House of Lords Considering Jail & Sex Offender Registration for the MEN Who Post “Revenge” Porn

womensliberationfront:

The House of Lords is proposing not only jail time for those who post “revenge porn”, but being added to the registry of sexual offenders.

http://stoppornculture.org/2014/07/21/house-of-lords-proposes-prison-sentences-for-revenge-porn-by-aaron-akinyemi/

(Reblogged from nextyearsgirl)

noyau-rationnel:

I think a part of the reason it’s so upsetting for me to see neovaginas described as “fuckholes” is that I have a hard time not reading it as suggesting that men are at least partially right when they treat trans women like fuckholes, even if that’s not the intent. It’s an attitude I’ve encountered in “friends” before, though. I’ve spoken to people who expressed a combination of disgust at the idea of somebody wanting to touch my body and “well, this is what you signed up for” when I complained about men groping me. Men interpret pretty much all of the physical effects of transition as signs that I should be available to them, that I’m something to be fucked. The reasons men have constructed neovaginas the way that they have are disturbing and clearly misogynist. But I don’t want a fuckhole any more than I want men to think of my fat distribution as a reason to grab my ass. I just want some kind of peace with my body.

(Reblogged from noyau-rationnel)

redressalert:

nextyearsgirl:

If you as a radical feminist activist think it would be a horrible thing to write a post mocking women who’ve had breast implants and calling the results “gross” and “disgusting,” don’t fucking do the same thing when talking about the results of SRS.

Radical feminism is about class consciousness…

I am using those words to name the reality that the men who designed neovaginas think this is what constitutes a vagina.

It’s curious to have more of a problem with me using those words, than with men deciding that’s close enough to what a vagina is, that they designed SRS this way.

ETA: But fine. How about you pretend I didn’t use those words and actually engage with what I said instead of just deeming me an insufficiently empathic ideologue and calling it a day.

redressalert: Remember when you observed (correctly!!) that the situation for mtf’s is extremely fraught because the “mtf community” includes some of the most vulnerable, and some of the worst predators? I do, and I appreciated that observation.

I also appreciate your political insight - there are a lot of important questions to discuss about SRS!

But this was neither the time, nor the place. A young trans woman, who authors a gender-critical blog, who is very clear on what a neovagina is and isn’t (no scare quotes, thank you), who also just went through major surgery, is clearly not in the predator category. Actually, she’s probably feeling pretty vulnerable right now.

I know you to be a compassionate person. But right now I’m not seeing that, and it’s disappointing.

(Reblogged from redressalert)

Anonymous said: I liked your and Roslyn's anti-porn posts. Sorry you had to deal with the jerk trying to get your approval to watch so-called ethical porn. I used to have a low-level addiction to porn until I started reading anti-porn websites and realized why it was so fucked up and that it was ok to feel uncomfortable and outraged with the violent stuff that seemed to be more and more prevalent. Pro-porn people are driven by shame and that's why I used to be so defensive about it. (continued)

I hated anti-porn stuff when I first found it, but I just kept coming back and reading it anyway. I eventually quit thanks to anti-porn groups and radical feminists. I’m happy that some people are speaking the truth. I am not sure what can be done to alleviate the harms of pornography, but my state did pass a law requiring escort services to prove all the women on their website are over 18 and have consented to have their pictures there, so it’s a start.

Thanks for the messages anon. I’m also not sure what to do, though I’m planning to get involved as a volunteer with Stop Porn Culture.

I was somewhat interested in porn as a young person, but as I got older I mostly lost interest. Over the last five years, I would look at porn maybe once or twice a year. (Before that, I didn’t look at any at all for about five years - I was just having a good sex life!) The problem I began to have with porn, was that it seemed more and more difficult to avoid accidentally seeing stuff that made me sick to my stomach - either from the violence, or the outright grossness. Then once I started reading radfem blogs, I quit completely. When you face the facts about how young the women are, and the coercion and violence, it’s just not possible to watch any more.

I guess for men who watch it every day, they get used to the violence? Or they just start to enjoy it but they pretend not to publicly? I haven’t really figured that one out. On the other side, I have a very few female friends who watch pornography, but in general all the women (and trans women) I know who are “pro porn” don’t actually watch any. I’m pretty sure if they just sat down and watched some, they would change their tune immediately. Violent porn is not fringe any longer: it is as mainstream as you can get. Women who identify as “pro-porn feminists” need to get their heads out of the “queer indie porn” ghetto and own up to what men are actually watching. It’s absolutely revolting.

The Body and the Blood

The Body and the Blood

As a girl child, I did not sense any distinction between the world that I lived in and a world of divinity. God just did not exist outside of the world that I lived in. I prayed to the air around me, to sunsets, trees, rocks, mountains in the distance, dandelion seeds, ponds and even puddles. I prayed to my dog, Lady. It was all conversation, company keeping and exploration. It was call and response or picking up the conversation where it left off before I got called in for dinner. Through the world around me and through my own senses, I knew undoubtedly that I had a relationship with God. And as certain as I was of that, I became equally certain that I would grow up and become a Catholic Priest. I recited prayers in my pressed Sunday best. I followed the protocol to the dime. And I felt at home in our small and friendly church. I was enthralled with all of the rituals but I was especially taken with the ritual of Holy Communion, the Body and the Blood. It was a sacrament that I could not wait to participate in. I closely studied my favorite priest Father Mike. His kindness, the way he listened, shook hands with parishioners, the eye contact he made, how comfortable and proud he appeared to be in his vestments, his open face and easy smile. I so ached to be him. And in the privacy of my bedroom, I was him. I would enlist siblings and other neighborhood children and we would play “mass”.

One day shortly before my first Holy Communion I stated my intention to enter the priesthood out loud in a room full of adults. I don’t remember who it was that delivered the news that this would not be possible for me, but that moment is marked as one of the first times I experienced the emotions associated with betrayal. I was hurt, angry, confused, and a little ashamed. I was reeling in disbelief. “But what do you mean that girls can’t be priests? Why not? Are you sure? But I’m going to be an alter boy next year. I can’t? But who says? Who? The Pope? Who is the Pope? Well, write a letter to the Pope!” And then it was said aloud in the room. “The Pope says it because God says it. The Pope follows God’s rules. God says that Girls can not be alter boys or grow up to priests.”  I was devastated. I was absolutely crushed. “What? God said that? But who did God say that to? Are you sure? Are you really, really, really sure?” The stained glass windows in our small Nevada church lost some color for me after that day. I hated the alter boys. And I hated myself for not being able to be one of them. Within a period of days, I had lost one of the most vital pieces of my identity, that I was a known, seen and claimed child of God. I was in absolute crisis over it. I was despondent. I was heartbroken. My family tried to console me. “It’s great that you want to live a life in the Church. God calls Girls too. You can grow up and become a nun.”  I hated the way the word “nun” made me feel small and dull inside. ”What do nuns do?” I mumbled. “Nuns marry Jesus.” That idea filled my seven-year-old heart with utter dread but I tried to get my mind to accept that maybe God had been telling me all along that I should grow up and marry Jesus.  Maybe I had just misunderstood.

A year or so later, I had one of the most vivid dreams I have ever had even to this date. Jesus walked into my bedroom and climbed up to sit with me on my top bunk. “Do I really love you?” I asked him in all earnestness. He looked at me, shrugged and said he didn’t know. And then we just sat together quietly as my legs dangled over the side of my bed. He was really nice about it but he wasn’t that helpful. It wasn’t a guilt dream. When I think of it now, I know that my spirit was still in overdrive trying to reconcile what I knew about my own experience of God with the tradition I was being raised in (eh hem…colonized by). I did genuinely like Jesus. I liked him as much as I liked Father Mike.  By all accounts, I still do. But as hard as I tried to send my prayers in his direction, I just couldn’t. As much as I really wanted to love him and talk to him about everything I was thinking, Jesus wasn’t the moon, he wasn’t tumbleweed, he wasn’t the trees, and he wasn’t my dog. He wasn’t ladybugs, sunsets or stars.  It wasn’t his voice speaking back to me when I sat cross-legged in the dirt watching potato bugs roll around. I just could not hear him even though I listened really, really hard.

I wish I could say that I let myself off the hook and stopped trying. I couldn’t.

In my early 30’s, I was reconfirmed in the Episcopal Church and entered the formal discernment process necessary for ordination. I met with the admissions counselor at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific. I got my transcripts in order for the Masters of Divinity program. I took a job as a development associate for a direct social service Franciscan organization in the Tenderloin. The organization supported my desire to be ordained and agreed to cover some of the costs of my tuition. I was surrounded by radical thinkers and activists who were living lives of service and were well versed in liberation theology. It was all lining up. And still. That vivid and unsettling girlhood Jesus dream tugged and pecked at me because it illuminated a very basic flaw in my plan. I wasn’t a Christian and I knew it. Running in the background of my mind I knew I was about to commit my life and career to an institution that had made girls and women second class citizens of God and in turn made us second class citizens of ourselves. Was this really the ghost of my Christmas future? What part of myself would I have to contort in order to wear the collar and live the life I thought I had always imagined for myself?

It was a hard desire to put down because I had never known myself without it. My drive to reconcile my innate knowing and my yearning to enter a life in the church began before I had a language for it and persisted through my punk rock teenage years, after I came out as a lesbian,  through my decade long attempt to get my education and establish myself as a filmmaker.  I felt haunted, repeatedly called back to that place of wanting to live a life engaged in conversation with god and people, in rhythm and in celebration of the liturgical seasons. I wanted to be in the fullness of my humanity in community with others who were also trying to make meaning of and translate the wildness, mystery and rituals of life as they saw and felt them. The Body and the Blood. The Body and the Blood. There was a pulse there that was impossible for me to ignore.

I understand why people are often surprised when I tell them this part of my story, but I actually believe my attraction to the priesthood was pretty ordinary.  In the end, it’s just a profession and one that still suits many aspects of my personality. I’ve known many Women who felt the same vocational pull that I did. Many of those Women have made careers in radical Christian communities. They are priests, reverends, bishops, theologians, chaplains, activist nuns and program directors. I am grateful to them for holding that space. I think part of what is surprising to people about women who enter mainstream religious professions is that the emboldened and authoritative voices of Women have been so erased from our Judeo-Christian traditions that it is often shocking to imagine women wanting to hold those leadership positions to begin with. For some women, the damage done by the christian church renders it impossible for them to even imagine entering a church building, let alone spend their days working in one. I deeply understand that.  It is the truth that sometimes the loudest voice in a room full of “believers” is the voice telling a girl that she was not made in the image of God. The devastating sounds you don’t hear in that room are the things that girl starts to tell herself when she begins to believe it. There are so many ways we ingest our own domination and erasure. Into the Body and into the Blood.

I have often said that my experiences at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival rearranged my cells.  This is true but it didn’t happen quickly.  My Michigan story is not a story about sudden conversion or a wild romance with the Goddess. If anything, it is a story about a slow and tender courtship. It’s a story about restoration. It took a long time for the layers to shed, for the skin underneath those layers to tolerate exposure to the healing heat of the sun and a clean breeze.  My ears slowly began to attune to a voice that was so old and buried in me that I barely knew it was my own, but the conversation did pick up where it left off. I could hear Her in the wind, in Crows calling to one another from the tops of trees. in the beating of my own heart. It took time for my eyes to adjust to the light, for some of the filters to fall off, but as they did, I began to see beyond the man made walls of the church and into the wild expansion. I began to recognize the living cathedral that is a tall and mossy tree, spires of branches reaching out like arms into the infinite sky, grounded by roots that are nourished in the deep dark dirt, the water table. And now, instead of laboring over a homily that will end in giving glory to the father, the son and the holy ghost, I write this story about a Woman who finally understood what her Girlhood self knew all along. I had not misunderstood. I am Her Daughter after all. We are the Body and the Blood. One month from this moment I will be standing on the ground where I began to remember. I will be looking into the faces of the Womyn and Girls who are part of the reason I won’t ever forget again.

(Source: ssml-fishwithoutabicycle)

(Reblogged from redressalert)

nextyearsgirl:

I hung out with snowflakeespecial today and we talked to Gail Dines about porn, NBD.

It was so fun! NYG you rule! And not gonna lie, I have a TOTAL activist crush on Gail Dines now. What a dynamic and amazing woman! Also Vednita Carter and Norma Ramos. So inspiring!

(Reblogged from nextyearsgirl)

@the-shallow-philosopher, read some Andrea Dworkin. Then we can talk. Not before. The end.

I was just looking back at recent posts, and I was surprised by how much I’ve been cursing! I’m not opposed to cursing but it doesn’t seem very cool and collected to be dropping the F-bomb multiple times per post.

Part of this is because I’ve been dealing with a few hostile anon’s and annoying askers recently. It’s good to remind myself that getting wound up is giving them exactly what they want and I would be doing everyone a favor by just deleting these asks in the first place.

The other part is because I haven’t been posting anything original recently. As I was telling a friend last night, I feel a bit like I’m at a dead end with this blog right now. I feel like I came to some conclusions I’m not particularly happy about, and I’m not sure where to go from here. Which is ok but hopefully I can figure that out soonish.

The best candy shop a child can be left alone in, is the library. —Maya Angelou
(Reblogged from vidacount)

Anonymous said: Hey I hope you feel better soon, and I mean that genuinely. I get how the heat can piss you off, it certainly has the same effect on me. Stay cool and have a nice day.

Thanks anon! It’s still hot here but I’m about to go the gym and pump iron. I can’t wait!!!! Hope you have a great day too.