Have no fear of perfection- you'll never reach it.
Last update
2020-09-26 00:01:47

    Just a few of the stories my great aunt told me about women in the 60s:

    1) A woman she worked with at the hospital who had a baby with one of the ambulance drivers. When work found out they fired her (he kept his job). She tried to self-abort with a knitting needle.

    2) The sister of one of her neighbours who wasn’t able to rent a room because she was a ‘fallen woman’.

    3) A girl who got sent to a convent house and scrubbed floors until the day she gave birth. Her baby was given up for adoption without her consent.

    4) Girls who had babies with priests.

    5) Women who were on their fifth, sixth, seventh child, who had been pregnant for the best part of a decade, begging for sterilisation because their husbands wouldn’t wear a condom.

    Banning abortion has never ever stopped it from happening. It’s just meant more stigma, more prejudice, more risks and more deaths.


    In 1962, my mother was going thru a divorce, got pregnant and knew this fact would be used to deny her divorce (they used to do that, in case you didn’t know).  

    My mother was given a “shot”; she lived 3 blocks from the doctor.   He never told her what it was, likely an “overdose” of progesterone, which is how they used to “induce menstruation” in a hurry (i.e. abortion off the books).  She was about 7-8 weeks by her estimation.  He said, GO STRAIGHT HOME, go to bed and stay there.  She walked fast, but nearly collapsed at the curb and my grandmother went out to guide her into the house.  She went to bed, stayed there and bled steadily and heavily for 3-4 days.  She said it was like being very very sick, headaches, nausea, vomiting… and then, gone.  

    She never let me forget this and took me to my first NARAL meeting when I was 15 yrs old.  And here I am today, in my 50s–and I still remember my grandmother’s scary account; my mother swaying, literally, at the curb, and nearly falling, under the strength of that one shot.  

    How did she get the doctor to do it? She told him, “If you don’t, I will do it myself”–and if you knew my mother, you knew she meant it.  She would have.  After all, lots of women she knew had.  

    This is what they want to take us all back to, the fucking middle ages.  Please remember.  


    The cost of denying women abortions is women’s lives. Nothing “Pro life” about it.


    “When I started my musical career, I was a maid,” she told the audience. “I used to clean houses. My parents, my mother was a proud janitor. My stepfather, who raised me like his very own, worked at the post office and my father was a trash man — they all wore uniforms. And that’s why I stand here today in my black and white and I wear my uniform to honor them.”


    Yall better not be pretending that Janelle Monae doesn’t fucking exist


    They be so loud with their Black queer women erasure


    Over the past few months I have asked a male architect for ideas & drafts for the renovation of the farmhouse, and at every turn I am stunned by his utter disregard for any cleaning-related concerns. For example, he is very into the idea of having in the living-room a big, non-openable window near the ceiling—which, granted, looks pretty, like having a piece of blue sky when you raise your eyes, but immediately I’m like, with a high ceiling, how will I clean this? You can’t open it so you have to clean both sides separately, and you can’t easily reach either side. I’ll need a tool with an absurdly long telescopic handle. He says, a stepladder. I’m like, but I’ll need to carry it by myself to the living-room and the front of the house every time. “So?” So a very tall stepladder is heavy? And it will be hard not to get dirty water dripping down the wall. He reacts like he can’t believe he is being asked to bring the concept of dirty soap water into his grand designs, like these are base, trifling considerations, when to me it’s a crucial factor in the decision to add this decorative window.

    Similarly we both agree on leaving most of the wood beams exposed because they’re old and beautiful, but when I ask if we ought to insulate in such a way as to cover every other one, so the remaining ones are farther apart and it’s harder for spiders to use them as ready-made anchors for their webs, he just looks disgusted, like “I am talking about Architecture and you bring up spiderwebs.” At this point I start to entertain the idea that men make horrible architects. You design someone’s house to give them a nice, convenient space to live in, not to make their life more difficult. A man who has never used a sponge in his life should not be allowed to graduate from architect school and that’s the end of it.


    A man who has never used a sponge in his life should not be allowed to graduate from architect school!

    People caught in a pattern of anxious actions often feel sad, guilty, frustrated, or ashamed. If you're late for work because you must repeatedly check all the doors and windows in your home, you might feel frustrated with yourself and think you're a loser. You might feel deeply embarrassed that you can't do things that your friends do, because you're too anxious or fearful. You might feel deeply ashamed of some of your thoughts and behaviors, but powerless to stop them. You might feel guilty about disappointing your friends and family again, because you were too anxious to attend an important function. These emotional consequences start small, but year after year, their weight builds until you don't like yourself much and may spend more and more time alone.

    Michael A. Tompkins, Anxiety and Avoidance: A Universal Treatment for Anxiety, Panic, and Fear