“You won’t allow me to go to school.
I won’t become a doctor.
One day you will be sick.”—
Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous), and their doubts about religion.
“The reality is that fat people are often supported in hating their bodies, in starving themselves, in engaging in unsafe exercise, and in seeking out weight loss by any means necessary. A thin person who does these things is considered mentally ill. A fat person who does these things is redeemed by them. This is why our culture has no concept of a fat person who also has an eating disorder. If you’re fat, it’s not an eating disorder — it’s a lifestyle change.”—
I just want to nail this to every stable surface I can find. I cannot count the amount of times that I’ve seen fat folks being encouraged, cajoled, and even forced into behaviors that would be recognized as disordered eating/exercising patterns in thin folks.
Pretty much everything that’s done on shows like The Biggest Loser would be called out as pro-ana/pro-orthorexia in a thin person. Exercising past the point that it hurts, to the point where you’re throwing up, even injuring yourself? Berating yourself because you didn’t lose ENOUGH weight this week? Constantly talking about how fat is weakness and thinness will make everything better, about how you can’t stand to be your current weight anymore? Emphasis on weight as a sign of how much control, strength, and worth you have? Viewing food as bad, as a temptation to sin? Constant sharing and talking about tips on how to minimize food intake, how to lose weight?
That sounds exactly like every pro-ana/pro-mia blog I’ve ever seen. It’s also what fat people are told we need to be doing to ourselves until we’re thin.
“My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for.”—
“The police are very kind when I’m a young white woman just doing my job, contributing to society. But when I’m at a protest they will follow orders to hit, kick, and pepper spray me. If I had been one of the queer women arrested and detained during the G20 protests in Toronto, as I easily could have been, I would have been subject to threats of rape, vaginal-digital “searches,” and homophobic threats and insults by officers. Police blame rape victims for “dressing like sluts.” Police give black Muslim cyclists fines of $1,316 for eight bicycle violations in the course of two minutes. Police beat native youth unconscious and leave them to die in the snow. As a woman, a queer person, and an anti-racist person, I do not trust the police. I do not trust them not to harass and abuse me, and I did not trust them not to harass and abuse the man who was making me so nervous in the store last week.”—
one of the best ways i’ve seen a white person address their privilege in relation to the attitude of “calling the cops” when you feel unsafe. for so, so many people, calling the cops means exactly the opposite.
“At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine before peeling off, like a slow band-aid. At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee. At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold. I finish your leftover half. By 10:50 you are already breathless. I live for every time we overlap. When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay. You never do. By noon I put my hands on your shoulders and say, “Baby, you’re getting thin. All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat.” At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone, 15,300 babies were born. At 2:10 you don’t say a word, just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight. At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere in the world at once: all 15,000 tons. At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear. You do not inhale. At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour. My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth, a shot of tequila sitting on the bar. At 6:30 I hear the ticking. I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps. By 7:35 I can see you in the distance, each second a tease until you drape over me. We always love quick and you never let me hold you. I dream of drinking you through a straw. At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch. At 9:45 we do not speak. Too many people have died since we last met. At 10:50 we pray for a meteor, at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears. 11:55 is my favorite. We’re only apart for mere minutes. But at midnight you’ll apologize sixty times because it will always be like this. At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping. It’s exhausting loving someone who is constantly running away.”
Megan Falley, “What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand” (via fleurishes)
“In old age, when he was suffering from Alzheimer’s, E.B. White liked to have his own essays and books read to him. Sometimes, White would ask who wrote what he was listening to, and his chief reader, his son Joe, would tell him, “You did, Dad.” Sims says White “would think about this odd fact for a moment and sometimes murmur, ‘Not bad.’”—