I’ve long been a fan of Ana Kasparian and The Young Turks. I find her honesty and intelligence incredibly inspiring. Even when we don’t always agree, it is very clear that she thinks through her position before she takes it, she educates herself with both information and empathy, and she doesn’t take anyone’s crap. Catching up on the news today, watching an interaction between her and Cenk Uygur (of whom I am also a fan, as the case may be) hit a chord with me. It was like watching myself get into all too many arguments with men.
Ana Kasparian and her rage at this story is all of us, feminists, all of us dealing with people who don’t understand the link between “locker room talk” and sexual assault, all of us being interrupted by loud, arrogant men who only seek to defend their right to objectify and degrade women, all of us trying to get people to understand that violence isn’t always physical, and that physical violence is almost never random – it is built up and justified by centuries worth of toxic attitudes, spread by the majority to keep the status quo.
Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s because their skirts were too short, or that they should tough up because this is the world they live in, that if you exist in the world as a woman, this is part of what you have to expect. Tell me that talking about women in this adjudicative way is not poisonous to the minds of men and women alike, the former as they learn – however implicitly – that this is okay, and likewise for the latter, who must submit to their bodies and lives being broken down into stats and specs so that some man can decide if she’s worthy. Tell me that that’s not how it is. Tell me I’m feminazi social justice warrior who is confusing society and that I need to get laid. Tell me I need to lose weight and shave my legs and wear makeup and straighten my hair and learn to cook. Tell me my experience doesn’t matter. Make my point.