Triangle Wins

They have a fight. Triangle wins.

52,742 notes




Why can’t there be a male hooter’s equivalent where male servers are shirtless and highly sexualized for their bodies and looks

Male Strip clubs. You’re thinking of male strip clubs.

No. Not a male strip club. A strip club is a strip club. I want a place called Cahones where waiters wear Speedos and are forced to stuff if they don’t fill out their uniform well enough. I want them to giggle for my tips. I want it to be so normalised and engrained in our culture that women bring their daughters there for lunch (because whaaaaaat the wings are good! Geeze sensitive much?) where they’ll give playful little nudges like, “Wouldn’t mind if you dad had those. Heh heh heh.” that their daughters don’t even understand but will absorb and start to assume is just the normal way grown up women talk about grown up men. I want to playfully ask my waiter if I can have extra nuts on my salad and for him to swat my arm with an Oh, you because he knows if he doesn’t his manager will yell at him. I want other men to pretend to like going there so I think they’re cool. I want to go to Cahones during my lunch break at work and when I come back and tell the other women in the office where I went they chuckle slightly and the men around us suddenly feel self conscious and they don’t know why.

(via misandry-mermaid)

22,724 notes

A Handy Guide to What Is and Isn’t Cultural Appropriation


What isn’t cultural appropration:

• Trying/eating/making a culture’s food
• Listening to that culture’s music
• Watching that culture’s movies
• Reading that culture’s books
• Appreciating that culture’s art
• Wearing that culture’s clothing IF in a setting where that culture is prevalent and IF people are okay with it and/or it is necessary to fit in and not stand out weirdly (i.e. If you visit Pakistan, you can wear a shalwar kameez so you don’t stand out as an American tourist. Or if you visit a specific temple or religious setting, you may need to/want to adhere to specific dress forms. Or if you’re invited to a wedding and they allow/invite you to wear their cultural dress to participate in the festivities).
• Using that culture’s dance/physical traditions in specific settings (i.e. taking belly-dancing classes, or going to an Indian wedding and trying to dance with them).

What is cultural appropriation:

• Wearing specific items of clothing that may (and probably do) have deeper meaning as a costume. Like on Halloween.
• Wearing specific items of clothing to be trendy or fashionable.
• Trying to imitate their natural beauty standards and possible makeup/markings (i.e dreadlocks and bindis and mehndi/henna).
• Taking their rituals, old-as-hell traditions, and dances and turning them into cheap, tacky everyday garbage for you to have “fun” with (i.e. smoking sheesha. Y’all turned it into this janky nonsense that looks so trashy and stupid).
• Taking spiritual/religious ideas and traditions and subscribing to them to be trendy or unique
• Trying to act like you’re an expert in their food, music, or art, and that you can do it BETTER than them
• Basically trying to WEAR that culture’s skin, clothing, & beauty traditions as a costume/trend and turn old traditions into cheap garbage

And WHY is this wrong? Because, in our society, white people or non-POC can get away with wearing another culture’s clothes and identities and it will be “cute”, “indie”, “bohemian”, “trendy”, and “exotic.” BUT when a POC who actually belongs to that culture wears their own culture’s clothing, styles of beauty, or does things that are specific to their culture, they’re looked down upon, made fun of, sneered at, told to “Go home, get out of this country, we don’t do that here,” and laughed at. The few times I wore a shalwar kameez in public—and I’m Pakistani—people gave me weird looks, like I had a disease. And yet if a white person (or, heck, even a different POC, because POC don’t have the right to appropriate other cultures either) wears a shalwar kameez, people will call her exotic and cute. Seriously? Do you see a problem? I do. Want some proof? When Selena Gomez and Katy Perry use other cultures as costumes in their music videos and stuff, they were thought to be creative and fun. But when an Indian American woman with brown skin won Miss America, there was a huge racist backlash and people said, “We don’t look like that here, we don’t need a curry muncher here, get out of this country.” So I guess Indian culture is only okay if Selena Gomez is stealing it, right? But not if an actual Indian woman is displaying it? Another example: white people with dreadlocks are seen as “soft grunge” and “hippie”, but black people with dreadlocks are looked down upon and seen as dirty and lazy for having them, even though they know how to take care of their dreadlocks way better. 

Respect the fact that we are different. You don’t need to be culturally BLIND because that is just as ignorant. Trying to ignore cultures means you’re trying to erase peoples’ identities. You can appreciate/like/admire other cultures without trying to steal them, use them, cheapen them, and wear them as costumes. You weren’t born into it, so know your limits. And YES. There will ALWAYS be those people who say, “But my Chinese friends don’t care if ____!” and “I’m Mexican and I don’t care if people ____,” but they do not speak for all people of that culture and just because THEY don’t mind doesn’t mean other people don’t. Plenty of POC get harassed/taunted/degraded/fetishized over their own cultures WHILE people not of that culture are called “free-spirited”, “bohemian”, “quirky” and “trendy” for imitating the SAME culture—so yes, the people who oppose cultural appropriation do it based on actual microaggressions and bigotry they may have faced and it is NOT your job to try and convince then that they don’t have a right to their own culture or that the oppression against them should mean nothing.

Think about this. There are some women okay with sexism. Some POC okay with racist jokes. Some Jewish people don’t care about anti-Semitic jokes. And your friend might be one of these people. But suddenly that makes it okay for you to behave foolishly, immaturely, and ignorantly? 

Wise up. It’s 2014. There is no excuse to be ignorant.

And if you ever need to explain to someone what cultural appropriation is, show them this post (credit me if you post it elsewhere). It’s a good starter and I think it encompasses the basics of what cultural appropriation is and isn’t. 

(via misandry-mermaid)

515 notes

On Street Harassment


One day last fall, I needed to drop off some mail at the mailbox two blocks from home. As I put on my shoes, I noticed the pepper-spray in the catch-all by the door and contemplated bringing it. 

“Oh, ho!” I thought, quite amused. “To walk down the block? In broad daylight? Geez, paranoid much?” I left without it, mentally scolding myself for being so irrational.

That tube of pepper-spray came into my life a few years earlier, back when I was working at a coffee shop a short fifteen minute walk from home. We’d moved to the neighborhood in order to be closer to my practice space where we’d host small, intimate concerts on the weekends. My work, home, and passion were all within a half-mile radius. Commuting, for me, causes a lot of unnecessary stress/anxiety, so to be able to cut that out was magical… Until it wasn’t anymore.

We were having problems at work with a man coming in and being abusive to customers and staff. After his last outrageous outburst, we decided to ban him from the store. When he came in again, I happened to be in charge, so, lucky me! It became my responsibility to tell him. Needless to say, he didn’t take it well. He got in my face, caused a huge scene. My emotionless, almost-bored demeanor (my default reaction for tantrums) only pissed him off further. He made another attempt to intimidate me, but when I grabbed the phone to call the police, he finally left. Until that point, the adrenaline tearing through my system had sustained my dumb courage, but after the man was out the door, I was a shaking mess.

It didn’t end there, of course. On my way home from work, we would occasionally pass each other. He would mutter things under his breath, things he would do to me, just loud enough for me to hear and no one else. I remember being so scared one day that I sought shelter in a mini-mart, asking the guy behind the counter if he sold any knives or pepper-spray. He said, Sorry, he didn’t, and I took a long, weaving way home with my keys between my fingers.

My terror reached critical when I saw the man on my street. He knew where I lived and he wanted me to know it, too. My gut told me he wouldn’t actually follow through with his threats, that he was doing all this to put me in my place for publicly humiliating him, but seeing as how my own experiences with physical violence and sexual assault never failed to surprise me every damn time, I wasn’t about to take any chances. The next day, my husband bought the pepper-spray on his lunch. I couldn’t get it myself. I had to work, and no one in the neighborhood sold it.

Once armed, I only felt a little safer. This man was a foot taller and close to twice my weight. If a physical altercation occurred, I knew it wouldn’t end well for me (unless I have a berserker mode, though doubtful, as this is real life and I am not Wolverine). If I had to go alone, I wouldn’t walk to my practice space anymore. I took the car, if I could. Except for work, I rarely left the house. 

Eventually, I got another job and we moved to a different neighborhood. When I passed the man on the street a few months later, he didn’t recognize me. Out of my work uniform, my long hair now cut short, I became just another girl on the street, not the one that needed to be taught a lesson. I felt lighter, free. I was safe again. He’d forgotten my face. 

And I will never forget his.

So here I was on this fall day, years removed from that whole ordeal, trying to reclaim my life and stop living in fear. Not even a full block into my trip to the mailbox, I heard a car engine rattling beside me. I turned to see a man driving an older gray truck, keeping pace with me. Forties, Mariners baseball cap, dirty hands.

When I met his eyes, his mouth spread into a smirk. “You sure are pretty,” he oozed.

I automatically wondered if I’d be able to outrun him if he stopped the truck, what direction I should take. Maybe down the street and through the neighbor’s backyard? If I went straight home, he could follow me. Then he would know where I live. Holding back the FUCK OFF on the tip of my tongue, I kicked myself for being so naive to think that I could walk down the block to mail some goddam Netflix DVDs without needing to assess a threat, without needing to come up with an escape plan. I burned with an impotent rage, imagining laser-beams shooting out of my eyes and turning him to ashes. He drove away. 

What he said was nothing compared to some of the things that have been shouted at me from cars since I was twelve, or whispered on public transit, but it isn’t about what he said, or what any of them have said. It’s the power imbalance. It’s his potential for violence if I say the wrong thing. It’s that he was safe in his car, in his stronger body, with hands that could fit around my neck with ease while I was vulnerable, alone, not even armed with my stupid fucking pepper-spray that I purposefully left at home because I convinced myself I was over-reacting.

So I’m tired of hearing that street harassment isn’t a “real” issue. I need to relax! It’s “just a compliment!” Because it isn’t. It never is. It’s so much more than that. His “compliment,” as mild as it was (THIS time), didn’t flatter or empower me— it made me feel powerless. It reminded me that I’m not allowed to get comfortable. Compliments don’t cause someone to look behind them on their way home. 

It can never be “just” a compliment when I don’t have the luxury to take it as one.

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