Gather 'round feminists, and let me tell you a little story…

A few years back some local NWF came over to my place and we had our first ever "Sign Drinking Wine Making Party." No that is not a typo. It's a hilarious joke, because that's how much wine we made, er, I mean drank. The poster board was plentiful and the glue sticks were a-flyin' ...then finally around 2am pretty much everyone passed out on my living room floor at which point I did the only thing a slightly tipsy, scissor wielding type-A nut job like myself could- I trashed all the hideous garbage signs my dear friends had crapped out and remade every single one of them into the glorious pieces of protest art they deserved to be.

Basically, I was the sign fairy that night. Minus the tutu and double the glitter.

Why was something so seemingly trivial that important to me? Well, because branding. Our movement is pretty freaking terrible at it. So terrible that every year we actually joke about which completely looney looking demonstrator will make the cover of the Dallas Morning News, and sadly we're almost always right. There are never very many of them, but what they lack in people they make up for in hot glue'd monstrosities which is like media crack. (Side note: Dude holding the baby doll nailed to the cross with the 10 inch long ketchup laden butcher knife sticking out of its chest… stop. please stop. just stop. I truly believe your heart is in the right place, but your body is not… it should never enter a Hobby Lobby. Like, ever.)

See, marches seldom save any babies, but they're still important. They're a way for us to show our community that when it comes to women in crisis and children who might lose their lives, we care. We care about our neighbors, the born and the preborn. We care about human rights for ALL human beings.

They're also a great chance for us to show our cities/towns/gypsy camps how NOT crazy most of us are. It's a chance for us to let people know that this is where the cool kids hang and they should come out of the shadows and be proud of their pro life beliefs as well. It's a chance to show people that we look, act, love, and laugh just like them. Oh, and that we watch The Simpson's too, because we're normal rational peeps with a sense of humor.

So this season amidst all of your Festivus parties, Kwanzaa gatherings, and Christmas shindigs please consider throwing your very own 'Sign Drinking Wine Making Party.' We always march around January 22nd, so you have plenty of time to get-a-Evitin'. It's a great chance to connect with other badass pro-lifers in your community… and maybe ever talk them outta doing that whole baby doll butcher knife piece they've been working on.

Let us know if you need help connecting with others in your area or finding out when your local march is happening. That's what we're here for! …well that, and to sneak into your house and remake your signs in the middle of the night, but only if they're super, super ug-o.

An Open Letter to Kim Kardashian

Dear Kim K., 

We get it. 

You have a big, beautiful dumper. 

You just had a baby and you don't feel very pretty or sexy anymore so you want every man (and even some women) in America to lust after you, because if they do you'll know you've still got it. I've been there. I mean, not the posing with my butt out for a NY mag part, but the unsexy part. 

Heck, I have four kids; I pretty much live on Planet Unsexy these days.

That wasn't always the case though. I was pretty cute and thin back in the day and that's dangerous. You get addicted to the compliments and the attention. You buy into the lie that your looks and sexuality are the sum of your worth. In your mind that becomes the best part of you. So after baby number one I lost my identity too, and I needed people to find me attractive so I could convince myself I still had value… that I was still lovable. Because of that I became easy, and I mean eeeeasy (wink, wink) prey for anyone willing to pay me a compliment. 

That's where you're at now. You're letting the world exploit you because you think their reaction will show you, and perhaps your husband, that you are still valuable and still worthy of love. 

But what you're going to find at the end of this media circus is that tomorrow you will still be a day older, and you will have a new perceived flaw: a new wrinkle, sag, or pound of fat. You will spend the rest of your life working tirelessly to prove your worth to people based on a body that is committed to betraying you. It will become your enemy, and you will grow to hate it. You will grow to hate yourself. No amount of ogling will suffice because you won't be the woman you were last year, last month, last selfie. 

You will be like a hamster constantly running on a wheel trying to catch the approval of others. And that's sad, because you will never be able to stop and enjoy your life. You will always be trying so. damn. hard. to earn love.

And even still, one day there will be another Kim K., a brighter younger fresher version of you, whose nude beauty will fill our news feeds, magazines, and movies. You will flinch at the thought of your husband leering at her, so you will run faster, work harder, sacrifice more. Until finally you won't be able to any longer. You will be so exhausted from trying that you will have to stop... at which point you'll realize all you gave up in this futile pursuit. The pieces of your dignity you sold for Hollywood's fleeting infatuation. The hours of laughter with good friends that were traded for hours at the gym. The minutes spent editing pictures to give to people who don't matter instead of using that time to teach your daughter that her beauty doesn't need to be filtered or fixed. Because you are feeding a monster whose appetite will not be satiated with you, it will one day try to feast on her as well. 

This is a cycle we must break now, for women everywhere and for all future generations of women to come. 

But how?

Well, that's the hard part. We have to go against everything we know and learn to love ourselves. We must learn to value that which doesn't fade but becomes more beautiful over time: our character, our kindness, and our compassion for others. 

Kim K., your mother didn't protect you from this world. She sold you to it. Please, I'm begging you, rip off the price tag and refuse to be bought any longer. You are worth so much more than the price of a magazine. We all are. And so are our daughters. 

Be Bold

The very thing that MADE Wendy Davis is what ultimately sunk Wendy Davis: Anarchy

I voted. I called my elected officials. I wrote my senator. And when I was in Austin, I would pop into the capital and give all of the people whom I put into office (and even those I didn't) a piece of my mind. I followed the process, because I believe in the process.

What Wendy David did last summer, however, makes me wonder how anyone would be shortsighted enough to vote for her as a high ranking elected official.

I was in Austin when HB 2 took place and I watched it all go down.

My voice, my VOTE, which as a female was so heartily won, was silenced the second Wendy put up two fingers signaling the gallery to go crazy. The law became lawless and a small portion of Texas (we can only assume they were actually from here) loved it. They hooted and hollered and my voice was no longer relevant. The 19th amendment suddenly meant nothing... oh, but wait, according to Davis it was "for women," I forgot.

Davis tried it the legal way, she filibustered for 11 hours, but in the 11th hour her true colors came out. She didn't care about the government she was appointed to uphold. She cared about her own special interests which made my vote and voice in the political system null and void. Yet she's the one who gets to claim the title of "feminist." She's the savior of women and all those who disagree with her have betrayed their gender? 

After witnessing Wendy's actions last summer I was astonished at the number of constituents still willing to place their faith in her knowing at any moment she might override their will for her own. The very passion they admired would be the thing that could ultimately burn them if they disagreed with her on an issue.

Likewise, the very chaos she depended on last year was the same unorganized anarchy that did not turn out for her Tuesday. Lesson learned, Wendy? Stop blaming the women of Texas for your loss and realize it was because you silenced so many of them that you were ultimately defeated.

Harassment for Dummies: Why Cat Calling is Intimidating to Women

It's not always bad or scary, but it is always an unknown. Because we don't know who you are.

We know 99% of those incarcerated for rape are male, while only 1% are female. 

We know that.

We don't know you. We don't know if you're some nice guy trying to talk to us about our day, or some strange predator sizing up our body and figuring out how to fit it into a trash bag. Because, yeah, we watch Law and Order SVU, homie.  

We know on the news each night we see women with faces just like ours, crying in hospital rooms, talking about the randos on the street who's "attention" suddenly became an attack.

 

Men, you don't get that, and you probably never will. 

Because when you try to put yourself in our shoes you're picturing women (whom you've likely never felt physically overpowered by) innocently hitting on you, and let's be honest, that's flattering. You know at the end of the interaction, odds are, it's up to you whether you stay and engage or you go. You don't feel the need to politely make an excuse to get away as not to upset the person giving you said attention. You say no, and she hears no. Most women are not use to that. We're used to turning a guy down and him drunkenly persisting. We're use to being hunted... because that's what men, from a very young age are told to do. They strive for success... they take what they want... they're taught to be assertive and not give up. All good in the corporate world, but all very dangerous at a bar... during a party... on the street.

So to help you men understand, let's take women out of it altogether. 

Imagine you're on an island, and it's nothing but beefed up gay dudes. Everywhere you go they're making comments about your body, telling you to smile, walking beside you for 5 minutes at a time. Demanding you say "hello" to them or they call you a "frigid bitch." Because you are not beefed up, you're the weaker of the species on this island. You're expected to be more amicable. You should be delighted that these big, powerful men are taking interest in you. And if you're not? Well, who do you think you are? What a spoiled little twat. bitch. pussy. All female related insults. Interesting, huh?

Now let's say every night on the 'Gay Island News' you hear about another slim dude, just like you, being attacked by one of these beefcakes. Suddenly those little "compliments" don't seem so harmless anymore, do they? Suddenly they're not so innocent, and you don't feel nearly as safe.

Welcome to our world. I'm in no way saying all dudes are like this, but I am saying most of you have no effing clue what you're talking about when you comment on videos about cat calling. And rather then railing against the women trying to explain it to you, how about you thank your lucky stars that you don't get it. Learn empathy.

We, as females, don't have the luxury of figuring out which of you are predators and which of you are nice guys. So how about this. In the future, if you're a nice guy you come up to us and say the following...

"Hi, my name is ....." 

Odds are we'll have our guard up for a bit, but we'll also know a little bit about you. And we want to believe that separates you from the guy who just will hiss at us, grab at us, and ultimately treat us as nothing more than a piece of meat there to pleasure them either visually or physically, because you will have given us something. Your name. Next step, make it an honorable one. 

Now go forth and...

Don't tell me to stop talking about dudes sucking. Tell dudes to stop sucking.

Last week while sitting in an airport restaurant during a layover, a heavily intoxicated man approached me. He'd just gotten off a flight and was headed to another terminal when he spotted me sitting at the end of the bar by myself (near the entrance), and made a B-line straight toward me.

A whole incident ensued and afterwards I posted about it on our Facebook page. What made this all status update-worthy, however, was not the man's ultimate arrest for public intoxication (because, yes, he was that bad, which is why I left out some of the more obnoxious details about our time together), but how another woman who I can only assume had been traveling on the same flight as this man, never left me alone with him. I wanted to celebrate this awesome act of sisterhood. She stood back as not to escalate the situation, but kept eye contact with me the entire time letting me know something could potentially happen because of the aggressive state he was in.

And it did.

He had cozied up across the bar from me, loudly demanding I tell him he was cuter than my husband (who, yes, I felt the need to name drop early on, because sadly a woman not being interested is not enough these days... she has to be someone else's property in order to turn down a drunk dude's advances *eye roll*). Then finally at one point, only about a minute and a half into him sitting there, he placed both of his hands on my head. I did not feel in any immediate danger, but I know a big part of that was because I wasn't alone. I knew in that moment he had crossed a line and that the other woman was likely alerting airport security.

They came over and this gentleman was given multiple chances by security to go get a cup of coffee before getting on to his next flight, but he refused and just became more belligerent.

The most disturbing part of all of this though? Not the weird drunk airport arrest I watched go down, but rather the comments left on this very positive Facebook post I had written thanking that other woman for having my back.

I was accused of misandry, and overreacting because after all "nothing had happened"…yet. There was a lot of "well, if the tables had been turned and it was a woman who was the aggressor…"

So, fine internet commenter "Nickolai," let's turn the tables.

If you were suddenly approached by a woman twice your size, who was drunk, who had honed in on YOU, and there was no way of talking her out of the plans she had to take you home tonight, you might begin to feel one iota of what many of us feel all too often. But odds are you've never been in that situation. You've likely never felt physically intimidated by a woman, because if you had (as some men have), you would be more empathetic to what I went through and less accusatory of me for using this experience to- what did you say again? -oh yeah: drive up clicks-throughs. Because the ads. They're just everywhere on this blog, right? Remind me to explain to you how the Internet works in a future post.

I'm going to be very blunt. If you were looking for a politically correct "we're all equal" feminist page, you've come to the wrong place. I don't reside in that la-la land. I live in reality. I live in a world where women are overwhelmingly the victims of sexual assault, not men. I live in a world where I don't have the luxury of boycotting date-rape-detecting nail polish, because I have had GHB slipped into my drink before. I live in a world where I am not equally as strong as a 250 lb. drunk dude, and I won't act like I am. I live in a world where having another woman watch out for me, and sadly needing other women to watch out for me, is a just part of everyday life. It shouldn't have to be like this, but it is. And until dudes change that, I will not apologize for "continuing the narrative" that men are usually the aggressors in situations like this. Because it wasn't some second-hand anecdote; it was something that really happen to me last week. If you're pissed at anyone, be pissed at the dudes who are creating this stereotype, not the women who are merely acknowledging what's happening and speaking out against it.

I'm sorry, but watch the video below, and then be "man enough" to admit shit like this does. not. happen. to. you.

Tips for Offering Women Non-Violent Alternatives at the Clinic

From SAFL-

Sometimes, it's the little things that count.

That's no less true for reaching a women-in-crisis, especially in a critical moment in which she's considering abortion.

This week, we thought we'd share with you a few little tidbits to keep with you on the sidewalk in order to make yourself more approachable to an abortion-bound woman...

• Be a person, not a protester -- This is the main thing we want you to remember: be someone she feels she can talk to.  Be a "safe person."  Think about it this way -- if you were caught in a desperate situation, who would you want to talk to?  The person yelling at you?  Or possibly, a person who looks like you and simply says,"Good morning ...how can we help you?"  It's really something to think about.

• Avoid "ganging up" on someone -- Even the best sidewalk counselors sometimes miss the opportunity to look around them and say, would this setting be intimidating to a woman-in-crisis?  She's not going to want to talk about her business with a huge group of people around, so try to separate yourself from the group a bit and create a more personal, confidential space for you to converse with someone and share vital information.  A car naturally creates this, but think about the setting for someone who might approach you on foot.

• Don't be a billboard -- Peaceful messages are fine, but avoiding looking like a pin board for a bunch of angry messages meant for the culture.  Remember: your audience is the heart of a woman-in-crisis; your main goal at an abortion center is to reach her.  You want to be a safe, approachable person.  You don't want a woman to dismiss an opportunity to talk to you because you are "preaching at" them through your clothes.  Be someone who looks professional and approachable.

• Project your voice, but don't yell -- I still remember the day I called out to a woman across the parking lot of an abortion facility -- I naturally had to project my voice, otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to hear me.  Unfortunately, she went in anyway.  However, she came out about 30 minutes later and came over to talk to me at the fence.  She said, "I decided to come talk to you because you weren't yelling at me."  I marveled at that because I naturally had to call out to her in order to reach her.  Again, there is a difference: if I had yelled out, "Hey, you, what do you think you're doing?!" or related, we would've never had the conversation.  But because I said, "Hi, I'm Lauren!  We'd like you to know that we have real help available ...You can come talk to me at anytime..." and projected my voice in a friendly manner, that made all the difference.

Read the full list of tips here!

Be Warned: AHA are Master Baiters

Humility… not really their strong suit.

Last night, I dreamt there were two giant snakes in my house. I walked in and they slithered towards me. I ran and opened the door, jumped out of the way, and they slithered out. I slammed the door and locked it, only to walk down my hall and see my 2-year-old son screaming. He'd opened the bathroom door and the snakes were sitting there in the bathtub, hissing and snapping at him. I ran down the hall, but not before one of them got his foot. The snake was trying to swallow my family. I grabbed my son and pulled his foot out of the snakes mouth then grabbed it by the head. The other one slithered off, but the one I had by the mouth was whipping me with his body trying to shake himself free. I smashed his head between my hands even harder attempting to suffocate him. For a few seconds I thought I was successful as he was quiet and motionless, but as soon as I let up any of my grip he would start whipping around again, trying to open his mouth. I carried the snake out of the house and into the garage. I was looking for a shovel so I could stop him once and for all, but I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally I found some twine, and thought at the very least I could tie his mouth shut so he couldn't hurt my family anymore. I tied the twine around his mouth and dropped the snake to the floor, but he still kept slithering toward my family, trying to wrap himself around my kids. Suddenly, in the corner, a shovel appeared. I grabbed it, returned to the snake, lifted the shovel high above my head… then I woke up.

Now I'm sure some of you are thinking, "Wow, what type of weird burrito did you eat before bed?" But, actually this dream makes perfect sense given the last few days I've had.

AHA, or Abolish Human Abortion, has almost always rubbed me the wrong way. I think I liked them for maybe a week because they have some pretty sweet graphics, but by day 8 of following them I saw who they really were. They are the exact thing we're fighting here at New Wave Feminists, in my opinion. We don't hate post-abortive women. We love them more because we know what they've been through. We don't hate abortion-minded girls. We love them more, because we know their need is great. Where we are trying to create a culture of compassion and empathy for these women, AHA shouts bible verses because these "murderers" (in their words) need to be confronted with AHA's twisted idea of truth in order to reap forgiveness and find salvation. According to them we're truly the ones who hate these women since we're offering them help and resources and "not calling out their sin." AHA is not pro-life, which they desperately want prolifers to know (although those outside of the anti-abortion world will never know the difference). They are Christian fundamentalists, no better than Westboro Baptist Church, who simply chose abortion as their avenue of reaching the masses, rather than dead soldiers. 

For a while they were a fleeting annoyance to me, slithering out of my house whenever they entered my mind. Then last week they came to a Dallas suburb, and were demonstrating in front of a high school, with their giant graphic images and aggressive banter. I'd finally had enough. 

See, I don't live in a bubble like they do, only venturing out of it to shout down "the world" with "truth" and condemnation. I truly am IN the world, and surround myself with people who are fervently pro-choice. That's where I feel called to be right now. I want them to see that we're not all nuts… actually most of us aren't. I want the world to see the pro-life movement's heart for women and desire to serve those in need. I want us to build relationships- true, authentic relationships- so that if any of these friends ever find themselves dealing with an unplanned pregnancy they will come to one of us because they know we are safe. And so far we've been pretty successful at getting that message out. Which is why it's so hard to know many of the people in Dallas, who I am in community with, and perhaps the only pro-life voice they might be hearing, were seeing these extremists outside of a local school and lumping us all together. They were hurting the people I feel called to love and I felt compelled to speak out about that.

I made a comment on Facebook about the whole thing, sharing an email that the school district had sent warning parents about these "sanctity of life" (ugh) demonstrators. I did this hoping that if anyone in our area saw AHA then came to my page they would know I adamantly disagree with this group. The goal was to separate myself, New Wave Feminists, and all other peaceful, compassionate, outreach based organizations from this band of psychos. And I did use the word "douchebag," because well, that's how I talk. 

Click here to see the full thread.

Of course, AHA eventually saw this post and started spamming the thread, proving they are exactly what I claimed; a good friend once wisely said, "When someone's digging a hole for themselves, for goodness sakes don't help them. Get out of the way and let them keep going." So I did.

My phone was blowing up, but I chose not to click through to Facebook. I'd already gone back and forth with a few of the AHA'ers and it proved to be utterly pointless. I would glance over every once in a while and saw a lot of "So Destiny, I take your silence to mean…" type comments. However, I did my best to ignore them and went about my day getting stuff done as my 2-year-old son, who was sniffly and not feeling so well, followed me around whimpering. Rather than turning to him and holding him while he whined about his puny feels, I began to feel agitated since my thoughts were consumed with what "I would say" if I did take their bait. And that's when I stopped, turned to my son and pulled his foot out of their mouth. He didn't deserve this. He shouldn't have to share his mom with some internet lunatics when he wasn't feeling well. I sat and held him and tried to shoo the snakes out of my head. 

A few hours later I picked up my phone and perused through a couple of the comments, but I put it back down because I didn't want to merely respond in anger. While some might think that's what my original post was, I can tell you that was not the intent of my heart. That came from a place of righteous indignation and I still stand by every word I wrote. At some point we must stand up and condemn that which is actively destroying lives and pushing people away. Trying to get most of these AHA members to understand the concept of restraint is pretty futile though, so eventually I just turned my phone off. They can take my "silence" as whatever they like.

They went on to post screen shots of my Facebook, first on T. Russell Hunter's page, then on the official AHA Facebook. Funny thing is, even while being called a "baby killer" and "Pharisee" by complete strangers, I appreciated them spreading the word that I 100% disagree with them. I want that shouted from the rooftops!

Sadly, this is what I see happening a lot with many of these extremist groups who want to hang on that cross so dang hard that they nail their own hands and feet up there; they cry 'persecution' anytime anyone disagrees with their tactics; they think they're so punk rock because of how much they are hated, when in reality the most punk rock thing you can do when standing outside of a place that ends lives, is not scream. Screaming and yelling makes the "protester" feel good, but it does nothing for the woman scared out of her mind and feeling trapped, entering those doors because she feels like she has no other option. Sometimes the most extreme thing you can do is show restraint. Rage is easy. Condemnation and judgement come naturally to us. Denying one's self, one's own emotions… that is divine. That is love.

So please, fellow activist, I beg you not to get sucked into AHA's trap, whether by dabbling in their crazy or engaging them online. They won't be happy until they've swallowed us whole. They are relentless, and every minute we spend arguing with one of them, is a minute we don't spend nurturing the relationships that actually matter… the ones that might truly save lives one day. 

Sadly, I had to learn this lesson the hard way. 

Powerful Words

Bodily Autonomy, you say?

I agree with 100% of everything Emma Watson said.

I hate inequality. It’s the absolute worst.

And ending gender inequality will take all of us. Equal rights for women requires male participation too, because males are an intricate part of our civilized society as well, and for women to become equal we must include those whom we deserve to coexist alongside.

Emma Watson says this all quite beautifully. And then she adds the following…

“I think it’s right that I should be paid the same as my male counterparts… I think it's right that I should be able to make decisions about my own body…”

At which point she has to stop because uproarious applause breaks out.

She had made numerous powerful points, with not even a single audible clap, and then came a line which we all know is synonymous for “abortion rights" and the crowd is in a tizzy.

And here's the deal, on the surface I absolutely, whole-heartedly agree with what she is saying. Our bodies are ours. You can no more tell me I have to get a tattoo across my forehead than you can demand I bear children I choose not to conceive.

…However, if that child is already in existence, well, then suddenly we have another body, another set of autonomous rights, to consider. That’s what everyone keeps wanting to forget. I'm fairly certain this fact will receive no applause from the UN.

Yet, if we hop back over to the issue of equality for a second, we’ll find it’s spelled out quite clearly there. If a man murders a pregnant woman, it’s a double homicide. If a male abuses his pregnant girlfriend and kills the baby, it’s murder. If a guy secretly drugs his partner with an abortifacient causing her to miscarry, it’s a crime.

When a woman ends the life of an unborn child however, it’s merely a "choice."

So much for equality, Emma.

My Abortion Story

Originally posted on Stand True.

In a half-asleep daze, with my abdomen in knots, I stumbled to the bathroom, fell to my knees, and began throwing up into the toilet. After a few heaves jolted me fully awake, I sensed someone standing behind me. Before I could turn my head to confirm my suspicions, my mother’s delicate hands swept past my cheeks and lightly pulled my hair out of my face.

In that moment I felt like a little girl again – cared for, watched over.

No matter how bad things were growing up, my mother always gave me as much unconditional love as any two parents combined. Oftentimes, our unshakeable familial love was all we had.

She helped me up to the sink. As I began rinsing my mouth, she eyed my midsection as if expecting to see something. I rolled my eyes and assured her it was just a bug, probably something I ate the night before. “I am not pregnant!” I said.

In my mind though, I knew she wasn’t the only one I was trying to convince. I was only 16, and my on-again, off-again boyfriend had started using drugs again – this time more than just recreationally. As I stared into the sink, my hand nervously jostling the toothbrush around my mouth, my mother disappeared.

I wanted nothing more than to shut down my brain and push these anxieties as far out of my mind as possible. I climbed back into the reassuring comfort of my warm bed. As my eyes grew heavy, the hum of my fan lulled me back to sleep.

What must have been hours later, since the sun was shining through my window, my mother walked back into my room and gently placed her hand on my arm. “I need you to get up and pee,” she said. What? When did I suddenly become a toddler again, in need of reminders for this sort of thing? That’s when I rubbed my eyes open and noticed the Dixie cup and tiny white stick resting in the palm of her hand.

Immediately, my heart plunged down to the base of my spine. No! Was this really happening? I reassured myself that there was nothing to discover, and so with the last sliver of blissful ignorance I would ever have, I scooped up the cup and did as I was told.

When I returned from the bathroom, I handed over the paper cup and I found my way back to the warmth of my bed. I could only see the lower half of my mother’s body as she leaned over the sink. And just as my head rediscovered the pillow I saw her rock back on her heels, letting out a slow and steady sigh. Surely, she couldn’t tell anything yet.

“How long do those things normally take?” I asked.

“Three and a half minutes,” she replied.

But before I could relish my relief, she finished, “But it only took 30 seconds.”

And then, my world imploded.

As I wailed into my mother’s embrace, all I wanted was to rip my stomach out of my body, or better yet leave my body behind all together, for someone else to deal with.

How could I have done this? I knew better. I knew better.

I knew the damage being a single teenage mother would do to a child, because I was that child. My mother was only 19 when she became pregnant with me. She was a sophomore at the University of Texas with such a bright future ahead of her when I came along. Because of me, our lives were racked with hardships. Was I prepared to put an innocent child through that, seeing as I was little more than a child myself?

The following days were a blur, and so many choices lay ahead of me. Being single and 16, it seemed only logical to have an abortion – at least to other people. Every time someone suggested it, though, I would flinch. Didn’t they realize all of the reasons they were giving that I should abort were the very same reasons my mother should have had an abortion? Didn’t they realize every time they said I’d be better off without this baby, they were saying the world would be better off without me?

I was spared from death and, while life hadn’t always been perfect, it was much better than the alternative. Who was I to take the life of this child, brought into the world by no fault of his own? I felt like I would have been a coward to make such a choice. And if my mother had taught me anything, it was how to be strong. No matter how many times life kicked us down, we got right back up.

This was no different. I wasn’t going to let the world tell me how weak I was, how this precious child was going to ruin me, how miserable we would be because of our circumstances. I knew since my mother was strong enough to choose me, I was strong enough to choose him.

Thirteen years later I look back on that time and I see how much I’ve grown, how much this child has changed me for the better. It’s hard to remember that day’s fear and the panic now. The only time I feel those emotions is when I realize how easy it would have been to buy into the lie the doubters told me and lost my child forever.

I panic when I imagine my life without this kid.

I feel scared for women going through crisis pregnancies with less support than I had. My heart breaks for the girls who choose abortion because, rather than believing they are strong enough, they’re told, “You can’t.”

If you want to know where the “stigma” surrounding abortion comes from, it is from pregnant women being told they are not good enough, strong enough, or woman enough to be a mother. It’s not the pressure society puts on women to carry children in less than desirable circumstances; it’s the fact that they know when they make the choice to abort they are accepting defeat. They are denying the biological awesomeness their bodies are capable of, and the inherent strength they have to turn “a mistake” into the best thing that will ever happen to them.

So, until you find a way to rid us of the sense of our own feminine strength, you will never be able to remove the stigma of abortion, which denies it.

*Oh, and as you can probably see, not all abortion stories have to end in abortion, some can end like this…

New Nail Polish Detects Date Rape Drug; Infuriates Feminists

I hate victim-blaming. It's one of the few things in the world I could say truly disgusts me, and not be speaking hyperbolically. There is no excuse -- ever -- for sexual assault in any form. There is no excuse for rape. However, even with all that said… I can't say there's any reason to ignore our need to protect ourselves.
If we admit we live in a rape culture, why are my fellow feminists in uproar at the thought that women should be taught and equipped to protect themselves from something so heinous?
Yes, teach men not to rape, definitely. I could talk about it until I ran out of breath. But to neglect to equip a woman to defend herself from assault in what we already acknowledge is a rape culture isn't just ignorant, it's batshit insane. It's like saying "We live in a burglary culture. No one should ever lock their doors."
We shouldn't have to protect ourselves from sexual assault. But if we can and need to we should be able to if we so choose. Affecting the culture at large does not and should not require an absolute abandonment of practicality and common sense on an individual basis.
Let's hope for and work towards a future in which those who would be victims don't have to worry, and those who would be aggressors would never think to commit violent acts. Let's stop blaming the victim, and stop placing fault on someone who didn't consent to what unfolded. In the meantime, why are we shaming dudes for making nail polish? For trying to help? For actually doing something to make rape less likely to occur, for someone, somewhere?
Complain all you want, I guess. But I, for one, won't be turning in my stun gun so I can jump on this "Screw protecting ourselves!" weird feminist band wagon.

*************************************************************************************

Post by Tori Long

Booty Positivity? Sorry Guys, But We're Popping The Myth That This Has Anything To Do With You...

A new pop star has been born, America! Meghan Trainor, a 20-year-old from Massachusetts, possesses the #2 spot on iTunes for her single “All About That Bass”. For the record, I love this song. It’s catchy and hilarious and I totally relate to it. But I don’t think it should be heralded as the big “F-You!” to the man (or men in general) that it has been. Although I don’t think this is her intention, it’s easy for girls to interpret this song to mean that bigger is better. Yes, some guys will naturally be more attracted to heavier girls, but I don’t think we’re doing women any favors by saying their figure is less “womanly” than another’s. For years I’ve had to deal with insinuations (or outright observations) that I’m a little bigger than what’s ideal. I love that some areas of our culture are getting over the fact that not every girls is going to be perfectly trim, but that is not an excuse to tell thinner girls that they’re not good enough either! Let’s just agree that women come in all shapes and sizes, okay? Some girls have flat butts, some have big boobs, some (like me) have hardcore muffin tops. And that’s okay, because WHO CARES? “Yeah, my mama she told me don't worry about your size She says, "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night."” Oooh! So it’s okay for my jeans to be size 16 because guys like big butts? Um, no. Since when is the fact that guys will like to cuddle with you a reason to finally be happy in your own skin? “Since always”, you say? I say it’s time we start busting that myth. I like my body. Not because I have “all the right junk in all the right places”, but because this is how my body is and until I decide to change it, I might as well be happy with it! If you think your body is acceptable because some guys prefer whatever size you are, if you wear sweatpants out because some guys might find it sexy, if you skip makeup because guys find the “natural” look alluring...you’re missing the point. It’s just another way of basing your appearance off what guys think is hot. Sometimes I wear outfits that, I admit, could be more flattering. And guess what? I like it anyway! And sometimes that’s good enough. It makes me a little nervous to say that because we live in such a “Me” culture. But I feel like this is one of the times when girls seem to forget that they should think of how they feel first. It hurts my heart that girls do their hair this way or buy that swimsuit so they can draw the attention of guys and feel desired. When a good guy likes you, it wont just be because you have a great figure. A woman is so much more than just a body. Let’s start acting like it.

*************************************************************************************

Post by Elizabeth May Vos