Sometimes I feel like I need to share my story,
Like I need to warn my sisters,
Like I’m complicit in what you did
every day that I don’t.

Maybe my story, my trauma, my naked soul
could make a difference
and here I am. Selfish.
Keeping it all to myself. Every last bit of it.
To my lone self.

I know at my core that my heart is worth protecting
but maybe it’s not.
I’ve been wrong before.

I’m a terrible feminist survivor, in fact.
Because I didn’t tell anyone that it was you.
Because I forgave you.
Because I don’t think you’re a monster.
Because I didn’t tell your friends why I stopped talking to them too.

I know at my core that my heart is worth protecting
but my fingers feel dirty, like they’re personally responsible
for whatever fucking-up you do,
every day that I don’t say your name out loud.


Today I (re)watch: Gilmore girls, 3.04

I swear, I love this season so much. And I like this review a lot.

Lorelai agrees to go speak at Stars Hollow High School about being a businessperson, but it goes hilariously wrong. Lane decides to step up against her conservative mother, and makes a bold fashion choice. 

SPOILER ALERT. I have seen all the seasons before, so I am reviewing with future events in mind. SPOILER ALERT.

Gilmore girls opening scenes are so good. Damn. Lorelai’s ‘dark premonitions’ are too silly. A recap:
– In one, she slips on a banana peel and lands on a vat of whipped cream, and dies.
– In another one, a turtle eats her by slowly chewing on her, after injecting her with immobilizing poison of course.
– In another, she is out hunting, her shotgun backfires and her head spins around a bunch and ends up on the back of her head, like Daffy Duck.
They’re even sillier than my dreams in which I date Jimmy Fallon, set Chris Pratt on fire, and learn how to be a lesbian (which consists of knowing how to rock a tuxedo, and breakdancing, FYI) from characters of Orange is the New Black.

Lane has a band! Huzzah!
Adam Brody is really cute. And I really love their band, I am glad they’re in the picture now. They’re all adorable, rockstar babies.

x x

Mama Kim has Lane applying to a bunch of horrible-sounding colleges, though. And, applying to 21 schools in one afternoon?! That’s intense. I would be angry too.

I love that Lane’s anger leads her to a Beauty Supply store. And into the color purple!

“The smell of bleach is the smell of freedom!” Oh, Lane. You beautiful baby pumpkin (I am becoming Leslie Knope with my compliments.)

Lane’s hair looks so cool! “This is the most radical thing a Kim has done since my cousin Nam got caught reading Maxim at summer camp.”

Which I mean, of course she changes back, but still. This image lives on. And so do her feelings for Dave.

Lorelai is invited to speak at SH High
And she annoys Luke into speaking with her. Of course she would.

"I’m incorrigible!"

Lorelai is so awesome with Luke. She pushes him to be a bit more social and he constantly helps keep her grounded and feel supported. I love them, in any type of relationship.

Lorelai: You need something better than this (to wear).
Luke: The whole point of this stupid class talk is for us to talk about our work and our success. This flannel shirt is my most successful outfit. I’ve closed many a deal in this outfit. It’s my power outfit.

I had not noticed this, but when Lor comes upstairs to get Luke to change, Jess tries to follow along in Lor and Luke’s jokes. He is getting into a conversation when he didn’t have to. And still Lorelai treats him like the idea of even talking to him is gross or something. [Yes I am overly sensitive about Jess, but I am also right.]

Anyway, she speaks, and everyone wants her to talk about her pregnancy. I think she handled it well. Both the questions and the clone ladies smack down. Shying away from topics doesn’t make them go away. Preparing kids for different options and scenarios does. Go Lor! Go comprehensive sex ed! Wooot.

Rory is such an immature, jealous baby when it comes to Jess
She was a jerk to Shane at the beauty shop. Yes, Shane was talking on the phone, but I mean, how many times do other people in that town get distracted from their jobs to do chit chat and no one feels the need to be a rude jerk to one another. Then Shane is just doing the register thingie and Rory keeps barking at her. She claims to be more educated and composed and mature but, umm, I don’t see it.

I find it interesting that first Jess was a jerk to Shane on the phone by pointing out that ‘bloaty’ isn’t a word (and, um, Shane is right, that that’s how words get created: someone uses it, then a lot of people) like that matters, and then Rory is a jerk to her about it too. Excuse her for not going to your fancy school to learn big words. Jess and Rory are compatible: they’re even compatible when they’re being jackasses.

This brings me to the following post within a post:


All the women who aren’t Rory are treated like trash in this show..?
Spoilers ahead. I am speaking about future pairings and situations.

I mean, the women who date the guys that Rory dates – they’re treated pretty badly by the writers. Shane is made out to be this unrealistically flat character. She is slut-shamed, mocked, stared at, etc by the Gilmore girls – both Rory (who one might say is just being a jealous teen, fine) AND Lorelai, who is apparently not content with shitting on Jess, but has to shit on a girl Lor knows nothing about, except that she is a better kisser than Rory (no, I will not get over that.) She is also treated like crap by Jess – and I never, not once, saw Shane treat Jess like he treated her. And the show tries to conflate Jess not caring about Shane with him treating her like shit.
Being emotionally involved isn’t a requirement to ‘hang out’ or hook up with people. But you don’t have to be emotionally involved to treat someone with basic respect. A lot to expect from an 18yo? Maybe. But I mean, Luke’s speech kind of falls short, because it isn’t about feelings, it is about basic human decency. If he wants to just hook up with Shane in closets, never learn her last name and leave it at that, that’s okay, but to talk to her like she could fall off a cliff and no one would care isn’t about feelings. It is once again this all-or-nothing mentality a lot of shows and movies work with: either you are a dumb, easy disposable or you are wife material and never do anything wrong.

The writers did the same with (SPOILER) Lindsay later on: she is an unrealistically flat character, a trophy wife who tries her best, but we know nothing about, and who Rory feels free to step on and criticize. And also with the girls Logan sleeps with before and after Rory – they’re made to be interchangeable and worthless to Logan, and he very likely treats them like crap as well.

It disappoints me now that I think about it, because it seems to me like super weak writing..? Do the writers need to make every “competing” (gross concept in itself) woman to be a dumb, superficial, submissive idiot to land the point that the guys are ‘better off’ with Rory than with any other girl? NO. Rory is awesome, and the audience already roots for her. It is a stupid thing that many writers do, though. Put down other women to make “their main woman” stand out. Like people tell us in real life, actually: that the only way to get ahead is by putting other ladies down, which is untrue, and totally uncool.

After Jess, I hope Shane finds someone equally hot and awesome to make out with, who respects her and does not feel the need to correct her grammar to feel less insecure about themselves.


What surviving is.

There is a lot you can learn from trauma.

You learn to duck, to dive, to jump, to dodge. You learn to cover essential organs so you wont die from internal bleeding. You learn to sanitize and stitch and cauterize and treat. You become doctor, and teacher, and lawyer, and bodyguard.


There are lessons in every bruise of every body of every scared child in the world. Because we are all children when we are hurled up in a corner. Every soldier needs their mummy, no matter how old they are. And so we learn.


But, is that not a fucked up thing to say? “Well, now you know. Lesson learned. Be thankful for the experience.”

Now you know what it’s like to be given poison every morning and continue to thank them for their kindness.

Now you know it truly can happen to anyone. No one is safe. Not even the smart and sassy feminists.

Now you know that people can love you and tear you apart at the same time.

Now you know the kind of shame that drowns even the steadiest voice.


Now you know. Lesson learned. Be thankful for the experience.


It is a fucked up game to play: to drink tragedy with a dose of sugar, and to never say the A word.

The ‘A’ word means maybe he did not love you. Or worse, that maybe he did. He loved you and then he killed you. Every day.

The ‘A’ word means you let that happen to you.

The ‘A’ word means you are a victim. You were broken.

The ‘A’ word also means you must have had a moment of enlightenment. That you are all changed now, because the ‘a’ word means, you must get better somehow.


But let me be clear: Abuse. Abuse, did not make you stronger. It showed you how strong, how full of life force you already were.

Abuse did not show you the way with his fists, you showed yourself out with your own two fucking feet.


And let me be clearer: Abuse.. Abuse, did not build you. You are not his work of art.

Abuse did not build you.

You are not his work of art.


The ‘Thank You’ cards can stay in your desk: you are artist, art, and audience; you are strong like an amazon. You dodged every bullet and stitched every cut yourself.


Listen well, kid: Abuse did not build you. You are not his work of art.


In passing

The one where I think and ramble about skin color & privilege & a tear between two homes that see me through different eyes. Being whiter-than in Mexico and being able to pass as white (or Canadian, at least) in Montreal, attempting to speak about race eloquently while trying not to take up too much space while checking my privilege while taking note of the ways in which said privilege applies & doesn’t when far from the birth-home. Balancing others’ attempt to decide how I should identify / act, while realising I have no idea how I identify either. The rambling continues:

I am white… enough that
my family believes, and reminds me
that I DESERVE a white man
by my side.

I am white… enough that
I am perfectly bilingual
And you don’t wonder how come
Or, who paid for it?

I’m white… enough for bro’s to say
“Babe, you look French, Italian, Greek
Like it’s a goddamn compliment.

I’m also latina enough to surprise you
with my incredibly charming movie quotes
How could you know Hollywood has sparkly combat boots
That colonized my childhood?

I am white enough, but brown enough
that no one ever asks
about the gross inequality
that raised me.

I am white… enough that
when I’m at Halloween parties
sometimes maybe no one puts
a fucking sombrero on my head

I am white… enough, but latina enough that
I have a last name to dump,
and the European one to keep,
for job interviews..

I am white… enough that
my skin tells an awful story
of my people being systematically,
unforgivably screwed over.

I am white… enough that
I can let people forget
I am an Other,
If– no, WHEN — it’s necessary.

I am white… enough,
but latina enough
That I can camouflage
but I still need to.

I am white… enough that
You feel a bit too comfortable
your white ally card sitting in your pocket
when you make “ironic” “post-racial” jokes

I am white… enough that
I’m not always fetishized
That my sex can sometimes, maybe be
Something other than “exotic”.

I am white… enough
to be pretty fucking privileged
but my blood is dark enough,
that sometimes I don’t see it.

I am white… enough to be asked
to speak about racial inequalities
and be heard. But also to know
That I know nothing. Not really.

I am white… enough that
I never had to think about it
Until I was no longer
The whitest.

I am whiter than-
but darker than-, as well
I learned early on to know
my worth in relative terms.

I am white enough but latina enough
That I’m not immigrant enough, not assimilated enough
Not privileged enough, not oppressed enough
Not light-skinned enough, not dark-skinned enough.
Not white enough, not latina enough

To speak in good enough words
To be visible in clear enough colors,
To exist in a way that makes sense.


Guest Blogger Starling: Schrödinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced

Every man in the world should read this article. Hats off to the woman who wrote it.

Shapely Prose

Phaedra Starling is the pen name of a romance novelist and licensed private investigator living in small New York City apartment with two large dogs.  She practices Brazilian jiu-jitsu and makes world-class apricot muffins.

Gentlemen. Thank you for reading.

Let me start out by assuring you that I understand you are a good sort of person. You are kind to children and animals. You respect the elderly. You donate to charity. You tell jokes without laughing at your own punchlines. You respect women. You like women. In fact, you would really like to have a mutually respectful and loving sexual relationship with a woman. Unfortunately, you don’t yet know that woman—she isn’t working with you, nor have you been introduced through mutual friends or drawn to the same activities. So you must look further afield to encounter her.

So far, so good. Miss LonelyHearts, your humble instructor, approves. Human connection…

View original post 1,626 more words


Dándole cuerpo al cuerpo

Quiero hablar del cuerpo humano.

Últimamente he estado conectando muchos puntos, muchos instantes distintos en mi memoria: experiencias, anécdotas escuchadas, consejos, conversaciones sobreentendidas. He estado recordando distintos momentos en los que se me enseñó – directa o indirectamente – al igual que a muchos, que el cuerpo humano es algo prohibido. Y no sólo prohibido: algo sucio, algo con lo que no estar cómodo, algo que se debe ocultar, opacar, esconder. El más mínimo indicio de que existe desnudez – de que existe una mujer – debajo de toda esa ropa, algo de mi “pureza”, de mi “dignidad”, de la más íntima instancia de mi feminidad y mi persona se iba a perder. Una silueta siquiera ya es una desvergüenza.

Ni siquiera voy a hablar mucho de cómo el cuerpo del hombre no está tan rodeado por un aura sobreprotectora, vigilante, controladora y opresiva como el de la mujer, ni de mi trauma, por ejemplo, con que los senos sean lo mismo en hombres que en mujeres – si quitas el tamaño y la habilidad de lactar (la cual no es particularmente seductora, al menos en mi opinión) – y sin embargo la sociedad ha hecho de una parte un show, un fetiche y un producto, y de la otra una total irrelevancia que se puede enseñar por cualquier parte.

Voy a hablar de cómo la vergüenza, la censura del cuerpo, la incomodidad bajo nuestra propia piel está trágicamente internalizada. Nos escondemos constantemente; cuando no lo hacemos, dejamos, al no saber qué hacer, que los demás dicten que significa lo que mostramos y lo que no. Y no es que crea yo que todos debamos andar desnudos por las calles, ni que estemos evolucionando de alguna manera u otra al mostrar cada vez más (especialmente las mujeres). Lo que sí creo es que mientras le demos valor moral al cuerpo humano, seguiremos completamente atados y condenados a no conocernos en absoluto. La profundidad de un escote no dicta la calidad moral, ni intelectual, ni espiritual de una persona, una silueta desnuda que se ve en una ventana no determina ningún rasgo de personalidad ni expresa ningún aspecto de la sexualidad de nadie. De la misma manera, un tatuaje no es un indicador de intelecto o capacidad, ni el peso de una persona necesariamente dice algo de los hábitos, higiene o salud mental de esta persona.

Queremos constantemente regular el cuerpo, estandarizarlo, emitir juicios basados en él. Pero somos (o deberiamos ser) nosotros los que le damos significado al cuerpo. A nuestro cuerpo solamente, y nadie tiene derecho a cambiarnos nuestras propias definiciones, límites, símbolos.

No deberíamos de tenernos tanta pena. Creo realmente que deberíamos de jugar más con nuestra propia simbología, empujar nuestros propios límites, deconstruír nuestra socialización. Hacer una verdadera revolución: comenzar a amar nuestro cuerpo. Sólo así podemos usarlo al máximo, pero usarlo como nosotros queremos. No necesariamente como herramienta de poder, de dominación o de manipulación. Utilizarlo para encontrar un balance, para expresar nuestras ideas, para sentirnos mejor física y mentalmente. Para ser lo que queramos y ser los mejores que queramos. Para tener un refugio.

Que una vez re-ocupados nuestros cuerpos, re-inventados, podamos encontrar  bajo nuestra piel el Kamchatka que todos necesitamos: ese sitio decorado personalmente, esa arma de belleza que nos protege pero nos une con todas nuestras demás fortalezas.


Hablando de tabús periódicamente

Últimamente he tenido toda clase de conversaciones curiosas acerca de la menstruación. (Y antes de que los hombres digan “MMMM mejor me evito esta entrada”, advierto: bien que deberían leerla. Se sienten muy hombres y apenas les hablamos de sangre y corren tapándose los ojos y oídos. A ver ándenle..)

Tenemos, hombres y mujeres, muchísimas ideas de lo más locas (o desinformadas, o francamente ridículas) acerca de la menstruación. Muchas nos son heredadas de nuestros padres, otras de sutilezas en libros de texto en la escuela, otras de nuestras experiencias o, pues, ‘de oídas’.

De mi hermosa y decentemente liberal madre aprendí que uno debe ocultar cualquier evidencia de que está uno ‘en sus días’ (¿qué clase de expresión es esta? ¿qué no todos los días del mes son míos, o es que esos días son días sucios en que dejo de ser para el mundo y mejor debería recluirme?), debe uno bañarse más porque está uno ‘sucia’, debe uno no moverse mucho porque si hay un accidente es el San Seacabó para nuestra feminidad. De mi padre aprendí que a los hombres no les gusta que les hablemos de eso – y me pregunto, ¿qué ellos dejan de hablar de algo si les decimos que no nos gusta? ¡JÁ! qué buenos chistes cuento yo -, aprendí que si acaso nos oyen van a fingir que no oyeron nada para ‘ayudarnos’ (chicas, ¿qué haríamos sin ellos?) a preservar nuestra dignidad, nuestra feminidad (ush, ush, ando leyendo mucho esta palabra con respecto al periodo..). Y pienso, ¿qué es más femenino que un ciclo que nos conecta con la luna, que como toda función lleva a la homeostásis, que renueva nuestro cuerpo para la posibilidad de dar vida a otro ser humano?

De mis libros de texto aprendí que la menstruación es un desecho, un desperdicio, el proceso de un cuerpo desanimado porque no lo fertilizaste – ¡por andar persiguiendo ridiculeces como una profesión, independencia económica, viajes, una vida social u otras cosas de hombres! Favor de notar como bajo el mismo lente, y en materia de números (un óvulo vs. millones de espermatozoides), la masturbación, sexo oral y sexo anal de parte de los hombres es EL DESPERDICIO MÁS CATASTRÓFICO. Pero pues no es lo mismo, niñas. ¿Por qué? Porque Papá Dios es macho, no hembra. Ahora a callar y hacer bebés.

De los medios aprendí que la sangre del periodo menstrual es algo sucio (¿por qué más usarían agüita azul en vez de roja en los comerciales de toallas femeninas?), que entre mejor lo ocultes mejor, que es algo que uno aprende a odiar desde pequeña, que es muestra biológica de nuestra debilidad. Que hay que estar al tanto de lo ‘último’ (sí, claro, cof cof copa menstrual cof cof) porque esos días son un infierno mejor pasado con miles de productos para mejorar la invisibilidad, el olor, las hormonas, y todo lo que nuestro cuerpo HACE NATURALMENTE Y SU BENDITA RAZÓN TIENE.

Además, me parece ridículo estarle aventando mi dinero a unos taradetes dueños de compañías transnacionales por productos que después tengo que esconder a toda costa de ellos porque no los quieren ver, porque ‘guácatelas’. Pam-pli-nas, les digo.

También me he preguntado en estas conversaciones recientes, en serio, ¿qué coños tiene de sucio?

¿Que es sangre? Ok, puede no agradarnos la sangre, pero cuando nos cortamos el brazo o la rodilla no corremos a taparnos para que nadie vea tal aberración.

¿Que es líquido? Se me ocurren fluídos igual de desagradables que ciertos seres humanos hasta pseudo-exigen que traguemos. ¿Muy directa? UPS.

¿Que huele ‘desagradable’? [Ver pregunta previa]. Y huele a hierro. Supérenlo.

¿Que sale de ‘allá abajo’? 1. Nosotros también salimos de ahí. 2. Si les dan miedo las vaginas, tienen problemas más grandes en la vida. 3. Al menos son diferentes ductos, ¿saben? [Ver preguntas previas]

También hablábamos de la menstruación como tema de conversación. No es que adore hablar de mi periodo, pero odio – y no soy la única – que no se ‘deba’ hablar de él. Sólo digo esto: es algo que le sucede a la mitad de la población, es MÁS QUE NORMAL que se hable de ello. Y aquí sí que hablo de cualquier cosa desde sexualidad, hasta menstruación, hasta cosas que le ocurren a los hombres que quizá yo no he oído mucho precisamente por los gigantes estigmas alrededor del cuerpo.

Estas ideas tontísimas de la menstruación son más justificaciones sexistas para controlar y administrar el cuerpo femenino, para estigmatizarlo, para dominarlo. Como todo proceso, función, parte, del cuerpo humano, no es algo inapropiado, ni sucio, ni horrible. No es un desastre natural: es un ciclo que necesitamos. Me he dado cuenta que cuando dejas de ir contra-corriente – pun intended – y aceptas tus cambios hormonales, tu ciclo, y tu cuerpo, deja de molestarte. Es desde un recordatorio de que estás sana, de que tienes el hermoso potencial de dar vida (y en ocasiones una pequeña celebración de que ese día no-deseado no ha llegado) y de que eres jóven, hasta un ritmo que si lo sigues en vez de resistirlo, puedes hasta aprender de él y de tí misma en el proceso.

Aquí les paso algunas cosas chéveres para dejar de tenerle miedito y empezar a conocernos – chavos y chavas – mejor.

Menstrual Blood as Plant Fertilizer (orgánico, gratis, hermoso)

Fertility Awareness Method (cómo usar nuestro ciclo y sus particularidades como método anticonceptivo)

Period Sex?? Laci Green’s Sex+ Channel (amo su canal, por si no han notado)

The Moon Cycle and Menstrual Cycle (esta página está de lo más bonita)