Colonialism is not satisfied merely with holding a people in its grip and emptying the native’s brain of all form and content. By a kind of perverted logic, it turns to the past of the oppressed people, and distorts, disfigures, and destroys it.
The Wretched Of The Earth - Frantz Fanon(via blackcommunist)
What have you done? Do you realize what subjection reduce you to? A toilsome slavery under the Spaniards! Turn your eyes to the subject nations and look at the misery to which such glorious nations had been reduced. Look at the Tagalogs and Visayans! Are you better than they? Do you think the Spaniards consider you of better stuff? Have you not seen how the Spaniards trample them under their feet?…
Sultan Dipatuan Kudarat (1581-1671) in his 1639 speech before the Maranao datus. He was the great Sultan of Maguindanao, a large and strong Muslim kingdom/state located in Mindanao (southern Philippines) during the 16th to the 19th century. The sultan was so successful in hindering the Spanish colonization of Mindanao during his reign, that a Spanish friar described the sultan in 1637 as “the thunderbolt of Lucifer, the scourge of Catholicism, and the Attila of the evangelical ministers.”
A Filipino hero in his own right. :)
This excerpt of Kudarat’s speech was discovered by historian Cesar Adib Majul in the vast collections of the National Archives of the Philippines. O_o
Here’s what I think is going on some of the time when trans* women are selectively accused of being ‘too academic’. I think the critic is saying: ‘You’ve spent time thinking about something I don’t have to think about, and I don’t want to have to.’
Society, however, does not see all fat as being equal. A man can be much, much fatter than a woman and still be viewed as comfortably within the standard deviation; most department stores carry men’s pants up to a size 42, which is the rough equivalent of a women’s size 24—a size that a woman would have to visit a specialty big-girl store or “Women’s” department to find. Men are comfortable on beaches with their beach-ball bellies hanging over their swimsuit waistbands, bronzing their fat in the sun, whereas my fat women friends struggle to find swimwear that does not feature a skirt.
So me, I’m transgendered. It means that the gender I present in the world is not congruent with the sex that I was assigned at birth; in practical terms, I mostly look like a man but have a body that some would consider physiologically female. Even though I don’t identify as a man (I am a butch, which is its own gender), I am taken for a man about two-thirds of the time. And when I am taken for a man, I am not fat.
As a man, I’m a big dude, but not outside the norm for such things. I am just barely fat enough to shop at what I call The Big Fat Tall Guy Store, and can sometimes find my size in your usual boy-upholstery emporia. Major clothing labels, like Levi Strauss, make nice things in my size, and I am never forced to wear anything that appears to have been manufactured at Mendel the Tentmaker’s House o’ Fashion. (Although those things do exist for men, too. Those terrycloth shirts with the waistbands? Oy.) I can order extra salad dressing or ice cream or anything else in a restaurant and have it arrive without comment; I can eat it in public without anyone taking a bit of notice, even if I am shoving it into my mouth while walking down a crowded street and getting crumbs all over my chest in the process. I can run for a bus or train without anyone making a snide remark.
As a big guy, I’m big enough to make miscreants or troublemakers decide to take their hostility elsewhere. As a woman, I am revolting. I am not only unattractively mannish but also grossly fat. The clothes I can fit into at the local big-girl stores tend to fit around the neck and then get bigger as they go downward, which results in a festive butch-in-a-bag look—all the rage nowhere, ever. No matter how clearly I order a Coke in a restaurant I must be on a diet, and so I get a Diet Coke—usually with a lemon floating in it accusatorily, looking up at me as if to say, “This is as good as it’s going to get, lardass.” Wait staff develop selective amnesia about my side of fries or my request for butter, and G-d help me if I get caught eating (or even shopping) in public as a woman.
S. Bear Bergman, “Part-Time Fatso” (via wretchedoftheearth)
I love how stories make facts come to life.