Today is the last day of the year. I'm usually not a fan of "best of the year" or "worst of the year". I don't make New Year's resolutions. The end of the year (or the beginning for that matter) is completely arbitrary, and there are days that are more meaningful to me (my birthday being the main one, if I'm going to start counting from somewhere, that's it). But 2013 was a good year, so I'm going to make a small exception.
I learnt a lot in 2013. Worked hard, and learnt a lot more than I thought I would. I helped write a paper, I sat down and actually did some real science, and it was a worthwhile experience. I met intelligent people, hard working people, people who were much better at what we did than I am, and they took me in and taught me and helped me along. I'm grateful to them for it.
I worked hard. Sometimes very hard. And I didn't love every minute of it, but I learnt that I could do it. I could work hard and I was able to get what I wanted done.
I made new friends, and met lots of new people who may end up being friends in the near future. I had fun. I had so much fun. I also overdid it a few times, but I have no regrets (I've apologized enough to the people involved, I'm fairly sure).
2013 was also a hard year. A person close to me was ill, and I couldn't be with them, and that doesn't stop sucking however many times it happens. Working was good, but it was hard on me. I was not able to enjoy it as much as I should have, perhaps. A few times I took too long to do things, and that hurt me. But it all worked out in the end: illness was cured (hopefully it won't return), I got results for my work, and I did do things in the end, which worked out really well for me.
No, really, 2013 was a fantastic year (or maybe I'm just happy with how it turned out now).
And as I said above, I don't make New Year's resolutions, but perhaps I'll make some wishes.
I hope I don't hurt anyone in 2014, that I'm able to make the people around me happy (or just plain indifferent).
I hope I have the guts to do what's best for me.
I hope no one close to me gets ill (I would wish for universal health, but that is highly unlikely).
I hope I keep writing, more often than I am now, and reading, and listening to music, and enjoying those things others offer me.
And I'm done.
To all of those who read, hope you've had a good 2013, and if you haven't, hope 2014 is a lot better. Enjoy the day, it's the last one of this year. And enjoy beginning a brand new year tomorrow.
H
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Sunday, 15 December 2013
A post and a half
So as the title suggests, today I've got a couple of things to talk about. Neither of them are enough for one whole blogpost I don't think, and they are not connected directly, but I feel with both of them that if I don't put them down right now, I may never do.
Today I was binge eating. As I am writing, I have on my table a mug (I've had about 3 cups of coacoa), an empty 2-pint bottle of milk, sugar, cheese and a bowl for some gherkins I was eating before. I've also had potato stew. This may not sound like much, except when you consider that all I've done today has been sleep, eat and watch shows. Combined with the fact that the food I consumed yesterday consisted on a bar of chocolate, some cod with courgettes tomato and mozzarella, a whole box (yes, that's 375g) of Krave cereal, and litre of milk, I would say that I've had a "bad" couple of days when it comes to food. Especially considering that I've been hiding my eating, a telltale sign of "disordered" eating.
I sort of know why I'm binge eating: it's the end of term, I need to start revising for exams and I'm procrastinating. I procrastinate by eating and watching TV and not getting out of bed. All of these things also make me feel like shit, but it's a vicious cycle: the more time I spend in bed with shitty TV and food, the more guilty I feel about it, the more I do it to make myself feel better. The most ironic thing about it is that I am perfectly capable of rationally describing my behaviour while actively engaging in it. More than that: I know exactly how to stop it. Take a shower, get dressed, and go out. It doesn't matter where. If some friends will have me, that's usually best, but if they won't, just getting out of the house will make me feel a million times better. And yet... I don't do it. Most of the time, I don't do it.
The reason I'm writing this down on a public blog is because it helps me to make the problem known. As I've said before, hiding that you're eating, or hiding what you're eating, is a common sign of disordered eating. Telling people what I'm eating (in this case, what I've been eating) forces me to accept it, makes it more real. Yes, I've eaten all that food. No, it wasn't a very healthy behaviour. Yes, I'll probably do it again. No, probably I won't do it in the next few days.
Binge eating led me (as it usually does) to find some advice on the Internet on how to stop. Which led me to my stickies. I was never a huge fan of real sticky notes, but I'm in love with the Mac app. I really like having the reminders on my desktop. I'd completely forgotten about them, until I had my binge and decided to write one reminding me what sort of things I should do when I am having a binge (or when I'm about to). So I open the stickies, and what's the first thing I find? A sticky commenting on a Felix article from over a year ago. A Felix article about sexism.
I know exactly when I wrote that sticky, and it was close to when I started writing this blog. I haven't checked, but there's a possibility that one of my early posts is about that article. There's also a possibility that I never published it because the article made me so angry. It was condescending, paternalistic and all around offensive, while trying to be a feminist article. I find that this happens so much that there are feminist media outlets that I won't visit, or that I will only visit compulsively, to find the flaws.
I was reading through my post-it note, my sticky, and it came to me. What really bothers me about this type of feminism. It's not the ideas behind it (most of the time), or the tone (even though it does bother me). It's the fact that I get the horrible feeling that the people who write these articles have chosen feminism as their pet activism the same way they could have chosen anything else. They are feminists because feminism gives them an outlet to be angry at society, or at the world, and I guess it's a good thing they found feminism: I sometimes feel they could have found racism just as easily.
I have said before in this blog that I value freedom. And yet, I don't think I'm free. I'm constrained by my circumstances (some might call it my privilege) and by my compulsions (binge eating, for example, does not make me feel like I'm free). Everyone is constrained. This doesn't mean we don't deserve a world in which we can be as free as possible. Part of freedom is knowing that your rights end where other people's rights begin. That just because someone is wrong it doesn't make it right to hurt them. That freedom is a responsibility of course, but that it is also a right (not only yours, but everyone else's).
Today I was binge eating. As I am writing, I have on my table a mug (I've had about 3 cups of coacoa), an empty 2-pint bottle of milk, sugar, cheese and a bowl for some gherkins I was eating before. I've also had potato stew. This may not sound like much, except when you consider that all I've done today has been sleep, eat and watch shows. Combined with the fact that the food I consumed yesterday consisted on a bar of chocolate, some cod with courgettes tomato and mozzarella, a whole box (yes, that's 375g) of Krave cereal, and litre of milk, I would say that I've had a "bad" couple of days when it comes to food. Especially considering that I've been hiding my eating, a telltale sign of "disordered" eating.
I sort of know why I'm binge eating: it's the end of term, I need to start revising for exams and I'm procrastinating. I procrastinate by eating and watching TV and not getting out of bed. All of these things also make me feel like shit, but it's a vicious cycle: the more time I spend in bed with shitty TV and food, the more guilty I feel about it, the more I do it to make myself feel better. The most ironic thing about it is that I am perfectly capable of rationally describing my behaviour while actively engaging in it. More than that: I know exactly how to stop it. Take a shower, get dressed, and go out. It doesn't matter where. If some friends will have me, that's usually best, but if they won't, just getting out of the house will make me feel a million times better. And yet... I don't do it. Most of the time, I don't do it.
The reason I'm writing this down on a public blog is because it helps me to make the problem known. As I've said before, hiding that you're eating, or hiding what you're eating, is a common sign of disordered eating. Telling people what I'm eating (in this case, what I've been eating) forces me to accept it, makes it more real. Yes, I've eaten all that food. No, it wasn't a very healthy behaviour. Yes, I'll probably do it again. No, probably I won't do it in the next few days.
Binge eating led me (as it usually does) to find some advice on the Internet on how to stop. Which led me to my stickies. I was never a huge fan of real sticky notes, but I'm in love with the Mac app. I really like having the reminders on my desktop. I'd completely forgotten about them, until I had my binge and decided to write one reminding me what sort of things I should do when I am having a binge (or when I'm about to). So I open the stickies, and what's the first thing I find? A sticky commenting on a Felix article from over a year ago. A Felix article about sexism.
I know exactly when I wrote that sticky, and it was close to when I started writing this blog. I haven't checked, but there's a possibility that one of my early posts is about that article. There's also a possibility that I never published it because the article made me so angry. It was condescending, paternalistic and all around offensive, while trying to be a feminist article. I find that this happens so much that there are feminist media outlets that I won't visit, or that I will only visit compulsively, to find the flaws.
I was reading through my post-it note, my sticky, and it came to me. What really bothers me about this type of feminism. It's not the ideas behind it (most of the time), or the tone (even though it does bother me). It's the fact that I get the horrible feeling that the people who write these articles have chosen feminism as their pet activism the same way they could have chosen anything else. They are feminists because feminism gives them an outlet to be angry at society, or at the world, and I guess it's a good thing they found feminism: I sometimes feel they could have found racism just as easily.
I have said before in this blog that I value freedom. And yet, I don't think I'm free. I'm constrained by my circumstances (some might call it my privilege) and by my compulsions (binge eating, for example, does not make me feel like I'm free). Everyone is constrained. This doesn't mean we don't deserve a world in which we can be as free as possible. Part of freedom is knowing that your rights end where other people's rights begin. That just because someone is wrong it doesn't make it right to hurt them. That freedom is a responsibility of course, but that it is also a right (not only yours, but everyone else's).
Friday, 6 December 2013
Fantasy number 7
Note: I told I friend of mine that I wrote a fantasy diary, and this person asked me to publish one of them. So here goes.
Fantasy n. 7
They're in their mid or late twenties, a few years older than me, and they've known me for a while. Enough to know what I like.
On a winter day they call me, and tell me to come over to their place for coffee. It's cold outside, the sharp kind of cold that you can't run from or wear enough layers to stop, but I don't mind. I walk fast, face flushed and an almost smile on myself. I get to their house and ring the doorbell. They open the door, utter an excited "hi!" and give me a quick hug, inviting me in. As they'd promised, coffee is ready and they hand me a cup (they know me well enough to know that if it's good coffee I'll have it black, on ice in summer, freshly brewed in winter). They show me into the sitting room and tell me to make myself at home, and to wait a minute, they have something for me.
The sitting room walls are completely covered with bookcases, one of the things I love about them: every book on the bookcases they've ready, all of them they've chosen carefully, lovingly. I take a closer look, always drinking my coffee. The books are organised by author, but not alphabetically. I detect a penchant for history books, and an original language bias. There's also a chronological order (in fiction, this order has to do with the period of the author; in the history books, this order depends on the topic of the book, which makes some of the author ordering confusing). Historical books are in separate bookcases to fiction, and there's a separate bookcase for dictionaries, and yet another for technical books.
-Hey, -I hear them say, but before I have the chance to turn around, a blindfold's over my eyes. I take a sharp breath, and I feel my whole body tense and relax at the same time.
-Like it?- they whisper in my ear, sounding a mixture between eager and concerned, but they don't wait for an answer. They grab my hips and turn me towards them.
I nod, my mouth dry. They first take my coffee cup from my hand, and lead me around the chairs, until we're next to the sofa, where they sit me down. I'm smiling, I can't help it, even though we haven't known each other for that long.
I expect them to sit next to me, but instead I hear them step out of the room, and open a door... the kitchen door? I hear the coffee maker and soon I can smell coffee, good coffee, better than the one they gave me before. And something else. Sweet perhaps?
They return, and the smell of coffee comes full force into the room with them. They hand me a mug, a different mug, pulling my hand out so I won't miss and spill hot coffee all over, and then they sit next tome. I smell the coffee first. It's strong, sweeter than I'm used to, or maybe softer is the word I'm looking for, as though the usual bitterness has been worked out of the bean. I then proceed to taste. It's hot, hotter than I expected, but I hold it in my mouth. No, it's not bitter, it's purely coffee flavoured, perfect coffee. South American, by the taste of it, amost flowery, if coffee can ever be described that way.
-Colombian?- I ask to my right, where I know they're sitting. I can almost hear them breathing.
-Hmhmm. -they say, and I imagine them nodding their heads, cup of coffee in hand, maybe some of it in their mouth, looking at me. -Open your mouth.
I obey without question. Somehow I trust them, Maybe because I know they are me, or like me, close enough that it can't hurt.
They shift their weight and then place something in my mouth. It's crumbly and almost sweet, that full taste that comes with good baking, where the ingredients have combined to make something that doesn't quite taste of any of them, but of something almost magical. It has pecans, that are crunchy and bold, and a fruit, raspberries maybe?, that adds some acidity and at the same time softens the mix. It's delicious. I savour it, and swallow, and thank them.
We sit in silence for a while, drinking coffee, and the house comes alive. It smells a bit damp, just like all the houses in this city, and I can hear it, creaking and howling, even though we are the only ones inside. I suspect I hear mice in the wall behind me, and I can hear the traffic from outside. Somehow, I know it's raining, probably some rhythmic tapping registering somewhere just within my hearing that I can't consciously distinguish. I feel my body settling into a rhythm, almost like I'm meditating, feeling everything around me. They are quiet, and suddenly, I feel embarrassed, I've gotten too comfortable. Are they watching me?
-What are you thinking? -I blurt out.
-I want to take you somewhere. -they answer.
-... OK.- I don't understand where the hesitation comes from, maybe just giving myself time to enjoy the power of choosing, maybe some fear of what will happen next. I feel a bolt going up my back, and balance is restored.
They get up, and take my empty mug from me. They then take my hands in their warm hands and pull me up from the sofa. They turn me around, my back to them, and put their hands on my hips again, which instantly makes me breathe a little faster, and they start steering me. They help me put my coat on then, and lead me outside Walking this way is slow, and I can't help but wonder what others in the street are thinking.
The ground feels different, maybe because I'm more conscious of it now. Hard sometimes, then it changes, the asphalt softer than the pavement. They never let go of me, they tell me clearly when I need to take a step, or when there's a crossing or a turn. They are an excellent guide, and I suspect that they've done this before, and also that they're enjoying pushing me around, and maybe even enjoying that I'm willing to be pushed around.
-Stop -they say quietly, and I stop. -We're here.
They take their hands off my hips and step away, and I think I make a sound, disappointed. I a door opening, and I am pushed inside.
The first thing is the smell. It hits me hard, musty, but not really, familiar, almost warm, pleasant, full, warm, worn. The smell of ink and paper and of every human hand that has touched each page. Next, I notice the sounds. No music. Whispers, a chuckle. The creak of a spine groaning. The ripple of a page turned, the rustle of so many books in a small space. I reach my hand to my right and I feel the row of uneven volumes. Some hardbacks, others leatherbound, yet others paperbacks with creased spines.
-A second-hand bookshop! -I say, excited, smiling brightly.
They chuckle, and take my blindfold off, and it takes a few seconds for sight to reassert itself as my main source of information. The shelves are painted green, and there are so many books I'm almost sure most of them will be bad. I start running my finger over spines, reading titles. I was wrong. The selection borders on excellent, they have everyone. Spambauer, and Rushdie, and Roth. Sontag, and Gordimer, Boyd, Lee and Salinger, of course, Carver and the rest. They are all there. I pick up a volume that I don't know, but an author that rings a bell, but I can't quite place, and I start reading. I get into it, get lost in the book, distracted, and I don't know how much time goes by. When I finally look up, remembering I'm in a second hand bookshop and why I'm there, they have disappeared. I feel my stomach drop and my back grow cold, and my smile fades. Where are they?
I go deeper into the small shop, and find that behind what I thought was the last bookcase, there is a staircase leading to the basement. They're standing at the base, looking at the history section, and fingering a book I recognise, one by Paul Preston on the Spanish Civil War. They're absorbed, clearly looking for something missing from their own collection, something they know is missing. I smile, happily. I know that exact look, because it's my look. We may not know each other that well, no, but it doesn't matter. They are a version of me, or I'm a version of them. I couldn't know them better.
Fantasy n. 7
They're in their mid or late twenties, a few years older than me, and they've known me for a while. Enough to know what I like.
On a winter day they call me, and tell me to come over to their place for coffee. It's cold outside, the sharp kind of cold that you can't run from or wear enough layers to stop, but I don't mind. I walk fast, face flushed and an almost smile on myself. I get to their house and ring the doorbell. They open the door, utter an excited "hi!" and give me a quick hug, inviting me in. As they'd promised, coffee is ready and they hand me a cup (they know me well enough to know that if it's good coffee I'll have it black, on ice in summer, freshly brewed in winter). They show me into the sitting room and tell me to make myself at home, and to wait a minute, they have something for me.
The sitting room walls are completely covered with bookcases, one of the things I love about them: every book on the bookcases they've ready, all of them they've chosen carefully, lovingly. I take a closer look, always drinking my coffee. The books are organised by author, but not alphabetically. I detect a penchant for history books, and an original language bias. There's also a chronological order (in fiction, this order has to do with the period of the author; in the history books, this order depends on the topic of the book, which makes some of the author ordering confusing). Historical books are in separate bookcases to fiction, and there's a separate bookcase for dictionaries, and yet another for technical books.
-Hey, -I hear them say, but before I have the chance to turn around, a blindfold's over my eyes. I take a sharp breath, and I feel my whole body tense and relax at the same time.
-Like it?- they whisper in my ear, sounding a mixture between eager and concerned, but they don't wait for an answer. They grab my hips and turn me towards them.
I nod, my mouth dry. They first take my coffee cup from my hand, and lead me around the chairs, until we're next to the sofa, where they sit me down. I'm smiling, I can't help it, even though we haven't known each other for that long.
I expect them to sit next to me, but instead I hear them step out of the room, and open a door... the kitchen door? I hear the coffee maker and soon I can smell coffee, good coffee, better than the one they gave me before. And something else. Sweet perhaps?
They return, and the smell of coffee comes full force into the room with them. They hand me a mug, a different mug, pulling my hand out so I won't miss and spill hot coffee all over, and then they sit next tome. I smell the coffee first. It's strong, sweeter than I'm used to, or maybe softer is the word I'm looking for, as though the usual bitterness has been worked out of the bean. I then proceed to taste. It's hot, hotter than I expected, but I hold it in my mouth. No, it's not bitter, it's purely coffee flavoured, perfect coffee. South American, by the taste of it, amost flowery, if coffee can ever be described that way.
-Colombian?- I ask to my right, where I know they're sitting. I can almost hear them breathing.
-Hmhmm. -they say, and I imagine them nodding their heads, cup of coffee in hand, maybe some of it in their mouth, looking at me. -Open your mouth.
I obey without question. Somehow I trust them, Maybe because I know they are me, or like me, close enough that it can't hurt.
They shift their weight and then place something in my mouth. It's crumbly and almost sweet, that full taste that comes with good baking, where the ingredients have combined to make something that doesn't quite taste of any of them, but of something almost magical. It has pecans, that are crunchy and bold, and a fruit, raspberries maybe?, that adds some acidity and at the same time softens the mix. It's delicious. I savour it, and swallow, and thank them.
We sit in silence for a while, drinking coffee, and the house comes alive. It smells a bit damp, just like all the houses in this city, and I can hear it, creaking and howling, even though we are the only ones inside. I suspect I hear mice in the wall behind me, and I can hear the traffic from outside. Somehow, I know it's raining, probably some rhythmic tapping registering somewhere just within my hearing that I can't consciously distinguish. I feel my body settling into a rhythm, almost like I'm meditating, feeling everything around me. They are quiet, and suddenly, I feel embarrassed, I've gotten too comfortable. Are they watching me?
-What are you thinking? -I blurt out.
-I want to take you somewhere. -they answer.
-... OK.- I don't understand where the hesitation comes from, maybe just giving myself time to enjoy the power of choosing, maybe some fear of what will happen next. I feel a bolt going up my back, and balance is restored.
They get up, and take my empty mug from me. They then take my hands in their warm hands and pull me up from the sofa. They turn me around, my back to them, and put their hands on my hips again, which instantly makes me breathe a little faster, and they start steering me. They help me put my coat on then, and lead me outside Walking this way is slow, and I can't help but wonder what others in the street are thinking.
The ground feels different, maybe because I'm more conscious of it now. Hard sometimes, then it changes, the asphalt softer than the pavement. They never let go of me, they tell me clearly when I need to take a step, or when there's a crossing or a turn. They are an excellent guide, and I suspect that they've done this before, and also that they're enjoying pushing me around, and maybe even enjoying that I'm willing to be pushed around.
-Stop -they say quietly, and I stop. -We're here.
They take their hands off my hips and step away, and I think I make a sound, disappointed. I a door opening, and I am pushed inside.
The first thing is the smell. It hits me hard, musty, but not really, familiar, almost warm, pleasant, full, warm, worn. The smell of ink and paper and of every human hand that has touched each page. Next, I notice the sounds. No music. Whispers, a chuckle. The creak of a spine groaning. The ripple of a page turned, the rustle of so many books in a small space. I reach my hand to my right and I feel the row of uneven volumes. Some hardbacks, others leatherbound, yet others paperbacks with creased spines.
-A second-hand bookshop! -I say, excited, smiling brightly.
They chuckle, and take my blindfold off, and it takes a few seconds for sight to reassert itself as my main source of information. The shelves are painted green, and there are so many books I'm almost sure most of them will be bad. I start running my finger over spines, reading titles. I was wrong. The selection borders on excellent, they have everyone. Spambauer, and Rushdie, and Roth. Sontag, and Gordimer, Boyd, Lee and Salinger, of course, Carver and the rest. They are all there. I pick up a volume that I don't know, but an author that rings a bell, but I can't quite place, and I start reading. I get into it, get lost in the book, distracted, and I don't know how much time goes by. When I finally look up, remembering I'm in a second hand bookshop and why I'm there, they have disappeared. I feel my stomach drop and my back grow cold, and my smile fades. Where are they?
I go deeper into the small shop, and find that behind what I thought was the last bookcase, there is a staircase leading to the basement. They're standing at the base, looking at the history section, and fingering a book I recognise, one by Paul Preston on the Spanish Civil War. They're absorbed, clearly looking for something missing from their own collection, something they know is missing. I smile, happily. I know that exact look, because it's my look. We may not know each other that well, no, but it doesn't matter. They are a version of me, or I'm a version of them. I couldn't know them better.
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
It is kind of personal
I like to argue. I enjoy it. I will defend any position for the sake of argument, even when I know I'm wrong, even when I know I'm losing the argument. It doesn't matter. I don't know what it is about arguing that attracts me, it's a mixture between the thrill of perhaps convincing someone, the satisfaction of proving someone wrong, and the pure and simple delight I personally get out of having someone try to convince me. All this said, I (more often than not) lose arguments. I like to think that this is due to the fact that I've found people more intelligent than me to argue with, but between you and me? It's probably due to me not being great at coming up with (nearly) flawless logical arguments.
This is why it really bothers me when someone refuses to hear an argument out. And I admit it's often one of my problems with many feminists I come across. I (kind of) understand the idea "we're not here to educate anyone, people, if they're interested, should educate themselves". But this shouldn't be an excuse not to get into an argument, it shouldn't be an excuse to say "I don't want to hear it, I'm not going to get into this". This is a mistake. Because a lot of the time, people don't know they are wrong.
I understand that feminism is a political and social movement (and I expect I am missing a lot here, I won't pretend to be educated in it), and that there is a lot to do, but I still can't help but think that one of the most important and possibly effective ways of spreading feminism, and making it the default way of thinking (that men and women are equal), is education. Yes, it might be exhausting, it might be boring. And of course, if someone asks, the best thing to do is probably to point them in the direction of Google (or if you're feeling charitable, some of the good resources in either books or the maze that is the internet). But when someone is saying something that is quite simply morally wrong, or if someone who claims to be a feminist falls into victim blaming (even if it's unconsciously, and I'm afraid I may or may not have done this before), they need to be corrected. It's not good enough to say "I don't want to argue". It's not good enough to say "I don't want to get into it", or "I've had this argument a million times before", or "I know I'm right". These people need to be corrected, because they are the possible feminists, who may be wrong, who may not know they are, who may not have realised.
So next time you feel that engaging in an argument isn't worth your time, think about it. Is it OK to leave the misconception there? Because, sure, I like arguing. I often do it without any regard for what I actually believe in. But once in a while I get the chance to correct a misconception, or to quite simply put my point across about something that I actually do think is important. Believe me it's worth it. Refusing to engage just makes one sound like a bigot, like they don't have the argument.
H
This is why it really bothers me when someone refuses to hear an argument out. And I admit it's often one of my problems with many feminists I come across. I (kind of) understand the idea "we're not here to educate anyone, people, if they're interested, should educate themselves". But this shouldn't be an excuse not to get into an argument, it shouldn't be an excuse to say "I don't want to hear it, I'm not going to get into this". This is a mistake. Because a lot of the time, people don't know they are wrong.
I understand that feminism is a political and social movement (and I expect I am missing a lot here, I won't pretend to be educated in it), and that there is a lot to do, but I still can't help but think that one of the most important and possibly effective ways of spreading feminism, and making it the default way of thinking (that men and women are equal), is education. Yes, it might be exhausting, it might be boring. And of course, if someone asks, the best thing to do is probably to point them in the direction of Google (or if you're feeling charitable, some of the good resources in either books or the maze that is the internet). But when someone is saying something that is quite simply morally wrong, or if someone who claims to be a feminist falls into victim blaming (even if it's unconsciously, and I'm afraid I may or may not have done this before), they need to be corrected. It's not good enough to say "I don't want to argue". It's not good enough to say "I don't want to get into it", or "I've had this argument a million times before", or "I know I'm right". These people need to be corrected, because they are the possible feminists, who may be wrong, who may not know they are, who may not have realised.
So next time you feel that engaging in an argument isn't worth your time, think about it. Is it OK to leave the misconception there? Because, sure, I like arguing. I often do it without any regard for what I actually believe in. But once in a while I get the chance to correct a misconception, or to quite simply put my point across about something that I actually do think is important. Believe me it's worth it. Refusing to engage just makes one sound like a bigot, like they don't have the argument.
H
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