The Cream-Filled Center of the Universe.

aboutmaleprivilege:

Actually, the DKE ban was lifted less than a month after it was handed down: http://www.yaledailynews.com/news/2010/dec/08/dke-ban-lifted/

And the Yale Daily News ran an editorial slamming the Yale Women’s Center for calling DKE out on the incident, terming the Women’s Center response “histrionic”: http://www.yaledailynews.com/news/2010/oct/18/the-womens-center-must-continue-to-break-the/

Yale, I give you my most serious and deadly side-eye.

Feminist Ally Forumgamer: "Misandry doesn't exist!" said the angry 12 year old female blogger.

shooting4myownhand:

stfuhypocrisy:

disgustinghuman:

dreamrabbit:

electronicsatellite:

So Tumblr, normally I can take insults pretty well but a recent happening (of about an hour ago) has really made my blood boil.

So I’m walking in town by myself, and a woman who was…

Just fuck you, OP. I hope you realize that you’re a terrible fucking human being who needlessly terrorized an innocent person for you’re own amusement, simply because you’re too much of a privileged douche to realize that people have extremely valid reasons (like your little ridiculous stunt) to be afraid of strange men. 

Female Fox Anchor Walks Off Set After Co-Host's Sexist Joke | ThinkProgress

Visibly upset, Gretchen Carlson, the only female host, walked off of the set. “You read the headlines. Since men are so great. Take them [women] away,” she said. Kilmeade responded, “All right. Finally.” Then, as she walked further off of the set, Kilmeade jeered, “Leaving an all male crew” and added “she needed a shower.” 

Wow. That moment when Gretchen Carlson walks off her own set because of your rampant sexism. 

I can only imagine how much shit went down off camera. 

(Video at the Link)

Personal Experiences with Rape Culture: Harassment via Wikipedia Vandalism

razingcomplacency:

femfreq:

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…

TRIGGER WARNING: Homophobia, Hate speech.

A Tennessee state lawmaker on Thursday claimed that HIV originated in the gay community by an airline pilot who had sex with monkey, and that it was “virtually impossible” to contract the disease through heterosexual sex.

Appearing on the Michelangelo Signorile Show on Sirius XM radio, State Senator Stacey Campfield (R-Knoxville) — author of Tennessee’s “Don’t Say Gay” bill that would prohibit teachers from mentioning homosexuality in kindergarten through 8th grade classrooms — also asserted that the lifespan for gays and lesbians is “very short,” telling listeners to “Google it yourself.”

He is scum and I can’t even comprehend the fact that he holds a public office.

Here’s the full article, with direct quote of his comments, which if anything are worse than you think.

He’s the same guy that was kicked out of the restaurant JUST LAST WEEK for being such a giant hateful bigot.

His sponsored and co-sponsored bills read like a laundry list of racist, anti-immigrant, anti-woman, anti-poor, anti-lgbtq propaganda.

Some of my favorites:

Education, Higher - As introduced, requires public postsecondary institutions to verify that applicants are citizens of the United States or are international students with a valid visa authorizing their stay in the United States.

Abortion - As introduced, requires all physicians’ offices that perform abortions to be licensed as ambulatory surgical treatment centers.

Welfare - As introduced, requires TANF recipients to be tested for illegal drugs; restricts eligibility for benefits for one year after testing positive for an illegal drug.

Education, Curriculum - As introduced, prohibits the teaching of or furnishing of materials on human sexuality other than heterosexuality in public school grades K-8.

Domestic Violence - As introduced, requires victim of domestic violence filing for order of protection and respondent to attend one hour of domestic violence counseling prior to hearing on the order

Education - As introduced, requires students who score below proficient on TCAP test or do not demonstrate competency on end-of-course examination to attend summer school or receive tutoring in the subject tested at the expense of the student’s parent and be retested prior to being promoted or receiving credit for course.

Welfare - As introduced, requires the reduction of Temporary Assistance to Needy Families (TANF) payments for parents or caretakers of TANF recipients whose children fail to maintain satisfactory progress in school.

Unemployment Compensation - As introduced, requires drug testing of persons filing new claims for unemployment benefits.

Constitutional Amendments - Requests Congress to submit to the states for ratification an amendment to the US Constitution prohibiting unfunded federal mandates and programs except during declared fiscal emergency.

Constitutional Amendments - As introduced, memorializes Congress to propose an amendment to the United States Constitution that would authorize states to rescind certain federal laws. **coughabortioncough**

Constitutional Amendments - Proposes new provision to Article I to provide that nothing in Constitution of Tennessee secures or protects right to abortion or requires the funding of an abortion; states that the people retain the right through their elected state representatives and state senators to enact, amend, or repeal statutes regarding abortion, including, but not limited to, circumstances of pregnancy resulting from rape or incest or when necessary to save the life of the mother. -

In case you want to let him know what you think of his comments:

301 6th Avenue North
Suite 4 Legislative Plaza
Nashville, TN 37243
Phone (615) 741-1766

sen.stacey.campfield@capitol.tn.gov

[ 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.

darkjez:

witchsistah:

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

freshmouthgoddess:

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 Guys^TM 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)

paxvalkyrie:

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.