sexuality in color
What would it take to end sexual violence? We ponder that question today, while thinking about the wise words of disability/sexual violence advocate Mia Mingus, whose interview discusses the #metoo movement and how intersectionality and transformative justice comprise the basis of her activism (and why yours should too!).
Today's post is not about Thanksgiving, but rather, about the violence and colonialism that indigenous people (especially women and two-spirit folks) have been facing for hundreds of years. My gratitude is not for turkey, but for indigenous remembrance and resistance.
We explore the dark history of the foundations of surgical gynecology and its "father", J. Marion Sims, inventor of the vaginal speculum, who performed experiments on enslaved women without anaesthesia in the mid-1800's, and learn about the ways in which the legacy of racism and sexualization towards black folks has persisted and developed to have a measurable effect on health outcomes.
Today we take a look at Forward Together, an amazing comprehensive activist resource that fights for the rights, recognition, and resources for families everywhere (including non-nuclear families, weird families, anti-families, mamas, trans and gender nonconforming folks, and also mermaids).
This week we (ahem) take a second to reflect on the myriad of ways that you can practice self-care, and review how important it is, especially for marginalized folks, to love and protect ourselves fiercely in a world that does not often leave room for either.
This week focuses on Sonya Renee and the folks over at The Body is Not An Apology, a resource devoted to the idea that no one should have to feel ashamed about their body. There are quite a few articles, workshops, and user submissions across a broad range of experiences, with a focus on the intersectional nature of identity and the belief that the personal is political.
Ever since puberty, I found my body to be a site of shame, something I desperately wanted to escape.
A transplant to predominantly white Catholic schools on Long Island, I was immediately deemed ugly. I had an older sister, but we were close enough in age that we were navigating puberty around the same time. As second-generation daughters of immigrant parents, we were on our own as far as navigating the personal and social meanings of our bodies.
In Lebanon (or at least, in Beirut) the joke is that it is equally likely to see a woman in a mini skirt as it is to see a woman in a hijab.
In Lebanon (or at least, in Beirut), European tourists feel at ease that the Lebanese still speak a post-colonial French, and let Beirut be called the Paris of the Middle East.
In Lebanon (or at least, in Beirut), tourists and Lebanese alike flock to the beaches and the nightclubs, openly drinking alcohol, smoking hookahs, and belly dancing to both popular western and Arabic music, creating a strange moment that many see as cultural influence, and many others see as cultural infiltration.
Still—despite the post-colonial familiarity and acceptability of Lebanese culture—Lebanese women remain in many ways decorative objects, openly ignored, slighted or discriminated against in legislation.
When it comes to sex and sexuality, I was a very, very, very late bloomer.
Raised in a Pentecostal Christian home where sex and sexuality were rarely discussed beyond, "No sex until you are married," as a teen I assumed I would not have sex until my early- to mid-twenties, after I had finished undergrad.
I assumed any boys/men I met would share my religious beliefs about sex. I assumed my values would never change. And I assumed my husband and I would know how to sexually please one another, in spite of having no sexual experience before our wedding night (which, of course, would be a night of unbridled passion and ecstasy).