When I was in fourth grade, I was sitting with my cello, waiting for my orchestra concert to begin. The cello was on the floor, but I was seated in my section in a long dress with my knees spread wide, and my elbows on my thighs. My mom - in the audience - gestured to me for five minutes to sit “properly,” and when I didn’t follow her instructions, she came up and reprimanded me for sitting “like a boy.”
When I was a senior in high school, I gave one of my good friend’s a copy of my senior portrait. Rather than thanking me and saying I looked cute/pretty/whatever, she looked at it for a while until she asked, “Why are you posing like a guy?” In the photo, I was sitting on steps, but my legs weren’t crossed … you know, how people normally sit on steps.
When I was in graduate school, I was walking to dinner with some colleagues. I was in front of the group with a male friend, walking as I normally do - rather quickly and in a straight line. A guy moving toward us had to step out of the way for me, and my male friend said to me, “Wow, you just barrel right through, don’t you?” I replied, “Yeah? Why shouldn’t people get out of the way for me?”
The way women use space and move through space is constantly policed. We are told to fold up, cross our legs, defer space to others, be as small and insignificant as possible, and interfere with the movement and space of others as little as possible. I see it on public transit, where women shrink into their seats. I see it in classrooms, where women don’t spread their stuff beyond the width of their chair. I see it in magazines, where women are photographed differently from men. I see it everywhere.
A good number of these “presence” norms are embedded into gendered constructions of etiquette, and they get internalized; so much of the policing women experience is actually self-policing. It isrude for a woman to cross her ankle over her knee, or stand with her legs shoulder-width apart, or to expect others to move around her. A woman can get all of the other bits of a feminine gender performance right, but if that woman doesn’t use space in the proper manner, she will be met with resistance and condemnation - her own or someone else’s. But where she has gone wrong will be noticed, and she will be told. Even if she is not corrected outright, her behavior will be the subject of comment (as was the case with my male colleague above). She will be made to feel continually anxious about her presence in space. She will shrink and fold until she nearly disappears.
Men can be expansive, and command as much space as they like. They can sit with knees splayed wide and arms draped over several seats, their crap strewn six feet in either direction, creating a massive bubble of space that is theirs. They can walk down the street, and assume the straight line in front of them is theirs, as far as they desire to go. Men take up space - even technically unoccupied space - and no one questions them.
Women’s space is always borrowed. Even women’s bodies don’t really create a bubble that is all their own. If a woman has enough room to sit or to stand, that is deemed to be enough for her. She isn’t supposed to claim anything beyond her physical, bodily allotment, and even that is policed if she is “too tall” or “too fat.” If she does, she’ll be made to feel it.
My dad is fixing our classic 1940’s wedgewood oven, and so he pulled it away from the wall and is cleaning it. UGH the chemicals he is using are making me dizzy. Plus he just threw away all the bottlecaps that had fallen between the counter and the stove without counting them.
I wanted to count them!
But mostly it smells like turpentine and bleach in my house, so I am hiding from the chemicals in my room.
So Saturday, we find out who River is. Cue Tumblr exploding, yes? Yes.
And, as River has taught us well —
So I propose that everyone do their best to be courteous — but that doesn’t mean you have to keep from posting your flailings, cursing, reactions, etc.
If everyone just takes the extra half second and tags all their gifs, graphics, and capslocked text posts with #a good man goes to war, those in the fandom who can’t see it right away can turn on Tumblr Savior, and just this once, everybody wins.
Let me tell you something about Petyr Baelish. We were best friends in middle school. I know, right? It's so embarrassing. I don't even... Whatever. So then in eighth grade, I started going out with my first boyfriend Brandon who was totally gorgeous but then he got killed in Robert's Rebellion, and Petyr was like, weirdly jealous of him. Like, if I would blow him off to hang out with Brandon, he'd be like, "Why didn't you call me back?" And I'd be like, "Why are you so obsessed with me?" So then, for my wedding, which was a hunky Stark wedding, I was like, "Petyr, I can't invite you, because I think you're in love with me." I mean I couldn't have someone who was in love with me at my party. There was gonna be Brandon there marrying me. I mean, right? He was a IN LOVE WITH ME. So then he called Brandon and started dueling him, it was so retarded. And then he left Riverrun because no one would talk to him, and he came to King's Landing in the fall for high school, all of his hair was cut off and he was totally weird, and now I guess he owns a brothel.
“He’s just fiddling with these hundred dollar bills. I remember thinking ‘those hundred dollar bills mean nothing to this man.’ For me, that’s like ‘I want to come on those hundred dollar bills, that’s amazing, that’s so much fucking money!’”—Adam Scott (via havesomepenaltyshots)