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There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil’s advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women’s Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that’s so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
Melissa McEwan, of course, on the terrible bargain. My life as a woman, as a queer person, as a fat person, is not your thought experiment.
Nothing boils my blood more (actually that’s not true, there’s a shit-ton of stuff that pisses me off) than asshats like that who patrionize me and other women and ask, “why take this so personally?” Cuz it’s FUCKING PERSONAL. skjghskjghskdghk
(via stfuhypocrisy)
Literally my Religious Studies/Sociology teacher. Ugh.
(Source: sanitywatchers)
