We know what to say to a woman who has been abused by her male partner. We know how to condemn it, how to demand that it ends. But when I’ve told longtime friends of mine the truth, I see in their eyes that they don’t know what to say.
The casualties: women who, at best suffer from a neurotic obsession with a certain square foot of their bodies and, at worst, are directly impacted by the sexual violence that this visual dismemberment empowers.
“I just don’t see color!”
Would being a big name mean more experiences and paychecks?
We can relive and re-experience social pain more vividly than we can physical pain.
Compulsively being attached to our phones to the point where we disregard basic courtesy.
We get angry at others only because we impose our own values on them. But don’t you realize that anger is futile because we each uphold different values?
Seeing a person cry or exclaim with joy is simply embarrassing. We don’t “hate” emotions because hate is too strong a word, but we would very much like it if people would just cope with their troubles in silence and keep a lid on the histrionics.
Nowadays, chivalrous acts function like tally marks; the higher the score, the more she will want to sleep with you. Chivalry is not dead because of feminists, it’s dead because men have exploited the fundamental beliefs of the term and used it to their advantage.
Being exposed to this kind of treatment day in day out is a subtle reminder that I will never blend into the societal fabric. I’ve heard this being referred to as racial fatigue.