Tampons and Dildos: Facebook Censorship

I got a bit miffed today, and I think this needs as wide a reach as possible, so it deserves its own post.

Facebook apparently considers tampons to be "sex toys" and refuses to allow Alaurra Weaver at www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger to promote her work because she talks about *gasp* menstruation.

In my work as a historical fiction author, one of the hardest and most maddening research tasks is trying to find information on women's health. It has always been, and STILL is, such a taboo topic that we don't dare speak of it. The lack of information on key aspects of the lives of half the world's population is outrageous.

The ridiculousness of sexism and outlandish prudery of some definitions of obscenity are a couple of the very few things that truly offend me. The attitude that female bodily functions are obscene or pornographic is one of the reasons that women the world over are kept locked in a metaphorical (and sometimes all-too-real) back shed to shield the world from their impure existence.

Without menstruation, not a one of us would be here. Without women struggling to deal with the daily realities of sexism, misogyny, and body-shaming throughout history, none of the small-minded who wish to label women as unclean would exist.

Fuck you, and the tampon you rode in on, Facebook.

Please help spread some great history articles and support a woman writer.

Part 1: www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/2015/10/21/a-history-of-menstrual-hygiene-from-free-bleeding-to-flow-tracking-apps

Part 2: http://www.mommybloggerforhire.com/badassmotherblogger/on-the-rag-menstrual-products-from-ancient-greece-to-the-Americas

The Buzzfeed Article: http://www.buzzfeed.com/alauraweaver/does-facebook-really-think-tampons-are-sex-toys-1ylb2





 Image courtesy of stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

On Christmas Morning

He claps his hands, his face suffused with joy, and runs off to write a Christmas wish list. He's giddy at the idea of waking up there; he wonders what they'll have under the tree, and how they'll spend the day.

I sit alone, smothering the bitterness roiling at the one disrupting our lives after years of indifference and absence, and instead focus on the happiness it will bring the one I love.

I sit alone, avoiding thoughts of the deafening silence I'll hear when I wake at a reasonable hour, instead of at the crack of dawn with warm little hands nudging me and a squeal of delight, "Santa came!"

I sit alone, refusing to listen to that slithering whisper in the back of my mind. What if he likes it better there?

I sit alone, wondering if he'll come home and ask, innocent and unaware of the rending of my heart, "Mom, can I go live with him?"

I sit alone, anticipating silence.

Thanksgiving: Generations

I scurry about the house, jittery, focusing on the preparations. It’s always like this. In the hours before everyone arrives, the idea of the family dinner intimidates me. I try to conjure ideas for witty conversation while spreading table cloths and pulling dishes from cabinets, but when the time comes, all wit escapes me.

Seasons mark the passage of time, like generations retiring to make room for the young. Some people like spring. The new growth and cool showers rejuvenate them. Others like summer, basking in the sun and outdoor fun. Then there are those who baffle me with their affinity for the snow and teeth-chattering short days of winter. My favorite is autumn. I love the warm colors falling like rain drops from the trees. I love the metallic tang in the air when I step outside. I love Thanksgiving, and a large family dinner. Everyone leaves their far-flung corners to gather for sustenance, physical and emotional.

I set out silverware and plates, arrange napkins, and devise a centerpiece. As I move about the long, make-shift arrangement of tables lined end-to-end, I envision everyone, already in their chairs, chattering and laughing as they wait for the feast. As I notice a similarity of traits in my clan, the image focuses on three figures.

My grandfather sits at the head of the table. His balding head gleams in the soft light, his large frame cocked to the left, with his elbows planted on the table. His huge hands, seamed with wrinkles and age spots that belie my childhood memories of a man in his prime, link loosely together just below his square chin. Thin lips press together in the slightest of smiles. It’s difficult to tell if his smile is the outward expression of a sense of superiority, which lies just below the surface, or simply mild amusement. There's something fantastic in his shoulders, in the way he holds them, as if an invisible mantle hangs upon them that bestows a greater…everything. He pulls his shoulders back and holds them straight, steadfast. They embody the pride he carries with him, like a coat of armor, inspiring admiration for the soldier of years past. His shoulders have carried large burdens, too heavy for many men. They embody strength and security. But armor can shield too well, preventing true closeness and intimacy. I'm certain I'll never peel that armor back quite far enough to see what hides underneath.

Then I picture my brother. He sits much looser, without the obvious rigid control of the man beside  him; he projects less visible tension. But as he shifts in his chair, I spot the signs of restlessness. He’s never still for long. His hands, so similar to his grandfather’s, are gentler in some indefinable way. They rest upon the table, then cradle the back of his head as he leans back with a sigh. The arms are thinner, more sinuous. But his shoulders mimic his ancestor's. Not quite as broad, but they have the same lines. I see the deeper differences, though. These shoulders speak of more pain endured and truly felt; absorbed rather than deflected. They do not offer the same inviting impression of security. More vulnerable, less guarded. But I know they shelter something within. The armor isn’t as thick, but it’s made from the same resilient material and formed from the same mold.

Last, I see my son in my vision. The thought brings a tightening in my chest; an unbearable ache, a need to hold him and keep him always within my reach. He squirms in his chair, that dazzling, mischievous smile lighting upon anyone who looks his way. Overwhelmed by the larger-than-normal crowd and all of the attention, his eyes flicker to me for reassurance.

He reminds me of the leaves swirling in a blustery autumn breeze, free and loose. Yet his excitement prompts a virtual vibration of his entire body, invisible energy on the verge of explosion. He sits straight, then leans to grab the cup belonging to the person next to him, then shifts to look at the people at the far end of the table who erupted in laughter, his green eyes opening wide in surprise. Between his bursts of movement, I catch a glimpse of his hands and his smile; the hands of a small child, the smile of a cherub. But when I look closer, I notice his hands are large for a boy his size, with long, slender fingers--exactly like his grandfather’s and uncle’s hands. He reaches to rub his ear, brushing away the bronze-red hair that tickled it. He has a slim neck, with the spot under his ear that I can’t help nuzzling whenever he allows me to restrain him for the briefest moment. He has the shoulders, too. They aren't as big or as broad, of course. On a child, they look as fragile as the whisper-thin bones of a hummingbird. But potential inhabits his shoulders. I try to imagine the man he will become, but it's too soon, and the picture eludes me. I pray he won't encounter too much pain, but I know he will bear his share. I hope when he meets challenges, he learns to absorb what makes him grow and learn, and manages to deflect what can damage his soul. His shoulders will carry burdens, and his hands will bear scars. Just like his grandfather and uncle.

I finish the settings, making small adjustments, fidgeting until it's just right. The aroma of rich food--turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie--fills the air. I admonish my son to stop playing with the napkins I just folded and scoop him up as he giggles. I bury my face in that precious spot on his neck, inhale his little boy scent, and endure the painful swell of love he brings to my heart.

The others arrive, and I hug my grandfather and brother. As each embrace me, my cheek nestles against their shoulders. They comfort me and calm my nerves.

 

Image courtesy of Apolonia at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Not Sad

The chirping ring broke through the haze of half-sleep. Faded denim light seeped around the curtains. Another chirp. Pushing myself out of the bed in a flash, I stumbled from the bedroom. My shoulder hit the doorframe with a staggering crunch. “Ouch! Dammit!” Feet not awake yet. Who the fuck would be calling so early? Mom? Better not be a wrong number. Down the hallway and into the dining room—don’t step on the exposed tackstrip. Christ, I have to finish that floor. My bleary eyes scanned the desk, glossing over the piles of books, stacks of papers. Did the kid leave the damned phone somewhere else again? One more chirp let me zero in. I snatched the phone from the crack in the couch.

“Hello?”

“Ms. McDonald?”
“Yessss?” I said. Not Mom. Not a wrong number. Maybe a bill collector? No, too early. My heart skipped a beat. Something worse.
“Sorry to disturb you so early. I’m Officer Jackson with the Kansas Highway Patrol. I have some bad news.”
Kansas? I only knew one person in Kansas.
“Brandon has died in an auto accident. His wife asked that I call you—I understand you have a son with him?”
I mumbled some kind of reply.
“My condolences to you and your son. He was on his way to work and collided with an 18-wheeler. The scene wasn’t discovered for several hours, the other driver was unconscious. Brandon was transported to the hospital with severe injuries, but he died a short time later.”
“I see.”
“I expect they’ll notify you of the funeral arrangements. If you need anything, please feel free to call me at 316-555-8691. Again, my condolences.”
“Thank you.”

I pushed the “off” button and set the phone on the desk. My heart thumped as if filled with molasses. I pulled the desk chair over and sank into it. Rapid, shallow breaths flowed from my lips, making them dry. I licked the parched skin and allowed the grin to stretch across my face.

Finally. I’d waited years for that call. The scenario changed each time I imagined it; a prison escapee had burst into his house and murdered him; a heart attack, or better yet, a long torturous cancer; a tornado flung him through the air and impaled him on a jagged spike of twisted metal. A million versions, all ending the same way.

I tried to feel bad, now that it had happened. I tried to conjure some sense of sadness or grief. It wouldn’t come. I only felt relief. Well, not only that. A rush of grim satisfaction pulsed through me at the thought that he suffered for a little while.

 

I knew it would be difficult for Connor, our son. He would grieve, and I would comfort him. I would hold him close and wipe away the tears. But I wouldn’t voice the brutal reality.

‘It’s better this way, honey. I know it hurts now, but this is only for a little while and the pain will fade. You’ll have the chance to live only with the memories you choose. If he’d lived, your pain would continue. He cared nothing for you. He never called, let alone bothered to come see you. He spent money on his own toys, but none for you. You cried so many times, wishing he would give you just a few moments of his time; just show he cared a little. Now you don’t have to question why he didn’t care. Those nagging doubts about yourself can die with him. It’s better this way, I promise.”

A strange emptiness settled in my chest. The anger and hatred I carried for so long left me. I would no longer have to lay in the dark, seething with fury after soothing Connor’s anguish and hearing him lament, “I wish I could see my dad.” I wouldn’t have to lie in response, “Honey, he’s just busy working; he works a lot. Soon, maybe.”

I sat by the desk as the sun’s rays topped the trees. I thought of the pointless, banal words I would give him instead. The birds awakened on their boughs, singing their cheer. I listened to their distant, muted calls and planned fun excursions to distract him: the zoo, camping, maybe the museum. I pulled in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and peace settled over me.

My eyes opened, a flash of confusion in the darkness. Not at the desk. In bed.

“Fuck.” A heavy sigh as I rolled over. Disappointed, again. “Soon, maybe.”