Everything's Trash, But It's Okay

by Phoebe Robinson

#NeggaPlease #RuthNeggaLegitHatesHerLastNameBecauseOfAssholesLikeMe. But for real, that has got to be the most entitled married-people trash I’ve ever heard of. Like, bitch, I went to your wedding. Got you a gift. And now I gotta help pay for your anniversary present? Y’all had ten years to save for this trip and you’re giving me six months. See? This is why some nonmarried people are salty towards some married folk. Single people don’t ask for this kind of stuff.

But there are those married peeps who act like their being legally together means they’re allowed to keep asking everyone for money like they’re an autorenewal subscription plan for Hulu. So ig, but if we’re going to be ig, then can I get a gift for not being married to someone who’s not a good fit for me? I have done that for more than ten years.

And to be honest, the Women’s March amplified a lot of what’s wrong with feminism, including its main problem: protecting the institution of white feminism, even if, and in some cases especially if, it means sacrificing the needs, wants, and safety of women who don’t fit neatly in the box of “educated, financially stable, straight, and white.” I know I’m not the only feminist who, because she doesn’t fall under the aforementioned category, has felt neglected by the movement. If you haven’t been on the receiving end of the neglect, it stings and serves as a reminder of how despite all the “Rah-rah! Go #TeamFeminism,” you can feel lonelier on the team than if you were never on it at all.

If you don’t follow me on Insta, here’s a quick recap of what I do there: (1) marvel at the hotness of famous dudes like some do at double rainbows, (2) promote projects I work on, (3) post #TBT pictures of me from my high school and college years in which I somehow look like a forty-seven-year-old auntie trolling for peen at a church mixer, and (4) earnestly share content such as where to make charitable donations for various causes or express my opinions about certain social issues. One of those issues is #BlackLivesMatter, and except for black people named Kanye “Forward All My Mail to the PO Box Addressed: The Sunken Place” West, it’s more than a hashtag.

It’s a plea for people to see us instead of seeing through us, a “I think therefore I am,” shouldn’t-this-be-kind-obvious-by-now statement, and a call to action we hope will get stuck in the minds of everyone who hears it until it makes them want to help dismantle a system intent on policing and harming brown and black bodies by any means necessary. That’s a lot for three little words to accomplish, but in an age when black men, women, and children are routinely murdered by police officers, who almost never suffer any real consequences for their crimes, and when black bodies are also routinely imprisoned for minor offenses that if perpetrated by their white brethren would, more often than not, lead to little more than a slap on the wrist, #BlackLivesMatter is, frankly, the thesis statement of a movement and also a reminder to black people that even though the world doesn’t see it, we do matter, so don’t fucking forget it or give up.

#BlackLivesMatter in a rolling crawl. Within minutes, a white guy troll who was probably just searching the hashtag and spewing hatred on people’s Instagram pages wrote: “Dumb cunt.” A couple of internet strangers tried to silence him, and after a while, I just deleted all traces of this discord because infighting was not the purpose of the post. I was deeply sad and was using those three little words to keep myself from drowning in despair, and I was immediately made to feel as though I wasn’t even allowed that. Now, that kind of berating as a form of silencing takes place all over sosh meeds and is nothing new.

But in all seriousness, the point is that it doesn’t take much for folks to needlessly and ignorantly go from zero to one hundred no matter if the subject is something as innocuous as a snack or as dire as black people being disproportionately harassed and killed by law enforcement. The aggression from trolls is all the same, but it is telling that almost any time a person of color comments on race on social media (or in real life, for that matter) they are immediately disrespected. What’s also telling is the silence from the white folk who claim to be for equality.

when I acknowledge the elephant in the room, which is that I know the world knows I’m black, meaning not only do I know that the deadly consequences for being black in America are lurking around the corner for myself, my family, and my black friends, but I know that information has forever altered the way I live my life because I don’t live in the same America that many white people of a certain status do, that truth is too real to handle. Too uncomfortable to address. So people don’t.

Often, I hear that many white people clam up when it comes to the topic of race because they’re “scared of saying something racist” or they simply don’t know what to say at all. Uh-uh. Nope. Not buying it. This isn’t a Sadie Hawkins dance where the gals are nervous to ask the boys to grind to Sean Paul’s “Gimme the Light.” This is real life.

White people:* HOW. DO. YOU. HAVE. NOTHING. TO. SAY. AT. THIS. POINT? Black people are dying. Black people are being bullied. Black people are being blamed, silenced, told to get over it, told they’re not fighting hard enough, and all this other bullshit designed to make them feel like they’re not doing enough. Black people are being tasked with solely fixing a system of oppression as if it’s not a societal problem that not only affects everyone but requires the efforts of everyone to achieve equality. Black people are made to feel alone. They’re not. We’re all in this bloody, depressing, trash pile of a mess toge...

Silence and putting your head down is flat-out unacceptable and only makes more visible the fact that you’re trying to remain invisible in the face of atrocities. The middle-school fear of not wanting to be called on should be thrown in the dumpster along with beat-up Lisa Frank folders, dingy LA Gear sneakers, and watching Saved by the Bell with the same intense dedication that you might have for American Horror Story.

Can we all agree that the whole “being at a loss for words” when it comes to topics like police brutality or having feminism benefit anyone other than well-to-do, educated, straight white women of a certain class, is a tired and weak lie? Maybe not a malicious lie in all cases, but a lie nonetheless. The truth is, white feminists have no problem finding the words. They speak up loudly and often whether it’s at a march, in everyday life, or any time there’s a microphone available, like when Patricia Arquette demanded equal pay during her 2015 Best Supporting Actress acceptance speech.

people took her to task for the tone-deaf implication that (1) the struggle for queer women and women of color is basically over now in part because white people have done a sufficient job fighting for them (LOL forever), and (2) WOCs and queer women haven’t been out here fighting for feminism since day one and now need to step up. Look, I’m all for tough love, when it’s truthful. But what Arquette was saying? It wasn’t adding up to me and many others, and a backlash as well as a defense of her statement commenced.

Firstly, WOC and queer people have been standing alongside white women on the equal pay issue since the beginning, except those groups’ contributions aren’t typically acknowledged or appreciated by WW. Secondly, women of color and LGBTQIA+ folks make significantly less than white women and have let that information be known for years,* so it’s not as though this isn’t also an urgent matter for them. In fact, it’s probably more pressing considering the median income is lower for WOC and queer people than it is for white women.

So Arquette’s demand that people who have always been in the fight need to step it up is not only ridiculous but it also shines a bright light on what happens when feminism isn’t intersectional: the voices of the non-white, non-straight are ignored and the decades of work by the non-white, non-straight women is erased from history.

Now, I can’t know for certain why that was happening, but what I did know was that WW’s inaction in movements that don’t directly affect them proved to me that all those people are not a priority or viewed as fellow feminists who should be protected.

I believed my presence said to feminism, “Even though you don’t always or even sometimes show up for me, I’m showing up for you.”

“My feminism isn’t conditional, because if it is, then how am I any different than those I have gripes with?” I needed my comedy and donations to say, “See how I’m fighting with you? Let that be an example that you can fight with me and for me and all the others you’ve forgotten about.”

Here’s the deal: If you spill milk all over the floor, you can’t then expect the milk to only go where you want it to go.* Meaning, feminism cannot be deeply flawed and exclusive yet expect everyone to show up and support it.

So listen to them and listen without speaking.

You know how sometimes when you’re casually dating someone and you ask them to DTR aka define the relationship? That conversation usually goes one of two ways: (A) the person basically changes their name to “Boo, Your” on their driver’s license, which is impractical but touching, or (B) the person drops a ninja smoke bomb and disappears, and while that hurts your feelings, you’re also impressed because the old-school way of saying, “I gotta go,” and then struggling to put on your pre-tied New Balances because they are tied too tight, is not the jam. Well, thankfully, when I asked feminism if it was going to step up and be there for me in the future, it responded, “Sure! And to help prove it, do you want to meet one of the movement’s OGs, Gloria Steinem?” To which I responded, “Yaaas times infinity!!!”

There was a shift in the air, but I didn’t care. The answers I was seeking were far more important than some strangers’ discomfort.

“And these black women now symbolize the fact that [sexual harassment] is certainly more likely to happen to people with less power in society than to people with more power.”* She then stated that statistically speaking, black women are twice as likely to identify as feminist than their white counterparts.

How can we quell the desire to be agitated by the truth as well as the tendency to blame WOCs and queer feminists for the failures of feminism even though it has been proven time and time again that some white feminists will go against their best interests as women in order to maintain their class and race status?

Because the intelligent thing to do as a white woman when faced with valid criticism about what your privilege allows is to drag out the angry-black-woman trope.

say—“what’s good?”—which is used as a greeting or to send the message of “We’re not going to have a problem are we because if so, I might have to hand your ass to you.”

Who knew that a simple and intense “Yo, what’s good?” is the verbal version of “Bitch, you white” smelling salts that gets white ladies to cut their cultural-appropriating bullshit? I certainly didn’t, but I’m going on a “What’s good?” smelling salt spree to all the hair salons where stylists are putting Battlefield Earth dreadlocks on white girls.

But what is really troubling about fauxminists is that their feminism is not only conditional (meaning they’re for it unless what is being asked of them threatens their way of thinking and living), but it’s also infused with patriarchal toxicity, so their big takeaway from feminism is not about equality and rights for all but that women should finally be allowed to behave as badly as men have for centuries. Hell no! I have no interest in having my turn to take a dump on progress. I want to elevate a room when I walk in it, not just keep it the same as it’s always been. I want the world to be fundamentally different than the one my mom grew up in. So I refuse to get mine, so to speak, by reinforcing the patriarchy to my advantage. There is no point in perpetuating the same bullshit because it is somehow going to taste better going down because it’s coming from a woman. Poison is poison no matter who serves it to you.

Normally, I would attempt to lighten the moment right now, but sorry, not sorry, I can’t. Feminism, I’m deliberately hard on you the way Tyra Banks was hard on Tiffany. The way my parents were on me when I was growing up, which used to piss me off, but as I got older, I understood it. They loved me the most, which is why they demanded the excellence they knew was within me.

So, feminism, I say this to you: You’re one of the things I love the most in the world, which is why I expect the most, because I know you have the potential to be everything you should be. Give me something to root for. Give me and all women of color, queer women, trans women, lower-class women, something to root for. Most importantly, give us love, because while you’ve been hard on us, the love has been in very short supply. Give us the love we deserve and we’ll root for you forever.

Sooooooooo, if you haven’t picked up on it by now, the lady experience can be complicated and frustrating. Obviously, it has its pluses (such as being capable of having multiple orgasms; on average, we live longer than men; and according to Time, women are more likely to obtain a college degree), but it definitely has its cons, and the negatives can feel oppressive at times.

I don’t care how nice you are. You complain. Regularly.

I mean, Lol.nasa.gov/IsPlutoAPlanetOrNah.

We fight to be taken seriously and viewed as fully realized people as opposed to objects for consumption. Then there’s the societal pressure we feel regarding beauty and/or relationship status. Striving for equality in a world that was, by design, built on the foundation of inequality.

Um, mind your fucking business, Carol. Even if your name isn’t Carol, that was some unhelpful Carol-ass shit to say.

I’m constantly seeing grown-ass men dressed in the “You are not the father” starter pack wardrobe (ugly polos or baggy dress shirts, khaki pants, run-down shoes, etc.), so maybe dudes can pump the brakes on women having to look perfect?

People are just rude and behave as though if a woman doesn’t fulfill her “duty” of looking flawless, then she must be in the middle of a breakup or is unemployed or depressed. Look, not walking around dolled up like a model 24–7 doesn’t mean I’m going through anything, a’ight? This is just what my skin looks like without the help of Fenty Beauty.

I love NYC so much, but that love will not blind me to the fact that the subway trains and buses are hotbeds to a whole host of germs. So whenever my bare tush touches the seat, I wanna tell my butt, “Well, butt, we’ve had a good run. We went to some art gallery shows and understood none of what we saw, mastered dipping it low to a few Rihanna songs, and looked amazing in that one pair of pants that we wore all the time,” and then donate it to a plastic surgeon’s office for some patient to use for their booty implant. Then I remember soap exists, and I, like most people, use my cell phone while using the bathroom, so I mean, I’m always a skosh dirty anyway.

I subconsciously think that in any interaction with a man, I’m taking up valuable time I’m not worthy of. I’m not alone in this. All my girlfriends have dealt with these thoughts and I’m sick of it! Women have to stop apologizing for things they don’t need to apologize for. A guy bumps into us, we apologize. In a pitch meeting, a man cuts us off while we’re talking, and we say, “Sorry. You were speaking. Go ahead.” Society conditions women to believe that their baseline for operating ought to be gratitude. Not gratitude as in appreciating being alive and healthy, but gratitude as in, “You should feel lucky we’re even taking a chance on you. Don’t fuck it up.”

Society’s like some shitty club we got dressed up to go to because we’ve been convinced it’s amazing even though, truth be told, da clurb needs us. The bouncer’s an asshole, makes some snide comments, reminds you that he normally wouldn’t let you in, and then, once you’re inside, the DJ is just playing the Black Eyed Peas and Hoobastank all night, and you and your girlfriends look at each other like, “I went to some bougie spa and let my vajeen get steamed like it’s an eight-piece dumpling appetizer at a restaurant for this?”

The days of me behaving and believing that my life is an imposition on others is over. And I want that to be true for every woman alive. We belong here, society, so get used to it, or you can take your sorry ass home.

In what world is a white man backed by a group of white men screaming a sexually derogatory term at a black woman a joke? Damn sure not the world that neither of us are living in.

I hugged him and said it was good to see him. It wasn’t. It sucked, but I didn’t want to make him feel weird if everyone hugged him except me, so I “took one for the team.” I know, I know, but in that moment, I couldn’t overpower what society had conditioned in me. I hugged him even though I didn’t want to touch him, let alone be in the same room as him.

I felt small again. And that’s the thing people forget about harassment’s real power. Harassment is not designed to be temporary; it’s intended to stay with you, keep you in line, never allow you to fully relax and be calm. That way the perpetrator doesn’t even have to do the work of oppressing you. You’ll inadvertently do the work for him long after he’s forgotten what he’s done.

I am happy to report that as my career has advanced and I’ve hit certain milestones, I’m no longer on the receiving end of this kind of behavior, but isn’t that kind of sad? That simply because I’m a woman, I’m not afforded the baseline of respect as a coworker that’s afforded male comics. I have to earn it, and by “it,” I mean my humanity. That’s fucking ridiculous.

It’s three minutes of pop perfection, and just when you think the song is over because they stop singing, Diddy comes in and talks nonsense and keeps the song going. Periods, don’t be like Diddy.

I know that purses are the jam, but sometimes I don’t feel like carrying one and instead want to roam the Earth like a stoner dude at a Dave Matthews Band concert, meaning I wanna rock pants that are more pockets than actual pants. So, clothing companies, throw all us ladies a freakin’ bone here and stop with fake pockets in pants. Even worse than fake pockets are the tiny pockets that only go knuckle deep, so instead of being able to relax my hands and arms comfortably, I’m now engaging my biceps, triceps, and traps in order to rest my fingers in pockets they’ll never fit in anyway. What in the huh is this P90X class that I didn’t sign up for about?

Women’s lives and health simply aren’t valued. Our very lives are disregarded and viewed as an irritation.

“Always look for the helpers. There’s always someone who’s trying to help.” There’s more helpers than we think. Look for them. I’m one of them. And so are countless others.

For some women, the mere thought of a dong makes their vajeens let out the driest of coughs. #WheresTheRicola.