Hey all you clit owners out there!
I love books. I inhale books on a daily basis. If books were drugs, I would be hooked up to a book intravenously…you get it.
I am one angry feminist. And, I’m owning it.
“I have been told that I can’t do what I want to do because I am a woman, and I have been told that I have only been allowed to do what I have done because I am a woman.” - Hope Jahren, Lab Girl
We were raised to believe that many things in this world are for men only. Have you ever shopped for something that is considered “manly”? How did it go? For me, it went horribly. I was treated as ignorant because of my boobs, I assume.
Last week, I published the first of many upcoming blog posts written by a guest author. This one was authored by Alex Schladebeck and is titled Questions we shouldn’t ask (anymore). In it, she shares her experience with the questions “do you want or do you have kids?” and why it’s antiquated.
I find it interesting how questions and topics that seem innocuous can actually be outdated and belong in the “used to be okay for some reason but really aren’t anymore” pile.
Cereals are innocent, right? Wrong. It dawned on me at breakfast the other day: there are no female cereal mascots, except for that one unicorn I saw on Fruit Loops this year.
I’m 16 and playing Quarters with my friend, her brother and cute guys I’ve never met. Quarters is a drinking game where you bounce a 25 cent piece off of a table. The aim is to have it land in someone’s glass. When it does, the person needs to chug their drink.
When I was 18, my boyfriend C asked me to stop laughing so much because his older brother found it annoying. I laughed too much and too loudly. A few months later, his father told me that I had the voice of a kindergartner and I should “work on fixing that” because it was, you guessed it, annoying. And finally, on a vacation in the Carribean, his cousin’s new boyfriend told me “You know, your voice is really annoying.” Point taken.
I’m excited to share the new Evulving logo with you!
I started dating C immediately after B (aka Boyfriend #1, read the previous post for the full story). C was nicer, which I now see is an incredibly low bar. I considered myself the luckiest girl. We laughed and spent a lot of time together. He didn’t make me feel small or try to push me away after sex. I remember being insecure nonetheless; I really wanted to be liked, to be loved.
The first week of university, I met my first boyfriend. Let’s call him B. He was a jerk to me. He ignored me unless he needed me.
This post is different than usual because a month ago I was invited to perform a piece about this blog in front of a live audience. What an opportunity! I didn’t want to waste it.
I’ve had many great teachers throughout my life, and many bad ones. Some of my previous posts already identify the best and the worst teachers.
I loved cybersex. It was one of my favourite teenage hobbies. I went into chat rooms and found people to have fun with. It was my choice, and I enjoyed pleasuring myself.
In schools all over the world, there are rules put in place to stop girls (and boys) from wearing what they want to wear. I’ll be using Canadian examples in this post, but others countries are not immune to this phenomenon.
I was born a gamer. As soon as I could talk, I kept asking my brother when it would finally be my turn to play Super Mario Bros. He, being a decade older than me, was annoyed at his little sister losing all his lives. But, he never told me “girls can’t play”.
Yes. Men and women can be friends. Can a child and an elderly person be friends? They sure can. Can a lesbian be friends with another woman? Of course. Anyone can be friends with anyone; whatever the age or origin. Men and women are humans—we have shared experiences and can understand one another better than most people think.
In my last post, I told you not to be ashamed, for any reason. Well, I am not ashamed to say that I participated in a beauty pageant at age seventeen. Our group of girls very much resembled the pageant as seen in the movie Dumplin, minus the protest, Texan accent and awesome drag queens.
My first kiss happened when I was sixteen. It was summer vacation and I was in a city far from my own. I went to a party with a friend and spent most of the evening making out with a stranger on a trampoline under a starlit sky. I couldn’t have planned it better. He wanted to take it further, but I said no. The best part was that I would never see him again.
I love being alone. When I was a kid, my mom would often tell me to go out and play with the neighbours. It sucked. Why couldn’t I just record my radio show or watch Lion King again? When I became a teenager, I got to be alone after school. I relished that time. To this day, I’d rather spend my evenings home alone reading books, drawing, writing, sleeping, watching TV, cooking, listening to music. I am an introvert.
15 ways to please a guy in bed is a common headline seen on the cover of Cosmopolitan magazine, now better known as Cosmo. I haven’t read Cosmo in a while, but I remember my friend giving me a few issues when I was fourteen. I was curious, I hadn’t read anything like it before. I devoured each one, absorbed by the content. I didn’t know what it would do to my psyche to spend hours reading about how to be “perfect”.
I started masturbating before I knew it had a name. It felt so good to touch myself. I couldn’t wait to have a nap or go to bed so I could explore my body and have an orgasm.
Between the year 1999 and 2001, I refused to wear dresses. No matter where we went: weddings, funerals, the beach; I wouldn’t wear a dress. My mother was upset, she kept telling me “but, you used to love dresses”. I no longer did and I knew exactly why, but I chose to tell myself lies.
Between the ages of eleven and thirteen, I became obsessed with wrestling. At the time, the popular TV shows were WWF (World Wrestling Federation) and WCW (World Championship Wrestling). My favourite wrestlers were Vampiro and Sting. I suppose I loved black and white makeup. I also liked other wrestlers, including Edge and Christian, the X-Factor (Triple H, Road Dog, Billy Gun and X-Pac), the Hardy Boyz and Lita, Steve Austin, Rey Mysterio, Kane and the Undertaker, and Trish Stratus.
When I was in primary school, “that’s gay” was an expression often used to say that’s “dumb” or “uncool”. I later realized how wrong and awful that was; it fed our culture’s homophobia and fear of “different”. We absorbed and imitated the behaviour of the media and the influential adults around us, our family and teachers. Canadian schools reinforced this narrative by teaching us that being straight was the only way; they didn’t even mention other possibilities. I’m pretty sure most of my classmates had no idea what being gay meant. I definitely didn’t, nor did I know what being “straight” meant. The letters in the LGBTQAI+ spectrum were a mystery and a taboo. No one I knew was openly queer and I had no idea it was possible. That’s why it took me 30 years to realized I was bisexual.
When I was growing up, sexual-education class, or sex-ed, was a joke. Sadly, it’s not much better today. In the ’90s, only the binary was presented to us and unfortunately, that is still true today. A modernized curriculum that included sexting, masturbation, cyber-safety, concent, same-sex relationships and gender identity/diversity was introduced in 2015. Unfortunately, it has been repealed at the end of 2018 and Ontario’s Ministry of Education fell back on the curriculum from 1998. Here’s an article describing the current situation in Ontario, Canada.
My butt has been grabbed, and my body has been objectified. I’ve been ogled at by so many construction workers and yelled at so often by people in cars that most of the occurrences blend together. They’ve become a “normal” part of my day. Once, a car just drove by and the guy yelled, “show us your pussy!” when my then-boyfriend and I were walking home from the cinema.
I have a big butt and I cannot lie. Wait, let me start over. I have an ass, like everyone else on this planet. For some reason, some people—both men and women—think it’s appropriate to grab it or talk about it. It’s not okay. In fact, grabbing it without my consent is sexual assault. I have many butt related stories to share, but I will only cover my teenage years for now. The first person to grab my ass was my own uncle. Yes, you read that right.
My father loves the Discovery channel. When I was young, we would watch Bill Nye the Science Guy together. I was enthralled. We replicated what he taught us on his show. I was always a curious child and pestered my Dad with many, many, many scientific questions. Together, we would smear the coffee table with soap. Then, we would use straws to blow mountains of bubbles, bubbles inside bubbles, smoke inside one bubble (my dad used to smoke). The smoke was stuck inside ONE bubble! Wow, physics is cool! (Smoking is not cool.)
I love pizza. When I was younger, we would often spend family evenings at the local Italian place; they made amazing pizza. It was always delicious and that’s where the village hung out. I would often go in the basement to play arcade games like the Simpsons or to watch the adults line-dance. After a few minutes of watching, I would copy their moves. They seemed to think I was adorable and didn’t kick me out. Unfortunately, that restaurant is also where I experienced sexism from strangers for the first time.
Everyone is self-conscious about some part(s) of their body; society makes sure we think we aren’t good enough. For me, it all started when I hit puberty and my body started changing. I was not aware of what puberty meant or what would happen exactly. Thanks to other people, I became increasingly self-conscious about three things: my legs, my breasts and my upper lip.
My name is Roxanne—sorry, I mean Rooooooxaaaaanne. Let me clear something up. I know that I don’t have to put on the red light and that I don’t have to wear that dress tonight. Neither do I have to walk the streets for money. I do care what is wrong and what is right. And no, I am not something you can choose to share or not share with another boy.
Last Monday, I blogged about my Cartoon Role Models. They were great, but as I grew older, I started looking up to human beings rather than cartoons. The women I admired were either fictional characters or the artists themselves. Let’s start with who influenced me as a young girl and then we’ll move on to who I aspire to be today.
My history with sports is a melancholic love story highlighted with sexist undertones. It started when I was five; my mother enrolled me in the local softball team. My friend’s mom was our coach. She gave us the self-confidence and enthusiasm we needed to succeed. The team was about half girls, half boys and I remember having a blast. At seven years old, we graduated to “fastball”; the pitchers now threw overhand instead of underhand. I decided to quit before trying it out and stated the following as my reason: “I was scared the boys would hurt me by throwing too fast”. I am not sure where I got that idea, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t come up with it on my own. After all, I had been playing with boys for two seasons already and it was great.
I watched a lot of TV as a kid. I may not have known what the Internet was, but I knew every show on television. As a bilingual kid in Canada, I would also watch French TV (from both France and Québec). I’ll list my favourite shows below and then I’ll analyze four of my cartoon role models. I didn’t realize how much they have influenced me until this year.
It’s the holidays season and I am feeling sentimental. I’ve been seeing all the store windows filled with toys and it’s making me think of my childhood. Let’s have some fun and travel back to the Christmas of 1991.
When I was a kid, my mother loved to dress me in “girly” outfits. I am not putting the blame on her for this; she is a product of the baby boomers generation. Our parents were raised to believe in two clearly defined genders and they associate them with very specific colours. Girls are pink. Boys are blue. I wonder if this is what the song Blue (Da Ba Dee) by Eiffel 65 was about. Was he sad about being stuck in that blue gender box?
I was born a girl in the late 80s. When I was a baby, my mother would dress me in “girly” ensembles, complete with a matching velcro bow in my virtually non-existent hair. She would push me around in my stroller, proud to show off her adorable baby. People would stop her and lean in to see me. “What a beautiful baby boy!” they would exclaim. My mother would leave the conversation in rage. How could they mistake my baby girl for a boy! This happened on several occasions; she still hasn’t gotten over it.
I am holding a copy of Laura Bates’ Everyday Sexism in my hands and I’m getting riled up. Most of what is mentioned in the 140 pages I’ve read so far has happened to me. I have reported some of the major incidents, but for the most part, I have only confided in my friends. The sad part is, the major incidents were the one others believed the least. The people I confided in didn’t want it to be true. I could see it in their eyes; the fear of the truth. Maybe they were reliving something similar that had happened to them, or maybe, they didn’t want to hear that it could and would happen to people they know and many others.