i need ferguson to go down in history books. i need school children in the year 2074 to learn about michael brown being shot on august 9th, 2014 by officer darren wilson. i need this to spark a movement. this can not lose the focus of society a mere month after it happened.
What did the townspeople make of him,
strange hermit living out there alone
while they were paying taxes, raising their kids,
looking forward to the weekend?
A grown man, down on this knees all day
studying ants, watching the pond freeze,
trying not to think about women.
It was the nineteenth century.
Nature had been shot and stuffed.
My father would take off his jacket and tie
after work and fire up the back yard grill.
Scotch and a lawn chair was his idea
of nature, watching the sky turn medium rare
in a west he had never visited.
You can’t spend your whole life out there
studying ants. Even Thoreau
only lasted a couple of years
“The pornographers did a kind of stealth attack on our culture, hijacking our sexuality and then selling it back to us, often in forms that look very little like sex but a lot like cruelty. The only solution to this is a movement that is fierce in its critique of sexual exploitation and steadfast in its determination to fight for what is rightfully ours.”—Gail Dines (via genderheretic)
“[M]en come to me or to other feminists and say: “What you’re saying about men isn’t true. It isn’t true of me. I don’t feel that way. I’m opposed to all of this.” And I say: don’t tell me. Tell the pornographers. Tell the pimps. Tell the warmakers. Tell the rape apologists and the rape celebrationists and the pro-rape ideologues. Tell the novelists who think that rape is wonderful. Tell Larry Flynt. Tell Hugh Hefner. There’s no point in telling me. I’m only a woman. There’s nothing I can do about it. These men presume to speak for you. They are in the public arena saying that they represent you. If they don’t, then you had better let them know.
Then there is the private world of misogyny: what you know about each other; what you say in private life; the exploitation that you see in the private sphere; the relationships called love, based on exploitation. It’s not enough to find some traveling feminist on the road and go up to her and say: “Gee, I hate it.” Say it to your friends who are doing it. And there are streets out there on which you can say these things loud and dear, so as to affect the actual institutions that maintain these abuses. You don’t like pornography? I wish I could believe it’s true. I will believe it when I see you on the streets. I will believe it when I see an organized political opposition. I will believe it when pimps go out of business because there are no more male consumers. You want to organize men. You don’t have to search for issues. The issues are part of the fabric of your everyday lives.”—Andrea Dworkin, “I Want a Twenty-Four-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape” (via rs620)
But women can never be careful enough, can we? If we take naked pictures of ourselves, we’re asking for it. If someone can manage to hack into our accounts, we’re asking for it. If we’re not wearing anti-rape nail polish, we’re asking for it. If we don’t take self-defence classes, we’re asking for it. If we get drunk, we’re asking for it. If our skirts are too short, we’re asking for it. If we pass out at a party, we’re asking for it. If we are not hyper-vigilant every single fucking second of every single fucking day, we are asking for it. Even when we are hyper-vigilant, we’re still asking for it. The fact that we exist is asking for it.