As I write this article, I want to make it known that the sex industry is not always positive for women and girls. According to the U.S. National Library of Medicine, sex workers around the world have a 45 to 75 percent chance of experiencing violence during their careers.
When sex workers do experience violence, they are not protected by rape shield laws and are not eligible for compensation funds.
Many see sex workers as objects, non-human, and second-rate members of society. This makes sex workers even more prone to being victims of violence.
Women are forced into sex work without their consent, others are forced into sex work because of financial situations, and some choose sex work as their profession.
I am a busy girl, I go to school full time, have a job and a husband. I have a routine, a set schedule for what I do most days of the week but it is almost always go, go, go, rush on to the next thing I have to do and then go home and take a nap. I never actually take a minute and think about the things I get to experience in a day or how it makes me feel, so welcome to my journey! I have decided to document a day in my week to actually think about the things I do and feel and I’m bringing you all with me. Welcome to my Thursday complete with pictures and descriptions.
One of my best friends got her first tattoo at 19. It was on her foot and it said Hakuna Matata. This set something off in me, a desire to do something permeant like that. But I was not brave like my friend, I stuck to poking holes in my ears. Then came the movement when thousands of women, all at once, went out and got, she persisted, tattooed on themselves. My friend was strange, exotic, how could she a young woman who still lived at home get a tattoo. No one else I knew lived life so dangerously. Women, it had always seemed to me, did not get tattoos; it was not only morally wrong but would also lead to regret. These women were not women you wanted to be associated with, they were sluts, they had no sense of foresight, they’re boring, or they’re just mentally ill or selfish. Continue reading “Tattoos and Women”→
I love unique, colorful, and beautiful tattoos. I have one, a dragonfly, that I had tattooed on my lower back 15 years ago, and though I have not sought any others, I have come to admire the art that women have given their skin to. I also love serendipitous events. For example, when you are thinking of someone and they call, or in the case of this blog, when you are researching one idea and all of the information leads to the formation of an entirely new project. Thus is the case while doing research for an article on the word squaw. I was looking for information for my blog, reading various sites, and articles and books such as: “My Body, Myself” and Reading Native American Women and they all seemed to start to resonate with each other. It doesn’t stop there. I have been reading essays by Roxane Gay in her book Bad Feminist and in a couple of weeks, I will be teaching a lesson to another class about the poetry of Claudia Rankine, these texts read together, with my own personal interest, made for a choir of excellent reading.
Excellent reading, that along with the information I was gathering about the word squaw (an article I promise to post soon) created an awareness for me of something that I am almost ashamed to admit. I realized that many women have not had the same experiences with their bodies (at least the reception and expectation of their bodies) as I have as a Native woman. Though I think that as female we have shared many of the same experiences, such as discrimination based on gender stereotypes or medias portrayal of the ideal, Felly Simmonds’ essay, “My Body, Myself,” made me realize how many of my experiences, mostly negative, have to do with my physical body.
I was a little shaken after doing my last blog post, My Week With Makeup. It was really hard to see two pictures of me, side by side, where I looked completely different. When I looked at myself wearing makeup, I felt like I finally measured up to the other girls I see walking around campus, the girls who look flawless. I looked older wearing makeup, and certainly more put together. I have a younger sister who is seventeen, and whenever we meet new people, they assume that she is older. Why? She wears makeup, she actually curls or straightens her hair in the morning, she’s polished and flawless and put together and so people assume she is older.
At the top of a hill on the south side of Florence, Piazza Michelangelo is covered in cigarette butts and empty wine bottles rolled into corners. No matter its cracked pavement or endless uphill climb, tourists gather here, lean over the cement railing like they could almost touch the big, wide beauty of this orange-roofed city. Continue reading “On Beauty”→
When my dad finally moved from the spare room in his sister’s house to a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks from downtown, he started cooking. It was my junior year of high school, and my parents had just split up. The Spotswood Street apartment was tiny. My sister and I shared one bedroom and my dad and brother shared a futon bed in the other one. We didn’t have hallways or closets or stairs. We barely had furniture. Everything we owned came from the reject pile that had been accumulating against a wall in the garage for years; junk intended for Goodwill or a someday college apartment. We had one loveseat and an uncomfortable chair my brother had been using to dump clothes on in his room at our mom’s. Our kitchen table was a plastic fold-out thing, and that and the chairs were the only matching pieces of furniture we owned.