Linnea Ashley on May 15th, 2014

I took a break from writing here regularly a few years ago. At the new year I started fresh here: and for all things food, here:

…just in case you were wondering.


Linnea Ashley on July 19th, 2013

This post isn’t angry. It isn’t poetic.


This post is meant to motivate – or at least begin the process of motivation because grief, though necessary, isn’t productive if you never move beyond it. My rage-less sadness that emerged in the face of the Zimmerman verdict does nothing to make circumstances better for anyone.

At the rally last weekend my friend, with ties to Seattle and NYC, was distracted by the absence of any plan or strategy beyond the march. She shared examples from other marches she’s participated in over the years and the information that was shared at rallies to make sure action happened after them. That included possible legislation, volunteer opportunities, and places to donate money.

I looked for the equivalent list in the wake of last weekend’s sadness and found education pieces to read, petitions to sign, and little else. This is my list…limited to what i know and can think of. Please add to it and help make our grief and rage actionable.

1.      Laws: Florida is not alone, more than 30 states have some variation of Stand Your Ground laws. Getting rid of Stand Your Ground laws is imperative to make sure de-escalation of situations is the standard.

But don’t just sign a petition; write and call your representatives (state and federal) and let them know you disapprove and want change. You can find your elected officials’ contact information here. Marching brings some attention but politicians know that if you care enough to call and write you care enough to vote – and you are watching them.

2.      Change attitudes: this is not a request for black and brown folks to go out and attempt to ingratiate themselves to people who fear them, rather an invitation for the people who fear them (and those that know and love- or tolerate- those that fear them) to educate. Begin exploration of the idea of privilege and how to be a helpful ally.

3.      Donate time and money to local organizations: Strengthening our collective communities requires investment of money and time. Travyon wasn’t doing anything wrong when he was murdered. Even so, making sure youth programs are abundant and adequately funded is beneficial to all communities.

In Oakland:

a.       Youth Radio provides space for young people to share their voices and allows space to begin to dismantle some of the more destructive tropes of identity.

b.      Youth ALIVE! trains youth to be leaders and educators on violence, provides intensive case management for young people who have been violently injured, and provide services for the families of homicide victims.

c.       East Bay Asian Youth Center recently launched an expanded “Boys to Men of Color” mentorship program and works in schools and the community.

d.      SEM Link provides resources to enhance science, technology, engineering, and math skills in K-12 students.

e.       Oakland Unified School District educates Oakland.

f.       These are by no stretch all of the local organizations in Oakland, and if you live elsewhere I assure you there are a number of programs and schools that could use your time and money…donate both generously.

4.      Understand trauma and its impact: This is a bit abstract but work with me. Everyone experiences trauma in life, and in recent years researchers have begun to explore how trauma (especially early trauma) impacts health. The Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) Study began to chart these health impacts.

Sometimes trauma leads to depression or full-blown or partial symptoms of PTSD. Symptoms (including hyperarousal, re-experiencing, and numbing) can be misinterpreted by healthcare providers, police, family members, and other, and can make victims vulnerable to future trauma because of their behavior or how that behavior is perceived.  If someone seems paranoid or stoic…if someone is easy to anger or high (self-medicating)…you cannot assume you know why that person is behaving that way.

Boys and men of color are as susceptible to trauma as anyone. The 10 question ACE questionnaire  is not exhaustive and does not include a number of adverse experiences including various “isms” (racism, sexism, homophobia“ism”). It also neglects to include things like community violence, death, or the criminalization of the black/brown body-rendering some of their trauma unidentified/unacknowledged. Add to this that boys and men of color may exhibit trauma symptoms that are often seen as character flaws rather than symptoms when wrapped in brown skin and testosterone.

What is to be done then?

You can offer Trauma Informed Care as a general practice- for everyone. “Trauma Informed Care recognizes that many different forces impart certain things on patients, causing them to be interpreted as ‘bad’ or ‘sick,’ but what patients really need is our recognition that they are ‘hurt’ and need to be healed.” This speaks specifically to a hospital setting but can be applied in other situations. Think of it as empathy/sympathy without knowledge or proof of harm done. Think of it as an opportunity to give the benefit of the doubt. Think of it as a way to deescalate most situations and see the humanity of another person.

None of these are magic bullets; they will neither undo the death of Trayvon Martin (and the countless others before and after him) or the Zimmerman verdict – but they offer a place to begin. Marching we do for ourselves – shared grief and anger; change we create for the future – what could be made real.

Disclaimer: I have ties and/or relationships to some of the programs listed.



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Linnea Ashley on July 15th, 2013

I have no rage.

It is not spent for the day. I was not overzealous at Sunday’s rally in honor of Travon Martin that began in Oscar Grant Plaza. I am not rationing it for its possible need in the coming days and weeks as we – however you define we, as nation or skin color or shared dismay – contemplate next steps.

I have no rage because it never came.

Sitting outside a bar with friends all preparing for the evening ahead, the sun still high in the summer sky, we learned of the Zimmerman verdict by text message. Five minutes on a table of smart phones and we all sat staring. Too stunned to whisper our dismay, to keep our collective pain private, our voices carried.

One friend left, her drink unfinished, her night irrevocably changed. My other friend and i sat staring intermittently at the faces around us, unburdened and unchanged by the news, and our phones. Checking each to understand the other. How could people be laughing? Did they not know or was this an experience that could not be shared fully, this public proclamation, or simply  the reminder, that boys wrapped in brown skin matter less than those in pale skin- matter less than dogs.

Three blonde children ran gleefully back and forth on the sidewalk beyond the bar. I caught their laughter periodically and found myself resentful. Resentful of the safety they know, they will always know. Resentful that their parents will hold them tight and possibly pray the parents’ prayer but will never imagine a cop or a Zimmerman following, humiliating, murdering their child. Resentful that every parent of a brown man-child, brown girl-woman, can never take such a thing for granted.

it is twisted, safety played out as a zero sum game even though it isn’t.

and so i went home, called black men i know – some that i love. And i cried – to them with them near them without them. I cried thinking of every sweet boy turned man whose story i know. Trying to cut grass in his neighborhood over the summer, stopped- insulted- detained. Buying a pizza one late night not too far from campus – stopped- insulted –detained.  Told it was past curfew even though the curfew didn’t apply to him – stopped –insulted – beaten – detained. The list goes on.

The criminalization of the black body isn’t a possibility it is reality.

And so i was not outraged yesterday nor am i enraged today. Rage connects to hope or expectation. Rage implies i expect more or better. And sadly, i no longer do.

And so i have sadness.

I have tears.

I have the desire to pull every black boy and man i know close and whisper to them that they are beautiful and smart and sensitive and funny and sweet and vulnerable and worthy and wrothy and worthy.

And in the absence of that ability i will shed a tear for each one. A tear that is at least as useful as people marching in the streets screaming chants about how horrible they believe Oakland Police Department to be, about whatever street being “Trayvon’s street”, about no peace because we know beyond a zimmer(man) of a doubt, there is no justice. At least as useful because i fear tomorrow or next month this fervor will have faded.

And so i marched hollowly sunday. I could not chant on cue and with proper enthusiasm. Instead i found myself staring at a small brown child, maybe 5-years-old, with his mother. His hood was pulled up and he played with an “I am Trayvon Martin” sign while clutching his mother’s leg. He smiled at me and in the wake of that smile everything else seemed perverse.

A perversion because we should not only be marching for Trayvon, we should be marching for that little boy, we should be marching for the brown boys and men- for the people – who are murdered daily with no fanfare, no signs of protest, no hoodies in their honor, no question of the legitimacy of their deaths.

And so i have no rage. I hope it is merely delayed. I hope that my righteous indignation will be reignited and my hope – no matter how tiny and fragile – restored. But for now i offer a daughter’s sister’s friend’s girlfriend’s lover’s lament. Today i offer the only thing i have to give, i offer my tears.

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Linnea Ashley on July 10th, 2013

Grandmother – never nana or granny until my youngest nieces were born 15 years later and began to wrestle with the moniker we’d been warned not to change – didn’t call me dirty red until i returned from Peace Corps. By then she’d had several mini strokes and the doctors weren’t sure if they, or Alzheimer, were responsible for her diminished capacity.

Suddenly, a thought would blow through her mind like breath into a bubble. A sudden puffing up, filled with everything she needed in the moment, only to burst and be lost in an instant.

I imagine for my family her decline was subtle. A day by day or weekly dimming of her vibrant light. But after my two year absence the difference for me was jarring. she still had tightly curled hair, more silver than black, i had never known her beyond pictures with any other style. She still had a steely gaze accompanied by her pursed lips. It was familiar to me, as familiar as her silken skin (softer than anything i’ve ever touched). And although her voice was the same as before my departure, the words she formed weren’t.

“dirty red, why haven’t you come to visit me?” she chided. I had only been home a week or two. Still recovering from jetlag, my family had trundled me into the car and we drove the 80ish miles to visit my grandparents in Beaumont, tx. Taken aback by “dirty red”, a phrase i associated more with college boy pickup lines than my grandmother, i smiled and took my lumps. I’d been gone for more than two years. She could fuss.

Only 15 minutes later and she asked again. Admonishing me once again for the same sin of absence. And again later. And later. And again and again.

the mini-strokes were diagnosed shortly before i left the country. Grandmother, always quick and bright, had been a little off kilter. diagnosis in hand,  i had a crisis of geography.

“maybe i should postpone south Africa.” It seemed a reasonable thing to do. Something that demonstrated my support and love. What if she was dying?

“postpone until what?” my dad asked. “nothing is promised, you can’t wait to start your life. You can’t wait for people to die.”

It was jarring at the time. Jarring to my 24 year old ears. Jarring to my sense of filial duty. But it also made sense to me. Growing up my parents had always instilled in me that love wasn’t about location. So when i left for school in florida, 900 miles away, there was no guilt. And as i boarded my plane to south Africa i was (mostly) guilt free.

And then i returned.

And my grandmother, always sharp edged and direct, baptized me dirty red and asked me constantly why i hadn’t come to see her. I’m not sure i thought it at the time but looking back, maybe i have internalized it as my penance for going so far away.

Two of my best friends live where they live so that they are close to their parents. They left for a time but love and unspoken duty called them back. Meanwhile, while California is closer than most of my other recent addresses (it doesn’t require a passport or traversing large bodies of water) it is not close to my family.

As my parents have stomped their way into their 60s, the challenges of age slowly slink their way behind them. i am suddenly and painfully aware of the distance. I am aware of the six hour flight and $450 ticket that separates us. More than the thinly veiled incredulous voices of acquaintances that wonder – out loud- how i can be so far from home, i judge myself.

I could have relocated to texas last year. Could have set up shop and dug in roots close to the people that are my first and enduring embodiments of love. Always a source of strength and support, part of me repeats my grandmother’s mantra to myself… “dirty red, why haven’t you come to see me?”

But i also hear my father. Clear and logical, the sentiment as much as the words pushing back against the call to texas…you can’t wait to start your life.

i haven’t waited. Good, bad, and crazy, i’ve charted a path and followed my own wayward compass, the gift of guilt-free parents at my traveling side – in spirit when geography conspired against us. guilt-free parents or not, the guilt is still there pushing against my flight of fancy life. This year i’ve seen my parents once and i will only see them again at Christmas. That is a paltry presence for the people who are my definition of love. What kind of daughter am i?

I am thankful for their quiet reassurance that my life is my life and they are proud of the journey i’m taking. But i still hear whispers of the daughter i could be, the daughter some(sometimes even me) argue i should be…and in those moments i hear my grandmother’s voice, “dirty red…dirty red…” and i wonder why i haven’t visited more.

Linnea Ashley on July 6th, 2013

I’m trying to live a negative of myself. Not so polar opposite that i am unrecognizable, and not because i am harboring some deep disdain for the person i am…but because, as the overused adage goes, “if you always do what you’ve always done you always get what you’ve always gotten.”

I’m quite familiar with what i have. What i have now and what i’ve gotten in the past. And in many ways it has been wonderful. I’ve been places, done things, met folks. I’ve lived and laughed and loved. But i’ve lived laughed and loved in a very specific way, based on a particular way of thinking and looking at the world.

And i wonder…sitting with “still intentions” (a rare thing for me)…i wonder what experiences, what places, and folks- what life and laughter and love, another avenue might take me.

The plan was to make a quick change, like my friend at her wedding. One moment she was drumming like a goddess, delicate strap falling from her shoulder, face in contented concentration, and then suddenly she was less restricted- barefoot and flowing and riding a rhythm. And then i blinked and she emerged in an orange ball gown as if that had always been her dress – as if she had only ever worn that. I thought my changes would be like those.

I envisioned a switch in my head. Simple; self-explanatory. Or at the very least a point of clarity where the other options are apparent and i am able to decide which one is suitably different but that i am amenable to.

But that is the thing…i already make decisions that are amendable to me.  To be the antithesis of me is to make decisions that are the antithesis of what i’ve historically decided i want for myself. And that gets complicated. How much of my daily decisions are tied to my bigger idea of me and my life? Pancakes vs omelets aren’t life changing but how i partner and with whom, could be.

My toenails are green for the first time but even i don’t care because that doesn’t matter. But how much of myself i share and with whom i share it. That matters. And because the long view of life i’ve always had plays out in my head a certain way – a balance of consequences and potential joys –  i have a pattern of decisions, risks i’m willing to take…or not. And living an inverse me doesn’t change the bigger life pattern. Although i guess if done properly, it would.

A novel idea about spicing up my life and trying a new path was so simple in my brain. Like changing all of the hes to shes in my story, a quick addition of a letter with little consequence to deeper meaning or how the plot unfolds. Only it does matter. A yes instead of a no makes a difference, not with green nail polish or the purchase of sequin pants but who i invite in and what they have access to…that matters.

I glibly joke that i’m trying out the anti-me, a little project to wile the summer away. But it is no little project and it is not light thing. Changing a character should impact the plot of my story and if it doesn’t…well if it doesn’t something is terribly wrong with the writing.

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Linnea Ashley on July 2nd, 2013

these days i am contrary to what i have most often been. so much so that i made up a word for it.


ask me what i want to do and i’ll most likely shrug my shoulders. ask me what i want to eat and the most i can generally muster is what i don’t want to eat. this isn’t me. if nothing else in life, i generally have an opinion. i generally have thoughts – even if i decide to keep them to myself. they litter the pages of my blog for everyone or no one to read and agree or ignore.

but right now…right now i am filled with a malaise. not so much depression as a tacit expectation that whatever is happening is beyond my control. inevitable. rick perry will override the filibuster by calling another special session. president obama, congress, and he nsa will collect the information that facebook and google help them mine (that we help them mine by posting our every thought- my every thought – online).

i think i’m out of righteous indignation.

at least for tonight. maybe tomorrow…maybe i’ll find it tomorrow.

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Linnea Ashley on June 22nd, 2013

there is a derisive delight in the unfolding drama that is paula deen’s reclaimed invitation at the foodies’ ongoing dinner party. her southern accent and liberal use of butter AND bacon grease are being packaged into facebook memes for all to enjoy…and with the announcement that her contract won’t be renewed, the expectation is that she, and her apology, will fade into don imus obscurity.

i’ve read the spectrum of responses from friends. appreciation for her (belated) apology, disgust that this is taking up so much collective brain space, and sheer glee at her firing – in pretty equal measure.

i’m a bit at a loss though. confused because i’m not sure i understand what people want. sure, every non-racist wants the world to be colorblind – or at least color consious without the negative baggage- but short of that?

since we can’t rewind paula and teach her that that “other time” she laments when black men dressed so nicely and served food was not simply an asthetic, or that positions of power, such as owning a business, give more weight to jokes and other language that can create a hostile work environment, what do we want? do we want silence? are we hoping that continued public shamings for racist and/or mysoginistic language will teach people to whisper instead of shouting loudly to co-workers, or maybe think it privately so that we all beleive the hard work is done?

is that hope that someone who thinks that way, has thought that way for a lifetime, will see the error in her ways and join the cursade for a racially tolerant society? after all, she apologized; we are halfway there. right?

only i think apologies have become the lastest victim of political correctness. everyone colors between the lines and says the right words and “poof” magically the stain of whatever transgression is washed away.

i’m not opposed to  lamentations or the grace that makes them possible. i pray my heathen prayers that people will have space enough in their hearts to forgive me for my own transgressions…but i’m actually apologetic. i have the luxury of privacy and lack the indulgence of a guaranteed audience for my acts of contrition.

are people really sorry or are they simply sorry that their fanbase (and employers) have a different threshold for flippant use of deragoatry language and nostagia for a simpler – if less tolerant – time?  paula went from seeming nonchalance and certainty that it wasn’t a big deal to an apology and a “hope that i can learn and grow from this”.

maybe i’m the intolerant one…unwilling to assume that others have the capacity to hear opinions contrary to their own and decide to change their minds. i’ve been there. i’ve done that. why don’t i offer that same benefit of the doubt to celebrities?

and then i remember…i don’t actually care about that. not about secret fantasy weddngs featuring a thousand lawn jokeys and aunt jamimas gleaming in the sun. i don’t care about that because offensive as i might find it (or delusional) her personal preferences are less my concern.

the public manifestation of them in the work place? that is the crux of it. we’ve all been sidetracked by her possible use of the magical n word when really, the issue is her brother. her porn watching, segragated bathroom mandating, racist joke telling, co-owner of the business.

i may not like paula now that i am familar with her vocabulary and thirst for the “old ways” but her brother…her brother seems to have broken the law. and he’ll need more than an apology for that.

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Linnea Ashley on June 21st, 2013

they can’t be just girls. not simply middle or high school students on summer break, loving the feel of an unseasonably hot summer sun on their bare legs. they can’t be just girls like the sirens can’t be just falls, or heart attacks. they can’t be false alarms where indigestion is assumed but…”just to be safe…”

i work in a world where the girls are working girls. bright clear faces suspended over skin tight clothes so short that imagination is unnecessary. i live in a world where ambulance sirens, blaring from the county hospital down the street and heading east are often headed toward some larger gunshot related calamity.

and i don’t live in a war zone. bad press aside, i don’t fear for my life every time i walk outside. but i do work in violence prevention. and so the underbelly of my city that most people anecdoctalize, have names and faces for me. the stories that “scare away” business or illustrate the differences between berkeley or sf and oakland, are people to me.

dinner plans with a friend tonight had us exploring international blvd. so close to my apartment and yet i spend so little time there, despite shops and restaurants dotting the wide road. we sat chatting about work and dating and hobbies, when two young…girls is all i can say because they were still so far from womanhood…walked in. i lost my train of thought. stammered through the rest of whatever story i was sharing. we grew quiet for a moment.

i thought we were thinking the same thought. thought we were sharing the same reality. only, when they walked out and i began to relay a conversation i’d had with an oakland police department detective who told me that the prostitution in oakland isn’t about  “happy self-employed sex workers, but rather a pimp run industry” that more and more is leading to murder, my friend looked stunned.

“you mean…?” she asked.

“you didn’t know?” I responded.

she stared out the window from that point on, distracted when one of the girls walked back and forth periodically  in front of the storefront for about an hour.

when i saw those girls i immediately thought back to the conversation i’d had with the detective about sex trafficking being the fastest growing criminal enterprise in the world. bigger than guns.

i envied my friend. envied her ability to see two young girls reading a menu where i saw two young girls working a block.

as we hugged and said goodbye i pointed out another young girl holding down her corner half a block away. and as i drove home, the orange sun casting a beautiful silhouette of downtown where international blvd. faded into the horizon, my eye caught the the passing shapes and colors of other girls and young women, dressed too scantily against the cooling bay evening.

they could not be giggling girls hanging out together before the street lights -the signal to return home when i was young – called them home. they could never be laughing for the sake of laughter, the corner a coincidence and not their destination. they can’t be just girls to me, although i wish with so much of myself that they were.

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Linnea Ashley on May 25th, 2013

In my adulthood i’d hoped to shed the need for do-overs in my arsenal; the result of misjudging things so grandly that they require me to erase them from existence rather than simply adjusting, learning, and moving on. It seems silly as i write it now. Silly to think that at almost 40 i have not figured everything out at least enough to negate the whimsical desire to restart my game of life.

I work with high school students. Few things make me feel as old as high school students. Not babies or toddlers, or even my nieces (the first one just shy of entering her tweens) make me feel as grey haired and obsolete as high school students. In part it is because they delight in doing so- exaggerating the things that set us apart. But part of it is because i remember being where they are even as it is inconceivable to them. And while i’m sure my memory of myself is skewed, as my boss pointed out the other day, the point is i remember sitting where they sit, my life billowing out before me with little form or substance but a universe of possibilities.

I remember making my first pseudo-adult mistakes and wanting to melt into the floor. Wanting to disappear. At the very least, to reset the board and try again. I desperately wanted do overs.

Instead i learned that if you endure, you learn. If you learn, it passes. I learned that few lessons stick like the epic ones, the ones that confuse, the ones that hurt.

In recent years most of my epic lessons have felt different. They felt like the advanced setting on whatever game i was living. So while the lessons i was subject to learning weren’t entirely new, they felt more complicated, more adult. And because there was complexity, learning the lessons, even the painful ones, didn’t feel entirely redundant. Didn’t feel like i should have known better. Should have learned this and moved on already.

But right now i do. Right now my learning stinks of déjà vu.  i feel foolish and young in my misjudgments. Not young of heart. Not youthful. Not even naïve. Instead, young as chump. Young as follied. Young in a “shame on me” kind of way.

There is a rational part of me that knows that age alone doesn’t graduate me from learning, even the simple lessons. New experiences, or variations on a theme, will emerge and if i’m lucky i’ll read the signs properly and walk away with a reinforced understanding of the world. But sometimes there are no signs to read – or the signs are in another language, in another country, in another world all together. sometimes the signs, though seemingly familiar, are actually as foreign as they come, and the lessons as mortifying as anything high school and college threw my way. And in those times, as in my youth, i yearn for the do overs that, while novel to contemplate,  never actually existed.

Linnea Ashley on March 10th, 2013

“I’m a card carrying republican.”

It wasn’t a newsflash, J has been saying since right around the birth of his second child fiveish years ago “if you aren’t a democratic in your 20s you are soulless and if you aren’t a republican in your 30s you’re an idiot”. Since neither of us are on a mission of conversion and since we both respect the intellect of the other, our difference of opinions makes for interesting conversation.

Today’s conversation was all over the place. it began tentatively- a bit about the kids and a lazy Sunday afternoon. And when i asked him to tell me something good or interesting he launched into a conversation about politics and power on a local level (named strengths and weaknesses of established and newly emerging parties).  Somehow, after my own diatribe on tea party republicans, power, and social issues (which he countered with the reality that an emerging strip of republicans could give a rat’s booty about social issues – including funding them…something i’ve read myself), we meandered onto the topic of Scandal.

“what is it about that show?” he asked, exasperated. “how is it any different than the Real Housewives of Atlanta?”

Having never seen the Real Housewives i couldn’t answer with specifics but shared why i like the show. I love the character depth. In so many shows people are “inherently” good or evil. We love the broad stroke archetypes- at least for our main characters. It is a newish phenomenon to have epically flawed heroes to cheer for or to hate. Think Dexter and Game of Thrones.

The flaws make it humanly engaging for me while the setting – often the oval office of the white house- makes it far away enough to be escapism.

But mostly, it is entertaining.

“i find it hypocritical,” J said before he had to hang up. “all my female friends, bourgeois and educated, who hate the real housewives and petition for it to be off the air, love this show. Yeah kerri washington is strong and in charge but she is having an affair with the president, how is it any different behavior from those other shows?”

I wish he hadn’t had to go. His question gave me pause. Where is the line between art and politics? Art is often political but does that mean you can’t enjoy a piece – be it a painting or a play- that doesn’t support your politics?

It has been years since i read Power of One but i remember thinking how wonderfully written it was. How pulled along in the current of images the words produced in my head. It is a beautifu piece of fiction. It also perpetuates the great white savior of Africa narrative that drives me insane. So i appreciate it on one level while being irritated on another.

At work i found myself in a casual conversation with a colleague about the Hunger Games. I enjoyed the series, wasn’t upset but wasn’t impressed by the movie. She was disturbed by the “dangerous messages it is sending girls”. I had to stop her. I hadn’t deconstructed it in that particular way. She explained her point (SPOILER), Catniss ends up with a man who tries to kill her. (END OF SPOILER).

It is true. What does that say to a generation of girls navigating the complex world of dating? If s/he hurts you but repents then it is ok.

It comes up all over the place. a lover of joss whedon for years, he has often been applauded as a feminist for his portrayal of strong women characters. But a blog post took a closer look at what we deem feminist and the nuances we sometimes miss because the protagonist is a butt-kicking superhero who can walk alone and night and save her date from harm.

J’s question about hypocrisy stands. Is it hypocritical to love Scandal even as i despise the glorification of infidelity? Is it ok to love Firefly even as one of the central love stories involves a man repeatedly calling the woman he loves a whore?

If held up to such a critical lens of race, gender, ableist, moral, politics, is anything on tv beyond reproach?

I don’t believe in banning books and i don’t wish to dictate what people are allowed to watch on their down time from work. Reality tv doesn’t move me but the fast-paced and intelligent dialogue of Scandal does. Does that make me a hypocrite? Maybe. But then i, like Olivia Pope, contain multitudes

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