I am not a dude.

shittywomen_notadude

This blog will take the average adult reader about four minutes to read. 

The premise of this blog is this: I am not a dude.

I’ve been treated dudely since I was a kid. (Yes, I just turned “dude” into an adverb. Deal with it.) My mother will recount the story of how I came home from school from the first day of kindergarten—after she bought me all dresses (and I apparently loved them)—and demanded pants as my primary butt coverer. My favorite toy in elementary school was my roller blades. I wanted to be a speed skater. I wanted to run the Iditarod. I joined my first sports teams in the second grade. From then until the time I graduated from high school, I played basketball, volleyball—and twelve years of softball. I wanted to be the first female to pitch for the Mariners. (I’ve since let go of that dream.)

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When the body precedes the soul

 

shittywomen_bodysoul2

There are 1,328 words beyond this point. This blog will take the average adult reader about 5 minutes to read. 

So long as the body precedes the soul, equality cannot exist.

So long as we see people primarily as the bodies they inhabit, rather than the souls that they are, there will never be equality of any kind.

This specific thought, “So long as the body precedes the soul, equality cannot exist.” came about in my head after spending some time over the last few years thinking about how the porn industry feeds misogyny. Porn reduces the actors of it to their bodies—and nothing more. Porn consumers’ actions say to the actors, “Your personhood—your soul—you—do not matter to me, because you are nothing more than a body.”

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The way we talk about overweightness needs to change.

(There are 1,465 words after this. That’s a little less than five minutes of reading for the average adult. This is a continuation from An introduction to being overweight.)

“Oh my gosh, I’m so fat.”

*shoves food into mouth* “Haha I’m gonna get so fat!”

*is telling a story from the day* “… and this fat woman—and she was huge—did this *mildly offensive thing*…”

“He was like—disgustingly overweight.” 

*after eating a meal* “I feel so fat.”

“Oh my gosh did you see the fat lady on the bicycle? She looked so ridiculous!”

Those are all things I hear on the regular—from people who I love, and from people who love me. They’re not about me—but it feels like they are. The ones I listed above actually come from specific memories—I recall each of those moments clearly because they felt so uncomfortable.

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