I’d just like to point out that for all the whining Sherlock fans do because Elementary is “degaying” Sherlock they sure didn’t seem to give a shit when Irene Adler, a lesbian character, was made to fall in love with Sherlock. It’s not like shit like that is 90% of representation lesbians get in shows/movies/books, right?
Straight girls on tumblr generally only care about queer representation when it’s stuff they can wank off too. They don’t give a shit about real queer people, especially queer women.
In some ways that’s where the abuse is. It’s not just about the times when someone drops a boulder on your head, it’s the times when they position you in the same place it happens and tell you to wait for it, it’s coming. And you wait, and wait, and wait, your fists clenched at your sides, and your eyes screwed shut and your whole body tense, preparing for it. And that’s the abuse. They may never drop the boulder on you, but you’re being abused right then while you prepare for what they told you will happen.
And now I’m waiting for that boulder. When I go to work, when I go home to my room. When I take a shower. When I go to the store, when I go to the bank, when I try something new, when I’m surrounded by strangers, when I’m alone with my body. I wait, and I bide my time for the moment that boulder will fall, as it has always fallen, as my brain has learned it is destiny, it is inevitable, it is because I am me that this boulder will hit.
Did you know I once had the chance do avert your creation? […] I hesitated. I thought I could claim the moral high ground, and I let the Daleks live. […] But you listen to me. You better hope you don’t give me one single chance to escape, because I will take it, no matter what I’ll take it, and I will go back in time, AND I WILL WIPE THE DALEKS OFF THE FACE OF HISTORY.
“Rowling wrote Hermione to eschew stereotypes. She doesn’t end up with the hero; she is never there to function as Harry’s love interest. She prefers Arithmancy to Divination in school. Hermione is also a total badass, despite her prim and proper reputation. (…) So often, female characters are allowed to be aggressive or rebellious, but in exchange are stripped of any traditionally feminine qualities and instead are forced to pick up traditionally masculine traits. However, Hermione is never made to do that. Most notably, she is written to be highly logical AND emotionally expressive, a combination not commonly afforded to most of today’s leading ladies.”—
The theory was that by inserting the wire through the cervix, moving it around a bit and then removing it, an infection would result and the pregnancy would be aborted. It worked. It was March 1967.
Afterward, after I watched the ‘doctor’ wash his hands with one of those little soaps wrapped in white paper, after he tilted the bedside lamp just so and after he said, “That should do it,” I got dressed, left the motel with the flashing vacancy sign, made my way to the bus station in downtown Detroit, and rode in the dark in the eerie silence of a mostly empty Greyhound all the way back to Mt. Pleasant, the tiny Michigan town where I was a freshman in college. Curled up next to the window under my black pea coat, I wondered how long it would take, whether it would be on the bus or later. I worried that something a lot worse than being pregnant would happen to me because of what happened in the motel room, that I’d get sick or bleed to death. I wondered if I would ever feel right about what I had done and if there had been choices that I hadn’t considered. I remember feeling like a mouse that had found the tiniest hole for escape while a giant tomcat loomed. I was distraught, empty, and alone on that bus. Back in my dorm room, Jane, my roommate, held both of my hands in hers and said, “It will be ok. You’ll see. You’ll have lots of children when the time is right.” It was a gesture of kindness and compassion that even now brings tears to my eyes.
I was 19. I had slept with my boyfriend just a single time. When I missed my period, I ever so reluctantly made an appointment with the town gynecologist who confirmed the pregnancy and then quizzed me incessantly about whether I knew who the father was. Did I know who the father was? Of course. There had only been one person ever. Yes, I knew.
The doctor told me to tell my parents but I couldn’t. My mother who had suffered for almost her entire adult life with severe depression was so deep in her terrible place, on the couch or in bed all day, sleeping or staring, that I almost cancelled my departure to college. The last child at home for many years, I had become her driver and caregiver when these episodes occurred. Leaving seemed like the worst kind of betrayal and yet the pull of the relief I knew I would feel being out from under her mental illness was irresistible. I really wanted to be in a place where people were happy. The thought of going home, sitting down on the couch, where I knew she would be, to tell her I’d gotten pregnant was unfathomable. Without question, I could not do that. My problem, then, was mine to solve.
My father, matter of fact as he was about everything, would line up a Justice of the Peace and get us married but my boyfriend had already nixed that plan. He had a friend who had a friend who knew about the ‘wire’ plan. We didn’t have the $250 it would cost to pay a bonafide illegal abortionist so the only option was amateur hour. There was no real discussion. The wire became the path we would follow. I was cornered. I knew I was alone with the consequences whatever they would be. My boyfriend could walk away and no one would ever know. He was free. I was cornered.
I grieved and was wild for a full year after that. I broke up with my boyfriend, realizing right away that any man who would advocate the wire wasn’t lifetime commitment material. I drank too much, bounced from guy to guy, and remember not much from that time except long times in the shower crying in grief and guilt. For years, I counted the days and months - how old the child would be if the pregnancy had not been terminated. The guilt was overwhelming. But as I matured, I recognized the decision for what it was - what I believed was right. I accepted responsibility and forgave myself. In the truest terms, I did what I had to do.
But what I had to do was a dreadful thing. The lack of safe, legal, and affordable abortion put me in a dingy motel in downtown Detroit to undergo a risky, unsanitary procedure that could easily have maimed or killed me. That I lived to tell the tale, to write about it on this page, is a small miracle of my life.
Six years later, abortion became legal in the United States. Of any accomplishment of the women’s movement, this one was always at my core. It wasn’t right for women to risk so much in order to be in control of their own reproductive lives. It wasn’t right to punish women who have been cornered by circumstances - unplanned pregnancy, no job, no money, no options - by daring them to find the $250 illegal abortionist in their city or worse. It wasn’t right that women should have to pay for a mistake with their fear, risk their future health and their very lives while men could walk away and be free. I was happy, so happy about Roe v. Wade. At last, I thought, this one thing for women - at last.
Twenty-five years after my abortion, busloads of anti-abortion protesters came to my town. Each morning they would pick a different abortion clinic and turn out by the hundreds to harass women coming for their abortion appointments. The crowds could be enormous with people waving signs with what they claimed to be pictures of aborted fetuses, and singing “My God is an Awesome God” verse after verse, hour after hour. Right away, I signed up to be a clinic defender and each morning I’d get up at 5, pick up a friend, and go lock arms with hundreds of like-minded folks to ‘protect’ that day’s abortion clinic and the women who needed its services. We’d stand there silently while the protesters yelled at us and sang their hymns. They’d call us baby killers and murderers.
Sometimes it would be nose to nose, shoulder to shoulder. The protesters would bring their children, too, and they would be singing “Jesus Loves Me” between choruses of “Awesome God.” We’d all be standing in a giant scrum while morning traffic zoomed by, horns honking in support of both sides. Special protectors in orange vests would shepherd each woman into the clinic for her appointment while protesters surged to scream at her. I couldn’t believe how evil and cruel it was to be screaming at a woman when she was in such a terrible situation, when she was cornered. I wanted to yell at them, “HASN’T ANYTHING BAD EVER HAPPENED TO YOU?
Where is your loving kindness?
And here we are again. Demonizing women. Limiting birth control. Shrinking access to legal and safe abortion. Daring women to go find the wire. All while men can walk away and be free.
It makes my 64-year old soul angrier than almost anything. The extreme hatred for women voiced by politicians, the talk of legitimate rape, the unbelievability of the idea of an ultrasound probe, the intent to demean me/us - it all puts me back on the bus in the dark, by myself, cornered and alone.
It’s so wrong to treat women this way. So wrong. We just can’t go back.
“It is disgusting. We are told to love sex but never masturbate or fool around. To love our bodies but we have to be hairless, thin, have boobs, and to never wear make up to cover our flaws. We can like sports and watch them but we can’t play them unless they are toned down and pretty enough to be oggled at. We can be nerds but we can’t be TOO smart or we forget our place. We are told we need a prince charming and to seek him out by constantly changing ourselves and being perfect for him. We are given the message that outside beauty is what matters the most but if we have it and get successful it was because we have a pretty face. We are told we exaggerate and should just go with it when we complain of being objects and property. We are taught that being a woman is worthy of an insult… WE have to fear walking at night. WE have to go in a group if we need to use the bathroom in a strange place. WE have to be cautious of where we are and who we are with. That we are told to hush and get over it if we are assaulted because real life isn’t like the crime shows and it is harder to convict the assaulter. That female artists are degraded and yelled at in artist alleys. That you are judged just by how you wear a t-shirt.”—plucifer [marchen] (via girl-violence)
“The views expressed were offensive. Rape is rape and the idea that we should be parsing and qualifying and slicing what types of rape we’re talking about doesn’t make sense to the American people and it certainly doesn’t make sense to me. What I think these comments do underscore is why we shouldn’t have a bunch of politicians, the majority of whom are men, making health care decisions on behalf of women.”—
President Obama today on Rep. Todd Akin (via barackobama)
I’d forgotten why I’d stopped watching ‘Doctor Who Confidential’ so I tossed on an episode from the first series and within about three minutes I remembered. Liz Sladen is the only one talking sense when she says she didn’t feel she lost any strength by screaming at the monsters. I don’t understand why someone being faced with death and horrible monsters reacting with fear makes them ‘stupid’.
Also, I love how when Eccleston says he was unhappy with the ‘dumb’ companions they cut to a shot of Zoe. ZOE. ZOE WHO WAS CANONICALLY AS GOOD AT MATH AS THE DOCTOR. What dumb companions was he watching? Yeah, some make rather foolish choices like wandering off when the Doctor says stay put but that’s par for the course in being a companion and keeping the story interesting.
It breaks my heart and frankly insults me when people describe the classic companions as nothing more than silly, screaming, useless ‘pretty faces’. It basically spits in the face of the little girl who sat wide-eyed in front of her TV and idolized Sarah Jane Smith and wanted to be just like her when she grew up. A companion who was scared but would do what she had to anyway. Who was a crack shot with a rifle. Who didn’t let the Doctor talk down to her. Who asked questions. Who, when she was trapped on Mars and probably about to die along with the rest of the universe, cried because she thought the Doctor was dead. That is a woman of immeasurable smarts, courage, strength and heart.
So don’t insult all the little girls who actually had a rare show to go to for good role models.
I don’t know where this line of thought even came from referencing the Classic Who Ladies but holy shit y’all
being terrified and reacting to the terror that you feel does not make you weak
ABC has ordered a pilot for S.H.I.E.L.D, a live-action series from The Avengers writer-director Joss Whedon, Marvel TV and ABC Studios. The project is based on Marvel’s peacekeeping organization S.H.I.E.L.D (which stands for Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate). S.H.I.E.L.D. will be written by Whedon, his bother Jed Whedon and Maurissa Tancharoen.
Joss Whedon also is set to direct the pilot, schedule permitting. Production on the pilot, which marks the first live-action Marvel TV project to get a green light, will start immediately. Joss Whedon, Jed Whedon and Tancharoen executive produce with Jeffrey Bell and Marvel TV’s Jeph Loeb.