailant. A victim doesn’t have the choice of whether they’re raped, but everyone has the choice to refrain from raping someone.