Follower of Christ. Feminist. Feisty female with a love for politics. Fun-sized individual trying not to eat any more dusty cheetos. My posts do not reflect the beliefs or opinions of my employer. If you meant to follow my fitness blog instead, message me for the url.
Seeking the truth?
For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.
"And on that day, I learned to shout." --Joy Luck Club
I want to stress this again: In many, many parts of the country right now, if you want to go to see a movie in the theater and see a current movie about a woman — any story about any woman that isn’t a documentary or a cartoon — you can’t. You cannot. There are not any. You cannot take yourself to one, take your friend to one, take your daughter to one.
There are not any.
By far your best shot, numbers-wise, at finding one that’s at least even-handedly featuring a man and a woman is Before Midnight (on 891 screens) so I hope you like it. Because it’s pretty much that or a solid, impenetrable wall of movies about dudes.
Dudes in capes, dudes in cars, dudes in space, dudes drinking, dudes smoking, dudes doing magic tricks, dudes being funny, dudes being dramatic, dudes flying through the air, dudes blowing up, dudes getting killed, dudes saving and kissing women and children, and dudes glowering at each other.
Somebody asked me this morning what “the women” are going to do about this. I don’t know. I honestly am at the point where I have no idea what to do about it. Stop going to the movies? Boycott everything?
They put up Bridesmaids, we went. They put up Pitch Perfect, we went. They put up The Devil Wears Prada, which was in two-thousand-meryl-streeping-oh-six, and we went (and by “we,” I do not just mean women; I mean we, the humans), and all of it has led right here, right to this place. Right to the land of zippedy-doo-dah. You can apparently make an endless collection of high-priced action flops and everybody says “win some, lose some” and nobody decides that They Are Poison, but it feels like every “surprise success” about women is an anomaly and every failure is an abject lesson about how we really ought to just leave it all to The Rock.
“Don’t forget that failure isn’t the catastrophic end of people - failure is how people learn… The way we deal with failure is that people try, and sometimes their attempt is bad but they move on. Sometimes they learn from it, sometimes they repeat it… Inside of failure is your only chance for doing anything good.”
When I tell you its 2:42am do you know where your children are!!! Lord have mercy! i don woke everybody in my house and neighborhood up!!! yeeeeees lord this child!!! There were a few times she slowed down, but that because she was gettin her LIFE! let me tell you WHAT!!! child please! this girl right here, mm mm mm.. im crying…. im so proud. i really have tears in my eyes oh goodness gracious! lord
The nod and walk off tho!
When i tell you baby girl moved her little ass better than most grown women i see now a days she did the damn thing
Miss Lady was dancing like Britney Spears back in 2001.
Uh! She betta get it!
Wow ok little lady. I’m interested in learning where she learnt all that lol
This looks like the works of a black queen… death drops and dramatics… yeap…
“Self-care includes holding each other accountable because we are interconnected. Loving ourselves includes learning how not to harm each other. Loving ourselves includes disrupting violent patterns in our homes and community-building spaces.”
Alexis Pauline Gumbs, quoted by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha in a transformative justice workshop at Hampshire earlier this year.
Somebody almost walked off with all of my stuff and didn’t care enough to send a note home saying “I was late for my solo conversation” or “two sizes too small for my own tacky skirts”. What can anybody do with something of no value on an open market? Did you get a dime for my things? Hey, man! Where are you going with all of my stuff? This is a woman’s trip and I need my stuff to “Ooh” and “Ah” about. Honest to God, somebody almost ran off with all of my stuff and I didn’t bring anything but the kick and sway of it. The perfect ass for my man and none of it is theirs. This is mine, Juanita’s own things. That’s my name. Now give me my stuff. I see you hiding my laugh and how I sit with my legs open sometimes to give my crotch some sunlight. This is some delicate leg and whimsical kiss. I gotta have to give to my choice. So you can’t have me unless I give me away. And I was doing all that till you ran off on a good thing. And who is this you left me with? Some simple bitch with a bad attitude? I want my things. I want my arm with the hot iron scar. I want my leg with the flea bite. Yeah, I want my things. I want my calloused feet and quick language back in my mouth. I want my own things. How I loved them. Somebody almost ran off with all of my stuff and I was standing there looking at myself the whole time. It wasn’t a spirit that ran off with my stuff. It was a man whose ego walked ‘round like Rodan’s shadow. It was a man faster than my innocence. It was a lover I made too much room for. Almost ran off with all my stuff and the one running with it don’t know he got it. I’m shouting, “This is mine!” and he don’t even know he got it. My stuff is the anonymous ripped-off treasure of the year. Did you know somebody almost got away with me? Me, in a plastic bag under his arm. Me, Juanita Sims. Somebody almost walked off with all my stuff.
“Ever since I realized, there was someone called a colored girl or an evil woman, a bitch or a nag I been trying not to be that and leave bitterness in somebody else’s cup. Come to somebody to love me without deep and nasty smelling scars from lye or being left screaming in a street of lunatics whispering, ‘Slut, bitch, bitch. Nigga, get out of here with all of that.’ I didn’t have any of that for you. I brought you what joy I found. And I found joy. And then there’s that woman who hurt you. And who you left three or four times. And then you went back after you put my heart in the bottom of your shoe. You just walked back to where you hurt and I didn’t have nothing. So I went to where somebody had something for me, but none of them were you. I got a real dead loving here for you now, ’cause I don’t know anymore how to avoid my own face wet with my tears because I had convinced myself that colored girls have no right to sorrow. I lived for you. I know I did it for myself, but I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand being sorry and colored at the same time. It’s so redundant in the modern world.”
“A rapist doesn’t have to be a stranger to be legitimate. Someone you never saw. A man with obvious problems. But if you been public with him, danced one dance, kissed him goodbye lightly with a closed mouth, pressing charges will be as hard as keeping your legs closed while five fools try and run a train on you. These men friends of ours, who smile nicely, take you out to dinner, then lock the door behind you. Women relinquish all rights in the presence of a man who could apparently be considered a rapist especially if he has been considered a friend and is no less worthy of being beat within an inch of his life and being publicly ridiculed having two fists shoved up his ass than the stranger we always thought it would be who never showed up cause it turns out the nature of rape has changed. We can now meet them in circles we frequent for companionship, see them at the coffeehouse with someone else we know, we can even have them over for dinner and get raped in our own houses by invitation.”