Tag: feminism

Tickling or Torture: What It Teaches Us About Consent

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By Alyssa Bluhm

I have a vivid memory of being tickled when I was about five years old. My dad and my uncle tickled me to the floor, sandwiching me between the wall and the dining room table. While my uncle tickled me, my dad pretended to pull Cheerios out of my bellybutton and strawberries out of my strawberry-blonde hair, slurping them up like a delicious bowl of cereal. That was one of my dad’s favorite jokes when I was young, and it’s still a fond memory. Mostly.

I also remember that, as the tickling continued, my laughter turned to tears of pain, that my ribs felt close to cracking with every gasping breath, that I felt cornered and helpless, and that nothing I did would get them to stop.

Photo by Caroline Hernandez

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5 Products for Women ONLY

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By Addie Whelan

As a woman, I’ve always worried about using pens or even ear plugs that create the urge to put on a flannel and chop down trees. Maybe the pens will suddenly sprout a beard, or maybe as I brush my teeth, my car’s oil will suddenly need changing. Even more, what if those bulky, black pens don’t fit right in small, petite, feminine hands? Or what if I am on the barricade at a Justin Bieber concert—screaming until my voice goes hoarse—and those manly orange ear plugs don’t squeeze into my ears?

Rather than damage my ears and worry about my choice in writing utensils being too masculine, I searched for the best alternatives. Here are five products “made especially for women.”

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Where Did You Learn to Speak to Women Like That?

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By Lisa Marchand

There are many things I love about being a woman. In fact, many days I’m grateful to live in this day and age as a female. But there are some days, ones that still come too often, where I wonder how progression still feels so stagnated. Days where I cannot comprehend the disrespect we face on the streets.

Several weeks ago I left the bus shaking, immediately dialing my father to tearfully thank him for being the man that he is. Shortly after, I called my mom to tell her what happened. What I experienced churned up feelings inside of me that meant—although grown up and on my own—I still needed my parents to process the mysteries of the world.

Photo by Louis Blythe

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Taylor and Jordan: A Love Story, Minus the Pronouns

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By Jenny Doocy

Taylor Johnson parked the rusted old pickup truck in front of a suburban mansion, two houses down from the intended destination, and sent a short text that simply read here. Being chivalrous and walking up to the door, at the risk of being seen in this part of town, was not an option. In other situations a quick honk would have sufficed, but seeing as neither of them wanted to draw attention to their meeting—that is, any more attention than a beat up truck in this neighborhood would cause—a text message seemed the way to go.

Taylor waited for Jordan Smith, releasing nervous energy by drumming two long, slender fingers against the steering wheel, body moving to the rhythm of the music coming from the old radio, sneakers tapping against the pedals to match the beat of the fingers.

Photo by Steve Halama

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Pen Friends

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By Kelcie McKenney

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In the fifth grade I paid $1.95 for a best friend.

My French teacher pressed us to try a pen pal service that would let us meet new friends across the globe. I wasn’t all that interested in France—my French was a mumble at best—so I set my eyes on England instead. I sealed in a check, a survey about my interests, and the hopes of meeting an international friend into an envelope addressed to the International Youth Service.

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