Founder & Editor-in-chief Jacqueline Wu
President & Social media director Genevieve Cordery
Copy editor Xavier Layne
fight like a girl By Scherezade Siobhan 10 Eponymous. The most ignorant myth perpetuated about childhood abuse is that all sufferers must have experienced some form of measurable or visible violence. That, if the story isn’t grafted on your physical skin, it is possibly untrue. That if your devastation hasn’t been continual and corporeal, it wasn’t exigent. That you MUST have always hated what was happening to you.
It is only partly accurate.
Violence doesn’t always possess immediately traceable dimensions. Its body can sometimes be too bloody, too mauled to render itself to a clear inspection. It is an equation not a remainder. There
isn’t a measuring tape wide enough or a weighing scale large enough to determine its magnitude, its dire mass.
You don’t always quite understand, as a child, what is happening to you to hate it. Or like it. Or attach any comprehensible set of feelings it. This emotional amorphousness, this lack of grip, this utter incomprehensibility of how something bad is happening to you but you are not so sure if it is routine to others or just you, is possibly the worst kind of undoing.
When I was 8 I kept hearing “he fights like a girl” at schoolyard scuffles and came to understand that it was something of an insult. Fighting like a girl meant you were weaker than the weakest of boys. Fighting like a girl meant that bigger, meaner boys had nailed you to the ground and you had no escape
route. Fighting like a girl meant that your body’s meat lacked the sinew and strength of a “real boy”.
So, in short, fighting like a girl meant you were handpicked for victimisation for as long as those larger, bigger, meaner ones decided and dealt the cards to your fate.
I had a cutting fever and my eyes felt like white burning orbs that would explode in a somatic riot of sorts. Nothing seemed clear; I was too small to fully understand that everything wasn’t a physical imbalance and that my mind was slowly shifting gears as well. I was living with my mother and him and she was away at school.
I stepped out of the room to fetch a glass of water, my heart’s thud louder than a temple bell as I paced through the distance between my room and the
kitchen. I was mortified of running into him. I was too ill to withstand what he’d put me through, and I was certain that if he found me out, I would be plunged head first into the lowest infernos of hell.
At the kitchen I fumbled with the filled-to-brim jug of water. Body was convulsing in rapid waves of shivers and chills. I could barely hold the glass and sooner than I could think, it was almost as though the small glass vessel leapfrogged out of my hand and less than a second later was shattered to a million little pieces on the marble floor.
His voice was the most deformed aspect of him. I heard its belt-lash ugliness ricochet through the house. I don’t try to remember the rest of it but I think he, woken up by the noise, slapped me so hard I bit my tongue and little tears of blood sat on my lips like sullen, idiot children.
My small body had flung across the equally small kitchen and my fingers cinched into a tight knot across the handle of the cutlery drawer. I knew he’d hit me again. I was too ill perhaps but my mind had melted into glue because I, for once, refused to hide my eyes from his hideous gaze as he sneered like a rat whose tail had been stepped on.
I decided that if he’d hurt me further, he’d have to deal with my eyes gouging his soul out for every slap he wrecked upon me.
"Fights like a girl.."
Knives have an operatic air about them. They are honest, emotional and almost lyrical weapons. Their honesty stems from the fact that unlike guns, the damage a knife causes is felt immediately by the one wielding it. There is no in-between, there is no
uncertainty. No moment of indeterminate maybe. When you gut someone, your hands are ceased by the firmness of that damage.
Not that I consider what I did to him as damage. It was a necessity. Long overdue.
I don’t remember what sort of knife it was, I do remember what I felt in my heart as it pared through the light material of his pyjamas to deposit half of its body inside his calf. I think the apt term for that feeling is satisfaction. I pulled it out. My rage was blind and hungry. I lunged at him again. He whimpered like a dirty, hunted animal. Gone was this pervasive terror that had hung in the air like ghosts of old relatives. I was burning up but my grip on the knife had only gotten stronger. He limped out of the small enclosure. I sat with a knife
in one hand and the other still knotted around the handle of the locker.
He never told my mother. He never touched me again. I was sent to a boarding school the next year.
I knew then that I would soon learn to tame blades.
Lesson 1 : Everything is a weapon. Cut once, sever forever.
14
Kihon
At the boarding school my karate instructor considered me fit for a regional tournament that usually only catered to boys. There were 6 events to compete in eventually culminating into a formal
fight for the championship. I was barred from the final fight because there were no girls competing at my level. Out of all the kids competing at the event there were two brown belts, a boy and me. It was comme il faut that the boy was the designated winner at our level and I was an “also ran”. This, without contest.
I asked to fight him, formally. They declined with a mirthful “that is so cute” in my face. The boy in question later told me he could crack me like a biscuit and it was “hilarious” to even imagine fighting a “stupid girl”. That girls should stick to silly slaps and scratches method of fighting. He then pulled at my belt.
My bloodlust climbed out of its hidden coves and dangled above my eyes like a rabid monkey. The
flesh around my wrist felt seared. I was curling and uncurling my fingers into stones and sticks.
He kept talking at me, with his finger in my face. The sun was setting against the blue garnet mountains and wisps of clouds were spread out like cotton candy. I closed my eyes for a minute and asked him to leave me alone. He refused and kept talking.
I gripped him by the insolent finger and delivered a sharp kick to his shins. His mouth twisted into a howl but it was soundless. I’d learned a few years ago that lower leg for men is a weak, unguarded area; that thing about men being unable to plant their feet firmly on the ground. He was at least 4 inches taller and 2 stones heavier than me. It didn’t matter. I had an iron grip on his knuckles, and I kept raining kicks. As he collapsed in a heap of
pain, he tried scratching my face with his free hand.
My instructor later told me that two grownups had to pry his bruised-to-an- indecipherable-shade-ofpurple hand from my grip.
Because I “fight like a girl”.
Lesson 2 : Control the moment, control the fight. Your compass sits between your eyes. Stop only when it is over.
19
Ataraxy
My bones are heavy with the day’s chores and tiredness has seeped into every pore. The drudgery of field studies in psychology has left me half
awake, half asleep as I climb the seemingly unending steps to my apartment. The elevator is out of order and a conflict between the building management staff and the maintenance crew ensures that it stays that way.
I think this is true for everyone. When you approach your home after a long day, your guards are down, your defenses suspended. You want a warm bath, a hot meal and want to nestle in the arms of an earnest sleep. When you are a student working 2 jobs and conducting field studies to earn your degree, this is truer than ever.
As I drag my heavy feet, I feel as though the environment has suddenly been shaken on its head. It is late, almost midnight. The floor I am on is mostly uninhabited save for flight attendant who is almost never at home. And then it happens.
A hirsute arm snakes around my neck and almost throttles me. I lose my physical balance and now am being dragged down. In a fraction of a second I have been fondled and nearly strangulated. All I remember next is that an old couple living on the floor above this one is holding my hand as I try to choke back my tears. It sinks suddenly what has just occurred. I rudely shun the kind lady’s hand and run down 4 flights of stair like a woman possessed.
I will find him.
I don’t. Ruckus ensues, condolences and criticisms are offered. Advice pours out like cheap liquor. “Don’t come home so late.” “Ask your parent to come down when you come home so late.”
I stay silent. I need to find him. I ask the security guard umpteen questions; he remains unmoved in his statement that he saw no one exit the building. How do you see “no one”?
I am the weird, bipolar schizoid so I must have hallucinated.
But I will find him.
Next day as I walk down the same flight of stairs, a young girl who works as house help in one of the many apartments tells me ” Didi, I saw Flat no 304’s driver with the watchman last night around that time. Wohich hoyega. { It must be him }”
11:00 PM. I am waiting. I am told the said driver takes leave by this time. The watchman is sharing cigarettes and old songs on the radio with the next building’s watchman. The driver trundles out. He
doesn’t see me till the iron rod spits a loud clang against his shoulder blades. I register a second blow and in my head I arrange the sound of his bones breaking into a delectable symphony. He lies on the floor like a gunny bag ripped open. I can hear doors opening and I know soon people will assemble here like a gang of bees on acid. I place my wrist around his neck and close my fingers around his hideous skin. I can feel his breath fluttering like a captured moth. Shut in. Shut out. I see fear in his eyes, his life struggling for the shore. I know he will admit to murder now if it is just to keep this wretched life of his. I have taught him to fear.
Lesson 3: You need the logic of snakes and rabbits. Mould yourself into the patience of an anaconda.
So, I fight like a girl.
I fight like a girl who is fully in agreement with all her monstrosities because god by god is unmade each century but it is my monsters who keep me alive. I fight like a girl who won’t bend or bow down or break or burn. I fight like a girl who has learned to cultivate her anger into an art and wield swords equal to half her own body weight with the niftiness of a ballerina. I fight like a girl who has been clawed at, bitten, knocked in and peeled off by a plethora of “Hes”, faces of whom she could not care to remember anymore. Possibly because she stuck her grapnels into their masks and stripped them off.
I fight like a girl who has learned to sire her fear like a phoenix that won’t stay down or buried for long. That will emerge unscathed from its own fire, this time, every time. I fight like a girl who will unleash all her beasts upon your form if you try to tell me that I should be treated worse for being
“lesser or smaller or other”. I fight like a girl because I don’t fight by way of legacy or privilege earned by oppression that my gender or my skin colour imposes. I fight like a girl because I fight basis what I have earned of my own body and learned of my own experience.
I fight like a girl because I refuse to be spoken for, spoken to or spoken about without my permission. I fight like a girl because my strikes are clean and so is my heart.
I fight like a girl because I am Sekhmet, I will hunt your menage to every iota of my feline being if you try to teach me where I “belong”. I fight like a girl because I am Bellona and my scimitar is not a shy doll. I fight like a girl because I am Korrawi and I will curse you out till my tongue is bloodied and raw.
So, rally around lilith for she has spoken. Beware of my women who can tear your stomach open with their bare hands. Beware of my women who will make a garland of your lot’s skulls and dance upon your deities in flourished abandon.
Go learn of our names. We are Kali and Itzpapalotl. We are Tomyris and the Trung sisters. We are Lady Hangaku and Khutlun. When we bring war, we bring our venom and nails.
Beware of my women who fight like girls because when they gong the knells, even death feels a trickle of ice water run down its haunches.
Make no mistake about it. If you try to hurt me, I will bury you alive. I am good for that.
I fight like a girl, and trust me, you would not want to meet me in a dark alley.
Ever.
Breaking the Silence: Disabled WomenSpeaking for Themselves Review by Victoria Richards
As a disabled, nerdy, crip, queer, bullied kid, I spent all my time in my bedroom; reading, crying, and listening to loud music. I read everything that I could get my hands on; horror, literary fiction, science fiction, the classics, non-fiction, poetry and romance. I loved it all. But, gradually, as I grew into a critical reader, I began to notice very large absences in the works that I was reading. I wasn’t there.
If women were present, they were
unrecognisable. You could say the same for the working class men. When it came to disabled/queer women things just got worse.
They were being
cured, killing themselves, or dying from a tragic impairment. Then I took women studies. I began to find feminist works that brought women to the
forefront of the work, but I still wasn’t there. The women presented there were, on the whole, white, middle class, and able bodied. As the course went on, I began to encounter works that included other groups:
black
women,
queer/gay/QUILTBAG
women, older women and even disabled men. Moreover, disabled people were beginning to campaign for their rights. They were beginning to break the silence that surrounded them and tell their unique experiences of the world.
During, the
time that I was at university, disability studies was beginning to emerge as a discipline in its own right. Works began to emerge that were looking at the experiences of disabled people. They spoke of their working lives, their leisure activities, their political lives, and cultural representations of their identity. They began to claim that disability was something that could be discussed in a similar manner to other
oppressions. Writers, such as Oliver, Finkelstein, Morris and Hunt began to uncover the ways that disability is constructed by a society that is formed, and shaped, for the able - bodied (temporarily able bodied) community. I remember finding these works exciting and exhilarating. They gave a name to my experience.
They gave me a sense of
belonging to a wider community of people, people who were experiencing the same things as me and who were finding ways of expressing these experiences. Yet, there was still a sense of unease. There was still something missing. There was still a silence in these works. There was no discussion of disabled women.
There was no discussion of
gender, the biological aspects of disability, or the private world of the home and the relationships that go with that space. As disability studies grew and matured,
this began to change.
Disabled
women began to speak for themselves and speak of
what was once considered unspeakable.
The two
books, examined within this text,
Mustn’t
Grumble
(Now; what happened to you?)
(Keith, 1994) and Living on the Edge (Driedger 2010) are part of this movement.
I remember finding Mustn't Grumble for the first time. I remember lying on my bed, reading it over and over again. I remember quoting bits to my family, friends, tutors and anyone else who would listen.
This anthology had me from the
introduction. Lois Keith spoke movingly, and in a manner that really chimed with me, of her sadness at the lack of writing for, by and about disabled women. She spoke of her isolation, her quest to find other disabled women
and her joy of finding
solidarity with other disabled women.
This is a
book of personal prose narrative, and poetry. It is
an anthology of work written by a group of disabled women. It explores themes of loss, isolation, anger, pain, relationships, the joy of finding solidarity with other disabled people and the joy of telling their stories for the first time. It includes narratives concerning the humiliation of dealing with social service care workers, the pain of being separated from family and friends upon going to boarding school, the pain/and embarrassment of having a wheelchair malfunction, the joy of sharing that experience with other disabled women, and the way that disabled women’s relationships with partners and children often go unrecognised. It talks about anger and the joy of being able to express that anger.
The second work written several years after the other, is written by a group of Canadian women.
It deals with many of the same issues. In many ways, it’s a giant step forward from the first, and being from a different culture gives it a slightly different perspective. Firstly, it includes a wider variety of impairments, cultures and lifestyles. It explores
the experiences of aboriginal women,
women with invisible disabilities, and women of differing sexualities. Several of these articles have a academic voice that is not to be found in Mustn’t Grumble. It also includes art and literary criticism. However, it keeps the drive to uncover the silenced voice and allow their stories to be heard.
Both of the Anthologies, and many of their contributors place an emphasis on the importance of story. Both challenge notions concerning who has the right to tell their story and what stories can
be told. They claim the right to tell their story. They claim the right to dissolve the silence that surrounds them. Lets hope that others will pick up the baton and continue to tell these tales. Lets ensure that future girls sitting reading in their bedrooms can see themselves mirrored in the books that they read.
Keith, L (ed) (1994) Mustn’t Grumble. London, Women’s press (Now What’s your problem, 1996) Driedger, D (2010) (ed) Living the Edges; A Disabled Women’s Reader. INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION. inc, Canada
Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution Review by Senia Hardwick
For those not in the know, Riot Grrrl, as a word, usually describes one (or a combination) of three things: the music style (a late 80s and early 90s mixture of grunge and punk, usually performed by all girl groups. The lyrics and themes tend to be evocative of feminine and/or feminist concerns), the social and activist community built around these bands, and people who identify with or are being labeled as affiliated with these things.
Sara Marcus’ review of Riot Grrrl history begins and closes with a personal address to the reader, framing her relationship with both Riot Grrrl (as a music genre, lifestyle and source for activism) as well as other Riot Grrrls themselves. In
light of Riot Grrrl’s tumultuous relationship with media coverage, she expresses her genuine love for a group of women and artists that served as guardians, guides and confidants, amongst countless roles. In some ways her book exists as a paradox, as there is no absolute definition of Riot Grrrl and no simple way to tell its history as it is not just the story of bands, like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile, but a story of an entire community. Marcus defines and challenges this contradiction in her closing thoughts to the reader, “I hope with all my heart that readers will tell their own stories. Tell what I left out. Do it in paint, in plaster, with drums and harp, with words and dance. Start your own scene rooted in the particulars of your own lives and what gets you riled up.”
It is easy to become enamored of Marcus'
writing style. She smoothly weaves together complex conflicts both within and without the Riot Grrrl ranks, drawing the reader in emotionally. I missed several subway stops while reading this book; closing the pages felt like steping away from another world. I found myself struck by echoes of the text as I went about my day. It also changed the way I listened to bands that were influenced by and interacted with Riot Grrrl, such as Nation of Ulysses and Nirvana. It is not just a history, but it is a book that asks to be questioned.
In accepting Marcus’ challenge I came away with the following:
• How is a writer responsible for framing the history they present (especially that history’s flaws)?
• How do I (or anyone else) build a more inclusive community and activism?
I was wary when I began to read the book. I had found Riot Grrrl to be fairly devoid of women of color and trans people. Many Riot Grrrl bands have played at and defended Michfest, an all women’s music festival with a trans exclusive history and practice. Neither trans people as a topic nor Michfest as an institution is mentioned, which for the festival is especially odd concerning that Michfest was running all through the time the book covers. This is my greatest disappointment in the text. It is claimed “Every Grrrl is a Riot Grrrl” (as Angela Seguel wrote across her bare body for a photograph in i-D), and this exclusion (and even utter lack of acknowledgment) runs counter to the spirit of Riot Grrrl as well as everything the
community has tried to build. Strangely, Riot Grrrl has stood against many other ideas from 1970s feminism, such as being against sex, sex work, and kink, and yet trans concerns are still ignored at best.
Throughout the text there are references to reading the works of Audre Lorde and Bell Hooks, but there are few actual women of color engaging with the scene. The lack of women of color and many riot grrrl’s difficulty in either addressing privilege as topic or knowing how to then create solutions is mentioned throughout. One of the latter chapters of the book focuses on Mary Green, Cindy Hales, Akiko Carver, Ananda La Vita, and Erika Reinstein, several women who chose to address and confront this.
In presenting an activist history, it’s
necessary for a writer to honestly address its flaws. Without genuinely recognizing them, especially ones the writer may have been implicit in, there is no way to change them. Making movements more inclusive takes action on the part of those in the power holding group, and a willingness to listen to and meet the concerns of those they seek to engage with. Marcus repeatedly describes different riot grrrls struggling to combat other (white) grrrl’s inability to admit their privilege and their lack of understanding about race (and in a few cases sex work and class). There exists a strange misconception that when people are looking for someone to admit their privilege in a topic it is a request for some sort of self-flaggetory, public admission of fault. This is not only not useful, but it is also oddly narcissistic and brings emphasis, time, and attention back to the person with said privilege. Asking someone to admit privilege is not a trite
spectacle, it is asking them to take time to listen to other people and admit you have not lived as they have.
Despite it’s muddled past, Riot Grrrl has been an important organizing force, and can/has been built upon for the better. Riot Grrrl was born out of challenging a subculture thought to be a space alternative to society, and continuing to do so is what will keep it true to it’s essence and relevant to future youth. In its ideal form, Riot Grrrl channels pain and outrage into social action, selfexpression, and empowerment. My desire is for feminism to be truly inclusive. I am not moved by “inclusivity” as a buzzword for neo-liberals to pat themselves on the back with. I want a movement that speaks and acts for the masses. Feminism is for everybody and perhaps Riot Grrrl could be too.
On Representation in Porn By Senia Hardwick
We are currently living in age where pornography, erotica, and other forms of media intended to be erotically stimulating are available easily and en mass. For the sake of clarity and effectiveness, I have coined the phrase erotic consumables, because it indicates such things are intended for an audience but does not limit the means of expression (audio versus text versus visual etc). This is mainly due to the advent of the internet and mass distribution/marketing in both publishing and other industries rather than a novel interest, as erotic art has existed in a variety of mediums since at least the paleolithic era (La Marche, a cave in France has several illustrations of genitalia and nude figures as well as figures coupling).
What is new, specifically in American and Western culture, is a more regular discourse on erotic consumables. Romance novels targeted to women are now top selling books and topics of public discussion. 50 Shades of Grey is an unfortunate example, and having such easy and immediate access raises the question of what these different products communicate about how we should have and think about sex and attraction. Despite the amount of content available, a large portion of it still promotes ideas that are unsafe or damaging to participants. Something should not be problematic because it contains sex, but should in fact be judged on what it tells us about sex.
Within mainstream society, stories and examples of sex are only seen as adverse or wrong when they are presented in “abnormal” approved or “radical” ways such as but limited to: women, queer
intersex and/or trans people, interracial couples, people of color, fat sex participants, and disabled participants enjoying and involving themselves in sex as people and for themselves rather than fetishized ideas of categories.
One of the more straightforward examples of this is the way the Motion Picture Association of America rates films. The word “bitch” can be used in PG-13 films, but the word “fuck” as an exclamation can be used once. Bitch is a loaded word regarding, gender, sexual orientation, and gender presentation. Common use can include as many meanings as: someone who is sexually submitting, someone who acts aggressive for their “place” in society (especially someone perceived as feminine in some way), or someone who complains a large amount. While there is a large and wonderful movement to bring the word bitch back
into positive use, this is sadly not the way it is used on the whole. More directly, putting someone down based on sexual behavior and gender roles is an acceptable thing for a child to see with some adult guidance, but discussing the way people reproduce and a function that's highly integrated into society is not acceptable.
A more directly related example is how easy/marketable it is to find/produce erotic consumables about a group of people as opposed to for a group of people (about being content that eroticizes a descriptor of the person, for being content designed to include the person). An example of this is the language used to discuss trans women and their bodies in pornography. Most terms present them as some sort of third outlying gender and puts emphasis on their genitals rather than treating them as a woman. For women
of all relations to their sexual assignment (and sexual participants in general) though, everything in exploitative works is marketed (race, body weight, ability, orientation, etc). Meanwhile erotic consumables that support people as individuals are seen as subversive or are simply unheard of. The popularity of the aforementioned 50 Shades of Grey versus The New Topping and The New Bottoming book by Easton and Hardy as well as how each book series relates to the ideas of safe, sane, and consensual sex is an example of this disconnect.
Until sex is no longer required to reproduce (and perhaps even after) people will need to discuss sex and be interested in sex. Instead of denying this dialogue, society as a whole needs to find ways to have safe and supportive conversations regarding people's health, safety, and interest or lack there of
in sex and/or erotic contact (as BDSM and other kinks do not always place emphasis on sex but in fact erotically charge as other acts). It is also possible to create erotic consumables that approach taboo subjects through the way the narrative and ideas within it are presented to the consumer.
Unfortunately, as long as there is a significantly larger market for problematic images, unhealthy ideas about sex and sexuality will continue to be propagated, and as traditionally marginalized groups tend to have less income, it is more difficult for them to affect the market. This is why education and advocacy regarding safe sex practices, sex work, and sexual health is so important, as well as creating safe spaces and content for marginalized people.
Trans Bodies Trans Selves: A Radical Resource for Trans Health and Wellness
Review by Senia Hardwick
Trans Bodies Trans Selves, edited by Laura Erickson-Schroth, is a new resource book styled after the well known Our Bodies Our Selves. With 24 Chapters and over 200 contributors, not including personal essays, the book serves as an inclusive and exhaustive guide to trans health care and life needs.
First and foremost, this is the most exhaustive traditionally published book of this kind (as opposed to zines and online publications). Nonphysically, independently, and/or ephemerally produced texts can not be as extensive due to the inherent limitations of the medium. Additionally, all the contributors to the text are trans and/or
non-binary people. Trans and non-binary people dictating and discussing their own health and wellness needs is of dire importance.
For the most part, trans people looking for health care are forced to go through bureaucracy, health systems, and social tests set by cis people (the latin meaning of cis is “on the near side of� and it describes people whose birth gender assignment matches their internal gender identity"). Trans people are consistently questioned about whether or not they are sure about their identity and treated as if their identity is invalid. For younger trans people it is often written off as a juvenile phase, while for older trans people, it is usually treated as some sort of sickness or mental illness. The American trans community’s relationship with the medical industry is tenuous at best and, at worst, it becomes a matter of life or death. Even just keeping
a trans person’s medical history private can be a life or death situation for people, especially trans women of color, who are the most frequent victims of hate crimes in the entirety of North and South America.
The book itself admittedly borrows most of its structuring and tone from Our Bodies Our Selves, and even has a short afterword from the contributors of the series acknowledging the necessity and importance of it as a resource. Each chapter includes personal narratives from different trans and non-binary people, as well as straight forward discussions of each topics. In the appropriate chapters, there are diagrams, and photos of a wide range of people’s bodies. These representations are intrinsic to the purpose of the text, giving the reader images of similarly bodied
people, which is utterly lacking in mainstream discussions of sex and sexuality.
Aside from discussing legal, sexual, and health and wellness needs, the text touches on many intersectional topics and concerns including, but not limited to: race, employment, class, immigration and citizenship, police and incarceration, disability, religiosity, parenting, and age. Trans people have their own needs that all interact with these topics, and acknowledging these within group differences is absolutely necessary for both the trans community and health care. The book also contains information on trans cultural history and political activism. Trans people can not have health and wellness without either of these. Without activism and community, there will be no safety or safe spaces for trans people. For the most part, there is no incentive for in power groups to
help the lives of those they oppress and or benefit from oppressing. Allies are important and useful, but can not be counted on to have the same understanding or investment in struggles because it is often not a matter of their own lives.
The book also contains a glossary and a list of other books and resources to consult. While this makes it an invaluable resource in and of itself, the book currently costs $39.95. The unfortunate reality is that many trans people, especially trans youth and young adults do not have the money to buy a book of this price. In light of this, the team behind the book has created a non-profit organization with the goal of distributing the text separate of ability to pay. This choice demonstrates the book and its contributors’ authenticity and commitment to the ideals with in it.
If you are interested in further reading or buying the book you can:
visit their website
find an independent bookstore selling it near you
Beauty Routine – Feminist Remix By Jacqueline Wu and Genevieve Cordery 1.
Make sure your face is clean and fresh.
Wash off all the patriarchal bullshit that's been thrown in your direction.
Oxy Cleansing Pads, Kiss My Face Olive Oil Facial Soap, Skin79 Smart Clear Cleansing Foam, Laneige Black Head Melting Gel, Skin79 Smart Clear Cleansing Oil
2.
Apply Moisturizer to keep your skin healthy
and supple. It repairs the damage from stress caused by people who think feminism is unnecessary.
Mizon Collagen Power Firming Enriched Cream, Etude House Moistfull Sleeping Pack, GNC Aloe Vera Moisturizing Cream
3.
Remember foundation is what keeps your
shit together in the face of misogyny.
Sonia Kashuk Liquid Makeup Brush, BareMinerals BareSkin, BareMinerals Powder Brush, Make Up For Ever Pro Finish Powder
4.
Your eyes are the window to your soul. You
want to draw in the attention of bigots and let them know you can devour them whole.
Coastal Scents 88 Eyeshadow Palette, BareMinerals Eyeshadow Brush, Maybelline Falsies Mascara, Maybelline Master Duo Eyeliner, Rimmel Special Eyes Eyeliner, Ardell Duralash
5.
Never underestimate the power of eyebrows
and the affect they have on your prey. #TheEyebrowGameIsStrongWithThisOne
Anastasia Beverly Hills Dipbrow Pomade, ELF Brow Comb, Sonia Kashuk Eyebrow Brush, Anastasia Beverly Hills Clear Brow Gel
6.
Apply a fair amount of blush on your
cheeks but don't go overboard...like those men's rights activists.
Sonia Kashuk Highlighter Brush, Anastasia Beverly Hills Contour Kit, Stila Blush, Milani Baked Blush, BareMinerals Blush Brush
7.
Lipstick seals the final look. Don't be afraid
to use bold colors. It gives you that extra boost of confidence.
Various lipsticks from: Covergirl, Este Lauder, Smashbox, NYX, Revlon, Sephora
Movie Review : Maleficent By Genevieve Cordery Rating: Bangin’. 10 out of 10
I had been doing a countdown until the release of this film since October 2013. I had high expectations for this movie and I am proud to say that it did not disappoint me.
After hearing the theme song for this movie, “Once upon a Dream,” sung by Lana Del Ray, I had chills. I knew this movie was going to be different. The cheerful song, that was once meant for Aurora and the Prince, was now an eerie anthem for Maleficent. After the movie, you realize just how meaningful this song was for Maleficent.
There was talk about the “rape scene” in this movie all over the internet. While there is no explicit
sexual content in this movie, Maleficent’s story does mirror a victim’s survival story. Maleficent’s stolen wings are the direct metaphor to rape. The film shows her relationships to the man, his motives, and her being drugged by a tainted drink. The next clip you see is him walking away with a piece of her (wings) and her waking up, screaming in agony, shame, and anger.
On a lighter note, the graphics in the movie were great. The wings on Angelina Jolie’s character looked very realistic. The computer generated imagery (CGI) was very well done. Thank goodness it wasn’t bad like the baby in Breaking Dawn Part II.
Jolie really did an amazing job. She was absolutely perfect for the role- that laugh of hers- it’s the perfect laugh for her character.
But my favorite part of the movie is when Jolie’s daughter, Vivienne Jolie Pitt, played baby Aurora. She is so adorable and irresistible, and I just love it when Maleficent calls Aurora “little beasty.”
This film will make a wonderful addition to my growing collection of movies.
Movie Review: How To Train Your Dragon 2 By Genevieve Cordery Rating: Bangin’. 10 out of 10
In recent years, sequels have tended to be nothing more than a regurgitated version of the previous film; but not this movie. How to Train Your Dragon 2 is not at all repetitive, but instead it complements the first film. The main characters, Hiccup and Toothless, continue to share a symmetrical life story and their best friendship is even stronger and more touching. And yes, the sarcasm is still in the film- love it!
The parental relationship is not what you are expecting, and while there are clicheĚ’ moments, those moments are in no way, stupid or unnecessary.
The music in this film was amazing. John Powell did an amazing job in the first movie and worked his magic again in the sequel. The music really fits each scene like a glove and it is what solidifies your emotions when you are on “the verge” of crying or laughing or being nervous.
All the extra characters from the first are still in the sequel, and they are just as funny and awesome. Astrid is officially Hiccup’s girlfriend, and their relationship is great. In the film, it is existent but not overbearing. After all, the film is not about her and Hiccup, but Toothless and Hiccup.
Unfortunately, the marketing of this movie was poor. It was so rare to see any commercials on television or on YouTube. The first time I saw a commercial for How to Train Your Dragon 2, I was in the theater getting ready to watch another film.
Despite the marketing setback, this movie was brilliant. I can’t wait to add it to my DVD/Blu-Ray collection.
Contributors
Scherezade Siobhan is a Jungian gypsy of Indian/Catalan/Afghan origins. She is a writer/psychologist who is perennially immersed in fernweh. She is the former features writer for Globalcomment and has contributed articles to Feministe, Sepia Mutiny and Outlook Traveler India. Her work has been published in over 2 dozen poetry magazines including The Newer York, Hermeneutic Chaos Journal, PIX Quarterly, Black Cat Poems, Looseleaf Tea, Cactii Mag, Words Dance, etcetera. She was included in Compass Rose’s print anthology and is also a Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry. She can be found ranting about forensics and poetry atwww.viperslang.tumblr.com and @viper_slang on twitter. Senia Hardwick is a writer and activist living in the NY Metro area. She is a staffer at Bluestockings, an independent bookstore in
NYC. She describes her writing as neo-romatic, taking a post-modern and queered approach to the artistic and aesthetic values of romanticism, concerned with emotion, nature, and the transmutation of each into the other. Her poetry and fiction can be found here. Victoria Richards is an avid reader who loves weird/speculative fiction, but she also reads literary fiction. She loves talking about books and hopes you love listening to her. She started reading when she was young and never stopped. She likes books that explore new worlds in old ways and old worlds in new ways. She likes books that tell old stories in new ways. She loves tales of the weird. She likes poems that tell stories and stories that read like poems. In addition, She writes about politics. She is particularly interested in social policy and how it effects minority groups, especially disabled women. http://vikzwrites.wordpress.com/
Manasi Nene is a grrrl from Pune, India, currently studying at Flame School of Liberal Education. She founded the Pune Poetry Slam, and art + activism have always fascinated her. The aims of her life are to meet Carrie Brownstein, finishing her evergrowing to-read list and maybe understand calculus. Cookies, book recommendations and other cool stuff always appreciated – send them on facebook or twitter.