Posts Tagged: misogyny










grandma got run over by a reindeer is the most misogynistic holiday song i’ve had the misfortune to listen to

i mean

they clearly murdered grandma

I’m countering with Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

I spent ten minutes at work today trying to explain why Baby It’s Cold Outside is insanely sinister, but apparently if you’re a dude “what’s in this drink” and “what’s the sense in hurting my pride” and “get over that holdout” have no negative connotations UGH I S2G


If your lady friend starts listing all the loved ones that will be suspicious and looking for her if she doesn’t turn up soon YOU ARE CROSSING THE LINE BETWEEN HOST AND HOSTAGE.


"No cabs to be had out there…."





i was like “this is a really upsetting song, she asks what’s in her drink—”

my mom goes, “oh. she’s just joking.”

i said, “i realize that this is a joke song, but it’s a joke about a real situation that makes me really uncomfortable.”

then i stared intently at her while she avoided my eye contact and shrugged intermittently for like five minutes.




I HATE this fucking song and cannot convince anybody it is fucking gross. 

Let’s even take it out of today’s society, where “what’s in this drink” means date rape drugs. I’m assuming he just added unwanted whiskey to her cider or something, which, while not being awesome, is not actually a criminal offense (afaik).

Let’s just acknowledge the fact that when this song was written, a LOT was riding on a woman’s reputation. So like when she’s saying “my aunt will miss me, my mother will worry,” she’s saying “I COULD HAVE MY REPUTATION COMPROMISED BY BEING OUT TOO LATE WITH YOU AND BE DEEMED LITERALLY WORTHLESS BY SOCIETY BECAUSE YOU WANNA GET YOUR DICK WET” and he’s like “but baby it’s too cold to go home, wouldn’t it be nicer to stay with me?”

No. Not really. NOT REALLY AT ALL.

Source: swingsetindecember


"How the Media Failed Women in 2013," courtesy of Miss Representation. This is mind-boggling and you must watch it right now.

(via pagalini)



Let me tell you something: as someone who faces sexism on a very personal level, I have no interest in politely trying to educate misogynists when we live in a culture in which their misogyny has no repercussions. Our government is introducing bill after bill of offensive, woman-hating legislation, murder is still the leading cause of [death of] pregnant women, and rape is under-prosecuted at staggering numbers. Birth control is up for debate, governors are rolling back equal pay laws, and you think I have the energy to be polite to these people?


Because it doesn’t do any good. There’s no evidence that being super nice to sexists, or racists, or homophobes, or bigots of any kind will make them see the error of their ways - it’ll just make them more comfortable to be around you because you’re playing by their rules.

My blog is one of the only times these people will face any repercussions for being bigots. And you know what? They can turn off the computer and go right back out into the world where they are sexist jackasses and people tolerate it or even encourage it. When I turn off the computer, I’m still in a world of sexist jackasses that are tolerated and even encouraged. There’s this culture of not having any accountability for being a bigot, and I’ve created one tiny space on the internet where that’s no longer true.



stfusexists. (via historicalslut)

still so fucking good

(via methodistcoloringbook)

Sing it from the mountain tops, hallelujah, amen.

(via theamburglar)

THIS. FUCKING. POST. I am seriously working on being unapologetic about being unapologetic (both in the blogosphere and in the real world).

For emphasis:
“They can turn off the computer and go right back out into the world where they are sexist jackasses and people tolerate it or even encourage it. When I turn off the computer, I’m still in a world of sexist jackasses that are tolerated and even encouraged.”

(via feministepiphanies)

(via jessprominski)

Source: lipsredasroses

Personal Experiences with Rape Culture: Harassment via Wikipedia Vandalism



As some of you may know a harassment campaign is being waged against me because of my Tropes vs Women in Video Games project on Kickstarter. This coordinated attack was launched by various online video game forums and has included attempts to get my…


In other words, the more frequent type of harassment suffered by children today—and the one they report as affecting them the most negatively—is expressing hostility at children who do not fit into some preconceived notion of what “normal” sexuality is. Normality in this connection apparently means that girls must display a level of sexual activity that can go unperceived (neither too much nor too little), and that everyone should be straight.

Or to be a bit more blunt about it: sexual harassment in middle and high schools today is motivated by either misogyny or homophobia. Neither has to do with sex. And neither would be helped by treating sexual harassment between children as a result of overactive hormones to be dismissed.

In fact, the solution is just the opposite: active and broad engagement about sexuality and sex roles. Because misogyny and homophobia are fuelled by ignorance and fear. And ignorance and fear can be fought with knowledge. Unfortunately, broad knowledge-building is not generally the objective of sex education in US middle and high schools. At best, sex education deals with sexuality as a matter of biology: how do male and female bodies engage in (heterosexual and procreative) sex. At worst, the message is that all sex is bad unless you are married and want to procreate. These types of sex education do not transfer much needed tools to our children as they grapple with their evolving sexuality. Indeed, by ignoring (or vilifying) sexuality altogether, limited sex education may instead feed the fear that expresses itself as sexual harassment.

Comprehensive sex education, on the other hand, provides the broader knowledge our children need and want. At its best, comprehensives sex education engages children on their own level of comprehension in a conversation about what sexuality means, how to relate to ourselves and each other with respect, and how to make responsible and informed choices about our sexual and reproductive lives. Comprehensive sex education not only combats the fear and stereotypes that fuel sexual harassment, it also works in terms of delaying the age of sexual initiation and lowering the number of teenage pregnancies.

Full Article here. And yet another reason why I advocate so hard for comprehensive sex ed programs in schools.


[ TW NOTE: This article is about — and hence contains copious examples of — violent, highly triggering, and bigoted language.]

To find #Things for #MenCallMeThings, I had to look back through anonymous hate mail, hate blogs about me, conservative-blog and MRA-blog posts about me, random Twitter trolls, and at comment threads that were particularly nasty, sure. But in with the rest of this, I’ve also quoted a popular male liberal blogger, a pop-music writer who publishes at some of the same places I have, a friend-of-a-friend whose “urban biking club” my boyfriend was once thinking of joining, and a published YA fantasy novelist with lefty politics. What matters is not which guys said it: What matters is that, when you put their statements side-by-side, they all sound like the exact same guy. And when you look at what they’re saying, how similar these slurs and insults and threats we get actually are, they always sound like they’re speaking to the exact same woman. When men are using the same insults and sentiments to shut down women and “feminine” people, across the board, then we know what’s going on. And we know that it’s not about us; it’s about gender.

And they’re not doing it because we’re “weak” or “hypersensitive.” They hope to Christ that we’re weak and sensitive, because then harassment would shut us up, but they know that we’re really not. They go so incredibly hard against us — send the death threats, the rape threats, the over-the-top “you’re just a cum receptacle” — in the hopes that something, anything, will be enough to stop us. They know they have to push that hard. Because they know that we’re strong. They know that we’ve got thick skins. And they know that we won’t put up with bullshit. Which makes us scary, which makes us threatening, which makes us “aggressive” and “vicious” and “vindictive” bitches who might shut them down.

They don’t do this because women, and people who speak out against sexism online, are delicate, fragile flowers. They do this because we’re tougher than they can imagine, tougher than they’ll ever have to be, and tougher than they can personally handle. They need to shut us down, to scare us, because if we keep going we just might win. We just might end sexism. They’ll do anything to stop us from getting that done.

And that’s how I know it’s sexist when #MenCallMeThings. Just in case you wondered.

This article so much. Read in full here. Heed the trigger warning. If you’ll excuse me I’m off to twitter to contribute to #mencallmethings.




(TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE) This is Why Women Are Afraid to Tell You No | Polimicks


This past Thursday, a group of men started cat-calling/hitting on a group of women in Chicago.  When the women said, no, the men threw bottles and then SHOT at their car as they tried to drive away.  One woman was shot in the shoulder, and the driver took a bottle in the head as she tried to drive off.  Last month in Washington, DC a Transwoman was shot for turning down a man’s request for sex as she sat in her car.  In August a woman in Atlanta was shot for refusing to get in a car with a group of men.  In May of 2010 a young woman was shot in the leg for turning down a man’s advances.

Ok, so that was one googling, which also yielded an article on a woman in Australia who was shot in the thigh after refusing to perform oral sex.  Many people will claim that these are just “isolated” incidents.  But three of those took place in the last two, two and a half months.  That’s not really isolated, in fact, that sounds distinctly like a pattern.

When guys complain about women not giving them a straight answer, this is why.  Granted, these are fairly extreme.  However, on a regular basis women who turn down men, no matter how nicely, are insulted, yelled at, spit on, hit, kicked and knocked to the ground.  Most of these assaults go unreported because women know that the police aren’t going to take them seriously, particularly if they’re dressed at all nicely or “sexy.”

This is why the Schrodinger’s Rapist post resonated with so many women.

“Why are you afraid of women?” I asked a group of men.
“We’re afraid they’ll laugh at us,” replied the men.
“Why are you afraid of men?” I asked a group of women
“We’re afraid they’ll kill us,” replied the woman. -Margaret Atwood

When men ignore our boundaries, try to push or test them, we rightfully feel that they are a bigger risk for pushing even more important, dangerous boundaries, like say, raping or hitting you.

Yeah, I know, a lot of you are out there (if you’ve gotten this far) thinking, “That’s bullshit! I’d never do that!”  And maybe you wouldn’t, but we can’t take that chance.  And when you push boundaries or ignore our “No”s, even about small things,  this puts you higher and higher up on the risk scale.

We can’t take those chances because when we’re raped or assaulted it’s always our fault.  Everyone tells us so.  Every single person who says, “I’d never blame the victim, but if you’re wearing a short skirt, what do you expect?”  Every fucking magazine with their “Ten Things You Can Do to Not Be Raped” articles, that place all the onus on women, and none of it on, oh, the rapists.

How do you not scare women?

Respect their boundaries.  Take no at face value.  As a commenter said over on Pharyngula, you have nothing to lose:  If she meant no, you’ve respected her wishes.  If she meant “pursue me harder” or whatever bullshit, then bullet dodged.  You don’t want to deal with that kind of mind-game playing, anyway.

But in all seriousness, guys, if you ever wonder why women act like their scared of you, read the above links again.

this is basically why i never never make eye contact with men here , why i ignore them always even when they are being nice and why i will never go back to Dagabon ever ….

Yup. No matter how indignant all the Nice GuysTM get about women’s fear of men, the fundamental truth is that we live our entire lives on the defensive because there’s an ever-present danger of rape or assault. 

(via bluntlyblue)

Source: gabrielleabelle


When my confident, curious, adventurous 12-year-old daughter asked if she could go get ice cream by herself (we live in a city) the first thing that I thought of was how to prepare her to hear:

“Where’s my smile, baby?”
“Wanna go for a ride?”

What if she is surprised? Looks down? Doesn’t give the guy speaking to her the positive response that he seems to think he’s entitled to? What hurtful, explicit things will he then say to put her in her place?

From now on, she’ll have to be on alert. How many times will she have to go out of her way, take longer routes, not go certain places, alter her clothes? Not forget to hold her keys poking through her fingers? Not take certain buses, and pay for a cab instead of taking a metro? Take her lighthearted moods and tuck them away behind earphones and fake phone conversations?

How will it make my daughter feel? Powerless? Angry? Sad? Scared? It’s stressful and depressing to have to acknowledge the underlying threat of violence, especially in a culture that is dedicated to equality for all, a concept predicated on equal and safe access to public space and free speech. Her loss of innocence will have as much to do with the betrayal of this myth of equality and equal access as with understanding her physical vulnerability.


Source: The Huffington Post


This is a story about gamer culture, casual sexism, the silence of friends, and its fallout - more or less in that order.
Firstly, context. I’m a recent graduate working as a game designer for a social games startup in New York City, and I identify strongly with other students and alumni who want to make games. For example, I’m actively working to build a community resource for young game developers in the NYC area in the form of a list-serv group. Through luck and hard work I was able to mature a successful internship into a job that I absolutely love, and I want nothing more than to help my peers achieve the same.

Over the summer a good friend of mine started an informal working get-together, affectionately named Big Time. The objective was simple: every week a handful of friends would spend one evening working on personal projects in a communal space. Projects didn’t have to be games related, but generally they were anyway. All of the roughly five to seven attendees were, without exception, male. While I was regularly invited, I only made a few appearances. I never felt as though I didn’t belong, and being the lone female in an all-male environment is hardly anything new for most women in geek culture. As a matter of personal preference, I tend to work alone.

When the Fall semester began, I was more than a little excited. Not only did my Alma Mater’s game events start again, but I also was able to hire my first-ever intern. I was eager to check out Big Time and meet the new additions to the group. I came into the computer lab around 7PM last Thursday, and was immediately greeted by two good friends. More than any other young people I know, I consider them to be respectable, smart, talented game designers. I’ve often considered myself lucky to count them as my peers, and I know that the feeling is mutual.

The two of them sat in front of me, and I moved to a computer in the row behind them. As I did, I noticed that most of the folks were strangers: four undergrads, at least three of which were Freshmen. We greeted each other, and I had time to think to myself that they were chatting awfully loudly for being two feet away from each other in an enclosed room. Also it seemed that they weren’t actually working on anything, just sort of lounging and gabbing about games. It didn’t really bother me. I settled in and began composing some emails to local professors, asking them if they would mind spreading word to their students about the list-serv I was launching. In front of me, my two good friends were quietly working on a game they’re showing later this week at IndieCade.

The loudest undergrad student, who we’ll refer to as C, sat down right next to me. We’ve rarely spoken, though we are loosely familiar with each other. He was merrily bellowing about his Street Fighter prowess when things began to sour. C had switched to explaining how confused he was when trying a new fighting game: “So I did what I always do, y’know? Pick the hot chick.” He chortled at his own wit. Inside, I cringed. I didn’t expect it to be more than a passing comment.

The cronies in the room laughed, which egged him on. “Yeah, I mean, it’s all about the bouncing, right? Like huge tits everywhere.” More laughter, so he got louder. “Jiggle factor, y’know? The number one rule of game design!” Lots of laughs, lots of agreement.

Within 20 seconds I felt all my goodwill drain out. My heart started beating faster, and I wanted this kid to shut up. He was bad enough on his own, but with the encouragement from the 18-year-olds his stunt became a lavish performance. He wanted to display his masculinity in the way that all chest-beating boys are taught to: degrade women. Virtual women would do; all the better to jeer and snicker about how humiliating it must be for a female character in a fighting game to have impossibly-sized breasts and wear ultra-sexualized gear.

I noticed that the row in front of me had frozen. My friends were no longer talking with each other, or typing at their computer. They were locked into place, clearly affected by what the oaf behind them was saying, and stared blankly at their screens.

“Once I made this game for a class, and I made it with a female protagonist. It was a shitty platformer, you know how it is. But I didn’t give her huge boobs.”

“Oh no!” Someone else lamented, laughing.

“Yeah, right? I mean she definitely had SOMETHING there, you could tell. But they weren’t like, huge.” This was a specific detail, something I think may have been intended to impress me, as the only female in the room. What a hero this guy was.

“Anyway, I turned it in, and the teacher like, he says, ‘What do you think you’re doing here?’” Beside me, C was loving all the attention, and the cronies were pouring it on thick.

Except for the row in front of me: from that row there was nothing, only silence. The silence between the three of us seemed deafening in its own way. I really didn’t know how the others couldn’t hear our silence. It had become a physical thing, a blanket the three of us were hiding under, waiting for the nightmare to be over.

I consoled myself that we would rant about it later, maybe over a beer or two. With every additional comment about big tits and their jiggle physics, though, I found it harder and harder to reassure myself. Instead of feeling like I was sharing a bad experience with the two guys in front of me, I began to feel truly attacked.

“Yeah, so he tells me her boobs have to be bigger! There are STANDARDS in videogames!” There were cries of assent, hoots and yelps not totally unlike hyenas.

I found it hard to swallow. I had never felt so casually humiliated in what was meant to be a welcoming, safe space. How could someone sit there and spew this kind of stuff? How could he joke and laugh about how horribly women are represented in games? Apathy would be bad enough, but this kid was lauding the fact that women’s bodies are engorged and contorted and exposed, that degradation is made synonymous with “sexy.” He was being cheered like a champion.

Silence might have been protecting my friends, but suddenly it was choking me.

“Yeah, no flat girls!” I don’t remember who said it, but it didn’t matter, because it began a chorus of agreements: No Flat Girls. I closed my email, grabbed my bag, and shoved my way past C in my rush to get to the door. I spared a glance at my friends as I left, and made eye contact with one of them. He gave me an unhappy, sympathetic look that said: I understand.

With that look, a tiny spark of anger bloomed within the rot of the sick-dead feeling in my guts. No, I realized as I walked down the hallway, waited for the elevator. No, I thought, tears in my eyes as I hastily left the building. No, you fucking don’t understand.

And you didn’t lift a finger to stop it. Between the two of you, you couldn’t manage a sentence.

I called him from the street, my throat constricted tight now, more from the pain of betrayal than the pain of the attack. “You don’t fucking get to stay silent. You don’t get to organize an event and say nothing when that happens,” I barked at him, tone terse. I could hear the tears in my voice, and I knew he could too.

“You’re right.” He answered softly, voice already heavy with shame, “I know. You’re right. I’ll say something.” I tried to say something else, felt the need to bleed out some of the fury and bewildered hurt that was coiled all through me. My voice cracked, and I hung up instead.

It’s worth mentioning now, that this good friend also happens to be my boyfriend. Suffering the silence of friends in a situation like that is bad enough, but our relationship lent an agony to the betrayal that only intimacy can provide. We’ve discussed sexism within games culture at length. I know that he’s deeply opposed to the societal demand that men degrade, belittle, or otherwise harm women in order to prove themselves as masculine beings. Knowing that he’s one of the “good guys” only made it worse. Like a wounded animal returning to its den, I made my way back to my apartment as quickly as possible. I didn’t allow myself to cry freely until I was at least out of the subway.

Within the next hour or so, I received a couple very long text messages from the other friend who had been there, and he apologized profusely. In his own words, he “felt sick to his stomach with guilt” and would understand if I couldn’t be his friend or didn’t want to be around him any more. When I eventually told him that I think we would be okay as long as he swore to never stand by while something like that happened again, he immediately did so. “I’ve had my ex-girlfriend and sister bring me horror story after horror story, and I see it myself every day,” he wrote. “I’ve fucking ended friendships over sexism with guys I thought were my friends. But tonight I feel like I was the person who was the biggest sexist condoning asshole on the planet and I will never forgive myself for it.”

It meant a lot to hear his apology, especially one that was apologizing for all the right things. It meant more that I didn’t have to tell him why it was so painful. I could believe him when he vowed on his life to never let it happen again. That all said, he had competition when it came to feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet.

My boyfriend arrived shortly after, breathless, as if he’d run home. He was barely inside the door when he gasped out, “I fucked up.”

I didn’t look at him, couldn’t without bursting at the seams. Furious, I wanted to shout, You make lots of noises about hating sexism, but you can’t fucking say anything to stop it when it’s right in front of you?! Despairing, I wanted to weep, How could you let him do that? Why didn’t you do anything to protect me? Is my right to feel safe worth less than the comfort of your silence?

I squeaked out an “I don’t want to talk about it” and left to the bedroom, tried to lose myself in a book. I could hear him busying himself in the other rooms, unable to calm down. He sorted and cleaned things, desperately trying to organize his physical space to make up for the disorder of his emotions. After maybe half an hour of this, he came into the bedroom where I was reading. I know he’d struggled to build up that resolve, but when I looked up at him, it shattered. He was entering a complete break down before I had time to get up from the bed.

It’s a strange, disconcerting thing when someone you love has a core part of their identity so strongly shaken. It’s a process of destruction by shame and guilt, an unmaking that grows in a thorny tangle and rends all it touches. Bearing witness to his anguish brought me no joy, but it was a grim consolation. This is not a misery that is soon forgotten. For him, the cost of silence had suddenly become much, much more dear.

It took some days before we could talk about what had happened for more than a few minutes at a time. When we did, he would try to speak evenly and freely, but his discomfort manifested physically: his palms would sweat, he couldn’t meet my eyes, he lost his appetite mid-meal. I learned that both he and our mutual friend have spoken to C and have uninvited him to at least one event. Not for my sake, by any measure, but because even the thought of being around that kind of attitude makes them feel ill. I’m glad that they’ve had each other in this experience, if nothing else.

In the end, what surprised me most was that if lasting damage was done, it was not done to me. The genuine, heart-broken apologies of my friends leeched away my pain. If that moment of betrayal was my blood price for their newly awakened vigilance against casual sexism, I cannot regret having paid it.

Nicole Leffel is a recent NYU graduate and active member of the game development community in New York City. After a successful internship at social games startup FreshPlanet, she joined the team as a full-time game designer. Now she spends her days happily entombed under a mountain of flowcharts and spreadsheets, with regular contributions to the NYU Game Center blog.

Source: teamvalkyrieftw


Steven Greenstreet is the dude behind the Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street tumblr and video. That video has gotten a lot of attention — a lot of women and some dudes have been like “well this is fucked up,” and then some other dudes have been like “I don’t see what the big deal is, boys will be boys and what’s wrong with wanting to meet attractive women at a protest?”

And like I said in my initial post, the deflecting from legitimate concerns, and the fact that the OWS “public” includes a lot of men who think it’s ok to treat women at a protest like we’re there for their visual fulfillment, troubles me. No one is saying, “Don’t find women attractive.” I actually like hot chicks too! No one is saying “Don’t meet hot people at a protest.” People meet people in all kinds of social settings, and that’s great. I met a past boyfriend at a liberal blog conference. Meet away, I say. No one is objecting to dating or hooking up or meeting women or meeting men. No one is objecting to the fact that straight men are attracted to some women (fun fact: straight women are also attracted to some men! So really, no one is pissed about attraction, I promise). What people are pissed about is what Rebecca Traister says:

The larger, simpler argument, outside of consent or permission, is: This video is sexist. It’s an example of women participating in public life — political, professional, social — and having their participation reduced to sexual objectification. That’s what happened here, nothing more, nothing less.