Friday, June 24, 2011


I don't have much time today (off to work in a bit and after work - no pub - my excellent little six-year-old niece has filled her sticker chart so we are going bowling!) but I feel like I really have to say something about this. Tomorrow is Auckland's slutwalk, which I will be attending with the sign Vincent is going to paint me as soon as I come up with something clever (suggestions?). I've been reading about it for months on the feminist blogs I follow, trying to decide how I felt about it and which feminists I agree with, before realising that doesn't really matter. What matters is that I know what that policeman said was wrong, and that not doing anything about it would be wrong for me. Most people agree that victim-blaming is ludicrous. But for some reason, when it comes to women's clothes, they don't care anymore (actually, when it comes to women full-stop).

Please read this and this.

I have lived my whole life avoiding parks at night unless I had male company (and didn't feel safe unless there were three or four of my male friends). If I had to catch the bus home when I lived out west, I had to run home from the bus-stop. If I drove at night, I would lock the doors. This list could go on, full of actions I take that are second-nature to me. I do enough; it is too much! I am going to wear what I fucking like.

(Image from

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