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Rebecca Solnit:

I gave a talk on Virginia Woolf a few years ago. During the question-and-answer period that followed it, the subject that seemed to most interest a number of people was whether Woolf should have had children. I answered the question dutifully, noting that Woolf apparently considered having children early in her marriage, after seeing the delight that her sister, Vanessa Bell, took in her own. But over time Woolf came to see reproduction as unwise, perhaps because of her own psychological instability. Or maybe, I suggested, she wanted to be a writer and to give her life over to her art, which she did with extraordinary success. In the talk I had quoted with approval her description of murdering “the angel of the house,” the inner voice that tells many women to be self-sacrificing handmaidens to domesticity and male vanity. I was surprised that advocating for throttling the spirit of conventional femininity should lead to this conversation.

What I should have said to that crowd was that our interrogation of Woolf’s reproductive status was a soporific and pointless detour from the magnificent questions her work poses. (I think at some point I said, “Fuck this shit,” which carried the same general message and moved everyone on from the discussion.) After all, many people have children; only one made To the Lighthouse and The Waves, and we were discussing Woolf because of the books, not the babies.


The full AP investigation on cops who have lost their badges for “sexual misconduct” (that category includes rape, btw):

In a yearlong investigation of sexual misconduct by U.S. law enforcement, The Associated Press uncovered about 1,000 officers who lost their badges in a six-year period for rape, sodomy and other sexual assault; sex crimes that included possession of child pornography; or sexual misconduct such as propositioning citizens or having consensual but prohibited on-duty intercourse.

The number is unquestionably an undercount because it represents only those officers whose licenses to work in law enforcement were revoked, and not all states take such action. California and New York — with several of the nation’s largest law enforcement agencies — offered no records because they have no statewide system to decertify officers for misconduct. And even among states that provided records, some reported no officers removed for sexual misdeeds even though cases were identified via news stories or court records.


On the chaos and corruption of Florida’s mental hospitals:

FLORIDA’S STATE-FUNDED MENTAL HOSPITALS are supposed to be safe places to house and treat people who are a danger to themselves or others.

But years of neglect and $100 million in budget cuts have turned them into treacherous warehouses where violence is out of control and patients can’t get the care they need.


Captain Awkward on how to tell your dysfunctional family why you’re not coming for the holidays:

People from fucked up families do not owe people from ‘normal’ families the performance of ‘normality’ or happiness, especially around the holidays. The hot shame and terror you feel when people ask “What are you doing for Christmas” or say “But what about your faaaaaamily!” without realizing that their small talk is your stuff of nightmares is real, and I’m sorry. It’s such a shitty combination of feeling put on the spot, shown up for not being ‘normal,’ maybe with the stab of grief for the memories you *should* have had, and anger at the happy obliviousness of the questioner. Sometimes the best answer is a non-answer, like “we like a very quiet Christmas” (who’s ‘we?’ who cares?) and sometimes it’s “that’s not a very happy time of year for me, but I am glad it is for you” and sometimes it’s “haven’t really made a plan yet, but tell me all about yours?!?” and sometimes the best answer is the naked truth: “My parents are alcoholics and all my worst memories are of Christmas with them. I’m trying really hard to make a new tradition for myself, and thanks to boyfriend I’m happy to be a part of yours this year.” Or “The holidays are triggering for me, and sometimes I can’t always predict how I’ll react.”


Anna Fitzpatrick to her teen self and any teen selves who are so anxious about sex they’re gonna puke (also who know virginity is totally heteronormative anyway):

You’re growing up in a liberal Canadian city during an era when Degrassi: The Next Generation is airing the abortion episode that was banned in the States. Your parents are cool with letting your older sister date. Your high school has a strong sex-ed program where you’re learning that it’s okay to want sex. Your health teachers educate you about contraceptive methods. The teen magazines you consume voraciously are all run by third-wavers who challenge the word “slut.” Your friends talk openly about their experiences. You agree with these things on a political level. You are sex positive, you budding feminist you. You believe people should do what they want with their bodies. And yet, this ironically makes you feel guiltier that you aren’t doing what you want with yours. Everywhere you look, it seems, people are doin’ it — and you’re still a virgin. (Even your fictional nerd friends have betrayed you. The sixth Harry Potter book just came out, and he’s getting more action than you.) With every passing day, week, month that you go without having sex, your anxiety grows and you wonder if there is something inherently wrong with you.


On the history and science of the sports bra:

In the Victorian era, women turned to corsets to keep their breasts from moving too much. Those competing at Wimbledon in 1887 returned to their dressing rooms in between matches to “unhitch their bloody corsets,” having been “repeatedly stabbed by the metal and whale bone stays of the cumbersome garments” as they played.

By 1911, women got a “sports corset” with flexible material, and thanks to the 1914 tango craze, someone even invented a dancing corset. But it wasn’t until the 1920s that bras started to replace corsets in the United States, and while brassieres designed for athletic purposes were patented as early as 1906, they simply never caught on.


I have some DELIGHTFUL news to share, which is that our beloved tech goth Maria is now our beloved tech goth Marco (Marco is transmasculine, and would prefer he/him pronouns but is still chill with being called Maria OR Marco right now) and is having a lil fundraiser for top surgery! Marco has been with the site almost from the beginning, is devastatingly handsome, and we love him and are thrilled that he’s taking this step, and we at The Toast would be super grateful for your support.

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On a commonly misinterpreted study that anti-trans people like to reference:

McHugh’s fact assertions were uncritically repeated by The American Conservative, Lifesite, The Christian Post, The Washington Times, Newsmax, One News Now, The Libertarian Republic, and Fox News. While McHugh’s misrepresentation of the study was debunked, the “trans medical care = suicide” meme was born. Since McHugh’s Wall Street Journal article, this meme has managed to worm it’s way into everything from news outlets to comment sections.


HBCU Love Stories:

4. Even if you forget to ask for their number, it can all work out in a beautiful and unexpected way.

Was walking back to my dorm on my way to class and I heard someone say, “Ay you smell good.” I turned around and saw this beautiful woman standing there. I went up to talk to her; I was so nervous that I walked away without asking for her number and her name. I saw her again a few weeks later and refused to miss my opportunity. I got her number and we set a date to hang out. The first night we hung out we ended up talking in the lobby of my dorm until the sun came up the next day — that’s when I knew she was special. We’ve been together ever since. We met at Tuskegee University #SkegeeLove.


What Willie Nelson wants, I want (even if I am now more a cultural stoner than a practicing one):

This begins to add up when you do the math. Nelson has spent the past 60 years touring the American landscape; the current version of the Honeysuckle Rose is the fifth tour bus to bear its name; each of the buses has crossed the country dozens, if not hundreds, of times; and even now, in his ninth decade, Nelson spends about 150 nights each year on the road. Just about everywhere he stops for the night, he is greeted by a welcoming party of local growers, many of whom have been visiting him on the Rosefor years and are eager — one might say determined — to give him a taste of their best grow. Nelson has developed, then, what may be the most expansive network of marijuana suppliers in the country, and as a daily pot smoker leading the unfettered life of a meandering troubadour whose habits are a secret to no one, it is distinctly possible that he has smoked more high-grade weed over the past six decades than anyone else alive.

A consequence of all this highness is that Nelson’s tolerance is supernatural. He can easily smoke 30 or 40 hits in a session and then play a flawless two-hour show. He does not always deploy this talent toward noble ends. He is famous for smoking new friends to oblivion and then challenging them to a few hands of high-stakes poker. Willie’s game is cash-only, and all debts must be settled at the table. This has led to stories among his intimates of the time he refused to let Woody Harrelson leave the room until he could deliver $40,000 in cash. It has also led to more than one folk song about the perils of smoking with Nelson, including a Toby Keith ballad with the refrain “I’ll never smoke weed with Willie again” and a new jingle introduced by Jack Johnson at Farm Aid this year whose chorus revolves around the line “Willie got me stoned and took all my money.”


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