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When your daughter’s school is anti-woman

I don’t do a lot of blogging.  I prefer to lose myself in creativity but something recently pissed me off and I wanted to vent about it.  It’s going to make me jump off of a cliff of ranting but it’s frustrating and doesn’t seem to be changing, despite the bullhorn placed to its mouth in today’s society.  I’m afraid it’s just going to fade away.

My 11 year old daughter told me on the drive home from school last week that a boy called her a Stupid Ass Bitch in class.  She said it without any emotion and it didn’t seem to upset her but it made me mad.  I asked why he did that.

She said, “because I wouldn’t let him use my glue stick.”

I seethed during the ten minute drive home from school.  I ran things through my head about just letting it go because it didn’t bother her, but the more I thought about it the more angry it made me.
She wouldn’t let him use her glue stick and that’s the natural response he gave?  It was extreme and vulgar considering it was a boy calling a girl these names.  The word bitch has much worse connotations when directed at women, so there is no “it’s awful when anyone gets called a bad name” nonsense.

I asked my daughter if she told anyone and she said she did, she had told the teacher but the teacher was busy and didn’t hear it.  The only answer my daughter was given was “okay, sit down,” and a passing “I don’t want to hear any cussing” to the class in general.  This boy’s verbal assault was not addressed individually.

So I decided to email the teacher and I wasn’t satisfied with the response.  I didn’t tell her the exact words that were used, simply “some vulgar language was directed at my daughter.”
The teacher’s first line was apologetic in favor of the boy.  She said that the girls were rude to him but she would investigate further (this despite her saying she didn’t hear what was going on).   At that point I decided to let her know what words were used and was further let down by her follow up response.

My daughter is a rule follower.  She is pushed to tears if we’re going to be late for school because she doesn’t like the attention of walking in after the bell rings.  She finished homework well before its due.  I’ve asked her numerous times to skip half days because no work gets done anyway and she refuses to stay home.  The information that the teacher gave in response to my email and her follow up goes against everything I know of my daughter.

The teacher said that the boy had his feelings hurt by nearby girls not wanting him to use the glue stick.  The boy then lashed out with “you stupid…” but managed to hold back the nasty words.  Yet, according to the teacher, the “bolder and more outspoken girls” filled in the blanks and spread rumors of what he said.  They then went onto harass the boy at lunchtime so he had to go to the Vice Principal.
The teacher followed this asinine description of events by informing us that she told the boy to ask other peers or her for supplies if needs them in the future to avoid these kind of triggers.

I was floored by her response to this situation.  I was not expecting them to string this boy up on the flagpole by his underwear, but she completely ignored any wrong doing of his and took his words as to how the events occurred!  She called my daughter a liar by saying he never said mean words.  (We confirmed that she heard the “stupid ass bitch” part first hand and she said yes, she heard the words out of his mouth).

The way she categorized the other girls as bolder and outspoken made it come off as a negative trait.  That these were mean girls picking on this poor, little boy.  That they were a scourge of the playground and the boy needed to be coddled.  How can a woman in today’s society be taking this position?  Outspoken behavior should be encouraged when constructive.  Boldness should be cheered.

I didn’t respond to that email.  There was no point in doing so.  I wanted to.  I wanted to email the principal and ask if this is how the school sees the female population.  I wanted to ask why the boys take on events were accepted as what actually happened.  I wanted to cause a fuss and make problems about this incident.
The reason I didn’t was my daughter.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t want the attention and I didn’t want to cause problems for her with a month left in school.

Which is a shame because I wanted to be her guardian.  I wanted to defend her and if she said this boy spoke those words then she isn’t lying.  I wanted the school to know that this kind of bullshit is unacceptable.  I feel like I should have kept pressing and made a bigger deal so the next time a boy verbally assaults a girl a proper punishment will be applied.  I wanted this boy to know that he can’t get away with talking to girls like this because he’ll grow up and it’ll be acceptable if that’s his initial response to adversity with women, to call them a nasty name.

I’m glad my daughter wasn’t bothered by it because, unfortunately, I’m sure it won’t be the last time some neanderthal male calls her something awful.  I just hope she knows that I will always be there to defend her when she needs it.

Buy me a drink?

“So, what is it?  What’s got you staring at me across the room without a word to say until now?”

Oona took a sip from her drink as she waited for the man’s answer.

They had been bantering for a short while.  She approached him and asked if he minded some company.  He didn’t object.  Men usually don’t when she approaches them, although it is a rare occurrence.

The conversation was odd to her.  There were no pleasantries or introductions.  No attempt was made inquiring on her availability or current activities, but at the same time he was pleasant and inviting.  He seemed to enjoy her company and was quick with a response to anything she said.

“I’d venture to guess you’re used to men staring at you,” he smiled and hovered his drink below his  lips.

“I am,” she smiled with her lips on her glass.

“And often, I’m sure, they’ve lost to ability to form words.”

Oona raised her glass and nodded slightly before resting it on the table.

“But I don’t care about them.  I want to know about you.  The man who has yet to introduce himself.  The man who doesn’t make eye contact the entire time, but not because he’s shy but because he’s somewhat over confident.  The man who has yet to offer me another drink, a night cap in his room or breakfast the next morning.  I want to know something about this man, in particular.”

He nodded and smiled as he rested his drink next to hers, “and if he answers that you’ll have to tell him what brought you over here to sit next to that man and carry on a conversation with him for this long.  He doesn’t think that happens often with you.”

“He’s right, it doesn’t.  And she might answer that, if his answer is intriguing enough.”

The man smiled and dipped his head slightly in a soft laugh to himself.  He shifted his weight and position so it was facing her in an engaging way.  His left knee bent and resting on the couch with his left arm leaning over the back of it.

“This man.  Me.  I’ve been here a few nights this week actually.  The first night was Tuesday.  On Tuesday I sat over there,” he pointed to a table in the corner of the lounge against the wall.

“And while I was sitting over there on Tuesday around 10, I noticed a beautiful woman come in and sit down at the bar.  She ordered a drink and had conversations with the men sitting next to her and the bartender.  She had a roaring laugh.  She was captivating and I tried my hardest to keep my eyes from burning a hole in her dress.”

He picked up his drink and threw back a quick gulp of whatever liquid remained in it and rested the glass on his knee.

“On Wednesday night I took up the same seat at the same table.  Partially out of my penchant for not wanting to be noticed, and partially out of superstition.”

“Superstition for what?”  Oona asked.

“Whether she would come back or not the next night.”

“Did she,” she smiled at him and leaned forward slightly as if he were telling her a secret.

“She did.  She absolutely did.  My budding obsession wasn’t helped any either.  That night she was wearing a red dress that was made from material which was close relatives of some of my favorite lingerie pieces.  She looked as if she had come back from a fancy art gala or awards ceremony.  Only there was a problem,” he lowered his head and leaned into her lean and played on her whisper receiving position.

“What was it?”  Her voice played along, almost by accident.

“She didn’t sit at the bar.  I couldn’t see her after she walked in.  Being a man who doesn’t like commotion and being noticed I thought that getting up to move to have better viewing of this goddess of a woman would be too much, so I accepted my fate and took the glance that I was given and turned in early that night.”

“Poor you.  That must have devastated you, not being able to ogle her all night again,” Oona’s voice was mockingly sympathetic.

“I was crushed,” he nodded back, “but I survived.  Although it took an extra day to feed the survival.  My Thursday did not lend itself to ogling and I was unable to look upon this beauty for the third day in the row.  I had to wait until Friday to see her again and she did not disappoint.”

“Was she dressed in a royal gown, tiara while brandishing a scepter this time?”  Oona tilted her head in a crook while staring into his eyes.

“No, no.  She in a skirt, a blouse and some elegant heels with her hair done in a tight and professional manner.  A business woman, a princess and bawdy laughter.  She was a dream.  I took this couch on Friday night, the one we’re sitting on right now.  It has a better view of the entire lounge and, if she were so concerned, it seems a bit more inviting than a table in the corner.”

“True.  Pretty girls aren’t drawn to dark tables in corners with men they’ve never met.”

“Her demeanor was more reserved last night, Friday night.  She seemed tired.  Perhaps from the day.  Maybe from the week.  Her smile was still bright but she was subdued.”

“Poor soul.”

“She seemed to fair well.”

“No, I meant you,” Oona placed her hand on his knee, “you waited an entire extra night to see her and she wasn’t putting on her show for you.  It must have been tragically disappointing.”

The man smiled at her and bit his lower lip.  He shook his head and then looked Oona in the eyes.

“I survived.”

“Again?”

He nodded, laughing softly to himself once more, “again.”

She stared at him, waiting for the story to finish.

“So, she never joined me.  I don’t believe we exchanged a glance at all really.  She left early that night and I did shortly after her.  Which brings us to tonight.”

“Which brings us to tonight,” she repeated.

“What time is it?”

Oona pulled her phone from her purse to check, “nearly midnight.”

The man pointed at the bar, “do you see the woman with the blonde hair in the black dress?”

Oona turned to look at the bar and noticed a beautiful woman sitting at the bar carrying on a conversation with two men, one on either side of her.

“She came in at nearly the same time you did.  I watched you both sit down and order drinks.  I watched you both get comfortable and carry on with whatever purposes you have being here.  I watched you both, carefully, for about fifteen minutes when my initial intention was to stare at this blonde woman at the bar for the entirety of my night.  As time went on my attention turned more and more to you.  Your dark hair and your green dress.  Your blue eyes and your red lips.”

He paused and stared at her for a moment.  He was waiting for a reaction.  She didn’t want to give him one because if she spoke she might have cracked.

“Mmhmm?”  This was all she could muster, with a slight head nod.

“I’m not comparing you two woman.  You’re both beautiful.  Stunning in your own way.  I don’t find her any less enthralling tonight then I did the previous nights.  But you, you make me want to let you notice me.”

Oona cleared her throat, “and then what?”

“I’d ask you to be my muse.”

“What does that mean?”  She shook her head gently.

“To let me stare at you and your beauty.  To let me use the inspiration you stir in me to create my own beauty with words.  To embody every passionate, lust-filled, craving of your sexuality in each drop of ink I spill.  To immortalize you as desire.”

Oona didn’t know what to say.  She wasn’t sure how to respond to something so intense and personal.  All she could do was stare at him with her hand still on his knee and try to keep her lip from quivering.

“I’m sorry if that answer was a little forward.   I hope it was intriguing enough though,” he smiled again.

“Intriguing enough for what?”

“For you to tell me what brought you over here.”

“Oh,” she laughed a little to herself, “I was just hoping you would buy me a drink and I’d see where it went from there.”

“How’s it going then?”

“A little awkward now,” she gave a tight lipped grin while holding her empty glass.

“Is it?  Is that a no to my question then?”

“What question was that?”

“Would you be my muse?”

“What is it I have to do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he took her hand in his and stared in her eyes, “just be yourself and let me witness it.”

 

The Colosseum

They are gladiators.  They are warriors.
Men held in high regard.
And they fight on the floor of the Colosseum.

The raucous roar of the plebeians
fill their heart with pride.
So they can fight without fear in the Colosseum.

Battle ready.  Armor fixed.  Introduction echoes through
the audience and cameras show
how they fight on the floor of the Colosseum.

How violent the crash of weaponry and skill
leaving bodies beaten and broken
carted off the stage in the Colosseum.

One victor, one week, then again they arm themselves
To fight for fame and fortune
on the floor of the Colosseum.

Heroes don’t get hurt.  Heroes never die.
Mind, body and soul overcome
for glory, for camaraderie in the Colosseum.

When the fight is over and the cheers catch their breath
the gladiators prepare again
for their next time in the Colosseum.

Although some cannot separate real life from spectacle
adrenaline and testosterone still high
taken home from the Colosseum.

Violence carried out against those who cannot defend
Some beaten, some broken, some worse
and only silence in the Colosseum.

Transgressions committed of various degrees
brushed aside or looked away
as to not taint the image of the Colosseum.

These gladiators are gifted as we all can see
but without consequence or reflection
some will live their life as they do in the Colosseum.

We cheer these men who wear our colors
but we cannot dismiss bad deeds
just as we cannot dismiss the obligations held to the Colosseum.

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It’s Funny Sometimes

It’s funny when you don’t know what to do.  When you can’t be mad and don’t have enough yet to be sad but you know its probably coming, but you don’t even really have any right to be sad either.

Is it so bad to want to love someone without their permission?  To find someone that says something to you without words and tell them everything you’ve ever wanted to tell anyone.

To say, I love you.

To say, I need you.

To say, you make me feel like I’m the one who makes the stars shine so I can watch them sparkle in your eyes.

To say, you don’t know what you do to me.  There are only so many words that have been made and only so many places my hands can touch on your body for me to properly show you.  It will never be enough for me to explain the kind of life you breath into me each time I see you.

Is any of that so bad to have even if you didn’t ask for it?  Even if you think you didn’t want it and wished you could just be without it wouldn’t you think its not so bad if its just there for when you need it?

Why can’t a person love another person unabashedly, without fear or worry, without purpose or agenda.  Why can’t it just be a love of someone to give because you love them so much you’ll take whatever you can get and that will be enough?  Why can’t it be easy enough to simply love someone and have it accepted and enjoyed?

It’s funny when it hurts and it really shouldn’t.

It’s funny when you want to cry and you can’t.

It’s just funny sometimes the way things work.

Random: M4F – NSA, Mental Exercises Only

I’m looking for cute girls with words to spend.  Artistic girls with painted hearts wrapped in canvas and dipped in their favorite color.  The kind of girls who have opinions on beautiful things and find beauty in things people don’t generally have opinions on.

They can be from all walks of life, because what better way to find beauty than through the eyes of someone who’s seen it from another angle.  Some from the 20th floor and looking at the tree tops and roofs of buildings in a sprawling city.  Others from the streets looking up at architectural marvels, birds flying over head and if you squint just right you might see the sky.  There are others too, from the country in the silent hours at night or the quiet crisp of morning.  Different countries with different traditions and their own definitions of beauteous conditions.

Generally speaking, because we all are generally the same except for enough differences to make us generally not, I prefer the minds of women.  It could be for various reasons that you’re all probably correct on when assuming and others you aren’t that never entered your mind.  I just like the way women typically think more so then the way men typically do.  I find them more open to change and chance.  Compromise and open-mindedness.  Each is their own person and nobody is going to fit the t-shirt perfectly but the size chart is a thing for a reason.

Let’s spend time listing the best words to describe a sunset while watching the dawn.  We can sit at the toe-tickle of the beach’s edge and wonder what the water’s thinking.  I want to lay in the grass and stare at the sky while listening to the leaves rattle in the wind and make up stories with another mind that doesn’t stop.  I want to race to see who can run the longest.

On your mark.  Get set.  Go.

I’m Not A Real Man

Can a real man be poetic?  Is it possible for him to take his lusting wants and arrange them in such an order that it’s not his libido talking from his pelvic thrusts?
All men ever want to do is fuck, right?
A crass man is thought of as edgy.  His poetry like a blunt object smacking you in the face.

Stop thinking of that, pervert.  It’s not what I meant.

His vulgar nature praised for brilliance.  Using four letter words like $10 wine.  He doesn’t care if it’s fancy, it gets the god damn job done.  The buzz of his pen showing through the scribbles and disjointed analogies.  Even the tic marks crow for the cheap libations.
“Women love this shit,” they proclaim.

Is that right?  Do they?
Maybe.  Perhaps.  Some do.  Some even do all of the time.

But can that real man paint with his words and is it even possible?  Or is he simply a sculptor, chiseling away with his hammer?

I’m not a real man, if that’s the definition we’re going with.  I never want to be one either.  Their violence is bubbling under the surface and takes very little bring out.  Everything is about pain and dominance.  Squeezing to show control.  Respect.

I’m soft.  I’m sweet.  I’m a delicate flower petal that entices in the pollinator to take me with it.  You are the bee in search of something and my words are saccharine.

He tells you he wants to feel the way your cunt tightens when he fucks you on a Sunday morning.  I tell you about the magic in your eyes when I watch them open in the morning light.  I can detail the flutter and the following smile.  How I anticipate the kiss that soon comes after.  He wants to make the most of his morning wood.

The night before when we were wrapped in each others limbs and teaching the bed new ways of holding steady, all I could see was your face in the strip of moonlight leaking in through the window.  The transition of your smile from joyous to ecstasy was like that of a setting sun to a vibrant moon.  We moved together and our sounds complimented each other’s as soprano and bass.  Finally collapsing when the curtain fell, the applause was felt in tired lips on tired lips and drifting off towards pretzeled dreams.
He got off too last night, he remembers.  He knows you did too.  The way your screams ripped the paint off of the walls.  Murder scenes never looked so tidy.  Bones realigning after a hot mess of sweat and spit.  Falling next to you he whispers, “you can get a guy addicted to the way only you can make him cum.”

A real man wants you to know you look good and can get him off every time, like its a talent only you possess.  It’s all physical with a mental squeeze you crave.
I’d rather spend time on your nuanced expressions.  Your tiny creaks and moans and what causes them.  I want to see how loud they can get and where the lever is that makes your mouth drop open and your hips jerk into me.  I want to spend time getting to know the intricacies of you.

 

Toxic Masculinity

I’m not a real man.

I don’t know cars,
I don’t fix stuff,
or work with my hands,
and make my skin rough.

I don’t do manly things.

I’m not into NASCAR.
I’m not into beer.
I don’t make fun of girly things,
and call them all queer.

I don’t understand guy talk.

When they say things like, “hey bro,”
then make fun for a group laugh
like a pack of hyenas
all in backwards hats.

I’m not sure what’s up with violence.

I don’t get why they think guns are so cool,
and peace is a weakness.
Or why mixed martial arts is a thing,
while they beat each other senseless.

What I really don’t get is the way they treat women.

Like they’re property to own.
As if their bodies are strictly for fun,
and when a contradiction to that point comes up
then equality is done.

I’m not a real man.

I’ve never been that way,
and it wasn’t something I planned.
Everything they stand for is against what I believe.
Everything they believe isn’t for what I stand.

 

 

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I wasn’t going to add this but I thought I should just because a lot of people can’t separate “hey I like that!” from the idea that just because you fit a description doesn’t mean you are exactly what’s being described.  Just because someone likes MMA or NASCAR or whatever doesn’t mean they are a horrible person.  It doesn’t mean they are a part of toxic masculinity, just that generally a toxic male likes all of those things and follows all of those ideals.  So, yeah.  Don’t yell at me.

Women Wednesday

I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up because my memory is garbage but I thought I would like to dedicate an entire day to celebrating women in whatever way I can think of whenever I can think of it.  Of course most of my rambling writings are about women and me pining for them, but that’s different.  This isn’t going to be going on about lost love or potential romance but positively embracing a culture that includes women as equals and not merely sex objects and baby makers.

********

It’s funny how a male-centric society twists everything.  It really isn’t funny, it makes sense.  Most things that are female oriented are seen as less than or second rate.  Cute.  Quaint.

Women’s sports, for example.  Growing up in a sports-loving household we only really watched baseball and football.  Every sport has its own female offshoot that isn’t as popular for a myriad of reasons but nobody ever thinks as to why.  The main reason given is simply because men are better at sports then women.  It’s science, right?  Man is strong, woman is weak.  Grunt.

Perhaps it could be because society funnels millions upon millions of dollars into training these male athletes to perform at the top of their ability while women athletes get the bottom scrapes of the barrel.  Boys are shown from a young age that their heroes can be sports stars while women have had few athletes in the past to look up to, and those they did have either had to go through hell to get to where they were or were physical marvels that had a physique that not every girl could reach.

Men are just better at sports, right?  If this were true then offshoot leagues of baseball and football and basketball that start up and fail, or are highly diminished in quality of play, shouldn’t happen.  There should be an endless supply of amazing athletes to feed these leagues.  But that isn’t the case because what happens is the trove of dollars set aside to scout, train and develop these athletes is mainly spent on men and in some cases twice as much.

If the dollars were spent more equally by college sports and professional perhaps the quality of play that is seen as less than would be improved?  Or does it even need to be?

Think of the best tennis player you can think of right now.  My first thought always goes to Serena Williams.  She is incredible, to put it lightly.
I don’t watch soccer but I will never forget the 1999 FIFA Women’s Cup Final with Brandy Chastain’s winning kick.  Not because of her reaction afterwards but because of the intensity of the game and how much of an amazing match it was.  Outside of that I can’t recall a single soccer game aside from the one where the French player head butted the guy in the chest like a psychopath.

So, again, maybe it’s all just false beliefs we’re believing that we were told as children that women’s sports isn’t as good as men’s sports.  Maybe, with a little more support, they can be just as entertaining.  Perhaps not in the form of raw power across the board but as an equally entertaining event.

There are a lot of false or errant beliefs I was fed when I was younger.  Parents often end up doing that to their children.  Political views.  Religious views.  Societal views.  When we get old enough to ask questions a lot of the time we still accept some of what we were shown as being fact when we really don’t know.  During the civil rights movement people didn’t accept that non-whites and women shouldn’t have a voice even if they were told those lies as they were growing up.  We should continue to question our own lies, no matter how trivial seeming because they always lead deeper.

55 Fiction: Written Beauty

She’s a poem.  All women are poems.  Past, present and future.  Some rhyme and hold a direct structure and rhythm.  Others are as wild as their hair caught in the wind.   But they’re all beautiful in their own way.  A drop of water from a melting ice cube on a hot day.  Beautiful and irresistible.

 

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