in gym class my white best friend points to the flat of my face and says “you don’t really have a nose.” it’s the first time i notice the difference in the geography of our faces i wish for a tall, delicate nose like hers like my white boy punk idols like the girls the boys see as beautiful
7th grade is a year of disappearing the boys lounging in the breezeway cackle about how i don’t have an ass the department store jeans sag over the thin of me it’s the first time i learn my yellow body does not exist here
i’m in college the first time a man old enough to be my father hollers at me on the street
"sup lil mama! me love you long time, long, long time.”
his words lick the back of my neck, slow there’s a part of me that takes it as a compliment there’s a part of me that wants to falcon punch the lecher out his face
it’s the first time someone makes me understand how my yellow body shouts easy pussy across the sidewalk port of nagasaki thighs for you to commodore perry open cambodian countryside cunt to bomb in silence
in the mirror i want to skin the chinadoll off of me these almond eyes flushed porcelain cheeks that betray me look how cute you did yourself up today you were asking for it
it’s october the halloween store sells costumes called “asian persuasion” "geisha beauty to ninja cutie" modeled by white women in black wigs cleavage bursting through strategic seams my skin a little something sexy to don for one night only they wear the fantasy of it but never know the itching how we asian women carry a certain insanity with the yellow of our skin tiptoeing the ghostland between invisible and undesirable visible and easy victim
i’ve learned to speak steel trap when talking to white men keeping my smiles from showing too much interest because the air is heavy with ghosts between us chinese women abducted into new world prostitution british opium ravaging pearl delta apart in 2008, the 16 asian women in oakland victimized by police in 2000, the 2 japanese women in spokane raped by 2 white men “infatuated with the japanese race” i’ve learned i can’t trust anyone to see me under the histories this country has mapped onto our skin
in class the paper pale english major next to me seems too interested in whether or not i have plans for the weekend i can’t tell if he’s just friendly or viewing the beginnings of a porno in the corners of my smile i want to tear the “undemanding” the “passive” from my skin i leave the classroom hoping walking away is enough to not disappear
People being angry about ~dem gays~ on Target’s Facebook.
I just want to give my two cents on this and tell you a story.
A couple weeks ago, I was hired at Target. I have a job at Target. Not a big deal right?
It is a big deal because i’m a transman.
It doesn’t take a genius to conclude that it’s hard for me, my brothers, and sisters to get a job. There are legal restraints regarding the job and if you don’t pass, it’s hard to be taken seriously at a job interview.
Right on the application, it asks what your preferred name is. It also asks if there is anything that target should know. I put the fact that I am a transman, expecting not to get a call because usually when you put that down, people will throw out the application. I got TWO interviews.
At the interview, they asked me about it. I told them I am on hormones and they told me that they didn’t care. Not in the sense that they don’t emotionally care, but that it didn’t matter. I was male and that’s all that mattered. They also told me that they give sex same couples benefits in states that do not recognize them as a married couple.
At my job orientation, I was not misgendered once. Even my supervisors who weren’t sure of my gender avoided pronoun use, which I found only happens when you’ve had pronoun training. They gave me a name tag with my preferred name and didn’t ask questions. I felt safe and respected, which is huge for a trans* person.
TLDR: Target is amazing not just for the LGB, but also the T. Shop there for the rest of your life.
Target are honestly doing retail so bloody right
I have never admired a shop more than in this moment
I loved Target before, but now I love it even more.
Let’s play out the scenario for the one in millions chance that someone in the presence of someone who wants to assault her is wearing the nail polish, coyly gets her finger into the drink, and spots the color change. Then what? How does it end? If this person is willing to go to such lengths to harm her, they won’t be phased by her setting her drink down. So let’s say she gets away or finds help. Does she call the police to report the activity of her fingernails? What happens when the next person this predator wants to harm opts for her favorite OPI shade that weekend?
How does it end?
It doesn’t; not with nail polish, anyway.
(…)This product does nothing to dismantle a culture of violence against women that demands we constantly become ever more vigilant against those who would do us harm. Undercover Colors, like so many other products, treats rape as an individual incident rather than a systemic and pervasive problem. Despite the never ending stream of prevention products, the statistics haven’t improved.
Unfortunately, This Magical Anti-Rape Nail Polish Won’t Save Us
When I first read about this woman’s plan I thought it was a strong idea but I was worried that it was a little bit much for one person, no matter how dedicated, to keep it up for too long, especially since she has, you know, college to commit to. I never thought about how, if other people helped her carry her burden, I never thought about how much it would look like pallbearers with a coffin. Which is simply one of the strongest visual symbols one can use to disturb people in the western world.
But women can never be careful enough, can we? If we take naked pictures of ourselves, we’re asking for it. If someone can manage to hack into our accounts, we’re asking for it. If we’re not wearing anti-rape nail polish, we’re asking for it. If we don’t take self-defence classes, we’re asking for it. If we get drunk, we’re asking for it. If our skirts are too short, we’re asking for it. If we pass out at a party, we’re asking for it. If we are not hyper-vigilant every single fucking second of every single fucking day, we are asking for it. Even when we are hyper-vigilant, we’re still asking for it. The fact that we exist is asking for it.
Everything Beyonce does is careful and thought out. Her entire image is perfection crafted from planning ahead. She does not ‘wing it’ or throw things into her performances and public appearances ‘just because’.
What she did at this award show was amazing, especially because of how intentional and thought out it clearly was.
Feminism is a scary word for a lot of people. Many women are afraid of calling themselves feminist because they think it implies anger, hatred of men, or a rejection of traditional femininity.
Beyonce presented everyone watching with two distinct images of what many viewers viewed as two very different women. There is the strong, independent FEMINIST. She is the woman who likes being in control and being in the spotlight. Then there is the WIFE and MOTHER. She is soft, sweet, smiling at the husband and child you can tell she loves and values so much.
For every girl watching who was afraid to be a feminist, afraid to be powerful, because of what she thought she would lose, this is an incredible message. You can be all the things you want to be. You can be both. Feminists can have amazing happy, full lives full of both traditional and modern womanhood.
Feminism means gender should not be a source of persecution or a restriction of your choices. Feminism mean the type of person you should be is based on what you value, not what outside forces pressure you to value because of your gender or biological sex. Shout at the top of your lungs that you are a feminist and proud. Then go and be the exact person that you want to be.