October is a very important time of year, but mostly for haunted house pictures.
Amy Angelwings, The specter of “rape as punishment” behind the rape apologia around Steubenville (via seebster)
"What would be the consequences of her drinking too much as a girl without the rapists? How could you threaten women to behave in our society if there isn’t a threat of rape?" … i just keep reading these two lines over and over. there are things you think understand, but then the weight of it can just hit you when the wording is just right.
All the business majors at my undergrad uni had to sign up for a list serv, where most of the announcements for the college were sent. Some of the things that got sent out were job opportunities. Since I still need to get my diploma, I occasionally check my school e-mail. Today, I was not disappointed.
Help wanted. Access to otherworldly portals preferred. Will train. Please respond. There’s so much blood.
ladymcsass got me a late birthday gift and look how cute it is!!
While Anne Frank may be the face of the Holocaust of European Jewry, the memory of the experiential reality of the Holocaust is male. The way we conceptualize and remember the concentration camp experience is constructed by male narratives. More Jewish men survived the Holocaust than Jewish women. Due to attitudes towards education in the interwar period, more male Jewish survivors had the education and literary capital needed to craft enduring narratives of their experiences than did female Jewish survivors. There are three foundational male Holocaust survival narratives: Night by Elie Wiesel, Survival in Auschwitz by Primo Levi, and Maus by Art Spiegelman about his father’s Holocaust experience. Never have I seen those three men and their narratives used as a joke, or a meme, or a cheap narrative device, or as self-promotion by an American pop star.
These men are revered, and their narratives taken extremely seriously. And none of them, none of them have been used in a prop in a story about terminally ill gentile American teenagers. They survived, in perhaps the type of heroic arc a John Green protagonist would yearn for. Yet Augustus doesn’t look to them. He doesn’t share a kiss with his girlfriend at Auschwitz. He shared a kiss with her in the Anne Frank House.
Anne Frank is not a prop. She is not a symbol, she is not a teenager who happened to die of an illness, and she is not one of the canonical Jewish male survivors. She is one of many millions of Jewish women and girls who were industrially murdered like livestock, incinerated, and left in an unmarked grave.
Publicity done right in an anti-rape campaign: double-page spread, pages glued to one another. After the reader forcefully separates them, the image above is revealed with the caption “if you have to use force, it’s rape”.
THIS IS BRILLIANT
I WANT THIS IN EVERY MAGAZINE
ugh fuck no can someone link me to the really good commentary about why this advert is terrible
I know I’ve read it before, but what bothers me about it is that it puts the emphasis on force as the definition of rape, when coercion and incapacitation are just as common and just as harmful to women.
It’s also gross because I never would have realized it was an anti-rape campaign unless it were for that tiny bit of text at the bottom. This is more reminiscent of a porn mag centerfold than an awareness ad. Perhaps some companies and organizations would like to invest in anti-rape campaigns that do not use porn imagery or can they not resist the urge to depict nude, vulnerable women?
I think the two worst (and most vividly remembered) memories of me as a child were:
The worst possible thing about child abuse, especially as the physical abuse tapers off when you get older (always because now you’re bigger, stronger, because it’s stopped working and not because it’s wrong) and all you’re left is emotional abuse and memories that continue to get fuzzier and fuzzier. Sometimes there are things that bring you back to those moments. When I asked my mom to show some semblance of pride in me when I got into a graduate writing program on my own skill alone (my Accounting degree sure didn’t help), she replied “well, they must have seen something I didn’t” and I felt like that stupid ten year old with a stinging cheek and sore nose because the smack knocked my glasses off and there’s really no point in picking them back up if they’re going to get knocked off again.
There was a video going around not too long ago, about a young man who came out to his parents and their violent reaction. I only saw snippets of the video. It was likely taken from his cell phone, held close to himself. The sound of shouting, so close, and the distinct sounds of hitting made me sick. My skin felt like it was rubbed raw and I closed the window and took a few breaths. No vivid flashbacks came. Just that feeling of stepping into the house after school and instantly feeling it in the air that someone’s gonna get it, what did I do?
It’s doubly hard to finally take these memories head on because, it’s been part of your life for so long, what exactly is wrong and right? Is it normal to dread a slap not because it’s a slap, but because your mom wears a lot of rings on that hand and sometimes it hurts a bit more? Is it normal to always have your interactions dripping with contempt? How many of those ‘normal’ memories got swept away by this?
At the end of the day, I’m glad for the encroaching fuzz. Less like I’m reliving it and more like I’m opening up a book at a random chapter. Like I’m not even sure I actually lived that and I can make it go away by just putting the book down. There’s rarely ever any satisfying closure for situations like this. But you manage.