“Growing up, I didn’t read novels by women. It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s almost like I didn’t think that I needed to or, I guess, I didn’t know that I needed to. I was perfectly happy in a world contained by men. I adopted the posture of the brooding male as my own. I was Salinger, I was Kerouac, I was any male protagonist in a novel that one of my boyfriends recommended. I didn’t know that there was a specific female sadness so I was content with relating to a generalized one. And in a way, reading these novels was less of a way to relate and more of a way to learn how to be the type of girl that these male novelists liked. One of my first ambitions wasn’t to be a writer – it was to be a writer’s muse.”

Gabby Bess, in Dazed (via electric-cereal)

Amen! I totally know lots of these feelings. And how amazing is it when you hear the female voice speaking what you already know?

(via feministsociology)

Women As Sumo Warriors

“It’s one of those things, like, maybe in a hundred years from now you could say ‘my great, great grandma was [a sumo wrestler].’”

Oh, AAAAAAA-MEN, Michelle! I don’t even have a child, and what she says about being a working woman made me want to jump up and down and fist pump. 

Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

 

Thank you, Maya Angelou. RIP. 

I like my body because it’s magic.

Happy birthday to Louise Bethune, America’s first female architect who designed, among other buildings, the Lafayette Hotel, completed in 1904.
More badass women born in July here. Happy birthday to Louise Bethune, America’s first female architect who designed, among other buildings, the Lafayette Hotel, completed in 1904.
More badass women born in July here.

Happy birthday to Louise Bethune, America’s first female architect who designed, among other buildings, the Lafayette Hotel, completed in 1904.

More badass women born in July here.

via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect.  via BuzzFeed 
99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect. 

via BuzzFeed 

99% of women who’ve ever had sex have used birth control at some point in their lives. Obviously, there have gotta be a lot of reasons why so many have joined the party―BuzzFeed asked 22 women for theirs. The answers are perfect. 

(via thenewwomensmovement)

Yeah, girl.

Laverne Cox makes history today as the first out transgender performer to be nominated for an Emmy. Badass. 

More at BuzzFeed (image credit: Frank Micelotta/Invision/AP)

We’re so happy for her!!

(via smartgirlsattheparty)

This video is worth every second of the watch. What an AMAZING strength of self and identity in this young woman. So badass, so inspiring. You’ll feel so much better about everything after watching this.

Suuuper cool and visually stunning perspective piece. How cycling feels similar to being a woman.

Daily Worth is one of two email newsletters that I remain subscribed to and get excited about reading (who knew that was possible?). They published this article around Independence Day, and it resonated with me so much.

Financial literacy and independence is so linked and so crucial to feminism and a healthy independent self. No matter how generous or trustworthy a spouse or an employer is, if you rely on their discretion to be able to buy food and pay rent, you are dependent upon something external. 

"I grew up with the message that getting by is hard. Get a good, salaried job. Marry rich. Join the military — they will pay for college and have good benefits! The lesson was that there isn’t enough to go around. Find some external factor — a husband, a corporation, a G.I. grant — to take care of you," Emma writes.

Emma Johnson talks about how this system felt to her, how it was ingrained in her, and how she challenged her financial dependence. Solo work is certainly not everyone’s desire, but I think we should all understand the dynamics of where our money comes from, and what that means about our lives and our belief systems.

This is a fantastic piece about interpersonal violence, and the sneaky, and sometimes subtle way it can develop. Watch ‘til the end to see Lucy’s redemption. Get it, girl.

————————-

Mine - A short film from Fordham University for Campus Movie Fest 2014. Out of over 100 films, it won Best Actress and got nominated for Best Drama. Mine has since been promoted by organizations like End Violence Against Women International, and it is a finalist in the Campus MovieFest national wild card competition.

The poem:

People make a big deal about eyes
but it was really the wrinkle in his forehead that caught me
as he fumbled to write down his number.

We fell in love like children running downhill:
wind whipping past, parading each other to our friends, 
to the sky, to the old couples we imagined as our future selves.  

When he moved in, I swore he fused with the house.
I could hear his sigh in the hum of my ceiling fan
I could taste him in my coffee
And anyone could see him in my poetry.

The grooves in his palm spoke of tragedies.
A frayed lifeline spread to the pinky-tip
I traced along those calloused patches
and kissed the scars on his knuckles

When you love hard enough, you can embrace those scars
And when you love long enough you excuse or even ignore
almost imperceptible changes in the terrain:
when he gripped me a bit tighter a bit more often
when “how are you?” became “where were you?”

In college I learned that in World War I,
soldiers rarely wrote about their misery.
They were living a new kind of nightmare,
so what good were the same old words and metaphors?

Poets died in those trenches.
I thought of them as I tiptoed 
around the landmines that littered our home.
When you live in a battlefield, 
where do you find energy to pick up a pen?

Like a numbed soldier I lived from moment to moment,
and when the moments were sweet 
(and many were) I savored them
Because nothing tastes as good as hope

Because even on the bad days
when it seemed an eyelash could set him off
when he threatened to leave the apartment or this world
still each night he would murmur into my ear
that these were the natural ups and downs of love.

But there is nothing natural about war.
He was my comrade, sinking into the trenches,
grasping at my face, my arm, my collar bone
I wanted to rescue him
If that meant bearing his blows 
and his slurred insults, I would do it
If I could’ve swallowed his sadness, I would have.

My friends considered me M.I.A., but I reported for duty every day
and would’ve marched unto death if she hadn’t made me listen.
In that moment I realized I wasn’t his comrade but a prisoner of his war
And after two years and seven months, I finally made a break for it.

Some nights I find myself clicking through old memories.
I marvel at the smiles and the closeness
and realize that these are the images
which remain with me most vividly.
When time has had its way with me,
has softened the edges of my memory,
I’m afraid I’ll only remember his charms:
the crook of his arm, the way he said “hey baby.”
I’m afraid I’ll miss these ideas of him.

But then I remember those poets
and how long they lived in those trenches
and the mornings I spent crying into my breakfast
And now when I pick up my pen
it is heavy, but it is firm.
I lean into it like a staff as I tread the ground
that hardened beneath me the moment I let you go.
The ink smudges my hands like war paint
I am bruised from battle, but I am not a casualty of his war
I am free. I am free. I am mine.

(via plannedparenthood)