Here is the simplest version of Henrietta’s story. She was an African American tobacco farmer, who was diagnosed, at 30, with cervical cancer in February 1951, and dead by October that same year. She was treated at Johns Hopkins, in Baltimore, in an era in which hospital wards were still segregated. As doctors customarily did at the time, during her treatment – with radium therapy, in which small vials of radioactive material were sewn to her cervix – without her knowledge and consent, Henrietta’s cancerous tissue was harvested, and handed off to researchers. In the lab, the researcher discovered that Henrietta’s cells were extraordinarily good at replicating themselves, often aggressively climbing up the sides of test tubes. Because of that property – the ability to regenerate so robustly – the cells, dubbed “HeLa cells,” have been invaluable to medical research as a source of human cells on which to test vaccines (including the polio vaccine) and drugs. Henrietta’s cells are called the first “immortal cell line,” in that they lived on long after her death.

That’s the good part. The tragedy is this: Henrietta was married, and had five children, the eldest of which, Elsie, was deaf and mute. After Henrietta died, Elsie was placed into an institution, in the sort of horrific conditions one associates with Hollywood movies, where she later died. The other children were raised in poverty by their father, who had a third grade education. No one in the family received any compensation for Henrietta’s cells. The horrific irony is that in general, the Lacks family is too poor to afford health insurance, and so has largely been unable to benefit from medical advances Henrietta’s cells have occasioned, or if they have, only at great cost.

No one in the family was even aware that her cells were being used in this way until the 1970s, when they were told by chance. Scientists had in fact, as is standard ethical practice, tried to sever Henrietta’s identity from the cells at least publicly – medical students and scientists report being told by professors that the cells had originated with a white woman named Helen Lane. Nonetheless, scientists did, apparently, occasionally seek out Henrietta’s family members to ask for more tissue samples. Because of the family’s general circumstances and lack of education it was often quite difficult for them to understand why it was that these samples were wanted and they grew suspicious of scientists and journalists who visited them over the years, wanting something from them. Some family members, apparently, even had difficulty understanding the concept of a cell, and what kind of information might be contained within them. Skloot said that for example, Henrietta’s younger daughter, Deborah, only 2 when her mother died, had once asked researchers if, by studying Henrietta’s cells, they could tell what her mother’s favourite colour was, or whether or not she liked to dance.

The Lackses have never sued anyone, partly because of their suspicion of outsiders – apparently at least one ambulance chaser con artist has been around them – and partly because it’s not clear that anyone, at any point, did anything illegal at the time.

There’s so much to get into in this story. The intersection of race, class, and gender, into a perfect storm of powerlessness – because, although Skloot was pretty emphatic about giving the benefit of the doubt to scientists, it is unimaginable that this story could be the same had this been some white, wealthy Baltimore woman in whom these cells were discovered. The fact that legally, no one “owns” their own medical waste – and that in the end very few people, and apparently not even the Lackses, want this research to stop. The need for consent to be truly informed – in that fine print shouldn’t be the end-all and be-all of the obligation of scientists to make sure that people understand what is happening to them. (Skloot noted that every person she’s ever talked to who had their cells harvested without their consent, and later tried to take legal action, have always said, “If they had just asked me, I would have said yes.”)

But what struck me most was the fact that in a country with a more functional social safety net – universal health care, social assistance, half-decent public schools – the disparities between the Lackses’s situation, and the incredible wealth generated by the medical knowledge it occasioned, wouldn’t be so stark. They would have actively benefited from this research just like everyone else. Everyone at the talk last night seemed outraged that the Lacks family had little legal recourse – but the truth is, in complicated, qualified cases like this one, the courts make for extremely poor substitutes for social safety nets. Litigation is long, and expensive, and often fruitless, and in the end, even the injection of cash one gets at the end is small comfort for the years of waiting. In my opinion, anyway, there’s no substitute for the knowledge that at the end of the day, if something bad happens to you, you will be, at least materially speaking, okay.  But maybe that’s just me being Canadian again.

Anyway, buy the book. I’m going to, this afternoon. Part of the proceeds go to a foundation established by Skloot for the Lackses, so don’t be shy about buying it in hardcover.

Not only is there Betty Beauty, to keep your pubes colorful (they even have “bridal blue” dye, in case your bush isn’t old, new or borrowed), there’s now Muff-So-Soft conditioner to make your bush soft and femme–the way a woman should be! Thanks to Harpyness reader Alana R. for the link—I had seen a FAILblog-linked post on Jezebel with a picture of Muff-So-Soft, but wasn’t aware that it was actually available for purchase.

Alana commented: “Obviously this is the usual bullshit being marketed to make us insecure about things we shouldn’t be insecure about. And for the record, nearly every man I’ve ever been with needs Muff-So-Soft WAY more than I do.”

True dat. But I doubt the Cosmetic Industrial Complex has plans for a sweetly scented conditioner to tame the wiry man-bush.

It’s also worth noting that at $12 for a 2 oz. bottle, Muff-So-Soft costs three times as much per ounce as my favorite ultra-rich Aveda conditioner. So if you rock a lush lady-garden–or want to silken up your dude’s–why bother with Muff-So-Soft at all?

The original condoms were packaged in a black wrapper, with the letters “NYC CONDOM” in brightly colored bubbles that resembled our subway line logos.  You can see that here.  But after three years, the city Department of Health has decided to rebrand their product with a new wrapper.  And the winner is…Kinda weird.   It’s based on the “power on” button familiar from computers and other electronic devices, but of course it also evokes penetrative intercourse.

I like that it’s not strictly gendered, and could reference more than just PIV sex, since condom usage is important for more than just pregnancy prevention.

But I’m not sure I like it.    Power on?  Get it on?  Put it on?  Sex = computers?  Although really, my liking  it doesn’t matter, since my condom usage is almost nil.

But maybe yours isn’t. What do you think?  Effective?  Clever?   And most importantly, will dudes pick them up–and use them?

‘I admit I’ve been fortunate. I’m not at that place yet, age-wise, and maybe when I am I’ll feel that way. But I think, “Get over it! Don’t be bitter and complainy! Figure out something else to do with your life.” It sucks that it’s sexist, and it sucks that it’s not often the case for men, but you don’t have to sit on the couch and be angry that you’re not getting roles.

“Bitter” is a favorite put-down for Drew. Elsewhere in the interview, she observes “I just find bitter people really un-fun, you know.” Got that? Women who protest ageism and objectification in Hollywood are just “bitter”, “complainy” and need to “get over it.” It’s the trifecta of chauvinist dismissal! Thanks, Drew!

In a Jezebel comment thread about the interview, a commenter observed: “I feel about the word “bitter” much the same way I feel about the world “nag.” Another chimed in: Yes, and “shrill”. Not my favorite words.

Sing it, sisters! After reading the Rupert Myers op-ed yesterday, I’ll add: “indignant” to the list, as in “indignant feminists.” It’s such a drag when people—read: women—are indignant, bitter, shrill or nagging! Why can’t we just shut up and accept the way things are?

Any loaded words/phrases you bitter harpies would like to be shrill, indignant or complainy about? Nag away in the comments….

Chickens are beautiful, until you have to raise them. Via UGArdner @ Flickr

Okay, so my critique here is likely as shallow and bad as the thing I’m critiquing, but this fucking article from the NYT is bugging the shit out of me for myriad reasons.

First of all:  “femivore” means “one who or that which eats women,” not “women who raise chickens,” or “women who are producing rather than buying their food.”

Second of all:  Dear Peggy Orenstein, Your four friends in Berkeley /= a trend.  And your friends in Berkeley /= the face of the new homesteaders,which I would argue is an actual movement, albeit a necessarily delocalized one.

Third of all:  Orenstein doesn’t seem to know if she envies or dismisses her friends who raise chickens, and it results in a mess of a article.  Oh no, my hastily prepared whole wheat quesadillas!  But chicken coops are an (ungilded) cage!  Omnivore’s dilemma!  Feminist dilemma!

Fourth of all:  Orenstein could have written an interesting piece about “Radical Homemakers,” in a larger economic context (like: raising chickens is difficult work that for most people will be a net loss), or in a back-lash-y context (like: here’s a “new” way that a certain class of women are being pressured to perform a certain model of domesticity), or in a social history context, given that raising chickens to produce sufficient amounts of food for the family and a little extra money–you’ve heard the term “egg money” to refer to a housewife’s little private stash?–has traditionally been seen as an appropriate type of work for women.  But no.

Fifth of all:  Raising chickens is difficult and rather nasty work.  Take it from a midwesterner.  It ain’t all easter baskets and bucolic splendor, people.  “Chicken shit” is an insult for a very good reason.

Sixth of all:  FEMIVORE IS NOT A WORD.

To be clear, I’m not insulting farmers or homesteaders, cause that is serious, difficult work that–wow, like a lot of women’s work!–is not very well remunerated or recognized.  I’m insulted by Orenstein’s piece, which is treating a (usually) politically motivated choice by people today as an idealized hobby of the uber-privileged.  Marie Antoinette liked to play at being a shepherdess, too, you know.

I’ve been cackling all morning like the witch I am over this interview with Nicholas Sparks in USAToday?  It starts off amazing:

Nicholas Sparks has no love for people who call his stories “romances.”The mega-best-selling author of The Notebook, A Walk to Remember, Nights in Rodanthe, Dear John and Message in a Bottle stands in the aisle of Book Soup, literally and figuratively defending his turf.

“If you look for me, I’m in the fiction section. Romance has its own section,” he says toward the end of a long conversation. Sunshine streams in from Sunset Boulevard. He’s smiling. Hard.

“I don’t write romance novels.” His preferred terminology: “Love stories — it’s a very different genre. I would be rejected if I submitted any of my novels as romance novels.”

It only gets better.  The man is a parody of himself.  Enjoy!

The same weekend, the Guardian ran an op-ed by Rupert Myers—obnoxiously titled “Take Me, Take My Name”—in which a twentysomething English barrister Mansplains to us the whys and hows of women and name-changing. While I found his twentysomething lawyer tone predictably pompous, many of his observations aren’t far off the mark. Problem is, for a lawyer, Rupert’s surprisingly obtuse about why women are still changing their names (hint: it’s still spelled P-A-T-R-I-A-R-C-H-Y), and doesn’t want to do any real analysis of what he’s mansplaining (shocking, right?)

There’s nothing wrong with a man saying that his wife should adopt his surname when they get married. While this is quite standard practice in Britain, the history of surnames is one of paternalism, discrimination, and the handling of women in a manner akin to property. Perhaps because of this, indignant feminist friends have recently forced me to defend my expressed preference for patrilinealism.

Ooh, those feminists! Always getting indignant over something! Honestly, Rupert, if the long ugly history of women being treated like chattel doesn’t make you indignant, there’s not much hope for you. But now that you’re forced–forced!–to defend your viewpoint, let’s have at it!

While it’s irrefutable that two people in a marriage are equal, they are still, typically, predisposed to have different priorities. As Germaine Greer wrote last week, “every new generation of women struggles to define itself … There is no need for today’s women to march to a 40-year-old feminist drum.”

If, as Greer writes, change is a feminist issue, then it is also a masculist one. Men have typically displayed a preference for women taking their surname. While in theory the choice between the male and female surname is an equal one, the distribution of preferences is uneven. This may be based on characteristics that are intrinsically masculine flaws – pride, territorialism, a desire for family, even jealousy or possessiveness – but these traits are widespread, and to a great extent they may always be with us.

Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean anyone has to like, encourage or unquestioningly submit to those traits.

There lies the justification for the practice: all other things being equal, and the alternative considered, masculists want this more than feminists don’t.

Uh, no. I know you think that’s a good soundbite, Rupert, and I applaud your deft shifting of the blame onto women–we just don’t have the willpower!--but it’s not quuuuuiiiitttteee that simple. Here’s why: even when feminists want something–and want it really, really badly–overturning the status quo requires a hell of a lot more effort on the part of women than complacently maintaining the status quo requires from men. This has been true for every single “women’s issue” from suffrage to equal pay to reproductive rights. It’s not a question of women’s not wanting it; it’s a question of wanting it AND overcoming all the cultural and bureaucratic hurdles, and doing that in addition to tackling the many, many other pressing issues facing women–like reproductive rights and pay equity–which might seem like a more important investment of our time and effort.

Even among women, I think it’s easy to oversimplify the name-change decision and see it as a”feminist vs. anti-feminist” dichotomy. In pratice, it’s not; some feminists take their husband’s names, some anti-feminists keep their maiden names. For some women, taking their husband’s name is not a huge deal–after all, we all make bargains with the Patriarchy and this one can seem relatively harmless. Plus, many married women like having one common family name, and want to have the same last name as their children (like my own feminist mother). Others might be happy to discard the name of their birth fathers or families, for a variety of reasons. Myers notes that:

The choice is whether to identify with our family of origin, or the family we are beginning. That choice should equally be faced by men. (ed: it’s unclear if by “equally faced” he means he thinks men should also change their names, or if they should merely participate in a conversation about it). Straightforwardly, my bias is for the new family, the identification between adults and the children they raise being perhaps the most crucial element to this, as well as the collection of these people within the label of the family name.

Of course, while Patriarchy is everywhere, not all cultures require women to completely give up their name and not pass it on to their children. In Hispanic culture, for instance, children have both their parent’s surnames (e.g. Juana Garcia Sanchez is the daughter of Mr. Garcia and Ms. Sanchez) and a woman only adds her husband’s name to her own, linked by an unfortunately possessive “de” (e.g. Ms. Sanchez would be known after her marriage as Ms. Sanchez de Garcia). And there are governments that require women to keep their birth name regardless of marital status, as in Quebec (thanks to PSoul for explaining that phenomenon). I’m not aware of any societies where husbands traditionally take their wives’ names, though.

Personally, my name will be exactly the same on my death certificate as it is on my birth certificate, no matter how many times I might marry or how many children I might have. I come from a blended family where my immediate relatives have a variety of names, so I don’t buy into “we all need to share a name!” school of thought. Nor do I feel that women need to change anything in their public personas simply because they are married–it’s really no one’s business whether I have a husband or not; my marital status shouldn’t change how people relate to me. I also just find the custom too ickily chauvinist for my comfort. I don’t judge women who want to do it, though. I just think they should be aware of the tradition’s patriarchal origins and respectful of why other women choose to reject it. And needless to say, men should be equally aware and respectful. Rupert’s not quite there, yet.

According to the woman’s story, the assailant had tried to dance with her but she declined. A short while later, he followed her into the bathroom and beat her. On Friday, police arrested a suspect who had been seen leaving the bar in surveillance video. He was charged with assault and attempted rape after implicating himself. I am so relieved they caught him.

This story is newsworthy enough to a feminist audience: Women risk violence when they reject men. Most times we just get “You’re ugly anyway!” or “Fat bitch!” but in extreme cases, men do things like this or worse. But what made me write about the incident is one extremely frustrating reaction I’ve read in comments sections: Get a gun! (Or some variation on that).

I’ve carry pepper spray, which I’ve written about before. But I’m under no illusion that it will protect me against any and all forms of violence. It could come in handy if I were to catch someone trying to gain entry into my apartment, or if I were to witness someone attacking another person nearby. But in the case of a surprise attack, I don’t think I’d be able to find it, unlock it and aim it at the person.

Like some “rape prevention tips” aimed at women, “Get a gun!” makes women responsible for men’s violence against them. Beaten within an inch of your life? Tsk tsk, should have had a gun. How could a gun have helped that woman in New York? I can just see her, sitting on the pot with a pistol in her lap; out on the dance floor with the loaded gun in one hand. Or are people assuming she’d be able to say, “Hey could you hold on a sec; I’ve got to get something out of my purse” as the guy’s pummeling her? It’s unrealistic and it’s offensive. Guns are not the answer to the problem of violence against women.

I guess what we’re hoping here is that this chat will raise some discussion about how and why making an assault even semi-public is so fraught with complications. After all, any discussion gets us closer to a solution.

*NOTE: Trigger warning for assault survivors. Although we don’t get graphic, we do each tell the general story about what happened to us.

Queen_George: When I was 22, fresh out of college, I moved from my family’s home in the DEEP South to Los Angeles. It was the first time I’d been that far away from my (fairly) protective parents. I loved it! And I took to it fairly quickly. I made great friends, and I was building a pretty solid life out there. I got my M.A. degree and was searching for jobs. And then, when I was 26, things kind of fell apart. I was date raped by a guy I knew through some of my academic connections. He was a colleague, essentially. I tried for a long time to convince myself that I was fine, that I’d get through it. And I was terrified of telling my family… but not for the reasons that you usually hear. Most of the time when girls are afraid to tell their parents, it’s because they’re worried about shaming or blaming…

ImTheMarigold: I didn’t want to tell either, but for the usual stuff…

Queen_George: And I can completely understand the usual reasons. There are still PLENTY of friends of mine who don’t know, because of the usual reasons. Even my roommate at the time said she had trouble getting over her idea that “rape” = “guy in the bushes with a knife.” In my case, though, with my family, it was because I was afraid that my extremely protective parents would blame themselves, somehow. And that’s what got me to thinking about this topic.

It was probably about two months before I told them. I was trying really hard to keep it together, but one day I was riding the bus to work and I looked down at myself and realized my whole body was shaking. People on the bus were staring at me. And when we got to my stop, I realized I couldn’t get off the bus. I just sat there and rode the whole route, all the way back to my apartment. And I realized that for weeks I’d been having this overwhelming feeling that I wasn’t safe ANYWHERE. When the phone rang at work (I was a marketing assistant, so lots of phone calls), I’d jump 50 feet in the air. I couldn’t handle it anymore. So I called my mom and told her what happened, and told her I needed to come home. Right away.

Did you eventually tell your parents?

ImTheMarigold: My mom first, after I moved home for 6 months from college – allegedly to intern but really to get away. I told my dad once I ended up in the psych ward for a week because I was going to kill myself.

Queen_George: I’m so sorry. It’s amazing how powerful that urge to keep it inside can be. And the idea that “I can handle it. I don’t need help.” Or that you HAVE to handle it without help, because you have no other choice.

ImTheMarigold: [And sometimes people's reactions make you wish you'd kept it inside.] I remember when I was in the hospital and my parents went out to dinner with my former roommate to talk to her about this, and they told her why I was there and her words were “I didn’t know that was still bothering her.” Like, WHAT? For me, when you tell, it’s like giving a piece of yourself away. And you can’t get it back. So if you make a mistake in judgment with that person, they walk away with that part of you forever.

Queen_George: That’s a great way of putting it. When it happens, it’s such a life-changing experience, no matter how you handle it. My mom immediately said, without question, “I’m coming to get you. I’ll drive the car so we can pack all your stuff. I can be there in three days.” She was VERY good about it, way better than I expected. She didn’t blame herself at all, or me, even though she’s the one that I had expected to be self-blaming – like she never should’ve “let me” go away. It turned out that my dad was the one who had trouble. At first, when they came out to California to get me, he was great. He didn’t really address it much directly, but he was a huge help with the moving, and he made me laugh the way he’s always been good at doing. One day after I was home, though, I came into the kitchen and he just started yelling at me. It was about something totally inconsequential – leaving out some dirty dishes or something. A thing that never would’ve bothered him before. My mom said he was just in a mood, but that night he came and knocked on the door to my room and told me how sorry he was. He said, “I’ve just realized… I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know what to say to you. I can’t make this better. And I don’t know what to do.”

ImTheMarigold: God, is it the worst for you with dad? It is for me. Even now, as I struggle with stuff, every time he sees me he hugs me and his eyes tear up.

Queen_George: Definitely. I have a hard time keeping him in the loop, actually. Even though I know he wants to help… I just can’t handle the fact that I know he sees me as a sort of “marked” person now.

ImTheMarigold: My mom is the one that handles the business when I fall apart; my dad just sits in the background and says he loves me and wishes he knew what to do. I know how much it kills him. That is why I never wanted to tell him. I know something inside him broke when he found out. My mom is just a fortress of strength; if she hurts, I don’t know it. She keeps me as a priority and I’m guessing she just lets it out when she’s alone or at home with my dad.

Queen_George: It’s so interesting to find out that things were the same for you. Because that really reinforces for me the question that always lingers in my head: How are we ever supposed to make progress for rape survivors if the BAD guys are the rapists and the GOOD guys (like our dads) are so overcome by the actual fact of rape – by the reality of it – that they fall apart around it. That’s the thing for me: I realized that my mom, as a woman, seems to have this inherent awareness that rape is something real and tangible that happens to people. But my dad (and my brother, who is 6 years my junior) seemed to be so shocked by the fact that this was something real that happens to actual people. I don’t know what to do about that. And it makes me think we need a lot more survivors who are willing to speak out… but then again, should it really have to be our responsibility to tell Teh Menz: “Hey, are you aware that this happens? And it doesn’t just happen to women you’ve never met. It happens to your daughters, your wives, your friends, your sisters. It happens to actual, living breathing women – not just abstractions.”

ImTheMarigold: Exactly! I think some of it is the image of the stranger in the bushes, and some of it is their inability to recognize us as sexual people. Little sisters, daughters, moms – those people don’t have sex. Honestly, to this day, I have no idea if my sister knows. I never told her and I can’t remember if I gave my parents the OK to tell her. So all the ensuing problems I’ve had get more complicated by that. Do I tell her I’m just ’sick” when my parents need to drive from NY to DC again because I lost it?

Queen_George: You know, I think in some ways that’s what’s so hard for people like my dad: What they want is for it to be just erased somehow. And you just can’t erase it. It’s always there, and I think sometimes it’s even harder for THEM to accommodate that than it is for me. Like, “I didn’t bring this thing in the house. Who dragged this dirt in?”

ImTheMarigold: And the person you were before is just gone. They can’t accept that you aren’t who they used to know although you still look exactly the same. Like a Cylon version of your old self. Has your family ever lied to other people on your behalf about what happened to you, why you moved back or anything else that might generate questions?

Queen_George: Oh definitely. Almost nobody knows why I came back. Which is sometimes hard because I think a lot of my family members read it as “Maximum FAIL”, like I just couldn’t handle being an adult or out on my own or something. And that makes me angry. But at the same time, I know I don’t have to justify myself to them… so it’s weird.

ImTheMarigold: My parents never told my grandparents. The hospital time, when I have anxiety attacks and they have to come stay with me, I’m just “sick.”

Queen_George: Yeah, I’m “sick” a lot too, or “out of town.”

ImTheMarigold: Makes you feel like a liar.

Queen_George: Right. Even though we don’t OWE anybody the truth. Communication surrounding assault is ALWAYS fraught: you’re damned if you tell, damned if you don’t.

ImTheMarigold: There are always consequences, and you get burned no matter what you do.

Queen_George: Which seems so unfair – it’s another one of those situations where survivors are punished just by virtue of being survivors; being outright honest and having that honesty accepted is so rarely an option; you either become marked or a liar by default.

So I have a question for you about communication. You mentioned a boyfriend. How much do you tell him, and how does he handle it? (I ask because I had one who basically did not handle it at all, and I’m still trying to get a grasp on how to Talk to Dudes or Ladies I’m Dating about the subject).

ImTheMarigold: He knows pretty much everything. If I remember correctly, I told him the whole story the same night we had our first kiss. We met about 1.5 years after the assault, about 6 months after I got out of the hospital. We haven’t ever really talked about what he thinks about it or how he feels about it.

Queen_George: But he lets you talk about it if you need to?

ImTheMarigold: He does, though I really don’t do it very often. It’s weird, but he is almost the last person I’d want to talk about it with.

Queen_George: It’s definitely awkward talking to the person you’re in a relationship with about it. I had that experience too, although it sounds like your guy has been much better about it than my ex.

But yeah, I always felt weird talking to him about it – as though I was putting extra burden on him or asking too much

ImTheMarigold: That, and exposing something really raw and personal. Especially since it could totally change how they see you.

Queen_George: Right. Because you know it’s already kind of changed how you see yourself.

ImTheMarigold: Even though it might help them understand more about the ways you act and communicate in your relationship. Another risk.

Queen_George: That was sort of the problem I had – the way it changed my behavior. My ex and I started dating about 5 months after my assault (probably too soon, I now tell myself). The first night we kissed I told him – much like you did. And he was very understanding, listened to my story and told me he would always be willing to listen if I needed to talk. I was so overcome with the fact that he didn’t shame me or change his view of me. But as we started dating, he had a LOT of trouble understanding that certain actions were just going to be triggers for me. It’s sort of hard to explain. But basically, ironically, he decided to treat me as though nothing had ever happened – which might’ve been what I thought I wanted, but which turned out to be a very bad thing. Because if I wasn’t in the mood or something one night, he’d push a bit. And that was very triggering. It made me sad and angry and frustrated, and I didn’t understand why HE didn’t understand… I don’t know…

ImTheMarigold: Either not wanting to acknowledge your experience or feeling like they are being forced to change who they are…

Queen_George: Right. I mean, he’s probably not a very good example in that he turned out to be not a very sensitive dude in general.

So what I guess we’ve realized here is that it’s hard to talk to ANYONE about this, except others with the same experience.

You know how there’s a lot of conversation in feminism about how a marginalised person IS NOT RESPONSIBLE for teaching or educating the privileged about their experiences? I wish I could get myself to remember that the same could be true for assault victims/survivors. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to people. If I find certain things triggering, or if there are times when I have a panic attack or I just need to cry, I shouldn’t be required to explain or excuse myself. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like it’s up to us to educate the whole damn world.

ImTheMarigold: And each person’s experience isn’t representative of survivors as a whole.

Queen_George: Definitely. Like once I was talking to this other girl about her experience, and she kept reminding me over and over that “I said no. I said no.” And we ended up arguing about how even if someone doesn’t outright SAY “no,” that doesn’t mean their experience was any less valid. So we ended up arguing with each other rather than offering the support we so desperately needed.

ImTheMarigold: “Saying no” gets us wrapped up in the legal mumbo jumbo, when at the end of the day all that matters is what we feel happened. And if we feel it was rape, it was. Law be damned.

The law is the last place anyone should look to for vaildation.

Queen_George: Right. So we only have the option of validating each other – which means we really need to listen to one another’s voices.

ImTheMarigold: Which can be hard, only because we’ve struggled to be heard so long that we can shout at each other, without meaning to. And that is something feminism knows something about.

Queen_George: And because patriarchy sort of pits us against each other. It tells us that some of our experiences are more valid than others. If it weren’t for all the shamers out there, I doubt that girl and I ever would have argued, so I think a lot of this really does come back to communication. It’s hard to carve out a space for yourself to tell a story like this.

ImTheMarigold: At the end of the day, it isn’t a story that wants to be heard. It isn’t being told for the benefit of the audience, rather the storyteller. And what is the point of hearing a story if you aren’t getting something out of it yourself?

Queen_George: Oh! That’s a perfect way to put it – that it “isn’t a story that wants to be heard.” I think that brings us around full circle to where we started – with the idea that the story is basically an impossible one to tell. I think we’re made to believe very often that our personal experiences are not valid unless they provide someone else with entertainment or, like you said, some kind of lesson or something.

ImTheMarigold: I just want to be heard.

Queen_George: Me too. I want to be given my chance to tell it, and I often feel like I don’t even get that.

Photo by Jane Hahn/Getty Images.

For your weekend reading pleasure, I’m sharing this amazing, inspirational long feature from the Washington Post Magazine. “All The King’s Men” is the story of Peggielene Bartels, a Washington-area secretary who was recently crowned Nana Amuah Afenyi VI, hereditary tribal king of Otuam, Ghana, after the death of her uncle, the previous king.

There’s so much awesomeness in this woman and her story, I’m not even going to try to summarize, but I promise, it’ll make you stand up and cheer. (Also, make sure to catch the slideshow that accompanies the article).