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Category Archives: Hatred For Men Who Hate Women

I Hate Political Correctness.

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No really, I do. I mean, I know cray-cray feminists are supposed to be all politically correct and intolerable to be around and stuff, but I legit hate political correctness.

What’s that? Did I just hear a gleeful stream of racist, sexist, homophobic, cissexist, and ablist slurs? No no no. I’m not ok with that shit. When I say I hate political correctness, what I mean is—

I hate language and ideologies that support oppression, that ignore inequality, that prioritize the concerns of the privileged. I hate it when inequalities are only superficially discussed—when people try, for example, to talk about class without also addressing race, gender, and sexual orientation. (I’m looking at you, OWS.) I hate it when people say, “sure, he’s kinda racist, but he’s not a bad guy.” I hate calling someone out on their racism, only to be told that I’m not “patriotic.” I hate it when tone arguments are lobbed at members of oppressed groups, and then used to justify the completely unwarranted anger from members of privileged groups. (“Well, you put him on the defensive!”) I hate “I was just joking,” and “you’re just looking for something to be angry about,” and “it’s just a movie.”

I hate all forms of bigotry, basically. That is political correctness—bigotry wearing a mask. Native American Day and Black History Month are not politically correct; if they were, racists would have no problem with them. “I’m not racist, but” is politically correct. And that’s why we hear it all the fucking time.

“I don’t see race”—politically correct. Reality incorrect, of course, because it’s not true, and it’s a stupid and superficial way to address racism. But politically correct.

The thing is, I do see race. And I am racist. I try not to be, but I was socialized to be racist, and I benefit from white privilege, and now, here I am. Racist. And I don’t think I’ll ever be not-racist, but I can be less racist, and that’s my goal. To be less racist, and to shut the fuck up when I think something racist, and to really look at my motivations and prejudices and supposedly-objective opinions about racial politics. And to step the fuck down when I have nothing useful to offer, and to avoid swanning in on discussions between POC about race, and to learn through reading and listening, instead of pontificating.

Of course, I’m kind of pontificating now, but at least I co-run this blog?

And I also hate that, in writing about race, it’s the writing of white people that gets read, promoted, and praised. So. Here is a brief list of social justice tumblrs I’ve been reading lately—please feel free to add more in the comments!

Dumb Things White People Say

Hi-C Educates the Masses

Soy Dulce de Leche

Esoterica

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What I Meant to Write In My Whiny Post:

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1. Damn, I am really really busy, and it’s giving me a sleepy.

2. It’s not enough to be a political feminist; you have to be a personal feminist too. You have to look at the way you treat your friends and family; you have to examine your individual biases, your contradictions. Feminism is not just theoretical. It doesn’t just apply to Other People. It should spill over into all your interactions.

3. Probably don’t tell your kid that nobody will ever love them, since, if nothing else, you should love your kid, and yes, while I get the point you’re making (“you’re a heinous bitch who no man will ever want”), 1) a huge fuck you on behalf of single ladies everywhere, and 2) wow, really?

4. Basically what I said. “Yes, he’s kind of a misogynist, but I still like him” = unacceptable. People who are sexist, racist, and/or classist are bad people. It really is that simple! Someone with biases who is working to become more understanding and aware = great! Someone who is a dick and doesn’t care = not great. Not great at all. These things are dealbreakers in much the way that puppy-kicking is a dealbreaker.

5. This part of South Dakota has some pretty scenery, but politically it is a backwards shithole, and the town is cliquey, and we suffer from a dearth of maple trees. I can haz Vermont?

6. Rape Threat Tyler is a terrible person, and I’m not sorry he got head-injured.

7. Munchausen’s Mike is also a terrible person, and I hope his life is lousy.

8. I haven’t had a normal meal since I was 12, which blows.

9. Vodka is a hell of a substance.

Also, here is a puppy with a puppy:

Hi, I Haz a White Whine.

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  1. I cannot keep working two jobs while taking eighteen credit hours.
  2. I cannot listen to family members, who claim to be feminist, going on about how I’m a huge heinous bitch for setting boundaries and cutting toxic people out of my life.
  3. I cannot listen to “you’re going to die alone, with no one who loves you, and a huge house of cats.” Not from anyone, but especially not from family.
  4. I cannot pretend to like people who are misogynist, racist, or classist for any reason, but especially not for the sake of people who want me to perform femininity according to their exact specifications.
  5. I cannot keep living in South Dakota.
  6. I cannot deal with a former co-worker, who once pushed me against a wall, held a paper towel over my mouth, and asked me if it smelled like chloroform—who used to follow me around making jokes about murdering women—who made numerous rape threats—I cannot deal with this person harassing me on the dance floor, following me around, and forcing me to stare at his stupid weasel face while he thrusts his bony pelvis out. All I can think about is being shoved against the wall with all the hanging knives pressing into my back while he presses the paper towel against my mouth and tells me he’s going to follow me home after work. I cannot deal with this person; I hope he dies.
  7. I cannot shake all the terrible things I heard from terrible Mike, all the semi-consensual physical encounters, all the hurtful bullshit he said.
  8. I cannot eat like a normal person, and I want to. So fucking much.
  9. I should not blog while drunk.

In Re: The Blogosphere Lately

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A Brief List of Shit You Should Not Do:

The Atheist Elevator Debacle

Dictate another person’s boundaries

Decide that you are entitled to their time and/or attention

Approach them in an enclosed space with no other people present, acknowledge that you’re being inappropriate, but boldly soldier on

Insist that women are responsible for magically intuiting the desires of sad, socially inept men

Suggest that men are literally incapable of following accepted social guidelines, then accuse feminists of being “misandrist”

Turn someone’s story of a creepy come-on into the most contrived controversy ever

The Hugo Schwyzer Paternity Kerfluffle

Compare “paternity fraud” (really, guys?) to rape

Decide that a brief run-down of what is no doubt a very complicated story gives you enough information to make sweeping judgments about everyone involved

Shriek about “poor Ted” and “horrible Jill,”apparently oblivious to the inconsistency in who you’re willing to give the benefit of the doubt/assume the absolute best intentions

Leave a wall of text, using information lifted from Wikipedia, that accuses the author of being a psychopath. That’s just stupid

Say that you would stop loving your kid if you found out he wasn’t biologically yours. Not only does that make you a terrible person, it’s a lie—because if that’s all it would take to make you stop loving your son, you never really loved him to begin with

Get so hung up on the details of the story that you completely miss the overarching point of the article. (For the record, I was pretty squicked out by the story, but in the end I agree with Schwyzer—DNA doesn’t make a parent)

Mac McLelland’s Horrible Article to Which I Will Not Link

Grossly mischaracterize PTSD (Protip: You don’t get a diagnosis so soon after the traumatic event—like all mental disorders, you have to demonstrate an established pattern of behavior. Also, if she really had PTSD, “rough sex” would not have been a cure.)

Falsely equivocate bystander trauma with first-hand trauma

Make someone else’s rape about you

Turn a horrible story of a Haitian woman’s rape into a tale of Privileged White Lady Pain

Be so lazy in your use of language that your writing blurs the very-super-obvious line between sex and rape

Criticize her article on the grounds that she’s OMG SO TOTALLY SLUTTY instead of “wow, what a terrible narcissistic asshole”

This and This

Freely admit to being a stat rapist (2:14 in the video), revealing how utterly unconcerned you are with the potential legal repercussions, then deny that we live in a rape culture. (Yes, that person probably wouldn’t give you his real name, but his IP could be traced)

Be one of those horrible people. I can’t even.

An Open Letter to the Couple Who Roofied Me During My Otherwise Awesome Vacation (TW)

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Man, fuck you guys.

What was that shit anyway? Ketamine? Home-brewed GHB? Some kind of magical Puke In the Gutter and Fail At Keeping Your Head Up chemical masterpiece? I didn’t even know where I was. I had to puke up what was, hands down, the spiciest (and most delicious) Indian food I have ever eaten. I had to do this on the curb, in a skirt. And it came right out of nowhere. One minute I was standing on the sidewalk trying to change from heels into flats, and the next? Boom. Vomit.

You had a pretty smart set-up going, I must say. You, chicky, looked like Ginny Weasley, and barely old enough to even be in a bar; you walked up all, “hey, my brother wants to get you a drink, but he’s shy…” and I was just like, cool, whatever, I’ll take a free drink. So I ordered it, and the bartender made it. You grabbed it and handed it to me, which just seemed polite, given that you were standing and I was sitting. And then you, Mr. Shy “Brother,” shuffled over and made small talk while I drank it down.

I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I think you said you were studying Forensic Science–which I hope you made up, because for the love of whatever, you need to stay the fuck out of the criminal justice system.

Anyway, I drank this sugary, pineapple-infused drink that looked and tasted totally normal, and sure, you, lady, had briefly handled my drink…but you’re a chick. And you were only in my blind spot for a second. And I was sitting right at the bar, so it’s not like you’d had to walk across the room to bring it to me. This was a distance of maybe four feet.

And you, Mr. Shy, you were just a chatty dude. So wev.

And who roofies someone who’s in a group anyway?

Oh wait. That’s right. There is no perfect victim, just like there’s no perfect criminal. There are just, yknow, assholes and the people they choose to target. And while I could continue to beat myself up for accepting the drink at all, I think we all know who’s at fault here.

So you were trying to drag me to a different bar, and we said we’d meet you there even though none of us had any intention of going, and you finally left. And then we walked outside, and bam.

Again, fuck you guys. It apparently took thirty-five minutes for Pepper and her sister to even get me to stand up from the curb, and then they had to walk me to a taxi, and the driver gave me a plastic bag to puke in, and then I somehow made it back up to Pepper’s sister’s apartment and blacked out. I guess. I don’t really remember. I couldn’t even hold down water until two p.m. the next day. It’s taken me a week to even imagine the taste of alcohol without wanting to vomit. I had stomach problems for three solid days. I had to forgo oysters for lunch thanks to you shitheads.

Stay the hell out of my close relationship with seafood.

And personally, I didn’t really enjoy that whole “I can’t move my limbs” feeling. The “where the fuck am I and who am I with?” feeling wasn’t much better. But you know what really pisses me off? The part where I have to take a drug test for my new job, and, since I don’t know what you gave me or how long it can stay in my system, I’m gonna have to drop thirty-something dollars on this shit:

I think you mean "Vile."

Thanks, guys.

Oh, and to that one person who was all, “well that happens, that’s why I’m careful when I go to the bar”? Stop talking. Not just in this one instance, but as a general rule. Just don’t.

Here, consider this painting Pepper and I saw at the pier in Bandon, Oregon:

 

Yes, it says "Repent" on the bottom.

For the record, you did not ruin my vacation. It was still made of awesome and fuzzy bunny happiness. But seriously–I got roofied by a woman? My faith in humanity, you guys took it.

Sincerely,

Paprika

I Drink Wine and Bitch About the Patriarchy.

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Ah, pick-up artistry. How awful you are.

This Hugo Schwyzer article on negging is characteristically excellent (minus the crack about gay hairdressers, which, what?–come on man, you’re better than that). But the comments are something. They’re mostly fine over at Jez, which isn’t surprising, but over at the GMP—and on Schwyzer’s own blog—well. You know.

My own feelings about negging are not complex: I just don’t think it’s very nice. I don’t understand what would possess a person to walk up to someone they presumably find attractive and make a derogatory comment. Why would you do that? Why would you think that’s okay?

Well, I suppose you’d think it was okay if you had no respect for women, and didn’t quite believe we were people, and if you were too embittered to consider other alternatives. I guess you’d be alright with negging if you were the kind of person who refused to really analyze your failed relationships, if you perceived every rejection as some kind of undeserved slight against You As a Human, if you believed you were entitled to a woman’s time, energy, and body. And if you lacked basic human empathy, that would help too. But nah, clearly the problem is that Women Are Mean.

Here, PUAs, let me explain something to you:

I am a bitch because I need to be. Because I am harassed in some way pretty much daily. Because I’m The Girl Who Walks Everywhere, and people think they know me, and that they’re entitled to my time. And I have heard everything already. I have had people take it upon themselves to figure out where I live; I have had salespeople call my cellphone after I leave their stores; I have had customers call my place of work and ask me out while I was on the clock. I have been pestered on the street, on staircases, on sidewalks, in restaurants, on the job, at home, and in class. I have heard pretty much any line you could imagine.

I say this not to make some arrogant point about how awesome I am (I’m really not that great), but to stress that my bristlyness is a learned behavior. I used to be friendlier, but it complicated my life, and now I’m a little standoffish. According to the PUA literature, this makes me one of those women who “needs to be taken down a notch”—except, no. No I don’t.

In fact, I basically have the self-esteem of a teenager, and although negging won’t hurt me as much now as it would have a couple years ago, it certainly won’t help. When I was twenty, negging could make me start or extend a fast, literally punch my body, or have a panic attack; now it won’t make me do any of those things, but the words will sit in the back of my head, chanting. They don’t just slip through me—they cling.  Remember the Nickelodeon amusement park slime machines?

Those kids look miserable.

Negging, for me, is like standing under a slime machine, only the effects are harder to wash away. I wish I were the kind of person who could just let those comments roll right off, but I’m not, and it’s taken me a long time to realize it, but: nobody gets to demand that I be that person, because nobody has the right to make those comments in the first place. Strange men shouldn’t be taking it upon themselves to “take me down a notch,” regardless of how insecure they are themselves. And chances are, if I’m being pestered, I’m not feeling confident; I’m feeling uncomfortable. I’m feeling cornered, and anxious, and irritated. What you’re reading as arrogance is likely something else entirely.

So yes, negging is mean. It’s a shitty way to treat another person. It suggests that you don’t actually consider me equal on the human scale, which makes you objectively terrible. And yeah, it might be effective sometimes—but it’s generally effective with people who were already vulnerable, whose insecurities are easier to locate and exploit. (I say this from personal experience.) And if you’re deliberately seeking out, and taking advantage of, vulnerable people…well, again, you are terrible, and you shouldn’t be dating anyone.

But, you know, the PUAs have complaints. They always have complaints. The most common of these seems to be “I haz insecurity and bitchez be mean!” I’ve no doubt there’s some truth to that, and to a degree I sympathize—but that’s a very small degree, because there’s no excuse for being a misogynist asshat. I mean, I’m sure it is, at times, ZOMG so hard to charm to laydee folk. But my answer to that is, well, duh—the patriarchy hurts men too.  Any system that attempts to force people into narrow, prescribed roles harms everyone involved. And that sucks for you, PUAs-in-training, it really does. It saddens me. It saddens me so much, I’m drinking a monstrous glass of wine to cope.

But it’s not my problem.

I have similar feelings about racism, so let’s start there. I personally feel that racists harm themselves, not only because they’re setting limits on what they will experience, and how they’ll feel about what experiences they do have, but also because, while we in no way live in a post-racial society (lollerskates!), there are usually some social consequences to blatant racism. Subtle, underhanded racism, not so much—in fact, it can often benefit a person—but someone who casually tosses out racial slurs will likely face some repercussions. So yeah, racism hurts racists. But it would be ridiculous to suggest that people of color bear the responsibility of reforming racists. (I’m sure that someone has tried to make that argument at some point, but whoever it was deserves a punch in the face.)

Coming to terms with your privilege isn’t pleasant. Realizing how much I benefit by being thin, white, young, cis-gendered, and able-bodied wasn’t fun. But you need to do it, and you don’t have the right to demand that other people drag you up into the light and make it all feel better. If there are people kind and compassionate enough to assist you in that realization, you’re lucky—but you’re not entitled to their help.

Similarly, women are not responsible for correcting the damage done to men by the patriarchy; men are responsible for that. I’m sorry, PUAs, if the pressure to conform to a narrow definition of masculinity has led to insecurity and resentment, but it’s not my fault, and I can’t fix it.

Sex and dating can be hard. It’s harder if you’re a dick.

Misogyny: A Song to Which I Will Not Dance

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You know how sometimes you’ll be walking along, all chipper and whatnot, and you’ll steal some lilacs from a bush clearly on private property, and you’ll put them in your purse, and you’ll notice how nice the sunset is, and you’ll take a sip of your energy drink, feeling all full from the hot wings you managed to almost-guiltlessly cram into your mouth thirty minutes earlier…and then there you are, thirty feet from the Travelodge, and on the balcony is a group of dudebros.

You hear them before you see them, because they’re loud and boisterous and inane. And then they see you. And then they stop talking. And then you’re like, fuck.

Because of course they have something to say, and it’s not even anything new, and it won’t even make a half-decent story later because it’s so commonplace—but it leaves you feeling angry and gross, and your Java Monster goes all flat in your stomach, and you suddenly feel like throwing things at them and screaming.

Just—why, street harassers? Why?

I don’t have a car, so I’m “the girl that walks everywhere.” (I used to be “the happy smiling walking girl,” but apparently I’ve developed some bitchface.) Sometimes the people who see me every day also think they know me, which they don’t—because I’m not just a body in motion, I’m a person inside a body. Ok?

But whatever—some people just don’t get that. And when I was walking today, with my lilacs and my pretty fucking sunset, I realized that I’m so used to street harassment, I actually know the rhythms of it:

Dudebros stop talking

Brief pause

Them: generic greeting, douchily uttered

Me: no response

Them: comments about my body/overall attractiveness

Me: no response

Them: comments about how friendly I’m not/what a bitch I am

Me: no response

Them: last ditch attempt to get my attention

Me: no response

Them: pouting/dismissal/suggestion that I’m not worth their time anyway

Me: FINALLY.

And it’s just variations on this theme—every goddamn time.

It already angers me that harassment is something women and girls are apparently supposed to expect—but realizing that it’s not only inevitable, but actually follows a formula? Well.

I went home, and I arranged my stolen lilacs in a mug that I set on my kitchen table. And then I sat there thinking, what the fuck.

Because you know what? I love men. I do. Which is not to say that I love each individual man in the world, or even that I’ve loved a single one of my boyfriends (because I really haven’t), but I do love men as a group. You know who doesn’t love men, though? Or even like them?

Men’s rights activists.

I really love man boobz. I think it’s an invaluable cultural document, and I appreciate that Futrelle posts the misogyny right on his blog, so I can read it there instead of giving the source websites more traffic. It makes me happy to see a man policing other men, because it can’t just be women calling out misogynists—men need to take a stand too. Dave Futrelle, you are great.

That said, I find man boobz incredibly difficult to read, and will often ignore it for days, even weeks at a time. The seething hatred for women makes me feel tiny and furious, like a squeaky mouse with too-small paws trying to claw its way up an oak tree. Every time I read it, I want to scream.

And then sometimes I’ll step back a bit, and look at what they’re saying, and just feel kind of sad.

Seriously, MRAs, do you honestly believe you’re all that dumb, childish, unable to distinguish between rape and consensual sex, and unqualified to parent? Are you really incapable of practicing safer sex, preventing pregnancy, and generally acting like a responsible adult? Are you so lacking in self-restraint that you can’t respect a woman’s boundaries? Are you too uncomfortable in your masculinity to cope with people who don’t conform to gender stereotypes? Is that it?

Because it doesn’t need to be that way. Because I think you’re better than that—or at least you could be. You have the power, and the ability, to do better. I know; I’m a feminist, and I’m supposed to hate men and eat fetuses and stuff. But actually, like most feminists, what I really hate is the patriarchy—and so should you, because that’s the force trying to mold you into a specific masculine ideal.

And as for you, dudebros at the Travelodge who ruined my perfectly good mood: I know it’s not about me. Ok? It’s about masculine performance; it’s about power. It’s about you feeling like an asshole, and choosing to direct it at me. But that’s not your only option. You have others.

And I have pretty fucking lilacs, lots of energy, and a low bullshit threshold. So.