happy feminist

revolutionary millennials

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Slam Poem: American Rape Culture

“Somewhere in America”

Feminism isn’t about making women stronger. Women are already strong. It’s about changing the way the world perceives that strength.

– G.D. Anderson

Why Lena Dunham Chose to Speak Out: Buzzfeed

http://www.buzzfeed.com/lenadunham/lena-dunham-why-i-chose-to-speak-outlongform-original-17006-1418165969-15

‘Oil’ by Imogen Whittaker

“When I was fourteen,

A girl in my class told me she would run

Four kilometres around the park

Round and round and round

Day after day after day

I asked why, and she said

‘Boys like fit girls’.

I’m still not sure if she was misusing

A British colloquialism, or if

At fourteen

She was already running in circles

To get a boy’s attention.

When I was fifteen,
A boy told me I was pretty
Somewhere in between a cigarette and a shot.
And somewhere between a shot and a song
He kissed me.
The taste of tobacco
Still lined his lips.
His hair reminded me of the dank mop
That was still in the garden corner.
His eyes left no impact
His smile had no pull
But I was fifteen
And somewhere between a shot and a song

When I was sixteen,
I believed my body was written in braille
And the only way a boy could know me
Was by running his fingers along the shield
Of skin and scars I had created around myself.
That the only way to know my stories
Was to feel the between the cavities around my limbs,
To explore the bumps along the back of my teeth
And the only way to leave an impact
Were the fingerprints left over the small of my back,
Or the soft blue of the bruises
Impressed on the insides of a wrist

I’m seventeen,
And I have some questions.

Why am I uncomfortable saying no?
Why is it my duty to say yes
And smile
And requite the flirting
Thrown at me by drunken heads under backwards caps?
But have ‘no’ thrown in my face
From magazines
TV shows
And the lady in the dress shop.
‘No, we don’t stock your size.’
I’m a size 12 on a ‘bad’ day.
How can the layers of cloth
That enclose my hips and shoulders
Shout any answer louder than the one
Yelling ‘no’ from my mouth?

Why is my body seen as my resume?
It will not tell you my successes
Or failures
Or all the anecdotes
That would make my eyes light up
And my cheeks dimple.
It will not tell you about that time
When it was 2 am and I was sad
And I spiked my cookie dough with my parents’ gin.
Or my first a plus
Or my first fail
Or the time I cut my fringe,
A jagged line of baby hair
Unnoticed for days under my straw hat.

Why are the stretch marks that etch my skin
Seen not as a map of my growth
But rather the scars of my gender?
Why is my ambition seen as feminism,
But a man’s seen as strength?
Why are we told to banish blemishes,
Rub out wrinkles
Forget the folds in our skin
That wrap us like the gifts I know we are?
Why are we told to drop a dress size,
Create a waist
Erase the age from our eyes-
Why do we need to disappear to make room for the men in our lives?

The highest paid man in the world
Was paid 378 million dollars
In a single year
But the highest paid woman?
51.
A million a day versus a million a week.
Don’t tell me that we’re equal.

I’m not asking for a free trip

In a rocket ship

I don’t need an elevator

Or a jet pack

Or a mob of men to lift me to the top.

I’m not unwilling to climb the same

Ladder of success as the men before me.

All I’m asking is for you to stop putting

Oil on the rungs.”