Tuesday, August 14, 2007

I hate you and your ptosisface!

It's funny. A week, maybe two ago, there was an article about ptosis of the breasts in the oh-so-misogynistic "women's section" of one of the newspapers here (I can't remember whether it was El Nuevo Diario or La Prensa, so I'm having a hard time finding it, but if I do, it'll be posted, never fear).

It was kind of confusing. You see, I was under the impression that women's breasts sagged naturally with age, and that was, you know, natural. Apparently I've got it all wrong. It's a DISEASE, and we must take DRASTIC MEASURES to prevent its life-threatening consequences, such as, um...un-perky breasts, and...non-perky breasts.

Yeah, so, you should have invasive breast surgery before anything like THAT happens! I mean, "saggy" breasts are a health hazard, folks. Yep.

In the article, it mentioned the usual medieval delights, like breast lifts and breast reduction with implants, but recently, I became aware of another charming procedure to treat this "condition". It's literally, a bra inside your chest.

The mind boggles. Hoyden About Town does a better job of dissecting it than I do. But basically, FUUUUUUUUUCK!?!?@>@>!>$

Ok, breasts will sag. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, that is what they are supposed to do. Also, the immense majority of breasts are NOT, even when their owners are young; globular and gravity-defying, though I'm sure all the lad's mags and the plastic surgery industry would have us believe otherwise.

I am so, so sick of being told that my body is abnormal. You'd think my breasts had committed terrible crimes against mankind for the kind of comments I get about them; from the "WOW, are they real?!" to the snarky "oh, but it was a joke" to the ones that spend hours trying to tell me how much better I'd look after a reduction, to the ones that can't seem to let five minutes go by without commenting on their size.

Yeah, sorry, but no.

Fuck this shit. I don't need a reduction. I don't want a reduction. And I sure as hell ain't getting one to make everyone else more comfortable around me and my EVIL EVIL CHEST. Which by the way, I plan to keep intact even when it's struck down by the terrible affliction of ZOMG PTOSIS. Because as much as I can go on about mind over matter, my body has everything to do with myself, if one can say that without sounding lightly ridiculous. And this is how I look. And it's not a disease. It doesn't need surgery.

There is nothing wrong with my body.

I'm not changing it.

Deal with it.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Straighthate, part the second

Kill. Maim. Destroy. Demolish. Rip limb to limb and crush to pulp with my bare, nail-less hands. Not a shred of guilt, not one gram of remorse or mercy.

Yeah, I think know what blind fury feels like.

It's why I can never really feel human, not to the full meaning of the word. Who could, when you know that that force, that that entity lives inside you, waiting to strike, just that one moment that you don't say no.

But I'm more human then they are. All those men. So many men. Because I can say no. I can say stop. I can keep my inhumanity inside, but they, they caused it. And they're worse than I am.

It was the kind of day I've learned to take pictures of and use them to smile. My friend, protegé, and apprentice in evil ways, Ritsu came over. That time of year again: new hair; and no one's better at DIY hair care than Ritsu. Streaks, bleach, dye, straightening, he's done it all. And now he's salvaged my fried and faded ginger. Using methods yet unknown to man, it's now doubled in volume, soft, shiny, curly, and a black so black it seems to suck the light out of every place I go.


We talked about everything, pretty much. Bellydancing. Cosplay. Teachers. Contacts. Piercings of every kind under the sun. Even touched on the subject of being the black sheep of our respective families. What it had done. The resounding, silent mantra "Hey, freak has a NAME!".

But it was a good day. The anger is for another time. Today is a day to make fun of photographers, talk about prom, possessed phone books, Masons.

Today we wanted to watch a movie before Ritsu had to go home. So we left. Walking from my home to the movie theater, not quite so far. We're pretty people with unusual tastes, what can I say? He's a beautiful bishie boy, and I'm to makeup as he is to hair, so naturally, we don't look like your average pair of friends walking to the movies.

But I wonder. Does looking different warrant dehumanization, anymore than being a woman does? Why must we be the ones to have to walk like that, folding their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren't there?

I'm a woman. It's nothing new to me. Any woman can tell you of the leers and the hisses and the catcalls. Of being degraded and stripped naked and subject on a daily basis, for no reason at all. No reason but being female and in public. And I find myself using the passive voice here, not because I think it's my fault, or any woman's fault, or because I think it's excusable for men to continuously do so.
It's not. It's despicable.

But I've become used to it, to a certain level. Like all women have. Maybe the killing rage that stirs in me isn't typical, even if it should be. But even though I am the only woman I know to act, to respond to their continuous attack, I know that it's not enough. And there are times when I feel that just shouting, just gesturing, just arguing will never be enough. I feel just like the ones who lower their heads and pretend that they didn't feel the catcalls rip into them.

But I deal. I deal with it the best I can. And I never stop arguing, shouting, and refusing to take it.

But it's one thing to live with it yourself, to refuse it/resist it walking with no one but your boxcutter. But today I was dehumanized again. Directly, of course, because that is what happens when a female dares show her face in a public space, but indirectly, to the point of nearly losing control, when they dehumanized one of my own right in front of me.

I've heard a lot of feminist arguments about whether men, as the dominant class, can ever awaken to the reality of the female experience. Today I saw just how much. And today I saw, again, just how different it is when they move to attack, not just you, but the loved ones around you.

Infuriating. The swarms of men. Boys. Teenagers. Their voices sound all the same to me now. And it hits me, over and over again, the same old questions, and all the variants that might apply.

Why are you doing this?
Why? What do you have to gain?
Would you say that to your sister, mother, daughter? Would you say that to your father, brother, son?
Does it hurt you, to see a girl and a boy walking along laughing at their own stupid jokes?
What is it about a short metal dyke and a skinny goth fag that you find so terrifying?
What is it in us that scares you to the point that you feel you must reassert your power through force, through intimidation, and through repeated verbal assault?
What have I done, or what has he done, that deserves this kind of response?
Isn't it enough that you control everything else?
Can't people like us even walk without fear of attack?

And maybe you know what it's like. Maybe you walk with your girlfriend, or your sister, or your niece. Or maybe you're just trying to spend an evening at the mall like everyone else does with your friend. Maybe you hear it directed at them, and feel it like it's the first time it happened to you. The powerlessness is deadening. No matter how much you retaliate, you can never stop it from starting. And like too many of us, I worry if Ritsu has learned to lower his head and pretend it isn't happening.

And it drives me nearly out of my mind that he will have to fight back. Because he shouldn't have to. Because he's a KID. A kid who's never hurt anyone, never been anything but kind to anyone, despite being dealt more bullshit than anyone should, especially at his age. And even though his merit is besides the point (no one deserves harassment and objectification, no matter who they are, how old they are, what they wear-the things everyone knows already), the fact that it is him, it is that sweet, wonderful, vibrant person who already has to handle too much- it hits a nerve. A war nerve.

Sometimes I really do lose everything. All sense of hope. All self-control. It's pretty well-documented here, I guess. But some people take it too far. And here I am using the passive voice again. And no, it isn't "some people". Some men. Homophobic, misogynistic men, which make up most of the lot, take it too far, and they do it every day.

So today I lost it. All that in my head, and some real winners decide it's a good idea to approach me when I'm alone and taunt me about him.

And why? I just don't get it. Why can't I hurt the people who violate me? Why is it forbidden to stab the stalkers, the harassers, the cat callers and the oglers?

I decided it was a good idea to hurl a cup full of ice cubes and some soda in their faces. Prudent? Most definitely not. Deserved? No. That didn't even come close.

I got away "safely", if you define safe as physically whole.

But I cannot stop thinking. That it was a huge, bright, public place, with hundreds of people, and armed security guards. And no straight woman, no queer girl or guy got out of there safely. Nor will they ever, I think. Not as long as the male gaze remains all-powerful. Male harassment the law that the world lives by.

As long as they can do that to me, to my friend, to every woman, LGBT, or anyone who is in the least bit different, we are not safe. I got out of there with my body unscathed, but the toll it took on my mind wasn't light. Those that are cowed into fear are as hurt as those who are provoked into losing control. And though I dare not presume to say it's on the same level, or that it can be simplified into some neat and tidy comparative package; I KNOW that it is real, just as real as any physical hurt. The lifelong sequels of dominance and intimidation hurt us just as badly as any battering. As any bashing.

And all at the same hands.

I really hate them all right now.

And childish though it may sound, I hate them more for spoiling my wonderful day. Because it was truly wonderful. Thanks for everything, Ritsu.

I'm off to make some voodoo dolls and whatnot.

Ed note: "Fag" and "dyke" are used, as always, in a satirical/reclamatory sense. Andrea Gibson reference is an Andrea Gibson reference. Just clearing that up.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Rantlet, the first

I promised a rant, but time sneaked up on me and before I knew it, it's 11 p.m., with physics yet to study and a shiny new Harry Potter book to read.

But one thing today has been bugging me too much to not spew out on the intrawebz like I usually do:

While showing some of Andrea Gibson's live recitals to my mother, who tends to appreciate art from a very educated and objective point of view, she made a comment: "This is pretty good. But why are you showing me lesbian poetry?"

I could give two hundred reasons as to why. But that isn't the point. What's making me see red here is the epithet. Why is it "lesbian poetry" and not poetry? Why does the author's sexual orientation make the art itself a completely isolated object? How come no one goes around calling poetry by heterosexual people "straight poetry"?

Why, according to her, are lesbians who make art not artists?

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Blue Blanket


there are days

when there is no way

not even a chance

that i'd dare for even a second
glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror
and she knows why

like i know why
only cries
when she feels like she's about to lose control

she knows how much control is worth
knows what a woman can lose
when her power to move

is taken away

by a grip so thick with hate
it could clip the wings of god
leave the next eight generations of your blood shaking

and tonight something inside me is breaking

my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of her pain
i could give every tear she's crying
a year---a name
and a face i'd forever erase from her mind if i could
just like she would
for me

or you

but how much closer to free would any of us be
if even a few of us forgot
what too many women in this world cannot
and i'm thinking

what the hell would you tell your daughter

your someday daughter
when you'd have to hold her beautiful face
to the beat up face of this place
that hasn't learned the meaning of


what would you tell your daughter
of the womb raped empty
the eyes swollen shut
the gut too frightened to hold food
the thousands upon thousands of bodies used and abused

it was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell

and she stopped believing in heaven
distrust became her law
fear her bible
the only chance of survival

don't trust any of them

bolt the doors to your home
iron gate your windows
walking to your car alone
get the keys in the lock
please please please please open
like already you can feel
that five fingered noose around your neck
two hundred pounds of hatred
digging graves into the sacred soil of your flesh

please please please please open
already you're choking for your breath

listening for the broken record of the defense
answer the question
answer the question
answer the question miss

why am i on trial for this

would you talk to your daughter
your sister your mother like this
i am generations of daughters sisters mothers
our bodies battlefields
war grounds
beneath the weapons of your brother's hands

do you know they've found land mines
in broken women's souls
black holes in the parts of their hearts
that once sang symphonies of creation
bright as the light on infinity's halo

she says
i remember the way love
used to glow like glitter on my skin
before he made his way in
now every touch feels like a sin
that could crucify medusa kali oshun mary
bury me in a blue blanket
so their god doesn't know i'm a girl
cut off my curls
i want peace when i'm dead

her friend knocks at the door
it's been three weeks
don't you think it's time you got out of bed


the ceiling fan still feels like his breath
i think i need just a couple more days of rest


bruises on her knees from praying to forget
she's heard stories of vietnam vets
who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs
she's wondering how many women are walking around this world
feeling the tingling of their amputated wings
remembering what it was to fly to sing

tonight she's not wondering
what she would tell her daughter

she knows what she would tell her daughter
she'd ask her
what gods do you believe in
i'll build you a temple of mirrors so you can see them!

pick the brightest star you've ever wished on
i'll show you the light in you
that made that wish come true!

tonight she's not asking
you what you would tell your daughter
she's life deep in the hell---the slaughter
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh
and she knows the war's not over
knows there's bleeding to come
knows she's far from the only woman or girl
trusting this world no more than the hands
trust rusted barbed wire

she was whole before that night
believed in heaven before that night
and she's not the only one

she knows she won't be the only one
she's not asking what you're gonna tell your daughter
she asking what you're gonna teach

your son

-Andrea Gibson

I promise I'll rant tomorrow.

Monday, July 9, 2007

From the desk of a soulless ginger

Regarding yesterday's incredibly depressing post: I don't take a word of it back. But I will admit, there's something glitchy about me. I will post that sort of thing from time to time. One might say it's a side effect of the oh-so-enjoyable chemical imbalances my big giant brain suffers from.

But never fear, invisible audience! I'll be right back to posting incoherent rants about male domination and random stupid things as soon as the muse (if there is one for those sort of things [Ed. note: there isn't]) decides to pay a visit!

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us

Thursday, July 5, 2007

I win!

So, to settle the ongoing debate amongst fans of Death Note on whether the character Mello is male or female (let's assume a binary stance on gender just for this post, mmkay?), I present my evidence:

I found Mello:

Mmmmmhmmm. Yep. That's right. Maddona is just Mello's stage name when SHE moonlights as a performer, because of course, with Mello's dramatic flair, it makes all makes sense now! Doesn't it? DOESN'T IT?!

Compare, my dear invisible audience:


Credits to the excellent Noelisa for the beautiful Mello drawing

Sunday, July 1, 2007

The chat logs, part the first

Composite Creature: I hate cabaret bellydancers sometimes.

Glow: Aha?


Glow: Sexbot? These boots are made for walking...

Composite Creature: One of these days these boots are gonna STOMP ALL OVER YOUUUU! [channeling Megadeth, circa 1985]

Glow: Actually these boots live a sedentary life. They like it under my desktop.

Composite Creature: My boots are for kicking patriarchal ass in the feminist revolution.

Glow: lol

Composite Creature: So yeah, they live under my computer.

Glow: LOL