The Panda Won't Stop Screaming I covet your skull.

paradiscacorbasi:

healywu:

I have read this sentiment put more eloquently, but I am going to try to repackage here nonetheless because it keeps coming up in my life and I have only recently articulated it adequately in my own head.

This post is about privilege, specifically male privilege. The heart of the matter is when you don’t believe us when we tell you about our experience.

Recently my (white, male, cis-everything, liberal, sweet, caring) friend came up to me from behind and put his hands around my neck.

I turn to him and say Do not do that. You cannot do that. That scares me and is not appropriate.

He looks mad and offended.

I say What? That is how your actions made me feel.

He says Well I did not intend it to be mean or scary. I was being silly. You can’t be offended because my intention was good.

I say Your intention in this case is not important. My feelings were hurt and I felt violated. Respect me when I tell you that.

He says that my reaction and his intention matter equally and therefore I can’t be hurt.

No.

BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL YOU THAT YOUR ACTIONS MAKE ME FEEL THIS WAY.

I am sorry that it hurts you to think you could make a woman feel unsafe. You do not think you are one of ‘those guys’ - a guy who is shitty to women. But you are coming from the place of privilege which allows you to navigate this world without the default fears of my gender. You need to trust me when I tell you this has happened. You need to swallow that anger you feel for being informed that you are in the wrong and direct it towards this rape culture. You need to apologize and focus on adjusting your future behavior.

PLEASE TRUST US WHEN WE TELL YOU THESE THINGS.

Not just trust.  Respect.  

I had an acquaintance many years ago who did something similar, habitually knuckling me in the ribs from behind. Repeatedly. It was annoying and it hurt, and I told him to stop, but he kept doing it because he thought it was hilarious. The last time he did it, I spun around, brought my knee up hard, and stopped just short of his zipper — I am ashamed to say this was because I really didn’t want to touch him there, even with an acid-washed denim kneecap, and not out of any dislike of violence as a solution to this sort of problem. He shrieked and doubled over, then realized he wasn’t physically hurt.

“Stop. Doing. That,” I said.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

I’ve known him for going on 25 years. I do not trust him.

(Source: khealywu, via skyliting)