I never thought I’d say it but I am so looking forward to the (ideally temporary) end of school. Foucault is wringing me dry and taking up all the time I want to spend backpacking and drawing and staring admiringly at plants.
straight boys think girls can’t take compliments, and that’s ridiculous cause i’ve seen so many girls compliment each other, i’ve seen conversations & friendships blossom from girls complimenting each other in line, on the street, at school waiting for the bys, pretty much anywhere.
the problem is straight boys think sexual harassment & assault are compliments.
There are no Jack Kerouacs or Holden Caulfields for girls. Literary girls don’t take road-trips to find themselves; they take trips to find men.
"Great" books, as defined by the Western canon, didn’t contain female protagonists I could admire. In fact, they barely contained female protagonists at all.
It’s Frustratingly Rare to Find a Novel About Women That’s Not About Love - Kelsey McKinney - The Atlantic (via davidlynchshair)
A friend and I were out with our kids when another family’s two-year-old came up. She began hugging my friend’s 18-month-old, following her around and smiling at her. My friend’s little girl looked like she wasn’t so sure she liked this, and at that moment the other little girl’s mom came up and got down on her little girl’s level to talk to her.
“Honey, can you listen to me for a moment? I’m glad you’ve found a new friend, but you need to make sure to look at her face to see if she likes it when you hug her. And if she doesn’t like it, you need to give her space. Okay?”
Two years old, and already her mother was teaching her about consent.
My daughter Sally likes to color on herself with markers. I tell her it’s her body, so it’s her choice. Sometimes she writes her name, sometimes she draws flowers or patterns. The other day I heard her talking to her brother, a marker in her hand.
“Bobby, do you mind if I color on your leg?”
Bobby smiled and moved himself closer to his sister. She began drawing a pattern on his leg with a marker while he watched, fascinated. Later, she began coloring on the sole of his foot. After each stoke, he pulled his foot back, laughing. I looked over to see what was causing the commotion, and Sally turned to me.
“He doesn’t mind if I do this,” she explained, “he is only moving his foot because it tickles. He thinks its funny.” And she was right. Already Bobby had extended his foot to her again, smiling as he did so.
What I find really fascinating about these two anecdotes is that they both deal with the consent of children not yet old enough to communicate verbally. In both stories, the older child must read the consent of the younger child through nonverbal cues. And even then, consent is not this ambiguous thing that is difficult to understand.
Teaching consent is ongoing, but it starts when children are very young. It involves both teaching children to pay attention to and respect others’ consent (or lack thereof) and teaching children that they should expect their own bodies and their own space to be respected—even by their parents and other relatives.
And if children of two or four can be expected to read the nonverbal cues and expressions of children not yet old enough to talk in order to assess whether there is consent, what excuse do full grown adults have?
I try to do this every day I go to nursery and gosh it makes me so happy to see it done elsewhere.
Yes, consent is nonsexual, too!
Not only that, but one of the reasons many child victims of sexual abuse don’t reach out is that they don’t have the understanding or words for what is happening to them, and why it isn’t okay. Teaching kids about consent helps them build better relationships and gives them the tools to seek help if they or a friend need our protection.
Alice Walker (via allieatknox)
DON’T MAKE COMMENTS ABOUT WHAT I’M EATING
DON’T MAKE COMMENTS ABOUT WHEN I’M EATING
DON’T MAKE COMMENTS ABOUT HOW OR
HOW MUCH OR
HOW FAST I AM EATING.
thinking on false memories today;
there is this story i always tell about a bear bluff charging myself and a group of acquaintances from across the river while we camped under the stars as employees in yosemite valley. i say that it was dawn, we woke up and screamed BEAR as he ran at us, splashing, diverting at the last moment. my friend had fallen asleep on a sandwich and the bear was lazy and hungry. this never happened.
it never, ever happened.
something similar happened, or something that insinuated the possibility of this happening, or maybe someone had just commented on how funny it would be if it did happen. but it never happened, and i can’t remember what really did.
we generate our own memories and our memories actively construct our reality, therefore we are (ever only, always, partially) responsible for our reality. these memories are stored and processed and regurgitated in narrative, and these narrative delimit our identities. they are how we account for ourselves.
i’ve told the same narration of my life for four or five odd years. a journey from sickness to sanity, from illness to health. from taint to purity. this is not what happened, it is not what is happening. it is, of course, more complicated, more imbricated, and less linear than that. but i am starting to forget what really happened. in simplifying myself to offer an account to the other, i am denying and actively reconstructing a reality which serves as a platform for how i conduct myself presently. and it is a narrative with which i am dissatisfied. it is making me ill once more (still trapped in the narrative i wish to resist).
so, what. generate another narrative? still a lie. expand the narrative? there will always be limitations, self-conscious exclusions and memory-mediated gaps. deny narrative at all? then how to account for myself? why do i feel compelled to account for myself? what else would i say?
Friedrich Nietzsche (via cosmofilius)
Katie Kacvinsky, First Comes Love (via forlornes)