I have had pretty bad luck with men. From neglectful family members to abusive professional advisors to subpar dates, I often want to throw my hands up in the air, climb a ladder onto the roof of a tall building, and scream “men are trash” at the top of my lungs. I once told the therapist I saw in my undergrad years, L, that if someone gave me a pill to swallow so I could stop feeling attracted to men, I would swallow it without a moment’s hesitation – not because I dislike my gayness, just because I dislike my attraction to a gender that is socialized to value stoicism and achievement over emotional openness and caring.
Over the past week I have spent time processing my most recent somewhat failed crush, perhaps my oddest one yet. While the support of my close friends, my therapist, and myself have helped, I still feel this tugging resentment, like a voice saying “ok, if this guy didn’t work out, I might as well declare a vow of celibacy, never try to invest in a man again, and channel all my love to the people who deserve it: Ariana Grande and BlackPink.” But, because I work as a therapist and have gone to therapy, I noticed my thought pattern (i.e., a cognitive distortion, if you want to get boring about it) and went, “wait a second, not all the men in my life have been trash, even if a large number of men do practice toxic masculinity and are subsequently trash.” I have had deep and healthy relationships with three men in particular aside from the fictional men I fanboy all the time, looking at u, Willem from A Little Life. Continue reading
In my therapy training class last week, I said that I would rather drink arsenic than depend on a man for happiness. As an ardent feminist, I have always appreciated myself for finding deep fulfillment in hobbies, a passion for helping others, and close friends, no attachment to men necessary. Given these truths about myself, I felt quite frustrated when earlier this week I matched with this super attractive man named Robin on the patriarchal capitalist romance machine Tinder and grew kind of obsessed with him. His profile said that he enjoyed reading, writing, and helping people. I felt a small pit of despair open in my stomach. Its name: desire.
At this point, I could have therapied myself and accepted my attraction to him which may have reduced its intensity and negative long-term effects. Instead, I found his Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and LinkedIn, all within the span of ten minutes. Continue reading
My friends and I prepared a baby shower this summer. Planning the event involved a lot of frantic Facebook messaging and late-night Google Doc editing, as well as coming up with creative game ideas, such as “Pin the Sperm on the Egg.” We also spent a decent amount of time shopping for baby-related things, which led us to several gender-stereotypical items. Encountering these signals from society made me realize that gender roles really do start from within the womb – or at least they begin early enough to affect children from the beginning of their existences.
Clothing from the girls’ section: a pink, cute-looking cupcake. Clothing from the boys’ section: the words “Future Legend” and baseballs. Anyone discern a difference in tone?
Studies show that children detect gender differences by the age of three Continue reading
Cover via Goodreads.
Rating: 3/5 stars.
In Female Chauvinist Pigs, Ariel Levy deconstructs the idea that sex always empowers women. She argues that the sexualization of women sets them back in terms of equality and that they only hurt themselves by using their bodies as bargaining chips. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll divide my review into the good, the bad, and the ugly.
The Good: Levy creates a compelling argument against overt female exhibitionism and sexuality. Continue reading
A few afternoons ago I was about to check my email when I saw this page. The first thing I noticed was the mention of male pixies, which always interest me. Then, I saw it.
My eyes! They burn!
As someone who regularly wears mismatched sweatshirts, skinny jeans, sweatpants, and sandals, I really don’t know much about fashion. But this, this was definitely wrong. When I laid my eyes on it, I couldn’t explain why – I couldn’t even really formulate a logical thought – but I knew it deep down. Deep down, in my intolerant, unaccepting, horribly superior mind, I knew that this was absolutely sickening. Continue reading
I hold the phone with my right hand, and grasp the cool, smooth surface of the bathroom sink with my left.
“They said what?” I whisper.
“She said you’re the gayest guy in our grade,” my friend says, “he just agreed – he didn’t say anything.”
“What?” I say, even though I heard her clearly. I just don’t want to believe it.
“It was on the back of the bus,” she says, “I sat there and listened to them.”
“Oh,” I say. As a fourteen-year-old, I don’t want my friend to think I care about what my classmates think about me. But curiosity quickly kills my desire to play it cool. Continue reading