“I’m tired of you my fellow feminists because of your Islamophobia. Your bigotry has turned me into an islamist with no faith and no spirituality. I’m tired of the weight on my shoulder for being a veiled queer woman that was not oppressed by her veil or her parents but was simply oppressed by ideas and the restrictions you put on me; where I had to love my veil just for it to be in the face of all the ideologies that say: “veils oppressed women.”—
Pedro Algorta, a lawyer, showed me the fat dossier about the murder of two women. The double crime had been committed with a knife at the end of 1982, in a Montevideo suburb.
The accused, Alma Di Agosto, had confessed. She had been in jail more than a year, & she was apparently condemned to rot there for the rest of her life.
As is the custom, the police had raped & tortured her. After a month of continuous beatings they had extracted several confessions.
Alma Di Agosto’s confessions did not much resemble each other, as she had committed the same murder in many different ways. Different people appeared in each confession, picturesque phantoms without names or addresses, because the electric cattle prod turns anyone into a prolific storyteller.
Furthermore, the author demonstrated the agility of an Olympic athlete, the strength of a fairground Amazon, & the dexterity of a professional matador. But most surprising was the wealth of detail: in each confession, the accused described with millimetric precision clothing, gestures, surroundings, positions, objects….
Alma Di Agosto was blind.
Her neighbors, who know her & loved her, were convinced she was guilty:
"Why?" asked the lawyer. "Because the papers say so." ""But the papers lie," said the lawyer. "But the radio says so too," explained the neighbors, "and the TV!"
Maybe I’m too young/ to keep good love from going wrong…
It’s never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder It’s never over, all my riches for her smiles when i slept so soft against her It’s never over, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter It’s never over, she’s the tear that hangs inside my song forever.
Let’s just say there’s a soft drink out there. Not naming names, but it kinda sounds like Schmoctor Schmepper. Call it Sr. Schmepper for short. So Sr. Schmepper is rolling out a new low-calorie drink, and they’ve decided that the best way to peddle their bubbly sugar water is with an ad campaign that proclaims “It’s not for women” and “No girls allowed”.
Hmm. Why would Dr…errr I mean Sr. Schmepper want to alienate half of their potential consumers right off the bat?
Well it seems they did some research and found that men won’t drink something that is perceived as lacking in the “manly” department, so they went out of their way “to eschew women” in their ad campaign, as the AP puts it.
You might wonder what that looks like. I’ve gathered together a few of the more egregious instances of sexism in the company’s campaign:
Bullets on the packaging (because nothing says “manly” like gratuitous and pointless violence amiright?)
A “men’s only” Facebook page, fully equipped with an application that allows it to exclude women from viewing content (didn’t know there was an app for that).
Facebook games and videos aimed at being “manly” including a shooting gallery (for targeting high heels and lipstick of course) and a “man quiz” with questions on activities like fishing and hunting.
TV commercials featuring “manly” activities like snake battling and laser shooting, and this gem of a voiceover: “Hey ladies. Enjoying the film? Of course not. Because this is our movie and this is our soda…You can keep the romantic comedies and lady drinks. We’re good.” The ads will air on all major networks, FX and ESPN during college football games, of course.
“So that’s how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us—that’s snatched right out of our hands—even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to the end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.”—Haruki Murakami (Sputnik Sweetheart)
“Perhaps one day the world, our world, won’t be upside down, and then any newborn human being will be welcome. Saying, ‘Welcome. Come. Come in. Enter. The entire earth will be your kingdom. Your legs will be your passport, valid forever.’”—Eduardo Galeano
We speak his name once a year in reverence, but we haven’t really honoured his memory, or his vision. Biko. Never, ever forget.
September ‘77 Port Elizabeth weather fine It was business as usual In police room 619 Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko Yihla Moja, Yihla Moja -The man is dead
When I try to sleep at night I can only dream in red The outside world is black and white With only one colour dead Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko Yihla Moja, Yihla Moja -The man is dead
You can blow out a candle But you can’t blow out a fire Once the flames begin to catch The wind will blow it higher Oh Biko, Biko, because Biko Yihla Moja, Yihla Moja -The man is dead
And the eyes of the world are watching now watching now…
“Take me; Yes, take me; But you know best
where the sea calmly opens its blue road.
I’m wearier than your oldest tower;
somewhere I’ve left my heart aside.”—Adrienne Rich, “White Knight” (via fragmentsshoredagainstmyruin)
“It is the act of reading itself I miss, the opportunity to retreat further and further from the world until I have found some space, some air that isn’t stale, that hasn’t been breathed by my family a thousand times already.”—How to Be Good by Nick Hornby (via lovebug)