Being A Girl: A Brief Personal History Of Violence

Being A Girl: A Brief Personal History of Violence

I am six. My babysitter’s son, who is five but a whole head taller than me, likes to show me his penis. He does it when his mother isn’t looking. One time when I tell him not to, he holds me down and puts penis on my arm. I bite his shoulder, hard. He starts crying, pulls up his pants and runs upstairs to tell his mother that I bit him. I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone about the penis part, so they all just think I bit him for no reason.

I get in trouble first at the babysitter’s house, then later at home.

The next time the babysitter’s son tries to show me his penis, I don’t fight back because I don’t want to get in trouble.

One day I tell the babysitter what her son does, she tells me that he’s just a little boy, he doesn’t know any better. I can tell that she’s angry at me, and I don’t know why. Later that day, when my mother comes to pick me up, the babysitter hugs me too hard and says how jealous she is because she only has sons and she wishes she had a daughter as sweet as me.

One day when we’re playing in the backyard he tells me very seriously that he might kill me one day and I believe him.

I am in the second grade and our classroom has a weird open-concept thing going on, and the fourth wall is actually the hallway to the gym. All day long, we surreptitiously watch the other grades file past on the way to and from the gym. We are supposed to ignore most of them. The only class we are not supposed to ignore is Monsieur Pierre’s grade six class.

Every time Monsieur Pierre walks by, we are supposed to chorus “Bonjour, Monsieur Sexiste.” We are instructed to do this by our impossibly beautiful teacher, Madame Lemieux. She tells us that Monsieur Pierre, a dapper man with grey hair and a moustache, is sexist because he won’t let the girls in his class play hockey. She is the first person I have ever heard use the word sexist.

The word sounds very serious when she says it. She looks around the class to make sure everyone is paying attention and her voice gets intense and sort of tight.

“Girls can play hockey. Girls can do anything that boys do,” she tells us.

We don’t really believe her. For one thing, girls don’t play hockey. Everyone in the NHL – including our hero Mario Lemieux, who we sometimes whisper might be our teacher’s brother or cousin or even husband – is a boy. But we accept that maybe sixth grade girls can play hockey in gym class, so we do what she asks.

Mostly what I remember is the smile that spreads across Monsieur Pierre’s face whenever we call him a sexist. It is not the smile of someone who is ashamed; it is the smile of someone who finds us adorable in our outrage.

Later that same year a man walks into Montreal’s École Polytechnique and kills fourteen women. He kills them because he hates feminists. He kills them because they are going to be engineers, because they go to school, because they take up space. He kills them because he thinks they have stolen something that is rightfully his. He kills them because they are women.

Everything about the day is grey: the sky, the rain, the street, the concrete side of the École Polytechnique, the pictures of the fourteen girls that they print in the newspaper. My mother’s face is grey. It’s winter, and the air tastes like water drunk from a tin cup.

Madame Lemieux doesn’t tell us to call Monsieur Pierre a sexist anymore. Maybe he lets the girls play hockey now. Or maybe she is afraid.

Girls can do anything that boys do but it turns out that sometimes they get killed for it.

I am fourteen and my classmate’s mother is killed by her boyfriend. He stabs her to death. In the newspaper they call it a crime of passion. When she comes back to school, she doesn’t talk about it. When she does mention her mother it’s always in the present tense – “my mom says” or “my mom thinks” – as if she is still alive. She transfers schools the next year because her father lives across town in a different school district.

Passion. As if murder is the same thing as spreading rose petals on your bed or eating dinner by candlelight or kissing through the credits of a movie.

Men start to say things to me on the street, sometimes loudly enough that everyone around us can hear, but not always. Sometimes they mutter quietly, so that I’m the only one who knows. So that if I react, I’ll seem like I’m blowing things out of proportion or flat-out making them up. These whispers make me feel complicit in something, although I don’t quite know what.

I feel like I deserve it. I feel like I am asking for it. I feel dirty and ashamed.

I want to stand up for myself and tell these men off, but I am afraid. I am angry that I’m such a baby about it. I feel like if I were braver, they wouldn’t be able to get away with it. Eventually I screw up enough courage and tell a man to leave me alone; I deliberately keep my voice steady and unemotional, trying to make it sound more like a command than a request. He grabs my wrist and calls me a fucking bitch.

After that I don’t talk back anymore. Instead I just smile weakly; sometimes I duck my head and whisper thank you. I quicken my steps and hurry away until one time a man yells don’t you fucking run away and starts to follow me.

After that I always try to keep my pace even, my breath slow. Like how they tell you that if you ever see a bear you shouldn’t run, you should just slowly back away until he can’t see you.

I think that these men, like dogs, can smell my fear.

On my eighteenth birthday my cousin takes me out clubbing. While we’re dancing, a man comes up behind me and starts fiddling with the straps on my flouncy black dress. But he’s sort of dancing with me and this is my first time ever at a club and I want to play it cool, so I don’t say anything. Then he pulls the straps all the way down and everyone laughs as I scramble to cover my chest.

At a concert a man comes up behind me and slides his hand around me and starts playing with my nipple while he kisses my neck. By the time I’ve got enough wiggle room to turn around, he’s gone.

At my friend’s birthday party a gay man grabs my breasts and tells everyone that he’s allowed to do it because he’s not into girls. I laugh because everyone else laughs because what else are you supposed to do?

Men press up against me on the subway, on the bus, once even in a crowd at a protest. Their hands dangle casually, sometimes brushing up against my crotch or my ass. One time it’s so bad that I complain to the bus driver and he makes the man get off the bus but then he tells me that if I don’t like the attention maybe I shouldn’t wear such short skirts.

I get a job as a patient-sitter, someone who sits with hospital patients who are in danger of pulling out their IVs or hurting themselves or even running away. The shifts are twelve hours and there is no real training, but the pay is good.

Lots of male patients masturbate in front of me. Some of them are obvious, which is actually kind of better because then I can call a nurse. Some of them are less obvious, and then the nurses don’t really care. When that happens, I just bury my head in a book and pretend I don’t know what they’re doing.

One time an elderly man asks me to fix his pillow and when I bend over him to do that he grabs my hand and puts it on his dick.

When I call my supervisor to complain she says that I shouldn’t be upset because he didn’t know what he was doing.

A man walks into an Amish school, tells all the little girls to line up against the chalkboard, and starts shooting.

A man walks into a sorority house and starts shooting.

A man walks into a theatre because the movie was written by a feminist and starts shooting.

A man walks into Planned Parenthood and starts shooting.

A man walks into.

I start writing about feminism on the internet, and within a few months I start getting angry comments from men. Not death threats, exactly, but still scary. Scary because of how huge and real their rage is. Scary because they swear they don’t hate women, they just think women like me need to be put in their place.

I get to a point where the comments – and even the occasional violent threat – become routine. I joke about them. I think of them as a strange badge of honour, like I’m in some kind of club. The club for women who get threats from men.

It’s not really funny.

10.

Someone makes a death threat against my son.

I don’t tell anyone right away because I feel like it is my fault – my fault for being too loud, too outspoken, too obviously a parent.

When I do finally start telling people, most of them are sympathetic. But a few women say stuff like “this is why I don’t share anything about my children online,” or “this is why I don’t post any pictures of my child.”

Even when a man makes a choice to threaten a small child it is still, somehow, a woman’s fault.

11.

I try not to be afraid.

I am still afraid.

- By Anne Thériault

More Posts from Daydream-hq and Others

daydream-hq

7 months ago

i think "it takes a village" shouldn't be just "to raise a child". we should understand it takes a village to do literally everything we do. all day every day. without our communities we would not have drinking water or electricity or clean streets or food or shelter or anything. we cannot do any thing alone. we just can't. and with that comes the fact that you are not alone. you already have a community, seek to be an active part of it, you will feel better. reach out and thank them, they're happy to have you too. i promise. it takes a village to live.

86K notes View Post

daydream-hq

5 months ago

Mandalorian Food-Related Terms & Phrases

Singular/Plural

kai/kaise(p) - food

kai'la - edible

jahaal'got - healthy food, nutritious, good for you

yai'yai - richly nourishing. Dense, high-calorie food, of great importance to people dependent on highly portable field rations

kaihaast/kaihaaste(p) - dry ration

behot/behote(p) - citrusy Mandalorian herb used in beverages, mildly antiseptic and stimulating. "He stopped at each tapcaf along the Chortav Meshurkaane and had a mug of hot shig, then ambled along the market stalls that lined the alley." (501st) "Mereel made her a pot of shig—a tisane made from a plant called behot—before getting on with examining the data." (True Colors)

gi/gise(p) - fish

gihaal/gihaale(p) - dried fish-meal (like pemmican - lasts for years but very pungent smell). "She opened the metal container, letting the pungent aroma of dried smoked fish escape into the kitchen. Gihaal kept for years without refrigeration, one of the staples of Mandalorian ration packs" (501st)

shatual/shatuale(p) - commonly eaten Mandalorian livestock animal. "That’s the shatual, by the way, roasted and sliced." (True Colors) "I say we get started on butchering that shatual if Rav hasn't already prepared it, Mer'ika. Perfect celebratory meal, if we had the whole clan here." (501st)

loras/lorase(p) - meat/flesh

warra/warra'se(p) - warra nuts. "Ooh, you got us some warra nuts! Hot ’n’ spicy, and salt ’n’ sour! Kandosii!" (501st)

papurgaat/papurgaate(p) - fruit

uj'alayi/uj'alayise(p) - dense, very sweet flat cake made of ground nuts, syrup, pureed dried fruit, and spice. "Sometimes Ordo felt just as he did when he was a small child and Skirata first towered above him: part of him was competent far beyond his years, and the rest was hollow terror because the kaminiise were going to kill him, but Skirata had snatched him and his brothers to safety and fed them all on uj’alayi, a sticky-sweet Mandalorian cake." (True Colors)

haarshun/haarshune(p) - thin bread/parchment bread - a thin sheet of bread dried to preserve it, and reconstituted in liquid. Mando ration-pack staple. Made properly, it's so thin you can read through it, hence the name; 'see-bread'.

epar - to eat

eparavur - to feast, devour

isirir - to taste

kai'goran/kai'gorane(p) - chef, someone who prepares food for eating

nadir - to cook/boil

ru'nadi - cooked (in the past)

ven nadi - will cook(future)

ke'nadi - cook (command)

hokaanir - cut/slice

ru'hokaani - cut/slice (past)

ven hokaani - will cut/slice

ke'hokaani - cut/slice (command)

hoshap/hoshape(p) - spoon

gaid/gaide(p) - plate- for armor or food use; armor was often used to heat food over open fires in the field

haili cetare! - "Tuck in! Enjoy! Lit. 'Fill your boots. “The others will show up when they smell the food. Haili cetare. Fill your boots." (501st)

Kaysh guur' skraan - "They love their food.”(Used affectionately)

skraan/skraane(p) - generic slang for a meal or food. “You won’t be fit for much without some decent skraan inside you.” (Order 66)

ori'skraan/ori'skraane(p) - a delicacy, a real treat in terms of food; a blow-out meal, a feast (slang), "big eats"

skraan’ikase/skraan'ikasese(p) - assorted small snacks like meze or tapas - "small eats" - a celebratory meal for Mandos because it can take hours to eat, and the dishes are often fiddly, a contrast to the easy-to-eat, quick meals necessary in the field. "Inside the house, the veshok table was laid with an impressive spread of skraan’ikase, an assortment of small fancy snacks that could be lingered over for hours." (501st)

epar'yaim/epar'yaime(p) - restaurant, canteen

sha’kajir - to have a mealtime conversation/to discuss over the dinner table/sitting down for a meal, like the French "à table" - the word for table comes from the word for level, flat, so the implication is one of equals breaking bread together

shig/shige(p) - tea- any infusion of whatever's available, but usually a mildly stimulant herb with a citrus flavor called behot. "He stopped at each tapcaf along the Chortav Meshurkaane and had a mug of hot shig, then ambled along the market stalls that lined the alley." (501st); "Mereel made her a pot of shig—a tisane made from a plant called behot—before getting on with examining the data." (True Colors)

tihaar/tihaare(p) - alcoholic drink - strong clear spirit made from fruit, like eau de vie. "Every tihaar was different, made from whatever local fruit was available" (501st)

ne'tra gal/ne'tra gale(p) - black ale/ sweet, almost spicy black beer similar to milk stout. "Ordo, sweat-streaked and visibly pleased with himself, halted the game to hand out mugs of ne’tra gal." (501st)

buy'ce gal/buy'ce gale(p) - pint of ale. "The chieftains and neighbors who drank here had become Fett’s cabinet, and if there was any serious attempt at government going on—Mando’ade regarded that as a deeply unhealthy and aruetyc thing—then it would only be tolerated over a buy’ce gal in the tapcaf."

papuur'gal/papuur'gale(p) - wine

pirun/pirune - water

gal’gala - invitation to drink/Let me buy you a drink/Have a drink. “Gal’gala?” (Bloodlines)

galar - pour

Ni copaani buy'ce gal - "I’d like a pint of ale"

Ni copaani buyc'ika cin papuur'gal - "I’d like a glass of white wine, please"

jatisyc - delicious

draluram - vivid - used only of food, to indicate strong, distinct flavor, lit. "bright mouth" - one of the four essentials of Mandalorian cooking

heturam - mouth-burn spicy-"mouthburn" - a sought-after state of intense burning in the mouth brought about by very spicy food

hetikles - nasal-burn spicy-burning sensation in the sinuses brought about by specific spices - Mandalorians prize this. "It was a blisteringly spicy meat-and-vegetable casserole, which had the prized characteristic of hetikles, pungent enough to burn the nasal passages, one of the four qualities in Mando cooking." (Order 66)

tiingilar/tiingilare(p) - spicy meat-and-vegetable casserole

hetikleyc - spicy, as in makes the sinuses burn (a sensation like eating horseradish or wasabi)

janad - spicy

paak - salt

pirpaak/pirpaake(p) - broth, soup. "salted water"

epan/epane(p) - stomach

lalat/lalate(p) - tongue

ni n'epa - "I don't eat it"

emuurir - like, enjoy (food, activities, etc)

haryc b’aalyc - "tired and emotional" - i.e. drunk. "Shysa went quiet and poured a third tihaar for himself. He tilted the bottle at Skirata in a mute offer of a top-up, but Skirata shook his head. If he wanted to get completely haryc b’aalyc—tired and emotional, as Mando’ade called it—then he’d wait until he got home." (501st)

lararyc - drunk (noisy, lively, and fun version)

batnor - blackout drunk

ruik - bittersweet root (chewed on). "Skirata, chewing vigorously on that bittersweet ruik root that he’d recently taken a liking to, stood with his fists in his jacket pockets, watching Jusik stepping delicately between chunks of debris." (Triple Zero) "Skirata was still chewing the ruik. She could smell it on his breath, sweet and floral." (Triple Zero)

neral/nerale(p) - grain, grains

shuk'la gett'se - rushed or ground nuts (topping or ingredient for uj)

uj'ayl/uj syrup - thick & sweet scented syrup used in cooking

pirur - to drink; ru'piru - drank; ven piru - will drink; ke'piru - drink (command)

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daydream-hq

11 months ago

Yuri On Ice!! AU

figure skating up-and-comer Cody, discouraged after an untimely accident in training spooked him right before the Grand Prix, returns to his home town of Kamino after graduating from college to consider his next steps surrounded by family

his younger brother, former-high-school-hockey-player-now-local-ice-rink-owner Rex, has never fully understand his dreams of growing up to be on the same level as figure-skating wunderkind Obi-Wan Kenobi, but has always done his best to support Cody's choices

Cody decides to thank Rex by putting on a performance for him, imitating a recent short program from his idol (rumored to be one of his last, given his suggestion that he's courting burnout and considering retirement from competitive skating in a few recent interviews), which their little sister Omega sneakily records and posts to the rinks youtube channel

Cody is Mortified at the prospect of others seeing his work after his disgraceful last public performance, but the video is immediately a huge hit

it's so popular that even Obi-Wan Kenobi himself sees it, and immediately decides to drop everything and fly out to Kamino to coach Cody himself, veritably throwing himself at the younger skater at every opportunity

Cody is, of course, flustered by the sudden attention from his long-time crush and professional role model, but is determined to prove his worth as a student...

...only for Obi-Wan's former junior rink mate Anakin to show up and start making demands of Obi-Wan's time and attention

and that fires up Cody's competitive side: he's ready to throw his all into his skating with Obi-Wan at his side!

Cody starts mentoring Anakin too on the side, fully committed to a partnership in this endeavor! if Anakin wants Obi-Wan's attention, he's getting Cody's too!

Anakin goes back to Coruscant pretty quickly after that

The symbolism of flowers

Flowers have a long history of symbolism that you can incorporate into your writing to give subtext.

Symbolism varies between cultures and customs, and these particular examples come from Victorian Era Britain. You'll find examples of this symbolism in many well-known novels of the era!

Amaryllis: Pride

Black-eyed Susan: Justice

Bluebell: Humility

Calla Lily: Beauty

Pink Camellia: Longing

Carnations: Female love

Yellow Carnation: Rejection

Clematis: Mental beauty

Columbine: Foolishness

Cyclamen: Resignation

Daffodil: Unrivalled love

Daisy: Innocence, loyalty