“I rage because this is about me and my feelings. Your rationale as a white man who has not lived in my skin as an Asian woman does not apply here. Just like I can’t tell you what it feels like to be you, you can’t do that for me.”
image courtesy of The Guardian
by the fresh coconut
Up until last night I was pretty sure I wasn’t a ‘raging feminist’, whatever that is. I didn’t get angry and I engaged in reasonable, educated arguments with people to help them understand where I was coming from, and to better understand their opinions, too. But last night I was engaged possibly the most infuriating, disrespectful conversation of my life. Last night I realised that I am a raging feminist and that anger is a valid emotion in my struggle to be accepted and treated first and foremost as a human being.
Referencing an exoticising “compliment” I received at a party recently, I was told by an acquaintance that I was blowing the whole situation out of proportion. The compliment wasn’t offensive even though it included the word ‘ethnic’. The acquaintance’s justification was that the guy at the party was “drunk…
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