Humanity's Humility.

The questions in which you do not want the answers you dare not ask, so my past remains a mystery and together we work. How easy to fall back into an old pattern of naively believing your promise of a lifetime free of suffering. Leather harness, your hair blue at the time, for a moment such a tempting source of pleasure leaves me seduced. You're nothing but the pit stop on the road trip of my life, the spot you pull over to piss at. No present real meaning, just something to feel nostalgic about later, just names, just memories, nothing profound. What defined and constituted your life a year ago now means nothing to you. Perhaps my biggest grievance against humanity is it's humility: individual's failure to admit just how interesting they truly are.

Believe in the person you wish to become.

Although capitalism demands people ought to love the holidays, they have a tendency to depress me. The narcissism, another year passing, slowly creeping towards the inevitability of death, consumerism, consumption, greed, debt, facades of happiness.

Perhaps my weariness stems from the way the year's conclusion asks me to take inventory of my life, the way it forces me to ask what I did well, or more haunting, what did I fail to achieve? How effectively did I apply ointment to my internal itch, the one that screams "JUST GO" in the silence that lays between life's songs? And, for failing to listen, am I naive or wise? What is the fault in being in a constant state of transition, always going from one place to another? No matter where you arrive, there you are. Am I running from locations or from the truth that is myself? More importantly, does it even matter?

My 2013 inventory exists as a cocktail of both under and overwhelmingness. New health. Old mistakes. Apologies. Amends. Falling in love. Falling out of love. I broke up with friends and built new ones on more stable foundations. I lost inspiration and found it tucked deep within the corners of locked drawers. Rewind. Repeat. Replay. As if fantastical relationships are excuses to not go out and live the life I dream of, love grew into a crutch. Maybe I should go, would go in a past life, but my happiness here in this moment is too sweet to abandon. I'm so in love, right here, precisely in this instance. Will a time in which I am not ever present itself? How could it, with such a sincere appreciation of the idiosyncrasies of the world? Such peculiarities leave me with a desire to kiss all the worry away, there, in that moment, of whatever it is that exists within my field of vision. Crying. Laughing. You for simply being you. The faults and strengths of each embodiment, every existence worthy of knowing and understanding. My ability to see humanity in such blatant awfulness and terror is what scares me most about myself. My fright is nothing compared to my fascination. I feel too much. I'm concerned and then I am left with a choice: feel nothing, turn numb, apathetic, disenchantment or feel nauseous from all the back-and-forth tugging, all the spinning in circles. So, I sit down on the floor, do nothing, catch my breath, but then, then, I rise. I fight because that is my only response. My sole survival tool.

Will 2014 be yet another year of so much nothing and yet so much everything? Of spinning in circles, overexcitement, a perpetual imbalance of whelm, of catching my breath fearfully, only to respond with an invented humanity, my addiction to change, and an unquenchable thirst for justice. Oh, most certainly. Most certainly.

I've Been Eating (For You.)

Wednesday, Saturday, Sunday, and all the moments in between in which you find something for the two of you to swallow, your night ends in a sickly entanglement with the body of a nine year old boy.

Passing with a smirk, a desperate cry for attention and approval, yearning, a scream for help, but I can not silence such discomfort. Long ago have I tried to invent some sort of humanity for you, but your behavior leaves you completely unlovable. So damaged you remain, boys pass you around like a basketball, as Lana's "Carmen" churns in the broken record of my mind.

Perhaps an effort for power or mere terror in its purest form that serves as your inspiration, I'm so lost as to why you think you've gained something. Should I congratulate you on your meaningless drunk sex with an asshole? What's it like to be so sexually insecure that the contents of your veins must be diluted with liquor before your party dress cascades to the floor? So when you blow a .27, do you still swallow?

Standing in front of a mirror, your true self emerges: a shallow puddle containing just enough water to dribble what it is you are:

vap·id
adjective 1. offering nothing that is stimulating or challenging.

Perhaps you've found your match.

A Quick Word on Why Blogspot Matters.

It was senior year, I was slowly shutting the door to high school and tugging open a new one. I found myself anxiously burdened with the personal crisis cliche when "What do I want to do with my life?" transitions from a thought exercise in English class to a practical question. Bored, alienated, and craving an outlet, I convinced myself that the best way to answer that treacherous question was to go public about who I've been and who I now was. Shortly after, TheOnyxClam went public. Going public forced me to stop worrying, take a stand, and have a freaking opinion.

My writing for TheOnyxClam, not my Blue Ribbon wanna-be prep school background, taught me how to develop interesting angles for posts, emphasized the extent of my passion for writing, and proved I could follow topics with consistency and do my research. Most importantly, however, my blog writing, has taught me I am capable. It serves as my first glimmer of hope that the sum would be greater than its parts when I merge my writing skill and personal experiences with my political beliefs.

TheOnyxClam is the first public online space where I truly felt my opinion mattered. Before, I'd been one of two young women, either guilt-stricken and whimpering "Aw, I'm not smart like those women. I don't know enough about this" or, angsty and cynical with statements like, "Who the fuck cares what I think?" TheOnyxClam proves that I do know and people do care. Learning that has been more influential than anything else in regards to me becoming whole again. My blog strengthened my self-efficiency, serving as a springboard for the acquisition of resilience and courage.

Complete Agency: The Essential Rightness of Complimenting Skills & Talents in Others.

I've received quite a wide array of commentary in response to a post I wrote this summer about the destructive nature of complimenting physical appearances (reread here: The Essential Wrongness of Complimenting Physical Beauty). However, the most alarming response was the claim that people's strengths and talents are inherent and thus as essentially wrong to compliment as outward beauty.

To argue that people are born with talents that cannot be altered negates free will. Yes, it is true that some individuals are naturally stronger in a particular skill set than others. However, our decisions to cultivate particular skills and align ourselves with set interests and/or identities indicate our honest personalities and true selves. All of these things are within our power and control to develop. These are the behaviors we should encourage in one another.

I devoted time and effort to develops skills which sought my interest, skills in which I placed value in obtaining. When I was younger, I was pretty decent at basketball, not because I have any aptitude for athletics, but because I trapped myself within endless practices and training camps. Despite a clumsy shaky hand and a bizarrely inaccurate understanding of perspective, I'm gaining some skill in the application of eye make-up, but only due to a extensive process of trial and error and a deliberate effort to learn (Much thanks to the mastermind, Corinne!) I'm a pretty decent writer, because I spend time with my nose burrowed deep within classic literature, choose academic classes that emphasize writing skills, and carry a journal with me everywhere I stomp. When I am complimented on these skills, I feel especially proud because I made a conscious effort to develop talents that were not naturally granted to me and someone has not only recognized my efforts, but appreciated them. Who doesn't want to be complimented for their choices in life?

It is a conscious decision to pick up a paintbrush or rolling pin. One chooses to strap on a pair of rollerblades or pull on a pair of boxing gloves. It is a deliberate effort to strum a guitar or place a soccer ball at your feet. This pursuit to acquire such developments and the dedication to cultivate new skills is worthy of esteem and encouragement. Although it is important to recognize privilege and why one may not choose or have the opportunity to cultivate particular talents, unlike physical beauty, there is nothing detrimental about encouraging people in the development of their talents. Human beings have autonomy and control what it is they pursue and the time and manner in which they dedicate to it. With beauty, comparison often leads to unrealistic expectations and distaste for one's own appearance, whereas someone else's success in a particular skill can inspire one to develop such a talent further.

As a long-haired able-bodied size six Caucasian woman, I do not consider myself an underrepresented form of beauty. I will always feel uncomfortable about language that perpetuates body image issues women face and feel accepting compliments about how my mum and pop's genes happened to blend together is unjustifiable. Although one's intentions for complimenting another individual regarding their outward beauty may not be to perpetuate such negative feelings and unobtainable concepts of beauty, that is exactly what such compliments do.

Additionally vital to note, there is a HUGE difference between complimenting one's physical beauty and admiring the beauty of aesthetics. Make-up artists, fashion designers/stylists/bloggers, hairdressers/stylists, nail technicians, tattoo artists, and the like, are artists who learn to perfect their creative genius into skill from internships, apprenticeships, schools, books, family, friends, and lots and lots of practice. One's body is a blank canvas and how they choose to decorate it is a expression of their character. There's a difference between admiring one's skill in styling and praising their figure/facial structure.

May their souls rest easy now that lynching is frowned upon and we've moved on to the electric chair.

This whole notion that "punishment" soothes crime is illogical and remains unsupported. Actually, Sweden recently shut down four prisons as the nation's focus on rehabilitation has left the number of inmates plummeting. After announcing plans to shut down eight prisons in 2009 (for reasons similar to Sweden), The Netherlands added eleven prisons to that list in June of this year. Norway, home to Europe's prison with the lowest reoffending rate offers inmates education and vocational skill programs. The prison also utilizes a pod community system to combat the criminal prison subcultures that develop as a result of the traditional wing and landing model. Not to mention, Norway has neither the death penalty nor a life sentence (prisoners face a maximum of 21 years behind bars).

Any crime that's not a result of an unjust law (examples including everything from the sexist nature of many states public indecency laws to the Christian undertones of our nations sex work regulations to the xenophobic attitudes that dictate our immigration policies) results from economic inequity and/or mental illness. Economic inequity can be defined as need, rather real or perceived, founded on cultural cues that praise wealth while simultaneously making it more difficult for individuals to achieve upward mobility in any form. Quite maddening really.

Imprisonment and the death penalty solve neither mental illness or economic inequity. When society's peoples are committing crimes, our society needs to ask why. When the cause is economic, we can not blame individuals who are victim of an unjust social structure for their response to such injustice. Instead, blame the society that establishes and allows for these conditions, working from there to redistribute wealth and restructure our economy. Such crimes beg us to give attention to our nation's ever increasing income gap and rampant poverty rates and to examine how such truths leave individuals to believe that criminal activity is their most profitable path in achieving a comfortable lifestyle.

In the case of mental illness, that is excessive greed and/or psycho/sociopathic tendencies, imprisonment or the death penalty are far from rational responses. Although the ways we which we commonly categorize and define various mental illnesses are flawed and classist, the desire to harm others or the desire to fulfill one's own desires to the extent that it harms other individuals indicates something missing in terms of one's empathy and suggests that this lack of empathy is uncontrollable.

Medical professionals have the responsibility to address and/or treat such illnesses. It is not the job of police officers, judges, policy makers, etc., etc. That's not to say these individuals who are a threat to other's wellbeing and safety should remain in mainstream society, but their own lack of empathy does not grant us permission to abandon our own empathy. We who do not suffer from such mental health matters do have control over our own emotions and desires. Thus, we ought to act like it by providing safe and just living environments for individuals who do not share our luxury. It is our responsibility to create spaces, with the end goal being self-growth, where individuals can receive psychological evaluation. How hypocritical of us to look at these criminals in disgust, claiming we simply can not both be human, only to stow them away in inhuman facilities with inhuman conditions? Even if these facilities exist as the permanent homes for particular individuals, they must address the fact that these persons are people and ought to be treated as such. If the environments in which mentally ill criminals were consistent in their treatment, they could potentially teach us more about these types of behaviors and in turn, we could learn how to take preventative steps to reduce crime in the future.

Overall, the death penalty does not deter future criminal activity. Individuals who commit heinous crimes are not discouraged with the threat of ultimately receiving the death penalty, and those who do receive it, were never going to live in mainstream society again. Therefore, the death penalty does nothing to help solve the greater issue of crime as a whole. Not to mention, judicial systems are strongly biased and full of prejudice. People will be wrongfully convicted. Innocent people will fall victim to the death penalty.

When I find myself arguing my beliefs with some stubborn pain-in-the-ass, I resort to this statement: "Ghandi once said, 'An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.' You're not smarter than Ghandi, so shut up."

Somewhere between Codie Young and Robyn Lawley.

Sans platforms, I stand a slight sliver over 5'7.

I have never been called "overweight," "heavy" or "fat." However, with the exception of women who identify as plus-size and mistake women as belonging to one of two ideals, the last time anyone referred to me as "thin," "slim," or "skinny" I was prepubescent.

I am a medium-sized woman.

Unless I sit in the slumped pore posture that so rightfully characterizes my generation, my pudge remains largely unnoticeable. The way opaque tights showcase their strength and muscularity, the height they bring to my frame, even the simple mobility they allow me, my legs remain my favorite part of my body. My hips are more than suitable for childbearing and my ass is thick. Numerous lingerie store clerks claim I ought to be wearing a 32DD, which makes me feel slightly sexy, slightly cartoonish, slightly fearful of what I'm going to look like while nursing.

My closet is home to small, medium, and large size tags. Every couple weeks, I consort my body into a size 2 hand-me-down skirt because it is grunge gold, but even knowing these facts about my wardrobe, if a perfect dress presented itself to me that was either smaller or larger than my normal size 6, having convinced myself that I'd either suffocate or drown in it, I would hesitate to even try it on. I find skinny jeans unflattering and unappealing in all their stretchiness.

There are pockets of my body that move and sway during sex, and sometimes, my ass makes a clapping noise against my lover's thighs. If I put my legs straight into the air, my stomach pudge becomes slightly more noticeable. Although I doubt they knew it at the time, I am fairly certain I've slept with a man that weighs less than I.

Curvy used to mean well endowed, a full bottom, a narrow waistline (think Marilyn Monroe), but recently, fat activists have claimed the word as their own. This is problematic, because a woman may have a curvaceous body type, but not be a plus-sized woman. A woman may be a plus-sized woman, but still comfortably wear training bras and have a straight up and down silhouette. See, this redefinition of "curvy" has left many women marginalized and ignored, as this new meaning simply does not accurately fit many of the women's bodies it has grown to supposedly describe.

I am Kat Dennings before Hollywood ate a good twenty pounds of her.

I am a medium-sized woman. A sexy, medium-sized woman. I have not experienced the discrimination and hate that overweight women in my society often experience on the daily, but I do feel the repercussions of not being a size 2, or looking like the women in (most) advertisements.

So, fellow medium-sized women, you all are hot as hell, but we need to unite and start an acceptance movement for women of our type. We need a category, a label if you will, that accurately describes both how we look and how we feel about our bodies. We deserve to be marketed to, thus our faces and our bodies need to be represented in the media and models between size 2 (runway) and size 12 (plus-size) must exist.

Please and thank you,

Sarah

It's not the subject matter, but the formation in which the letters march that'll make you cringe.

There is nothing more I want than an unsevered hymen and unexplored frame, but you can not grant me such a rebirth. You are neither my God, nor my creator. But instead, you offer me a pinch and a prick, so I can forget for an hour or two, when and why, who and how, what exactly was it I so eloquently wished for, spent decades blowing birthday candles out towards in hopes of obtaining? Can't remember for the world is such a pretty place behind those dope tinted glasses. It was free, so I took all I could. Slice after slice of lost hope I gorge myself on, until my whole existence blurs into a lullaby of calm numbness. Can we filter this experience, grind it into a fine sand until a murmured steady stillness clenches my spine?

Does a silly sloppy label even exist for such an endeavor? I imagine myself with a swollen stomach, my entire reality nothing more than something to be stamped down into the scrapbook of a future generation. I will never come to you with a teary white damp face and knobby broken knees nor will your arms ever be stuffed with the softness of young flesh or your nose filled with such a sweet innocence, but as a lie down for the final time, neither will mine.

So now, I leave you to choke within the cocoon of your own creation.

Self Reflection in True Blue Middle Class Fashion.

In high school, I started going to a lot of punk shows in the Cleveland area. They were always held in one of three holes in the wall located in the abandoned forgotten areas of downtown. That’s what’s special about Cleveland; it leaves behind ruins and spreads outward and onward like a plague. Strip malls and strip joints. Chain-link fences that lead to series of chain stores. My best friend played the guitar in true brute fashion and I was beginning to devote my life to all the movements so closely associated with punk rock. So together, along with all the other attendees, we acknowledged that music is better when played faster, louder, more aggressive, and more passionate.

The majority of the crowd was composed of bored middle class young people drawn together by a common understanding that the world is far from the way it should be. However, the promise of college and a stable income didn’t steal us all away, and when you went to a show, you could always find a handful of true blue die-hards. The rest of us? We would grow up to vote Democratic, our registered so-called loyalty to the Peace and Freedom Party leftover from idealism at the age of eighteen as lingering notions of social equality guilt us into pitiful charity donations. The beauty of the whole punk movement, however, is the few that never make that leap. Their honest and sincere work ethic, the extent of their commitment and devotion, their punk squats and communes. They had made it, as we all grabbed our coats, sold out, and went home.

I remember when one of these die-hards kissed my mouth and took me out for coffee the following day. He was outstanding in his audacity, confusing in his perfect blend of both adorable cuteness and chiseled sexiness, hilarious in his rebellion. Evan was fast, sharp-witted, and spoke with a sword of a tongue. As we drove around in his wrecked Chrsyler always one sharp breath away from complete collapse, he made me feel gross and guilty. Our outings concluded in altercations with other small minded locals of my small town. I remember him yelling, “Burn the rich for warmth!” Laughing and running clumsily in my thick platforms, I imagined that line as a tried and true authentic punk phrase. Regardless, it stuck with me. Something about making a use out of useless people (not that all the rich are useless, but you get my point) and consuming the people who consume too much made perfect sense to me.

Now, it dawns on me that I have never again heard anyone utter that phrase, nor have I seen it tagged beneath a bridge or aside a building. I know of no Anarcho-syndicalists that upon a moment of triumph, shouted it in the greedy face of their boss and I have never seen it scrawled in white-out on the back of a leather jacket amongst handmade patches and crass pins. I have never heard it anywhere except the sincere in-it-to-win-it mouth of that dirty die-hard.

Today, as I sit curled up in my private liberal arts school dorm room, my Jeffrey Campbell boots that cost about the same price as a Georgian minimum wage worker would earn in a week glaring at me, a plastic bank card that knows the extent of my Tazo tea addiction happily residing in my Urban Outfitters wallet, I am a sell out. My eccentric donation record, a callback to my punk roots, cannot justify my lifestyle. Abolish rape culture, construct shelters for runaways, legalize gay, none of which hinder my consumption. Just like my hometown’s landscape, my consumption is a plague upon the world. In stereotypical middle-class fashion, my ability to seek new revelations upon looking back at my youth indicates a freshly heightened ego. All the sitting and thinking, sitting and writing, in the world cannot remedy the fact that I have grown old and comfortable, and all because I was afraid.

Don't Tell Me To Smile.

Piles of men who harass women on the daily justify their actions with claims that their intent is to simply compliment such women. Okay, why then, do men rarely "compliment" women accompanied by other men, and most commonly "compliment" women traveling alone? And why then, if this behavior is as innocuous as a compliment, do men grow angry when another man "compliments" his female significant other when she walks alone and/or accompanied by him?

The fundamental purpose of a compliment is to acknowledge your appreciation and to flatter someone else; brighten their day a little. So, if these men are attempting to acknowledge their appreciation or provoke flattery, why do they fly away in their cars, or turn the corner, as soon as they spit out their so-called compliments? Aren't such speedy runaways halting the very purpose of a compliment by disallowing the complimenter from viewing the reaction of the one complimented? Street harassers have no intention to be complimentary, they harass women to exert their power that, as a man, they have the right to publicly evaluate a stranger, as long as such stranger is female, and they may even please their friends and provide entertainment along the way.

So, what's the best way to respond to street harassment? As tempting as it is to respond with a middle finger and a big ol' "Fuck you douchebag!" such responses only encourage hostility and leave the perpetrators entertained. Instead, assume ignorance is to blame and give the man in question the benefit of the doubt. Then, educate him on why his behavior makes women feel uncomfortable. You may try something like "From early ages, women deal with men on the street yelling, staring, even following them. I realize you may not have any harmful intentions, or may be trying to be complimentary, but it makes many women feel unsafe, targeted, or victimized. It would be great if you could stop making women feel this way."

Sure, there are many men out there who are just 100% beyond repair skeeve-balls, who may even use this information as momentum (hey, my actions have the power to make others feel less than and that makes me feel powerful READ:BULLY), most of the men will respond with apologies, and even embarrassment. See, most men have no desire to be horrible to women. Sadly, they're victims of a patriarchal society that teaches women exist solely for male entertainment. In affect, men fail to comprehend why women don't want to be perceived and treated as such. Again, most men do not have the same experiences as the women do with street harassment. Rather a muffled catcall from a pick-up truck, or a "Suck my dick bitch" accompanied by some crotch-grabbing, most men never have these experiences. Thus, as man cannot comprehend the female experience within a patriarchal society, man struggles to understand the offensive nature of his unwanted attention and conversation or why women aren't flattered by his public catcalls.

This is exactly the reason why what Tatyana Fazlalizadeh is doing is so kick-ass revolutionary. Her street art project, "Stop Telling Women to Smile" provides a counter-voice to street harassment precisely where the harassment occurs, the streets. Tatyana's images work so well because they manage to be informative, yet straight-to-the-point and easy to digest (meaning one can understand their message regardless of age, race, ethnicity, education, or class). Where Fazlalizadeh's work differs from her peers is in that it is displayed in the same environment as the "enemy" hunts his prey. Instead of being presented as an academic theory to a limited demographic of individuals within a stuffy college classroom, the directness of her work has the power to honestly change how men treat women.

Fazlalizadeh's website (http://stoptellingwomentosmile.com/) mentions a handful of our nation's biggest cities that she plans to attack using the money she raised through Kickstarter. However, we all know street harassment happens in our hometowns (rather big city or rural townships), so why don't we spread Fazlalizadeh's message, by either printing out her project's portraits via her website, or creating our own from either our own experiences, or from the experiences of the women we love and care for, and utilize public space putting them around our hometowns wherever street harassment takes place. Get your friends, both female and male, involved. Why do they think street harassers do what they do? How do your male friends and female friends experiences with street harassment differ? Do the experiences of your friends differ due to race, class, and/or sexual orientation/identity?

Intuition with a side of sap.

You ask, "Do you want to?" and the entirety of my being blisters in a pulsating no. Still, with a ticket burrowed deep within your pocket, entry has flourished into such a tangled expectation. Take a moment and I’ll bring my knees to meet once more, as I swallow this memory like the toxic cum of your existence.

No excitement, you can't even look at me, as the only thing that builds inside me are the feelings I had so conveniently convinced myself I had cast aside alongside with broken mirrors and clogged syringes.

Stirring until I melt into complete self-hatred, I find sex distilled into something I do for you. Do for you? Twist and churn, I'm inside out, stripped, pulped, naked and stark because tell me, what exactly, have you done for me? So you don't know that you are one, but you probably wouldn't care. You won't even remember me. No, not even at all.

So I muzzle some sickly phoniness into your ear, in an attempt to hurry this along. We migrate from such different worlds, and although storybooks and pop songs have taught me otherwise, where I come from such acts require basic levels of care. How naive of I to believe such nonsense, for long ago have I graduated from wearing my heart on my sleeve. Unstitching that abstraction, and upon crushing that damned organ into a fine powder, it now neatly resides within each and every one of my pores.

When you leave me, I am left emptier than before because sex doesn't soothe the orphaned child searching for mama nor does it quiet the gun in a soldier's hand, or loosen his grip around his woman's throat. Affection, adoration, and other nine letter words I am certain you are not capable of feigning.

How daring to sashay into my sphere only to remind me that the sole reason I chose to exist is precisely the reason it's all jiggled and jangled. You want to talk about fairness? Fine. But erase that steady smirk for I am not some vase in which you manipulated and poured yourself into, because my dear, don't you think every empty glass is just waiting to be filled?

That's why they call it a one night stand for to do what we do, do what we did, for more than a night, is nothing but masochistic, but fear not for you shouldn't be surprised. You are well read and suitably versed in my self-destructive patterns. Silence. Let us again satisfy the bastard with talks of fairness and feelings.

Ask and I shall answer quite honestly, I didn’t forget, just couldn’t find the time to care. Kiss me, for ‘tis something to feel nostalgic about later. With a blackened soul doctors claim they simply cannot cure, my fingers spun around the knob as you instead filled my cup with a bitter series of justifications. Hand me a paintbrush, and I’ll modge-podge myself into a series of oblivion. Darling, won’t you do the honors? Glue me with labels. Eventually the wind too has to sleep, and how sad it is to watch a lover fall victim to a superior ship.

I’m just another stock character in the plot you call life.

Pride & other less important reasons I have the privilege of calling myself a feminist.

Feminism does not resonate with me the same way it does with one of my colored fellow feminist sisters living on government assistance or a single mother of four, nor does feminism affect my daily life the same way it affects a homosexual feminist man’s daily life. My ancestors, the feminists of the second wave, cannot define my feminism for they do not fully comprehend the demands of my time. The definition of what it means to be a feminist varies by social-economic class, race, sexual orientation, and generation, however we, as feminists, are bond together by a common goal to end exploitation, prejudice, and oppression that occurs as a result of one’s sexual and/or gender identity and/or orientation; my desire to redefine the word “feminist” itself, my belief of gender as an essential aspect of one’s human identity, and the extent to which feminism plays a role in my daily life allow me to rightfully credit myself as a feminist.

Ani DiFranco once said, “You are either a feminist or a sexist/misogynist. There is no box marked ‘other.’” It is both ignorant and misogynistic to not identify as a feminist.  We must not allow bigots, like Rush Limbaugh, with their sexist definitions of feminism as a movement “established to allow unattractive women easier access to the mainstream” or the poisoned and “patriarchal mass media” the privilege of influencing what modern society considers feminism to stand for and consist of (hooks 1).

By declaring oneself a feminist, and then leading a positive, successful, and progressive life, one accomplishes two things. First, identification as a feminist implies that feminism is something one should desire to belong to and be proud to declare, instead of something to be ashamed of or something to be avoided. Secondly, by leading a positive, successful, and progressive life, one continues to dismantle the stereotype that feminists are somehow nothing more than hostile combat-boot-wearing misandrists, but instead highlight the reality that feminists are people of all religious beliefs, racial backgrounds, sexual identities, and genders, linked together by their goal to “end sexism, sexist exploitation, and oppression” (hooks 1). It is we real self-proclaimed feminists who get to decide what feminism means to us and the societies in which we live, we, who share the responsibility of taking back the word and educating the public about how feminists think and live.

Furthermore, when we identify with a particular political party or as partaking in a particular dietary lifestyle, we make a conscious decision that this is part of who we are as people. Just as political parties and dietary lifestyles are conscious choices we make, so too is identifying with or without a particular gender. Thus, as gender is a choice, it should exist as a conscious and empowering aspect of our identity. This focus on the importance of gender and how humanity uses it both to understand themselves and as a means of socialization is common debate within the feminist movement.

            Lastly, my LGBTQ+ and end rape culture activism, together with my devotion to writing a blog focusing on feminist news and women’s rights issues, further emphasize my identity as a feminist. As a senior in high school, I founded my high school’s first Gay Straight Alliance, and spent much time focused on LGBTQ+ activism.  Additionally, I have participated in Cleveland’s annual SlutWalk protests, a demonstration with the goal of ending rape culture.  That is not to say that showing up to a weekly club meeting, or simply walking in a march makes one a feminist. Neither does staying current with global news and popular culture and writing opinion pieces in response. I only use these examples to show how feminism exists in my daily life and how feminism significantly affects how I chose to spend my time. These three examples highlight how feminist objectives are a profound passion of mine, as essential as water to my very functioning and well-being.

Overall, my belief for the advancement of women, men, transgenders, intersexuals, and all those who do not identify, to no longer be oppressed and restricted due to what lies between their legs, or more simply put, their sex, allows me to label myself a feminist. The contents of the essays I chose to read, and the blog posts I write, along with my LGBTQ+ and end rape culture activism, constitute my feminism, but must importantly, my pride in my identity, as a Caucasian, middle class, bisexual woman, make me a proud feminist.

Works Cited

Cochrane, Kira. "'I'm considering a Revolution'" The Guardian. The Guardian, 9 Oct.

2007. Web. 02 Sept. 2013.

Hooks, Bell. "Feminist Politics: Where We Stand." Feminism Is for Everybody:

Passionate Politics. Cambridge: South End, 2000. 1-6. Print.

Limbaugh, Rush. "Study Confirms Undeniable Truth of Life #24." Rush Limbaugh.

Premiere Radio Networks, 16 Apr. 2012. Web. 02 Sept. 2013.

Miley's VMA performance, and how yet again, white feminism has completely ignored our sisters of color.

Perhaps I'm a little late in contributing my commentary regarding Miley Cyrus' Sunday, August 25th Video Music Awards (VMAs) performance, but upon reading article upon article in response to her actions and overhearing the news circulating college classrooms and dormitories, I have been left revolted and disappointed. Allow me to tell you why.

Somehow, not surprisingly, in our discussion of Miley's right to explore her sexuality, and the slut-shaming young Miley's performance has aroused, we have silenced the discussion of the racist nature of her performance. Instead of discussing the tightness of her apparel, or how stupid her hair looked, can we discuss her use of people as literal props (her back-up dancers, all black, wore Teddy bear costumes), or the fact that Miley's newfound sexuality can only emerge in the presence of black female bodies? How about the fact that her performance perpetuates the notion that black women are somehow inherently more sexual than their Caucasian counterparts; hyper-sexual, animalistic. Let us discuss the fact that her performance mimicked aspects of blackface minstrel shows? Not a single black person won an award last night, yet Miley mimics black culture and music all she wants.

As feminist media is saturated with financially stable white women, instead of discussing these issues, they have instead written piece upon piece about slut shaming. Now, don't get me wrong. Slut shaming is an important issue that deserves attention, but what I'm so disgusted by is the fact that the mainstream feminist media, has successfully ignored the racial implications of Miley's performance.

From slapping her dancer's ass, to her implication of rimming, Miley has turned black women's bodies into a good, a product to be devalued, sold and traded for entertainment purposes. Her only interaction with any of her dancers was her repeated slapping of one bootilicious black woman's ass, thus implying that a colored woman's only worth is the extent to with she can be sexualized, because ya'know what else does an African American woman have to add to a VMA performance besides her voluptuous behind?

Additionally troublesome, Miley's explicit attempts to belong within black culture, and then running off and performing in the manner in which she did, suggests that black culture is all the same, or simply put, that all black people twerk and listen to a similar musical genre. Miley, there is much more to being black than a style of sexualized dancing. Note how Miley declared her desire for a "black sound," but did not explore Afrofuturism, or the blues, or jazz, she headed straight for an urban sound. Urban music is not the entirety of black culture, and it does not resonate with the entirety of an entire group of people. You want a more urban sound for your next album? Fantastic. Don't squeeze all African Americans into one generalized genre in the process.

I have heard two major defenses regarding Miley's performance, each equally problematic. First, that Miley's only twenty, and therefore, "just a kid," that we're all being too hard on the poor girl. But the thing is, Miley isn't just a kid. She's a multimillionaire teeny-bopper phenomenon well aware of her influence and she knows exactly what she's doing. Just a kid? No. She has been quoted saying her new album has "a black sound." Her attempt to further her career and break free from her good girl image by submerging into traditionally black aesthetics is clear. Secondly, I have heard journalists defend Miley by stating her performance was just an attempt to explore her newfound sexuality. Okay, that defense is so troublesome it stings. That implies that in order to be sexual and express one's sexual being you need black bodies. This suggests that to be sexual is to be black, and to be black is to be sexual.

So Miley, you want to be down with colored folk? Then you need to get your fucking shit together and start treating them like actual human beings, not objects to be broken down into sexualized bits and pieces. Secondly, crack open some history books and get yourself a tutor, because you clearly know nothing about the culture in which you demand to borrow from and so desperately wish to belong. You can celebrate Black culture without perpetuating all the stereotypes and without contributing to the rhetoric that black women's bodies aren't their own.

I'm not saying we can't borrow aspects from cultures that are not our own. That'd be ridiculous and regressive, but when you borrow something, you treat it with care, you know it's history and significance. You do not fling it on and off and get rewarded with praise and career advancements in response. African Americans, Native Americans, the LGBT community, etc, etc, do not have the privilege of taking that identity on and off, thus if you are to borrow from such a culture, you are to respect such culture. We must all work towards a borrowing that empowers and celebrates, not isolates and offends. When we borrow from another culture, we must not put it through our culture's individual filter, as Miley did with black culture.

On a lighter note, I bet Miley's little latex panties gave her a mad yeast infection...that shit's unbreathable.

To be woman.

To be woman is to exist within the grasp of a culture in which from birth your body is so intimately tied to your value as an individual that regardless of the encouragement Mama and Papa bestowed on you, or the immeasurable positivity and support your role model kick-ass feminist teacher poured atop your developing mind, or the overwhelming self-confidence blossoming within your soul, you are perpetually bombarded, from all angles, with the devilish reminder that your body defines your entire existence.  A reminder that as a female, you are burdened with the tangible weight of the male gaze. Not only from your male peers, but from the people you are told to trust and respect, rather the father of your best friend, your history teacher, or your soccer coach. From childhood on you are forced to swallow a pill, the pill of inescapable self-consciousness that your body contains the potential for both danger and shame, and that it is your responsibility to disguise it, hide it, in a way unoffensive, unenticing to the outside world. 

So tangible are the female bodily conduct rules they need not be verbalized. The walk to the principal's office for the sliver of belly that reveals itself when you raise your hand in Spanish class, or the youth group leader's declaration that the unintentional sight of a blossoming woman's cleavage is to blame for men's fall from grace. You learn that your body stands as a center of public debate, open for everyone's opinions, from your male lab partner declaring your jeans make your ass look fine, to the male-dominated congress dictating the parameters of "legitimate" rape.

To be woman is to live within a woman's body, held to a set of paradoxical standards that leave you to consistently doubt your instincts, and hurdle over dozens of truths in pursuit of a unattainable perfection.

To be man, true, honest man, is to admit you can not comprehend what is it to be woman.

One More Time with Feeling.

Photographs of a girl, gaunt yet radiant, hang all along the wall. Like weeds in a garden, these images have a habit of appearing out of nowhere. Found tucked between folds of clothing or glued to the pages of abandoned journal entries, all depict the same frail girl: exposed ribs, collarbone daringly bare. Each portrait a constant reminder of a life I fear I can never return to. A reminder that at one moment, I was as pretty as a flower.

Drift off into a steady ponder, is love restricted to that between two souls? Is there some internal love bar within us all dictating the maximum amount of love we can offer? Is caring for one person taking away your ability to care for another? I find that rather selfish.

Awaken from this daydream with the gentle settling of pills atop your palm. With a demeaning smile, he promises to make my brain behave. I can't even function in this world without some alteration. Hah, pills, like that'll make me forget.

All desire is gone, but he stole all my razors, and the garage door doesn't shut. I'm such an animal, but his gaze acts as a cage. So nauseas, dry heaving for years, and to think, Tuesday I can finally, finally, throw it all up and admit love you forever not maybe.

Pure Misogyny in a Dollar Store Disguise.

Personally, I find one of the most hauntingly sick images of misogyny to be the women who proudly proclaim they aren't like most women and don't like/get along with other women. Not only do statements like this place women into a mass generalization of sameness, but it implies as a sex we are something negative (as in, if we were something valued, why would a woman, someone of our own kind, want to distance herself from identifying with us?). What do statements like that even mean? Some women watch NFL on Sundays, some go shopping with their children, some of us kiss men, some of us kiss women, some of us wear eyeliner, some of don't shave a single hair on our bodies. One can not rightfully claim that she does not act like a woman because women do not adhere to some defined list of actions and behaviors.

These women are not rare anomalies. They are perpetrators of misogyny and causalities to the vast destruction of preconceived gender norms. 

I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend.

When men proclaim that their ex-girlfriend was "crazy" or "psycho" what they oftentimes ought to be saying is that the woman had emotional, mental, or physical needs he was either unprepared or unwilling to grant her. Perhaps she cried when he touched her a certain way, or got a little paranoid eating junk food in front of him, or always liked to know when he was on his way home from his dangerous job in a city known for its gang activity. Maybe she preferred kisses and cuddles over sex, maybe the thought of taking a shower alone sans shower sex seemed foreign to her. Regardless, the fact that a woman has musts outside of some sick undemanding agreement concocted by some jerk of a man, does not make a woman "crazy" or "psycho." It makes her a human being, and part of that human package includes emotions, life experience, and flaws. On the other hand, defining any behavior inconvenient to him as insane does make a man a complete imbecile.

To all the women who fancy themselves so stable, so ideal, so unlike that dreaded ex your partner speaks of, you're not so special. For when a man prefaces your worthiness with statements like "Most women are crazy/psychotic, but..." what they are saying is that they have already placed the entirety of womankind into a generalized category of insanity. You are no exception for you too will do something outside of his pleasant agreement. You too will be cast aside as mad.

This is beauty.

Within an isolated pond, beryl algae emerges like a mother tortoise from her shell as the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. The honesty of wilting flower, her dying children: She doesn't mind that yes, we will remember her like this, not the graceful delight she once was. Or perhaps, the sole flaw in your award winning tomato garden, a stubborn weed, that just won't go away, no matter how hard you stab, regardless of the basin of Swedish fertilizer pooling at it's feet

What is beauty?

Guilt churns like Amish butter atop your molars leaving you jumpy with each ring of the telephone.
Wet, his skin glows with a majestic luster from the constant stream of creativity seeping from his pores.
The chatter of children's teeth and cascades of snow serve as the only trophy for the aggressive weather.
Proclaiming her strength, a steady stream of sweat that belongs to anyone but herself, runs across the overexposed spine of a newly formed warrior. Years later, she stands bare and vulnerable, waves of hair crash upon the ocean that is her back, presenting herself to you, she offers an honest invitation to open the door and forever change her.

What is beauty?

Overly excited, all too eager, you've felt the feeling before, cherries ooze out of the top of a pie crust.
Whereas a utopia flourishes between the lips of two lovers you are left to believe that upon taking a hammer to your skull, all your ideas and fantasies would pour right out, purer and cleaner than water. No blood, no science, no worries. Across town, in his porcelain padded room he closes his eyes, a cloudy image forms between his bitter eye and its lid. Her memory is fading, but her radiance remains like the eternity of two mirrors facing each other.

Hark! Could it be? 

Beauty.

I am looking at you.

I am looking at you who 

snickers at the Subway employee, who happens to be female, as she makes your sandwich

in your Two in the Shirt (T.I.T.S) brand t-shirt.

You, the white teen who greets his friends with the N-word

only to proudly chant "I raped you, faggot" upon winning a series of video games to dehumanize your heterosexual buddies

who's eHarmony profile declares him a "quality guy."

He's just grown tired of being "friend-zoned," because sexless relationships with women are just oh so meaningless.

To all the men who bubbled in yes to the following questions

Are women obligated to shave their legs?

Do some women asked to be raped?

Is it okay to have sexual intercourse with a woman under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol?

Would you "force a women" into having sex with you?

I am looking at you.

To every man who responds to the fact that one third of the planet's female population will be raped in her lifetime by declaring that the statistics are mere lies, and the wage gap a myth.

To the men who believe the "pimpwalk" was a clever response to Slutwalk, a protest aimed at deconstructing victim blaming.

To the men who declare rape "surprise sex."

To all those who equate believing in the value of your gender to invading Poland by dismissing all self-proclaimed feminists as "feminazis"

To all the men who have banded together to play the collective role of the devil's advocate in response to a young woman's Facebook status concerning domestic violence

To every boy

guy

man

who has dismissed feminism because it "doesn't involve him"

To every boy 

guy 

man

who has ever

beaten

raped

dehumanized

a girl

gal

woman

To every male who justifies his behavior by declaring it's all just a joke, or that he isn't like that dude

To every boy

guy 

man

who is genuinely confused why feminists are 

angered 

upset

enraged

you're part of a culture

that perpetually chokes us 

girls

gals

women

but tells us 

to just breathe.

How it feels to be her.

Sorrowful, self-loathing, suicidal lyrics swirl together like the soy protein myths she slurps on weekends, creating the lengthiest most extravagant mix-tape known to this realm. Scratched with the most horrifyingly painful migraine, they weigh down the brain people repeatedly try to convince her exists.

Jointly, they grow frightened inside their jail-like rooms as the predictability of the surrounding faces begins to suffocate them. She keeps hoping a new one will appear among them, but it is yet to emerge, just a dreary cascade of the same regressive faces bonded with the same regressive beliefs.

Running for a moribund organization, she finds her sprints cluttered with visions of weed killers and fertilizers. Wilting petals, participants die off on this struggling flower of a dictatorship. Shackles at her feet, she wonders can they tell, can anybody tell? This weight, this memory, has built a brick wall around a heavily charred exterior. Chisel away, but the mortar remains like volcanic ash: gray, wet, deadly.

Her showers are hot and not always alone as memories and regret enter the crime scene, regardless of the fact that the lock remains. Like school children at recess, they taunt her as she stands shivering in her most vulnerable state. As if an instant replay, the pictures they paint of that summer day are so vivid, she can feel that rat in the faded blue t-shirt. A blaring I-pod hides screams of terror, but only impregnates fear. No matter how hard she scrubs she never comes clean. He tells her she's dirty and she's yet to prove him wrong.

Afternoon churns like Amish butter into evening as she lays in something familiarly burning. The hands of a monster who doesn't glue her with labels when crimson drips like a broken faucet from the rivers of her scarcely dressed body or pours from the ocean of my mouth draped about her like curtains.

So you tell me, what is life without a steady stream of death's kisses?

The Essential Wrongness of Complimenting Physical Beauty.

Yes, there is something essentially wrong about complimenting another woman on her physical appearance. If you're already flailing about in disagreement, let's take a look at a few of the most heavily trafficked social media sites. If there's nothing damaging about females praising each other's physical appearance, why then, are scores of young girls reblogging the same images of frighteningly skinny women and saying "I wish I looked like this!" or why is it that the young women with the most "likes" or "Omg! You're so pretty!" comments on Facebook commonly feature a similar facial structure, body type, and ethnicity? Not to mention, phrases like "I'll be happy when I'm skinny" or "I need to stop eating." that appear all over young women's twitter accounts.

Firstly, society's definition of physical beauty is far more exclusive than it is inclusive. With the majority of women left out of this narrow ideal, a cycle of pursuing unobtainable goals, and the failure that follows such unrealistic desires traps many women into a series of low-self esteem, lack of self-confidence, and even self-hate. Compliments on the basis of outward physical beauty place a heightened importance on physical appearance. If it is the women who happen to fit into this narrow perception of beauty that are repeatedly praised and admired, where does that leave all the women who don’t adhere to this ideal, rather it be due to size, race, sexual identity, etc., etc. Not only are these women not seen as beautiful, but they are not seen as something society has deemed of utmost significance.

Women’s complimenting other women on their looks perpetuates a notion of women as objects of beauty designed to satisfy a male-dominated culture. When beauty is for what women receive acknowledgement, than beauty is what women will strive to obtain, instead of developing intellectually, artistically, or emotionally. Rewarding women for their appearance feeds into a culture that asserts a woman's value is determined by her looks. As women, it is our duty to dismantle societal pressure to adhere to one standard of beauty.

If we are going to focus on the concept of beauty at all, in order for it to be a positive message that does not leave masses feeling less than, it needs to be an all inclusive movement. That is, humanity, as a species, is praised as beautiful, not a specific set of ideals in which one may fit into due to dumb luck or strive to achieve. Imagine a world where a size 14 transgender African American women who prefers to wear her hair natural and does not usually wear make-up has the same worth, and is seen as equally beautiful, as a size 4 blonde 20 something with long mermaid-esque blonde hair, perky breasts, killer abs, and a wide-eyed appearance perfected by MAC cosmetics. Imagine a world where models can have wrinkles, scars, tattoos, and cellulite. Imagine a world where pop stars can be post-menopausal, a billboard woman proudly sports her hijab, and the commercial actress attempting to sell you the latest gotta-have-it product is a plus size Asian with acne.

'Tis much more beneficial to be part of a movement that reminds us, both male and female, of the subjectivity of beauty and disarms the construct that society has too long brainwashed mass culture into worshiping and adhering. As no one chooses the arrangement of their facial features or the thickness of their bone structure, we should pride one another on all that we can control. Instead of reinforcing the idea that the most valuable thing a woman can be is “pretty,” we should appreciate qualities of strength, such as intelligence, humor, courage, talent, and creativity in each other, preferring to possess such character traits ourselves over being “pretty” or “hot.” Our appearances should be something to have fun and playfully experiment, but little more.