- Realise all aesthetic choices are subjective.
- Realise that they might think they look sexy as fuck.
- Remove yourself from the vicinity until you’ve learned to get over your fatphobia/transphobia/misogyny/racism or combination of those.
yay!
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» I Screamed at My Therapist for Asking About My Short Skirt and Then Got Sexually Harassed a Million Times So Maybe He Was Right - Emily McCombs
Here’s what my therapist said to me as I sat on his couch about an hour ago: “I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a short skirt today.”
I knew where he was going. This particular therapy is, after all, outpatient therapy for sexual trauma and compulsion. A skirt is not always just a skirt for a sex addict — showing up in an extremely provocative outfit to sexual treatment would be the equivalent to wearing your marijuana leaf shirt to AA. In co-ed treatment situations (for instance, when I attended group therapy), it would be suggested that we be mindful of our clothing, lest we trigger others. When I first came into treatment, this same therapist made me wear pants and flats for a fucking month and I wanted to kill myself the whole time, which is probably indicative of an unhealthy attachment to my sexuality as expressed through clothing.
He wanted to know if I was in my addict, if I was acting out.
I still got a little defensive. Because, first of all, FASHION. I love clothes, I work at an online women’s magazine, photographs of what I’m wearing are often posted on the Internet, and people know me for dresses and heels. I like being stylish. I like dressing up. I like high heels and makeup and fake hair. And while I know my gender expression is linked to my sex addiction in some real ways, I also don’t know that my dude therapist really gets the realities of a job in New York women’s media. I mean, women dress like this, you know?
Secondly, I have built up enough righteous feminist rage from a lifetime of reading morally reprehensible Internet comments blaming the victim to be pretty hair-trigger sensitive when it comes to any suggestion that a woman’s clothing invites harassment. You might just want to tread pretty carefully in that whole general direction with me.
“I think the bigger issue is that I have to present myself in this really specific way in order to feel attractive and worthwhile,” I said. “It’s an insecurity thing.”
“And what happens when you present yourself that way?” he asked.
“Well, I get sexually harassed a lot. But that happens to me when I am wearing jeans and my glasses, too,” I responded.
“But if you dress provocatively, it’s going to evoke a specific kind of reaction,” he said. “It’s like how you can’t fiddle around with your iPhone on the tracks these days, or someone will snatch it —”
“I’M VERY UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS LINE OF REASONING,” I blurted over him. I then proceeded to go all Feminism 101 on him, explaining that street harassment is on a spectrum that eventually leads to rape and I should be able to walk down the street wearing whatever I want without being catcalled and, “You’re a man and you don’t understand!” I finished, before bursting into tears.
And the thing is, I trust this particular man pretty completely. He fully saved my life at a time when I was tangibly, immediately hurtling myself toward death. He’s a recovering addict himself, and he wants only to help me. So this whole exchange was not only OK, it was helpful. Because it allowed me to set a boundary in a safe space, to express my feelings and have a healthy conflict with someone who has my best interests at heart. And ultimately, it allowed me to realize that what his line of reasoning was poking at was a feeling of little-girl fear that everything that had happened to her was all her fault.
And you know what? When I talk about street harassment, even when I talk about it on this site, somebody always goes, “You seem to have this happen to you a lot…,” as if this is unusual to me. I have to wonder what they think I could possibly be doing to court said attention — walking down the street spanking my own ass lasciviously in between making that waggling tongue between two fingers gesture at every man I see? But they’re right. It does happen to me a lot, and I can’t recognize that fact without then starting to wonder why me, what I did, a.k.a. how is this my fault?
It took me a full decade to realize I had been raped. It took me that long because it never even occurred to me that it might not have been my fault. I was there, I was provocative, I said no but didn’t bite kick and scream; of course what happened was my fault. Even now that I have intellectually overcome those assumptions, the feeling that it was my fault still simmers pretty strongly in my breastbone. And the public response to rape in the media, and my own rape when I have written and spoken about it, retraumatizes that little girl over and over and over again. Because it says to her, “You’re right. It was your fault.”
So it’s good to cry. It’s good to let that little girl have her voice.
And I calmed down, and then I stepped back out into the world, where I had walked approximately two blocks before a man rolled up close to me on his bicycle and quietly said, “I’d love to eat your pussy.”
And I got fucking pissed. And for the first time in my life, probably because the subject was so completely top of my mind, I responded. “WOW. That’s incredibly fucked up,” I yelled at him, as he smiled back at me smugly. And then I walked another two blocks. And a man walking past me muttered, “….You’re so sexy.” And I yelled again: “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?” And a couple of other people on the sidewalk looked at me nervously, gave me a wide berth like a crazy person.
So you know, maybe my therapist was right after all, and I’m the one trying to live in a world that doesn’t exist. Maybe I have to walk around in a fucking burlap bag or just pay the consequences. Maybe my skirt really was too short. All I know is that some days it’s really hard to be a woman. And that my therapist really will never understand.
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» An Open Letter to the Guy Who Helpfully Announced “Daaaaamn Bitch, You Fat!” to Me in the Target Parking Lot this Morning - By Lesley Kinzel
What is the point? You know, every time this happens — and it doesn’t happen that often anymore, for which I suppose I have both my progressive strides toward middle age and the OBESORAMA EPIDEMICAPALOOZA to thank — the first thing that crosses my mind is,What is the point?
Are you trying to be helpful? Is it like kindly alerting a stranger that they’ve left their lights on before they head into a movie theater? “Hey, just thought I’d let you know that you’re quite large and if conventional wisdom is to be trusted you will probably die really soon. I assume you hadn’t noticed.”
Leaving one’s lights on is one thing; the car is behind you and you’re walking away from it. You might not realize your mistake. My body, on the other hand, goes everywhere with me. A person doesn’t get fat like me without being told about it at least once, if not by good Samaritans like yourself, then by parents, siblings, classmates, friends, neighbors, doctors, co-workers and/or romantic entanglements.
Even if no one told me, I would have picked up on it on my own, probably the first time I realized there were chairs in the world that just didn’t have enough space between the arms for my ass to comfortably fit. This is something you can’t just gloss over, dude. If your ass doesn’t fit in a chair, you notice it.
And yet, it often seems as though people like you are forever laboring under the misapprehension that it’s possible to be very fat and leave the house at frequent intervals and simply not KNOW about it.
It’s not. It’s not possible. I ain’t a lady who is five, 10, 40 pounds off my appointed slot on the chart — I am sometimes not even included on the scale. I KNOW ABOUT IT, ASSHOLE. Your friendly heads up does nothing so much as remind me that I can always get in trouble for going out in public with my head up in spite of my failure to meet your standards of what is physically acceptable.
Furthermore, what is it about parking lots? I feel like I get these keen observations about my size shouted across parking lots more often than anywhere else I go. Is it because they’re big wide-open spaces with few opportunities for me to escape or hide? Do you see me and think, “HEY, there’s a lady whose day I can try to ruin by scaring and/or upsetting her, and she probably can’t get away!” The only conceivable reason for taking this action was to try to make me feel like crap, which is a rotten reason to do anything.
I can understand your mistake in thinking your remark would get inside my head — you’re probably accustomed to the idea that most women are gutted by being called fat. You couldn’t have known that the word itself is not an insult to me, that I wouldn’t respond by internalizing your gross misogynist bullshit and shutting down. You couldn’t have known that I would react in righteous anger, not at being called fat — for I am, quite fat, and don’t consider it a problem — but at your audacity in trying to drag down my self-esteem and my comfort level with being seen in public.
Unfortunately for you, my opinion of myself is not so easily swayed. Parking lots are not the fucking African savanna. You are not a lion, and I am not a limping zebra. If we’re on the fucking African savanna, you’re going to be a really dumb hyena, and I’m going to be a really pissed-off elephant. As you have since discovered, I’m not the one who’ll be running away with my tail between my legs.
Finally: Why is it funny? Why is calling a fat lady fat so damn hilarious? I mean, I know why — it’s because calling a fat lady fat in front of your bros in an extremely public area is meant to remind me of my place, and to put me back there.
It’s funny to knock people with an unwarranted sense of self-esteem down a peg, isn’t it? You probably think the only place I belong is wherever you can’t see me, ideally in the dark, behind closed doors. You need protection from having my big old fat self out there polluting your visual landscape, like I think I have a right to go anyplace I want, like I think I have a right to force people who find my body offensive to look at me. How you mustsuffer. Allow me to break out the world’s fattest violin.
It’s just too bad that I’m not sorry. It’s too bad that you don’t get to police me and my appearance, however much you may think you have that power. No, I won’t apologize, because I’m not the one with anything to be sorry for. No, I won’t go on a diet, because fuck diets. I get to live whether you approve of me, my life choices, my eating habits, my wardrobe, and the shape of my body, or not.
Also, I’ve decided you can have your testicles back. Because unlike you, I’m spending my energy these days in trying to be a kinder person.
Sincerely,
Lesley
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How to deal with people who wear unflattering outfits
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» BLAMING THE VICTIM 101: SUBWAY OFFICIALS SAY WOMEN’S “SCANTY CLOTHES” CAUSE HARASSMENT - By Amy Tennery
Women in Shanghai held a mass subway protest over the weekend, after a blog entry from the Shanghai subway ordered its female customers to wear more conservative clothing. Miniskirts, low-cut tops and sheer fabrics were targeted in the post, which encouraged women to “cherish themselves” — presumably by wearing a turtleneck and knee-grazing burlap sack in 80-degree weather.
Feeling dizzy on a hot July day? You’re not over-heating. You’re over-cherishing.
But while pushing that whole “conservative clothing = self-respect” equation was bad enough, the Shanghai Subway Company’s blog post delivered an even more insidious message: It argued that women who wear (what is, by its estimation) inappropriate clothes are inviting sexual harassment, according to China Daily. Wearing something sexy? It means you want to be harassed, apparently. Because that’s what women do: We open our closets, look around and say, “Gosh! I wonder which shirt will get a guy to grope me on the way to work today!”
Disturbingly, this isn’t the first time that Shanghai metro officials have blamed women’s penchant for wearing seasonally appropriate clothes (the nerve!) for subway harassment and molestation. Earlier this month, China Daily reported several cases of subway molestation — including a guy who took up-skirt shots of women without their knowledge, a guy who exposed himself on the subway and another guy who ejaculated on a woman’s leg. Basically, the Shanghai subway is a non-stop thrill-ride of awfulness, and everyone agrees someone needs to do something about that.
But rather than open up a women’s-only car, which some passengers say could help the problem, Shanghai Metro decided to blame the victims. A spokesperson for the metro “explained” to China Daily:
“Women should better protect themselves and avoid scanty clothes in summer.”
Yea, ladies. Maybe if we weren’t all so whorish looking we wouldn’t be violated.
Armed with this logic, we can put an end to lots of crimes! If rich people stopped looking so rich, they wouldn’t get robbed. And houses stopped looking so flammable, arsonists would disappear. Because, as we all know, if someone does something awful to you, it’s almost definitely your fault. (Sarcasm Meter: 1,000%!)
I’m kidding, of course — but this sentiment is outrageously prevalent. And this tone-deaf inability to distinguish between welcome attention and harassment is staggering. The “Well, she was asking for it” argument doesn’t hold up because no one is ever asking for anything even remotely resembling any of the above things I described.
But just in case there’s any confusion, I’ll happily clear the air for the fellas out there:
Guys? Hi. Here’s the thing — no matter how short a skirt one of us ladies might be wearing, please do not take a photo of our crotch when we’re not looking. We don’t like that. Also — quick side note — please don’t expose your genitals in a public place. I know, that deep V-neck we had on made it look like we wanted you to do that! Super confusing. Our bad. But yea, don’t do that. Unless someone explicitly says, “Hey! Show me your genitals!” (maybe not those exact words, but you get what I’m saying), do not do that.
Glad we cleared that up.
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TW RAPE, ABUSE, FAT SHAMING, BODY SHAMING
fuck anyone who dares to tell me to thank my abusers.
fuck anyone who says i deserve abuse because of my weight.
and yeah im in my fucking bra. how i fucking dress doesn’t validate your actions fucking either.
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The Girl WIth The Red Hair Really Needs To Shave Her Fucking Armpits
(a piece about body autonomy, body policing, bullying, harassment and violence)
Clementine Cannibal is a queer, feminist, zinester and blogger.
I enjoyed reading and reviewing her zine “Licking Stars Off Ceilings #23”:
http://blackcoffeepoet.com/2012/04/23/licking-stars-off-ceilings-23/
Our interview was one that many people enjoyed:
http://blackcoffeepoet.com/2012/04/25/interview-with-clementine-cannibal/ -
» Big Fat Love - By Melissa McEwan
I know I’ve said this before, though only on Twitter, but, because I’m seeing a disproportionate amount of shit being flung at fat people—and when it’s remarkably more than usual that is SO MUCH SHIT!—as a result of HBO’s garbage documentary, The Weight of the Nation, the first part of which aired last night and the second part of which airs tonight, I’m going to say it again: I like fat people.
Naturally, I wouldn’t really like every fat person, but in the interest of providing a tiny bit of counterbalance to all the people who blanketly hate us, without shame or censor, I want to say in opposition: I like fatties.
I like my fat friends. I like my fat family members. I like my fat colleagues. I like my fat acquaintances. I like my fat neighbors. I like the fat members of this community. I like your fat partners and your fat kids and your fat friends, too. I like the fat people I see walking their dogs. I like the fat people I see at the grocery store. I like the fat people I see at the movies. I like the fat people I see at restaurants, on the local trails, at the vet, at the corner store picking up milk. I like the fat lady who told me, when I went out shopping in a sleeveless shirt on a hot day for the first time in my life at 38 years old, “I like your shirt!” And I love my fat self.
And there are people reading this, privileged people, who don’t understand what it’s like to live in a body like mine, who are thinking: Of course you like fat people. You’re fat.
Because they don’t know. They don’t know the self-hatred to which we are exhorted in big and small ways, and how it can turn into hatred of other fat people. They don’t know the ways in which the shaming, the bullying, the body policing, the rank hatred, the disgust disguised as concern can make a fat person maintain a physical and psychological distance from other fat people, especially people just that much fatter, because we are keenly aware that proximity is guilt and grotesquery by association. They don’t know the contemptuous stares of patrons at a cafe when two fat people walk in together, or, Maude forbid, even more of us, like some kind of freakish human herd that storms across the countryside devouring the resources that belong to decent folk.
They don’t know how difficult it is to hate yourself as much as this culture tells us we should hate ourselves for being fat, but love other fat people.
The self-acceptance, self-confidence, and self-love that allows fat people to really embrace and adore one another are hard-won—and, because those precious commodities remain elusive for so many fat people, it is not by any means axiomatic that fat people like other fat people.
We internalize the same narratives of moral weakness, of inferior character, of laziness, slovenliness, gluttony, ugliness. We have all the same reasons to hate fat people (including ourselves) as people who are not fat—plus the additional reasons of futile self-preservation described above.
We are discouraged from liking one another.
Even though we are often each other’s most reliable safe spaces, fiercest champions, least judgmental allies, dearest friends with the boundless capacity to understand the nature of fat hatred, to recognize the challenges of Living While Fat, we are discouraged from liking one another.
And, of course, everyone else is discouraged from liking us, too.
Well, fuck that.
My fellow fatsronauts: Maybe your parents police your body, maybe your partner comments on your eating habits, maybe your boss passes you over for promotions, maybe your coworkers make snide comments about your weight, maybe your thin friends passive-aggressively use your weight to make themselves feel better about their insecurities, maybe strangers say awful shit to you, and maybe you have days where it feels like you are truly, hopelessly, resoundingly unlovable, just because you’re fat.
It isn’t so. I love the fuck out of you.
