The Hawkeye Initiative: Special Guest Edition: The Hawkeye Initiative IRL! -
I recently received an email from an anonymous fan sharing how she pulled a Hawkeye Initiative themed prank on her CEO to illustrate a problem with some artwork.
My personal compliments to her and her accomplice on a mission well done; they perfectly took they perfectly took the concept of The…
I believe that there are a small group of women who hate men just for being men. I believe that the textbook definition of the word misandry fits that description. I believe there are bad things that happen to men. I believe those issues should be addressed. I do not believe that a fringe group of women who hate men can be blamed for those issues.
Misandry was a dead word until recently. A group of men who feared the progress of feminism revived the word and used it to undercut the movement. They like having the power being a man provides and they don’t want to lose that. So they created a movement, found a bunch of legitimate issues that affect men, and tried to blame women for those issues. They called this misandry. It’s like conservatives using buzzwords like “death panels” to make people fear health care. They let people assume it meant Obama wanted to kill your grandma. They let their cute little phrase infect the minds of good people and convince them of falsehoods.
People are telling me that men cannot report rape without getting laughed at. They say this is misandry. It is the fault of women who hate men. But that just doesn’t make any sense to me. When I seek a logical explanation, it seems more likely that this is because men are supposed to be strong and women are supposed to be weak. And rape has been viewed as something that happens mostly to women. So if it does happen to a man, they must be weak. How did this idea of men=strong and women=weak start? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because of misandry. It is an ancient patriarchy collapsing in on itself.
True feminism is about fighting inequality. It’s about erasing that strong/weak perception ingrained into our society. Misandry, as the term is often used today, is about trying to blame women for anything bad that happens to men.
If you want to fight to fix issues that affect men, go for it. But I would really consider distancing yourself from this term. It is used to evangelize folks into a movement that is very problematic. A group that can’t handle scrutiny of their comic books and video games, so they send death and rape threats. A group that calls women sluts and think they ask for rape if they show too much cleavage. Those are the people who coined this term, and you should want nothing to do with them or their language.
Do-Ho Suh, Karma, (2003).
I want to go to there.
The Quietest Place on Earth
This is the quietest place on Earth. It’s so quiet that you can hear the sounds of your own heart and stomach. The average person can only spend about 30 minutes in this room before they start hallucinating.
According to Guinness World Records, 2005, Orfield Laboratory’s anechoic chamber (pictured above) is “The quietest place on Earth” measured at −9.4 decibels. However, the University of Salford has a number of anechoic chambers, one of which is unofficially the quietest in the world having a measurement of −12.4 decibels.
The purpose of an anechoic chamber is for testing the response of loudspeakers or microphones because the room doesn’t affect the acoustic measurements. It is also the best place for virtual acoustics - generating auralizations of concert halls, city streets and other spaces.
Iron Manatee: I drew a thing. Did it make you happy? Would you like to make me happy too? Please donate to my wife’s MS Walk for the Cure! http://tinyurl.com/brwjrcf
Malvin and Cobbes v2 by Karen Hallion [tumblr | redbubble | etsy]
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost. — Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)