erikadprice

Also: I missed that silly post blowing up last night because I was hanging out in reality land with kategclef! 
(who needs to just eschew all practical considerations and move to Chicago permanently I’m pretty sure)

Also: I missed that silly post blowing up last night because I was hanging out in reality land with kategclef

(who needs to just eschew all practical considerations and move to Chicago permanently I’m pretty sure)

For what it's worth, I agree with you. That said? I think that most people only get an anon-hate level introduction to feminism these days. From FB posts to tumblrites, there's a highly enthusiastic youth whose first response is to drop bombs - and not the knowledge kind. I've run into it in my personal life, too. It's... exhausting, to say the least. I think we need to own that spite to fix it.

 I don’t agree with tone policing. More often then not it results in (or was intended to create) derailment from the actual issue at play. I think if a person feels passionately and is frustrated because of ignorance and malice, they have every right to be vitriolic and outspoken, and the people who feel uncomfortable reading that are the ones with the problem.

But I do think we should be easier on young girls who say they aren’t feminists — because they’re victims of the same fucked up shit that we are, including the low-grade cultural brainwashing that results in fear of being a feminist. And the belief that feminists are loud-mouthed cunty crazies. 

I don’t know. I’ve never received “feminist anon hate”, and basically 0% of feminist posts I’ve ever seen have struck me as over-the-top, hostile, or offensive. So I may just be unable to empathize with you on that point since I do not experience discourse on tumblr as being like that. 

To what are you specifically referring in your post about 20-somethings calling themselves old? I assume that even in a "general" matter, you had something in mind at the time. Understood if you can't remember, I suppose.

Anonymous

I’m not gonna shit-talk a particular insecure Millenial here. I hear it all the time, mostly from women my age. 

Why are you a dyke?

Anonymous

precisely because of you

Actually Shailene Woodley's perception and opinion of Feminism is not defined by a fear of men. It is defined rightly by the sort of feminism spewed across platforms like tumblr– the ugly kind. A population will define a movement by its loudest, most vicious voice. So yes, don't Shailene Woodley, and to all of the people who are, YOU are the reason Shailene Woodley is turning her back on the movement whose name you've soiled.

Anonymous

You really think poor kids on Tumblr are the loudest voice Shailene fucking Woodley hears on the subject of feminism? She’s been a celeb since The Secret Life of the American Teenager. I think she’s been basted in a much louder and more prominent culture than Tumblr. If she was critical of extreme “misandrous” feminism should would have fucking known what the definition of feminism was to start with. 

Have you seen marinashutup's video "An Open Letter to Shailene Woodley"? It does a really good job of putting Shailene's comments in a larger cultural context.

Anonymous

No, but I’ll check it out! As much as I hate XO Jane, their writer Emily also had a great post on the matter. 

Let’s see what we got here…

Hey new followers! Wow, that Shailene Woodley post got some action!

About me: I’m a social psychologist and writer. I post a lot on here: fiction, essays about pop culture, politics, and psychology, posts about writing, short memoir pieces, and even a weird sci-fi video series

Welcome! Hit me up if you have any questions. I’ll be answering the ones I got last night right now. 

therumpus.net

Sari Botton Interviews Samantha Irby.

  • Irby:My dad’s lawyer brings her dog to the animal hospital where I worked, and I was in Chicago magazine, which is like the type of magazine your Jewish lawyer orders for her office. My dad used to drive her to the airport, and he’d have me in the car with him. He was like her chauffeur. And one day she was like, “I checked out your blog, and oh, the language, and oh, whatever,” and you could tell that she was waiting for me to apologize. So I just didn’t say anything, and then we had an awkward silence, and I was like, “What do you want me to say? Sorry? Or I’m ashamed? Tell me what you want, ’cause I don’t have the deference thing because there’s no parents around to shame me, so I get to look you in the eye as an adult and ask you what it is you’re trying to do to me. How are you trying to make me feel?”
  • Rumpus:Wow, what did she say?
  • Irby:She didn’t say anything. She just stood there and was just like, “Well, it was shocking to me.” And I was like, “Okay, but what am I supposed to do with that? Do you want me to tell you I’m sorry? I’m not sorry. I’m sorry you read it. If you can’t be supportive, I’m sorry you read it.” I don’t want anybody to put their shit on me.
erikadprice

karenfelloutofbedagain:

Young Women Who Say They Aren’t Feminists: Leave Them Alone

erikadprice:

I actually don’t think we should shit on young women like Shailene Woodley for saying they aren’t feminists.

Like

It’s not her fault that she’s be taught the ‘wrong’ definition of that word. It’s not her fault that she thinks it’s socially dangerous to call herself a…

Damn straight.

I have been that girl. Some of you even followed me then. Some of you have been that girl. We internalize some fucked up shit. And that’s what we’re supposed to be fighting, not the people who are victims of it.

Chapter 15: The Gift

It starts with a dull pain in the back of my neck. It’s easy to ignore, or will myself to ignore; I just have to stop tilting my head. But it gets worse over the hours, creeping and spreading into my shoulders and working up my spine. Then my temples begin to throb, too. And the pain in my neck wraps around somehow and gives me a pain in my throat. It stings to swallow.

Then the aches start popping up everywhere. My knees and hip flexors ache in particular, and every joint is crying for a crack. I can’t stand right, it’s too tiring — and then the fever comes. I get so chilly I can’t speak properly, I have to go lie down and huddle under mounds and mounds of clothes. And then I wake up, sweating, throwing off my coverings, and I sweat where ever skin touches skin all through the night. If I am lucky I sleep fitfully through it all. Else I start at the black brown of my eyelid’s insides and think for five, six hours, hoping by then I will have the physical energy to get up.

That’s what a spell is like. It takes me days of rest to get better. But rarely do I get days upon days to rest. In this way, at least, our present locale is a blessing. Plus Chert has given me an ink pen and several sheets to write on, torn out of an old book. The Captain’s library is small, but he misses nothing from it.

I regret fighting the Captain immediately after it’s done. It wasn’t worth the days of ache, of not sleeping but being too ill to be fully awake. My body is furious with me and I can do nothing to soothe it. Plus I owe him this gigantic favor. I’m not wealth, I have no land, no official royal title. All I can do is get things done. And people know that, so they always ask me.

I spend days below deck in my low-hanging hammock, watching the sailors come and go. I have thrown back the curtain, and they dress and undress before me as if I wasn’t there. Years of climbing ropes and moving sails has made their bodies bulky but lean. Not like knights, who are massive and heavy, or mercenaries, who are petite. They are all of them covered in prickly looking hair and smears of oil and dirt. Their feet smell worst of all. They stride the decks with dicks and breasts and bushes of fur swinging in the close air. Few of them pay me any mind.

A broad shouldered sailor crosses the sleeping room in the nude with a washing cloth hanging in a meaty, callused hand. She stands at the stairs and squints at a place on the wall a few inches from my face.

"You’re the one Beech gave a licking, huh?" She asks.

I have another tiny sliver of ice in a bit of tissue. I roll over and hide it under my dull-aching neck. “Yeah that’s me.”

She is picking at her teeth. “Never liked him. I’m sure he got a right lot of pleasure outta whaling on you.”

"I asked for it."

"I don’t care how much of a bint you were," she says, tonguing her teeth, "it’s not hospitable. Especially to batter a body in your condition…When I first heard, I thought it was the boy in the chair Birch went and pummeled."

"I’m sure he wouldn’t do that."

She goes silent a moment and opens her mouth wide. Her tongue draws back inside her lips and she starts to chew, having finally dislodged the offending detritus. “You’re getting the bastard his medicine?”

I sit up, careful to prop and protect my neck while still hiding the bit of ice. “I get things done, ‘s my job.”

The woman bends down below another hammock and roots around in the clothes and effects. A satchel flies through the air and strikes me in the thighs. It is full of stones we do not mine in our realm: rubies, sapphires, amethysts. I stare up at her but still she keeps her attention on the wall.

"Guy works on this ship that comes from Magma Island. A trader or something, he collects all this stuff. It’s useless at sea level but..,"

I say, “I’m sure it’s worth a lot to dissenters.”

People who don’t respect the crown’s ban on the sale of goods must rely on some form of currency, after all. Silver and jade belong to the realm, and are used for bartering with other nations. But foreign stones are hard coming. To the rebels who sell, they don’t just represent value; they represent the right to ownership. The dissenters believe they should own and sell whatever they like.

I’ve never even seen real rubies before. The darkness of the sleeping deck fails to do them justice. The stones are cool on my fingers, imperfectly polished. But they do feel precious. Even if they’re stolen, I’m tempted to stuff them away for my own. Whenever else will I get the chance?

"What’s your name?" I ask her.

“‘Meba,” she tells me. “I was born on a ship, in a bucket of fetid green water. Lucky they didn’t name me Kelp.” She pats the hammock. “You’ll do well to keep those stones a secret, girly. Guy owes me a pretty fortune on all the games he’s lost. That wealth is as good as mine, and I decided to do with it what I pleased.”

"Okay," I tell her. "Okay."

"Don’t give all of it away, buying that pig blood shit for the Captain. Get yourself something nice…I hate to see a little kid working so hard and not reaping anything from it."

She grips her breasts before running up the steps to the washing room. I croak out a weary thanks, but of course she does not hear. The people who give real gifts do not care for the thanks. They just unload their treasures as if they are a burden and you’re doing them a favor by accepting. I’m no kid, not even close, but I don’t let her comments bother me.

Sleep comes and goes in waves of warmth and cold. Once I finally settle into a comfortable rest, a few sailors get to leg wrestling beside my bed. I wake up to the scraping of boots on wood and arms and thighs splaying inches from my face. I roll over into the cool wet spot on the sheet and think of campfire in the woods, roasted squirrel meat, stars blocked with lacy foliage.

The fighting abates when there comes a slow and steady crack on the stairs. One stair by one I can hear the chair clattering and the wood adjusting to the weight of them. Finally Chert and Ruby reach the bottom and the group of sailors parts entirely. They do not like Chert. How he talks every idea to its absolute end, how he somehow knows more about things they have seen with their own eyes dozens of times.

Ruby takes a knee and adjusts her brother’s wheels. The seat is rickety too. A little metal tool comes out of her blouse and she twists the screws tight. He is paging through King Feldspar’s diary again. He rolls himself to me; though Chert’s arms are small and not very strong, he can cover a short distance on his own this way.

"The doctor’s name is Mangal," he tells me. There is a peach in his lap and my sick stomach kicks at me to take it.

I sit up till the hammock above is covering my head. “Doctor?”

"The guy Beech was talking about, the swamp farmer with the medicine from pigs. It turns out he’s a doctor, or a male nursemaid maybe, but anyway he worked for the crown."

Chert finds the proper place in the long-dead King’s diary. “We called in five new recruits today for tending to my Breccia, who has gotten much big with child. Her blood has become sweet, which I am told oft happens to filled bodies close to labor. Our kind doctor Fern has brought with him a young expert in Sweet Blood, a near child the name of Mangal. From the swamps. I hope he can treat what ails my wife and infant heirs.”

My companion flips ahead. “Mangal has eased my wife’s illness by demands a purse of a sizeable amount, or else a promotion to head doctor of the crown. I cannot in good conscience do this to Fern.”

"Fern delivered the Twin Kings," I tell him. "No one named Mangal was there—"

"I know, I read that, just listen…," Chert flips ahead some more. "Upon nurse Willow’s instruction, I am rewarding Mangal with a small fortune and sending him back where he came from. The swamps are a good land. I am a man of the swamps myself, of course. He can live very well there on this sum, and forever."

He shuts the book and hands it to Ruby. It turns out there are two peaches in his lap, purple and red-orange and soft looking. The juice would trickle all down my face and throat and I’d look a filthy child, but I would not care.

"This Mangal is a real prick," Chert whispers, rolling in closer. "It’s just him and a buncha pigs out there, living off his windfall."

"He must be very old. That might be it."

"He doesn’t believe in the crown. We ought to keep your mission secret when we’re around him."

I nod. But Chert isn’t done.

"And we’ll need some way to pay him off, and I’m guessing Lady Mica’s poetry won’t cut it."

I a little smile and say, “He’s trying to sell necessaries. I should cut his throat.”

Ruby stiffens.

"The world needs him to produce those goods, of course," says Chert, "so I know, of course you’re joking. Some expertise is worth a pretty fortune, you know."

"Oh, like the expertise to run a mine?"

He crosses his small arms. “They seem to be doing just fine without us.”

"When this Mangal dies, no one will make the medicine. If he were a ward of the realm he’d have legions of helpers making many more units, all trained in production techniques. His invention would go on. But since he cares more about the money, or, I don’t know, the immediate glory of it — the world gets nothing after he’s gone. Poof. It’ll be like his invention never happened. All for his greed."

I don’t expect Chert to come around. Once, his family was vital to the realm because it possessed secret control, secret knowledge. Now his chair is rickety and his sister’s gowns are torn. I could tell him of the richest I now have, but I won’t; I don’t want to pay the doctor off, first of all. But also I feel intensely that Chert should not know about the rubies and sapphires. I can’t say he’s a traitor exactly, but he has the moral entitlement of one.

As if on command, Ruby rises and places her brother into his hammock. She wipes off the seat of the chair and folds up his blankets. The ropes above me sag with his limited weight. Ruby just sits a while in her hammock, sighing.

"I’m not going to kill the Doctor," I say, exasperated. "I’m telling the King, that’s all."

Chert takes a pause. “As is your right to do. And a service to the realm, of course.”

A hole in the ropes bulges for a moment, then a peach drops down onto my chest. It’s still cold from being on ice.

"You shoulda never fought the Captain," Chert mumbles.

"He asked for it," I say.

Since he doesn’t ask, I don’t tell Chert that the Captain was calling all of us invalids and soft-heads. That’d wipe the superiority clean from his face. Maybe even he would thank me. Instead he gets to sleep with a smug look resting on his face. That’s fine.

————

Click here to read The Side Quest from the beginning.