Hating myself for being fat, when I was young, was paralyzing. Feeling terrified of getting older, at my current age, is galvanizing. It’s a different kind of self-hatred. Hatred of fatness is based in cultural norms, which are made-up, but getting old is real. It means something. When you don’t know who you are yet, there’s constant anxiety that you’re doing “you” wrong (i.e. my body itself is what’s holding me back). But as soon as you’re old and mature enough figure out who you are—oh, oops!—it’s time to start deteriorating. And that’s why every wrinkle and weird bristly chin-hair (I only have one but it WILL NOT DIE) reminds me to get some shit done. I know who I am now and I know what my goals are and I can see this clock ticking, because the clock is my fat, wrinkly face. I can’t work without deadlines, and death is a hard-ass deadline. Bring it.
Things got a little iffy when those same enthusiastic supporters of breast-feeding were asked if “government policies that support breast-feeding” would be helpful: only 41 percent said “very.” And then there’s the question that wasn’t asked: if 72 percent of you agree or strongly agree that “all babies should be breast-fed exclusively for a minimum of six months as recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics,” then wouldn’t it be “very helpful” if the mothers of those babies could all take at least some paid time off to do just that?
Like I said, when I take an imaginary look outside myself, I am disappointed, irritated and just plain mad at my actions. The world won’t crush me or crumble behind me if I don’t keep up to date on every channel people can reach me. I’m not in any popularity contests. I don’t need a screen to give me validation. Or perhaps I do? It is a worry, as long as I’m being honest. The people that matter most are the ones squealing and giggling underfoot. I’ll take their happy screams over a screen any day.
They covered the Civil Rights Movement earlier, and that, she could get behind – of course, it is empowering to hear about taking a stand and forcing a change – but slavery knocked her down. My kid is super-sensitive to violence of any kind and she is also hyper-vigilant to any kind of injustice, so learning about the details of the slave trade literally makes her ill. We talked about the Middle Passage yesterday, and of how mind-bogglingly inhumane it must have been, beyond what we can imagine. “I hate history,” Viva said, her sweet eyes clouded. “Why do we have to learn history?”
The British period drama television series “Downtown Abbey” is introducing its first black character as part of a storyline about race relations in the 1920s, according to the UK’s leading tabloid, The Sun. . . . Casting notes were sent out to actors’ agents earlier this month. They describe Ross as “Male, 25-30. A musician (singer) at an exclusive club in the 20s. “He’s black and very handsome. A real man (not a boy) with charm and charisma.” Whoever lands the role should “ideally be able to sing brilliantly”. The notes add: “Overall he should be a very attractive man with a certain wow factor.” Jack Ross will play a key part in the fourth series of the hit TV saga alongside a string of other fresh faces.
As it turned out my warnings were about bad boogie men and not about a friend, not about someone in the same grade in school as her. My warnings didn’t help prepare for the sly way he would move in on her and manipulate her feelings and guilt her into thinking she had chosen it. He was an adult, and in his culture having sex is his right.
That Harlem Shuffle Meme: This is what it’s supposed to look like: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar Reviews ‘Girls,’ Calls Donald Glover Role ‘Some Jungle Fever Lover” | COLORLINES
I don’t believe that people of color, sexual preference, or gender need to be shaken indiscriminately into every series like some sort of exotic seasoning. If the story calls for a black character, great. A story about a black neighborhood doesn’t necessarily need white characters just to balance the racial profile. But this really seemed like an effort was made to add some color — and it came across as forced.
We enter this voluntary (some say insane, and they’re not entirely wrong) pact because we do a cost-benefit analysis and decide that the benefits of getting married (or otherwise partnering for life) outweigh the potential costs — breakups, emotional pain, financial disarray, the list goes on. We make just about the biggest emotional leap of faith a person can make, because we think, feel, and hope that the rewards will be great.
The real problem isn’t that Seth McFarlane ruined the Oscars. It isn’t even that The Onion went way to far with a Tweet. The problem is that so much of this permeates our environment, along with the same type of polite tolerance Seth received during his routine. It hurts all of us because it gives cultural permission for the larger audience to view sexist humor as worthy of attention, as something to be condoned and given space. It reinforces horrible messages, like young black girls are fodder to be sexualized, possessed, scorned and dismissed.