Harvey Weinstein and the Imaginary Boyfriend
But it’s a losing game to compare women’s stories to one another, to listen only to the ones who endured the “worst” or most sensational trauma—that way of thinking leads to the culture of complicity and silence that protected Weinstein for years. Our stories don’t happen in a vacuum; they’re all deeply connected and propagated by the same sexist culture. We need to continue to share both our experiences and our survival tactics with each other. Which is to say that if anyone is in the market for a fake boyfriend, I know a guy.
Women are already trying desperately to keep our heads above water in workplaces that deny us sufficient credit, compensation and trust. Are we really supposed to keep three separate types of informal warning systems, tiered and coded according to the level of violation, just to make sure that the boundary-pushing jerks don’t get embarrassed because they’re so much better than men who have turned violent? Do you know how much more work women do in media to prove they belong there? Do you know how many names of women in media are splashed across the Internet with libelous, repugnant and public lies about them because they dared offend a man?
This makes for a false but often convincing narrative—you are prey only when you are not good enough, and so you must not have been good enough if you were prey
Women are not taught to do this. We are conditioned to ever prove ourselves, as if our value is contingent on our ability to meet the expectations of others. As if our worth is a tank forever draining that we must fill and fill. We complete tasks and in some half-buried way believe that if we don’t, we will be discredited. Sometimes, this is true. But here is a question: Do you want to be a reliable source of literary art (or whatever writing you do), or of prompt emails?
It is men’s privilege, in other words, not to have to know. For women, that knowledge, obtained via gossip or whisper networks, isn’t frivolous or titillating. It is a means of survival. Until men make it their duty to not just know, but to act upon that knowledge — publicly decrying and dismantling the hierarchies of power that shelter this sort of conduct — it will remain women’s burden to bear.
White nationalists generally don’t want to look like characters out of American History X anymore. Fashion choices at the convention ranged from Ruby Ridge to Mad Men, but most of the people there looked like you might run into them on Capitol Hill or in the U-District. That said, there is a type. According to my observations, the standard Seattle Nazi is a white male under 30 who either works in the tech industry or is going to school to work in the tech industry.
Once we understand the profound human and economic costs of loneliness, we must determine whose responsibility it is to address the problem. The government and health care system have important roles to play in helping us understand the impact of loneliness, identifying who is affected, and determining which interventions work. But to truly solve loneliness requires the engagement of institutions where people spend the bulk of their time: families, schools, social organizations, and the workplace. Companies in particular have the power to drive change at a societal level not only by strengthening connections among employees, partners, and clients but also by serving as an innovation hub that can inspire other organizations to address loneliness.
Heaven is a place where everyone gets your jokes. The group chat is a place where, if your jokes don't land, you have four people telling you how much you suck. I think the ideal group chat is a place where one can unabashedly be themselves. It's an ownership over our right to privacy and personal space — and certainly, POC are not afforded those rights equitably. But my group text is sacred because it's an extension of my family and myself.
The truth hurts white people. Colin Kaepernick has hurt white people, and that is why it’s convenient to banish him, because he holds America’s worst nightmare: the mirror. And while the genuine apologies from the most Black-Lives-Matter-sign-in-the-front-yard white person are endless, there is a real difference between guilt and understanding—understanding that nothing will change unless you and people like you fix the mess that you unfairly inherited, from which you so unfairly still benefit, right now.
It is utterly impossible to conjure a black facsimile of Donald Trump—to imagine Obama, say, implicating an opponent’s father in the assassination of an American president or comparing his physical endowment with that of another candidate and then successfully capturing the presidency. Trump, more than any other politician, understood the valence of the bloody heirloom and the great power in not being a nigger.
This interview with Jenny Zhang is everything
In Bennett's account, then, the "patriarchal equilibrium" is the continual social phenomenon of devaluing of women's work, and devaluing women in other ways, even as technology and conditions of life change. The mechanisms by which better jobs go to men vary case by case and era by era, but the outcome is consistent.
With the exception of traditionally black and multicultural fraternities and sororities—which, while not without their own flaws, often provide refuge for minority communities on majority white campuses—most Greek organizations simply aren't worth saving or fixing. We need groups on campus that help the students who actually require it; not those that uplift the already-privileged and endanger people.
One of the things I think is so hard about writing the complexity, is that so little is known about the reality of Asian Americans. There’s so little real discourse, and we kind of pop up in the smallest amount and it’s usually East Asians, usually used to validate some model minority myth and anti-blackness. And so there’s no room in that realm to talk about the reality.
“There was a point in time when I described working on diversity and inclusion in the tech industry as like being Sisyphus, pushing the rock up the hill over and over again,” says Baker. “Except instead of pushing a rock, you’re pushing a big vat of acid that spills on you at the end of every day. It’s really painful and very frustrating to have to keep fighting these same battles every day. It’s essentially gaslighting—people telling you that this isn’t really a thing; the tech industry is fine; it doesn’t need to be more diverse. … Sometimes I just want to be like, ‘I’m done.’ But I want this industry to be better for the people who come after me, so I keep going.”
Coding commitment to non-exploitative labor and locally sourced sustenance as a “luxury” is foul. The real luxury, of course, is not needing to give a shit about a stable physical environment, affordable access to real food, and improved working conditions because you yourself are financially insulated.
To what extent should a renter who fulfills the terms of his lease be shielded from the vagaries of real estate markets with their speculative booms and busts? More broadly, what kind of city do New Yorkers want to live in? What responsibility, if any, do we bear to make sure that our most besieged citizens are not pushed out by our current urban prosperity? These are critical questions that New York, and other cities profiting from a surge of private real estate capital, must answer.
Trump’s assertion is at odds with our reporting. In the shift to full-time immigration enforcement, Giblin and I found that the sheriff’s police work faltered across the board in its mission to protect the citizens of Maricopa County. Detectives shelved dozens of sex crime cases without investigating them. By Arpaio’s own admission, the number of uninvestigated sex crime cases eventually swelled to more than 400. Many of the victims were children.
There is violence brewing as I type these words, because someone will always want to be feared by those whom they want dead. There is violence brewing in a church, or in a field with a cross on fire, or in a boardroom, or in the basement of a nice home on a nice street where people wave at each other and make small talk about what the sky is up to. I say this to say that I watched a movie about real American violence and, while it's a period piece, it didn't feel like history to me. I suppose I should be used to that by now. Even when the statues fall, there is still that violence brewing somewhere—a basic and persistent part of America’s lineage.
Food isn’t the only thing that’s politics — look at anything closely enough, you’ll start seeing the levers and seams, and once you’ve adjusted your eyes to it, it never really leaves your field of vision. People are politics, for example, both the identities we carry and the ways we create space in our lives for the identities of others, or maybe refuse to create space.
In Charleston, I learned about what happens when whiteness goes antic and is removed from a sense of history. It creates tragedies where black grandchildren who have done everything right have to testify in court to the goodness of the character of their slain 87-year-old grandmother because some unfettered man has taken her life. But I also saw in those families that the ability to stay imaginative, to express grace, a refusal to become like them in the face of horror, is to forever be unbroken. It reminds us that we already know the way out of bondage and into freedom. This is how I will remember those left behind, not just in their grief, their mourning so deep and so profound, but also through their refusal to be vanquished. That even when denied justice for generations, in the face of persistent violence, we insist with a quiet knowing that we will prevail.
In the wake of my suit, I often heard people say that my case was a matter of “right issues, wrong plaintiff,” or that the reason I lost was because I wasn’t a “perfect victim.” I’ll grant that only someone a little bit masochistic would sign up for the onslaught of personal attacks that comes with a high-profile case, but I reject the argument that I wasn’t the right person to bring suit. I was one of the only people who had the resources and the position to do so. I believed I had an obligation to speak out about what I’d seen.
I have spent a lifetime confused about this—about how a person could feel drawn to someone, desire their otherness, yet still find genuine love and devotion buried within the fascination.
Poverty and homelessness are political creations. Their amelioration is within our grasp and budget. But those of us most likely to vote and contribute to political campaigns are least likely to support MID reform — either because it wouldn’t affect our lives or because it would, by asking us to take less so that millions of Americans could be given the opportunity to climb out of poverty. It’s just that we usually don’t dial our elected officials when our less-fortunate neighbors are hurting, because we are not.
Damore’s own attempt at this classic maneuver is shot through with a number of fallacies, the biggest of which is the structural fallacy of ignoring history while assuming that the burden of proof rests with diversity advocates to show that inequality is the result of discrimination rather than the inevitable consequence of biology. Women in the US have had the right to vote for less than a hundred years. There are some pretty good reasons why inequality persists in 2017 — big structural issues that are real and clearly linked with education, opportunity, and advancement. Why turn to bad biology when you can look at history?
Over the past several years, there have been many times I wished I’d stuck with that childhood dream. A 2012 market-research study estimated that 67 percent of American women wore a size 14-plus. The number has only grown, and the market for plus-size clothing is valued at $20.4 billion. Revenue in the category increased by 17 percent between 2013 and 2016 (compared with growth of just 7 percent in apparel overall). There is, to put it crudely, an insane amount of money just sitting on the table, and it seems, finally, that there are some savvy entrepreneurs out there ready to shrug off fashion’s inherent snobbery and claim a piece of it.
Asians are the loneliest Americans. The collective political consciousness of the ’80s has been replaced by the quiet, unaddressed isolation that comes with knowing that you can be born in this country, excel in its schools and find a comfortable place in its economy and still feel no stake in the national conversation. The current vision of solidarity among Asian-Americans is cartoonish and blurry and relegated to conversations at family picnics, in drunken exchanges over food that reminds everyone at the table of how their mom used to make it. Everything else is the confusion of never knowing what side to choose because choosing our own side has so rarely been an option. Asian pride is a laughable concept to most Americans. Racist incidents pass without prompting any real outcry, and claims of racism are quickly dismissed. A common past can be accessed only through dusty, dug-up things: the murder of Vincent Chin, Korematsu v. United States, the Bataan Death March and the illusion that we are going through all these things together. The Asian-American fraternity is not much more than a clumsy step toward finding an identity in a country where there are no more reference points for how we should act, how we should think about ourselves.
Jia Tolentino referencing Clickhole's garbage sons quiz is my favorite thing
The large-adult-son meme takes wing from the idea that men overcompensate when they are humiliated, and that a primary source of this humiliation is interdependence—sons act out when they are defined by their fathers, and fathers are disgraced by the oafish flailing of their sons.
There’s no prescriptive or proscriptive step-by-step rulebook to follow, nobody’s coming to take GIFs away. But no digital behavior exists in a deracialized vacuum. We all need to be cognizant of what we share, how we share, and to what extent that sharing dramatizes preexisting racial formulas inherited from “real life.” The Internet isn’t a fantasy — it’s real life.
Immigrants are expected, over an undefined period, to become like other Americans, a process metaphorically described as a melting pot. But what this means, in practice, remains unsettled. After all, Americans have always been a heterogeneous population — racially, religiously, regionally. By what criteria is an outsider judged to fit into such a diverse nation?
If you had been watching closely, you could see that the change had come slowly. ‘‘Dieting’’ was now considered tacky. It was anti-feminist. It was arcane. In the new millennium, all bodies should be accepted, and any inclination to change a body was proof of a lack of acceptance of it. ‘‘Weight loss’’ was a pursuit that had, somehow, landed on the wrong side of political correctness. People wanted nothing to do with it. Except that many of them did: They wanted to be thinner. They wanted to be not quite so fat. Not that there was anything wrong with being fat! They just wanted to call dieting something else entirely.
There are so many different types of inheritances; one I still hope my children can somehow sidestep is the void, the frustration of desperately searching for yourself, or people like you, in a cultural landscape that does not seem to be for you. And what does it say about you, about your worth and your importance and the possibilities open to you, if you can’t find yourself at all?
And since we can’t crack up, lose it, giggle, guffaw, snort, break into hysterics, snicker, chuckle or simply nod and smile on text, we’ve had to come up with a host of different ways to get across what we mean.
One document trains content reviewers on how to apply the company’s global hate speech algorithm. The slide identifies three groups: female drivers, black children and white men. It asks: Which group is protected from hate speech? The correct answer: white men.
How, in 2017, are we still in a world where presuming a black man innocent until proven guilty is the material of comic fantasy?
But in listening to Melodrama, I have come to think Lorde’s music provides just as vital a service for people older than her: It helps them reconnect with and draw from the emotional intensity of youth. It helps us get past 21, by reawakening the formative, operatic rush of all the nights that happened before it.