so today my ap art history teacher was teaching us about Hapshetsut the only female pharaoh and he was like “have you seen women they can pop out a baby and be like alright let’s go” and then he walked over to this guy and aimed his fist towards his balls and the guy flinched and held his crotch so he was like “men may be stronger but women are tougher” and then he said “so when someone tells you to grow a pair, they mean ovaries”
I rang the literary editors of a few ‘respected’ papers and asked them how much space they were giving to women writers in their ‘review’ sections. Perfectly predictable response. They all said the allocation was fair. One said it was equal, and one prominent editor went so far as to say women are dominating the reviews!
… What happened when I asked who was doing the talking in mixed sex conversations? Well, it was the women of course. And then when you get to measure it you find that women get to talk about 10-20% of the time in conversations with men. A woman who talks about a third of the time is seen to be dominating the talk.
And what happened when I asked teachers who got their attention in class? Well, it was all equal, wasn’t it? No preferences there. And you measure it and find that girls get about 10-20% of the teacher’s attention. Any more, and the boys think it unfair - and go into revolt.
So what do you think I found with the reviews?
I would have predicted about 10-20% of the space went to women’s books. Well, it is less than 6% of the column inches. And the reasonable editor who thinks that women are getting more than their share is one of the worst offenders. Poor boys! It really tells you something when they think only 94% of the review section is not enough, doesn’t it? When 6% for women is too much you get some idea how much men think they are entitled to - as a fair deal.
Dale Spender, correspondence, in Dale and Lynne Spender, Scribbling Sisters (Camden Press, 1986), pp. 31-32 (via radtransfem)
Force kids in school to read crappy, overrated books that are “the best books ever written” solely because they’re “classics” and then call those kids idiots because those aren’t the kind of books they like to read and sit back and wonder why we have a nation full of multiple generations worth of people who willfully and proudly refuse to read.
I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt your body was sighing,
your long limbs stretching miles down the highway.
I dreamt it was Summer and our fingertips turned shrivelled and pruned from hours too long floating in the lake, clothes sticky to our skin, hands clasped as we drowned in the sparkle.
I dreamt we kept our eyes shut and learnt to navigate
one another by touch alone.
I dreamt we stuck cotton wool in our ears
and slow danced our way into silent sex.
I dreamt we did not wipe our mouths to clean up the mess we made.
I dreamt the sun set only when we told it to, and you grabbed it with your wild fingers and wove the light into a dress you didn’t dare take off.
And you danced as if your bones wanted to thrash their way out of your skin.
You danced and you danced, and we drove down the highway
so quickly I had to reacquaint myself with my own breathing.
I thought the adrenaline rush would kill me.
You cracked the moon with your bare palms like it was nothing more than a flimsy shell and it oozed sepia. And you kissed it from your wrists so unashamedly.
And we were okay. And I never lied to you again. And I meant everything I said.
I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt we were whistling through the trees, our knees skinned and our hearts quivering. I dreamt we were spectacular. I dreamt we were made of electricity. I dreamt we still had time.