- Joined
- May 26, 2017
OK i've seen this name thrown around all week who the hell is Taylor Lorenz and what did she do in the first place?
Social Justice Warriors - Now With Less Feminism Sperging
- Thread starter José Mourinho
- Start date
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2019
"Tyler the Creator Foundation - How the fuck is cyberbullying real nigga, just close your eyes, turn off the computer, nigga!"
I straight up have no fucking idea, I know she was with the NYT, and I think she was involved in the story about whatever schlomo got fired for the trip to Peru where he said non-woke things, and got fired.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
Its purpose will be to try and find the holy grail; a cure for cyberbullying.
Also known as a power button.
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2020
You can just tell how lowly SJWS view Asians by not even mentioning them.
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2019
Asians are white, especially to blacks. Doubly so for woke blacks.
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2020
SJWs also don’t grasp that telling someone to “show empathy, show compassion” alludes being the least empathetic and least compassionate of all. Plus, they don’t have time to listen and learn when their “allies” are too busy “canceling” fictional cartoon characters while burning/looting small-owned businesses and mom-and-pop stores.
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2020
"They falsely claimed" Lol no Nkencho left two people critical in the hospital and they did EVERYTHING they could to try to get him to calm down and cooperate. Unfortunately, he ended up trying to kill a Gardai and he got what was coming to him.
Today was Nkencho's funeral and there were a lot of people. Woke media silence as per usual.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
If you charge at a garda while waving a machete you can expect to be killed.
I'd actually like an enquiry to take place so that we can all see that Nkenchu's death was entirely a consequence of him fucking around and finding out.
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2019
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
You'd figure white people would know more about racism, since every single one of us is a murderous Nazi. That pretty much makes us all experts.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
- Joined
- Aug 16, 2019
Lmao victims of abuse in relationships who literally have mortgages and kids with their abusers get shit on for not leaving the situation, and YOU want to compare that to a stranger on the internet hurting you in the feels while you choose to...remain on the internet?
Super-Chevy454
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2018
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2020
- Joined
- Apr 6, 2015
putting women out of work
why does maxim hate women
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2019
The thread has more responses in that vein, despite it not being relevant.
No evidence of Wes Yang advocating for rape culture has been produced, but she's gone protected, naturally.
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- Joined
- Jun 4, 2018
The whole 'wah women can't walk safely at night' bothered me, and it prodded a trip through my archives.
A friend of mine related this story; from his description I would presume it was from the late sixties or early seventies. But it's very illustrative of how second and third wave feminism have so badly fouled the nest for everyone. Compounded, of course, by identity politics bullshit.
TLDR: women didn't have to worry about walking at night because rough men were perfectly ready to offer violence on their behalf.
A friend of mine related this story; from his description I would presume it was from the late sixties or early seventies. But it's very illustrative of how second and third wave feminism have so badly fouled the nest for everyone. Compounded, of course, by identity politics bullshit.
I lived in Boston for several years, undergrad and first orbit through grad school at Boston University. There is, in the midst of BU territory - "territory" seems more apropos than "campus," as BU's a city school and doesn't really have a campus - a quiet backwater called Bay State Road. It was, before BU got it in a stranglehold, a very nice residential street lined with brownstones. At some point the university began to buy these, until by my time it owned probably 60% of them. Nowadays it likely owns them all.
The school used some for offices, but most as housing. BU insists - or did at the time - that out-of-town freshmen must live in. Given the size of the student body (33,000, more or less) this wasn't easy. Having mandated the thousands of freshmen must live in, the school was in a perpetual scramble to find places to put them.
In my day the Bay State brownstone population was 100% female, of whom probably 85% every year were freshmen. This made Bay State Road, sadly, a target for Boston's abundant supply of bad boys, and every school year there were thirty to fifty rapes in the alleys and quiet corners of the street. This wasn't a student issue, but an outright Boston crime problem. The school offices were closed at night, the street lighting was terrible: it had been a high-end residential street, and the high-end residents hadn't wanted streetlights shining in their windows. They were high-end enough back in the 1920s and 30s to get their way. Combine the darkness with the fact that all the foot traffic on the street was female, and it was easy. (These were real, actual, go-to-the-hospital, broken-nosed, broken teethed, ripped-open-lipped Bill Clinton rapes; not failures to properly consent in triplicate. Lena Dunham and that jackass with the mattress running around Columbia a few years ago do not know what rape actually looks like.)
In the summer before my senior year as an undergrad it occurred to someone in the administration that maybe a brownstone or two along the street should be stocked with boys, just to create a little male traffic on the night sidewalks. (Just for a moment, imagine that as a solution, with today's dynamic!) Whoever thought this also decided they wanted at least a couple of upperclassmen there, guys who knew their ass from their elbow about Boston. This was trickier than it sounds. Once past freshman year males tend to vanish from the dorms - except the scholarship athletes who live in them free. I was in a dorm freshman year, perforce; then spent the next two years in apartments in Brookline.
When this plan was hatched by the school, I was girding myself to begin hunting down a home, as the owner of my apartment building had kicked everyone out to remodel the place. A friend who worked in the Housing Office told me that the university was very quietly looking for no more than three or four seniors of a type (I never did figure out what the hell "type" we were supposed to be, which I apparently was) who'd be willing to move back to a dorm, and gave me a name to go and see. I did. I talked to Mr. Housing Office to such good effect that I was able to negotiate very nearly free room and board in exchange for my willingness to move back.
There were thirty-two of us in this new male dorm. (Two brownstones shoved together.) Three of us more or less hand-picked seniors, a couple juniors, and the rest freshmen. Us seniors were invited to move in a few days earlier than anyone else to spend some time with our RA, who would acquaint us with the situation. (He was 26, finishing up a doctorate in something I've completely forgotten.) BU wasn't so irresponsible they actually expected us to do anything, we were not cops or watchmen, and they were very, very careful about making abundantly clear there was no expectation we would act as such, or even ever infer that we might act as such. (The liability would have been insane if they'd ever even intimated anything along those lines, so they very carefully didn't.) We were simply asked to be there, and be ourselves: male.
Which I think is interesting, given today's campus meme. How times - and perceptions - have changed! Our presence, brought in quite deliberately to be foxes in the henhouse, was seen in those innocent days as a positive, maybe even helpful, hopefully, even, in effect protective thing. Imagine that! (My young friend in her senior year, cannot imagine that kind of thinking by a university administration. Not a chance. Flatly wouldn't happen today. All the female administration people regard the male students as incipient monsters.)
A week after us elders arrived, everybody else did. It takes boys about two minutes to move in. (Enter, locate room, dump stuff on bed or floor, go find something to eat.) It takes girls rather longer to get settled, and they have a lot more stuff, so, as the only males in sight, our obliging lads spent the day up and down the street, obligingly carrying. They were also very efficiently making friends.
How efficiently they made friends was brought home to me and Jerry, our RA, in the first few days of classes, a few days later. We were sitting on the porch one early September afternoon with our feet up, working our way through a bottle of wine and a couple of fine cigars, watching the comings and goings at the front door beside us. An astonishing amount of the traffic brushing by us was, oddly enough, unaccompanied young ladies, somehow able to unlock our front door and come and go at will.
Which led to a serious discussion about boundaries. "How many girls," Jerry wondered, "do you suppose already have our front door key?" I took a swallow of my wine (a 1962 Chateauneuf du Pape: it was great, and we bought and went through every case we could corner in Boston and environs that year), and answered, "beats me, but it looks like a hell of a lot." "Girlfriends?" he speculated. "No," I said, "they couldn't possibly all be girlfriends - we've only been here a week!" He nodded meditatively, and said, "is it bothering anybody?" I answered, "no. I think everybody likes having them around." He nodded again. "The hell with it, then." End of serious discussion.
(Another contrast to today. Today a discussion about an evanescent-yet-occasionally-troublesome concept like "boundaries" would require disinterested third-party moderators, note-takers, at least two committees, several meetings, half a dozen votes, and would tangle everybody up in earnest bullshit for six weeks.)
We were easy. We didn't have any rules - or boundaries, apparently - and everybody did like having them around. (An astonishing number of the boys seemed to have sisters, too, so they were completely accustomed to it, and it made them feel the place was very homelike.) And the girls, most of them
freshmen and new to Boston themselves, seemed to like being around. It was occasionally a pain in the ass, as when you were locked out of your bathroom because somebody - often somebody rather endearing - was in there having a bubble bath, but there were five other bathrooms. (This was two old brownstones knocked together, remember, not a modern dorm. Our bathrooms featured showers and bathubs, two of them with claw feet, yet.) Girls seemed to like baths, and when their own tubs across the street or next door to either side were busy many of them became perfectly at home with coming over and muscling in on ours.
We quickly acquired commuters, too, who showed up every evening to spend the night. This was an interesting aspect to the place. There was a fair amount of sex, no doubt; but I also know there were a fair number of cases where, as one young lady plainly told me, she just slept better with him. Uncertain, and far from home, he was a substitute teddy bear for her, and she was a comfort to him. BU is a huge impersonal place, and it can be difficult for someone of either sex, away from home for the first time, to find their nervous feet. Having someone warm spooned into you in the lonely reaches of a long New England night helps, no question. (And I have to say, pitched into a zoo like BU, in a zoo like Boston, a lot of kids don't make it past the first few weeks. A lot of kids didn't - and probably still don't today - make a go of it. It's just too lonely, and too different for a lot of them. I'll give a little credit to Jerry, and John and Kenny - the other two seniors - and myself: we knew that. If having her there to hold on to all night and talk to until three in the morning helped make it work - fine.)
I asume they let nature guide them to something more than just sleeping together - but it's entirely possible they didn't. Simple sleepovers went on all the time, and there were a few girls who slept all over the place, but were absolutely untouchable. In a category of their own, sisters, perhaps, or maybe mascots. They distributed - and received - a lot of very pure affection, and they were the "go-tos" when something serious beyond the usual stuff was troubling one of the kids and Jerry felt he ought to know about it. These girls always knew what was up.
There was a night in late September when my commuter - her name was Jessica - was in her own room across the street being miserable with a lousy cold. I had successfully postponed practically the entire first three weeks of classes, so had a lot to do scattered around my desk. (I'd already been accepted to grad school, and by this time had become one of those people who went to school in bursts. By mid-October I'm sure we'd spent as much time on the Cape and Vineyard as we had in Boston. Maybe more. Jess was seventeen, from eastern Colorado, she'd never seen an ocean, she adored the Atlantic at first sight - and was in it thirty seconds after seeing it.) I spent that night at my desk chopping down my backlog while our premier mascot lowered my Murphy bed and watched TV until she conked out halfway through Tonight and slept, unmolested, until morning. (She was a freshman, a cutie, and a child. She was actually older than Jess, but Jess was not a child and no one, upon meeting them, would believe Jess was the younger of the two.) Her name was Doretta, Within ten minutes of meeting her the boys had, inevitably, rechristened her "Dorito." (Within fifteen minutes she was answering to it.) When she got up she helped herself to the use of a hairbrush, swiped a shirt, and off she went.
Brief digression. The girls were always wearing our shirts. As nightgowns, of course, but also through the day. Not T-shirts. T-shirts weren't outerwear much in my day, once you got out of the gym or off the field. Jess made sure to get to the dry-cleaner's box first and invariably wore my shirts once before I did. (By the end of September I wasn't even trying: she was just picking them up directly from the cleaners - startched lightly to her taste.) Huge as they were on her she wore them all, but she favoured formal-wear, and espcially liked the ones with pleated bibs, worn with studs and cufflinks. The tuxedo in the closet was mine, but she got as much use out of the shirts that went with it as I did. She was pretty good about not losing too many studs, too. (Didn't wear the links, the sleeves were way too long. She just rolled them up.) Since she wore my shirts first, I had her, distantly, in my nose all day. Which was not bad.
Anyway - back to the flight deck - putting us on Bay State Road worked. Jerry, RA and Grand Exalted Mystic Ruler, was kept aware of what was transpiring, and it seemed our presence did make the street safer. We didn't stop the problem altogether, but we did cut it down considerably just by being there, which had been the object. If they thought about it at all, the university likely viewed us as a sort of Gomorrah, given the way we interacted with our neighborhood, and there were probably those among them who may in some sense have regretted the experiment, success though it was. No question: when the doorbell to the boy's dorm could be answered by a girl with a glass of wine in one hand, wearing little beyond a floppy hat and some guy's shirt, (Marcy - who looked incredible wearing little beyond a floppy hat and one of Georgie's shirts, and a picture of her so attired appeared in the yearbook), this could give pause to even the most liberal of housing administrators, thrashing desperately through the troubled seas of a rapidly changing world. Our little place was crawling with half-dressed girls at all hours. You can't stick 32 boys in the middle of 1,000 girls and expect no repercussions. 32 is a small enough number that they could get to know and be comfortable with all of us. They did - and were.
It was, obviously, a different time, and I remember with some amusement (well, considerable amusement) that in those innocent days BU's first solution to making Bay State Road safer for the girls was what you might once have regarded as the obvious one: ship in a bunch of boys! It was taken for granted that we'd be on their side and would, to some extent, watch out for them. (Carefully never said! BU's lawyers would have had a cow!) Expressed idea or not, we were, and did.
Talking to my young friend, I don't think there's a chance in hell this would be any school administration's first reaction in this day and age. I suppose by current standards the 32 of us were a walking "trigger" just on the basis of anatomy, if you choose to look at it that way. I prefer to look at it, insofar as it's possible for me, through the eyes of a girl I didn't know knocking on our door one windy night in mid-October. She asked rather tremulously if someone would be willing to escort her to her door down the dark street a few blocks away. She had seen, or heard - or imagined - something, and she was frightened. Two of the boys disentangled themselves from the gang watching TV in the living room, linked arms with her as gently as though she were made of Dresden china, and walked her home. (And probably gave her a key to our front door, for emergencies.)
She probably, in those far-off innocent days, thought we were a good idea. (She didn't realize she'd knocked on the door of the tiger cage.) That kind of thing happened every week. I wonder if it would happen at all today, a lone girl knocking on the door of a building she's likely been warned is stocked with monsters - the least safe space on campus. It probably wouldn't. I find that sad. So does this kid I told this story to. It's a real story, a memory; a reminiscence if you like, I've told and thought a bit about before. Neither of us, me or my young friend, know quite where we are these days, and neither of us knows quite how we got here. But it's a very strange place.
The school used some for offices, but most as housing. BU insists - or did at the time - that out-of-town freshmen must live in. Given the size of the student body (33,000, more or less) this wasn't easy. Having mandated the thousands of freshmen must live in, the school was in a perpetual scramble to find places to put them.
In my day the Bay State brownstone population was 100% female, of whom probably 85% every year were freshmen. This made Bay State Road, sadly, a target for Boston's abundant supply of bad boys, and every school year there were thirty to fifty rapes in the alleys and quiet corners of the street. This wasn't a student issue, but an outright Boston crime problem. The school offices were closed at night, the street lighting was terrible: it had been a high-end residential street, and the high-end residents hadn't wanted streetlights shining in their windows. They were high-end enough back in the 1920s and 30s to get their way. Combine the darkness with the fact that all the foot traffic on the street was female, and it was easy. (These were real, actual, go-to-the-hospital, broken-nosed, broken teethed, ripped-open-lipped Bill Clinton rapes; not failures to properly consent in triplicate. Lena Dunham and that jackass with the mattress running around Columbia a few years ago do not know what rape actually looks like.)
In the summer before my senior year as an undergrad it occurred to someone in the administration that maybe a brownstone or two along the street should be stocked with boys, just to create a little male traffic on the night sidewalks. (Just for a moment, imagine that as a solution, with today's dynamic!) Whoever thought this also decided they wanted at least a couple of upperclassmen there, guys who knew their ass from their elbow about Boston. This was trickier than it sounds. Once past freshman year males tend to vanish from the dorms - except the scholarship athletes who live in them free. I was in a dorm freshman year, perforce; then spent the next two years in apartments in Brookline.
When this plan was hatched by the school, I was girding myself to begin hunting down a home, as the owner of my apartment building had kicked everyone out to remodel the place. A friend who worked in the Housing Office told me that the university was very quietly looking for no more than three or four seniors of a type (I never did figure out what the hell "type" we were supposed to be, which I apparently was) who'd be willing to move back to a dorm, and gave me a name to go and see. I did. I talked to Mr. Housing Office to such good effect that I was able to negotiate very nearly free room and board in exchange for my willingness to move back.
There were thirty-two of us in this new male dorm. (Two brownstones shoved together.) Three of us more or less hand-picked seniors, a couple juniors, and the rest freshmen. Us seniors were invited to move in a few days earlier than anyone else to spend some time with our RA, who would acquaint us with the situation. (He was 26, finishing up a doctorate in something I've completely forgotten.) BU wasn't so irresponsible they actually expected us to do anything, we were not cops or watchmen, and they were very, very careful about making abundantly clear there was no expectation we would act as such, or even ever infer that we might act as such. (The liability would have been insane if they'd ever even intimated anything along those lines, so they very carefully didn't.) We were simply asked to be there, and be ourselves: male.
Which I think is interesting, given today's campus meme. How times - and perceptions - have changed! Our presence, brought in quite deliberately to be foxes in the henhouse, was seen in those innocent days as a positive, maybe even helpful, hopefully, even, in effect protective thing. Imagine that! (My young friend in her senior year, cannot imagine that kind of thinking by a university administration. Not a chance. Flatly wouldn't happen today. All the female administration people regard the male students as incipient monsters.)
A week after us elders arrived, everybody else did. It takes boys about two minutes to move in. (Enter, locate room, dump stuff on bed or floor, go find something to eat.) It takes girls rather longer to get settled, and they have a lot more stuff, so, as the only males in sight, our obliging lads spent the day up and down the street, obligingly carrying. They were also very efficiently making friends.
How efficiently they made friends was brought home to me and Jerry, our RA, in the first few days of classes, a few days later. We were sitting on the porch one early September afternoon with our feet up, working our way through a bottle of wine and a couple of fine cigars, watching the comings and goings at the front door beside us. An astonishing amount of the traffic brushing by us was, oddly enough, unaccompanied young ladies, somehow able to unlock our front door and come and go at will.
Which led to a serious discussion about boundaries. "How many girls," Jerry wondered, "do you suppose already have our front door key?" I took a swallow of my wine (a 1962 Chateauneuf du Pape: it was great, and we bought and went through every case we could corner in Boston and environs that year), and answered, "beats me, but it looks like a hell of a lot." "Girlfriends?" he speculated. "No," I said, "they couldn't possibly all be girlfriends - we've only been here a week!" He nodded meditatively, and said, "is it bothering anybody?" I answered, "no. I think everybody likes having them around." He nodded again. "The hell with it, then." End of serious discussion.
(Another contrast to today. Today a discussion about an evanescent-yet-occasionally-troublesome concept like "boundaries" would require disinterested third-party moderators, note-takers, at least two committees, several meetings, half a dozen votes, and would tangle everybody up in earnest bullshit for six weeks.)
We were easy. We didn't have any rules - or boundaries, apparently - and everybody did like having them around. (An astonishing number of the boys seemed to have sisters, too, so they were completely accustomed to it, and it made them feel the place was very homelike.) And the girls, most of them
freshmen and new to Boston themselves, seemed to like being around. It was occasionally a pain in the ass, as when you were locked out of your bathroom because somebody - often somebody rather endearing - was in there having a bubble bath, but there were five other bathrooms. (This was two old brownstones knocked together, remember, not a modern dorm. Our bathrooms featured showers and bathubs, two of them with claw feet, yet.) Girls seemed to like baths, and when their own tubs across the street or next door to either side were busy many of them became perfectly at home with coming over and muscling in on ours.
We quickly acquired commuters, too, who showed up every evening to spend the night. This was an interesting aspect to the place. There was a fair amount of sex, no doubt; but I also know there were a fair number of cases where, as one young lady plainly told me, she just slept better with him. Uncertain, and far from home, he was a substitute teddy bear for her, and she was a comfort to him. BU is a huge impersonal place, and it can be difficult for someone of either sex, away from home for the first time, to find their nervous feet. Having someone warm spooned into you in the lonely reaches of a long New England night helps, no question. (And I have to say, pitched into a zoo like BU, in a zoo like Boston, a lot of kids don't make it past the first few weeks. A lot of kids didn't - and probably still don't today - make a go of it. It's just too lonely, and too different for a lot of them. I'll give a little credit to Jerry, and John and Kenny - the other two seniors - and myself: we knew that. If having her there to hold on to all night and talk to until three in the morning helped make it work - fine.)
I asume they let nature guide them to something more than just sleeping together - but it's entirely possible they didn't. Simple sleepovers went on all the time, and there were a few girls who slept all over the place, but were absolutely untouchable. In a category of their own, sisters, perhaps, or maybe mascots. They distributed - and received - a lot of very pure affection, and they were the "go-tos" when something serious beyond the usual stuff was troubling one of the kids and Jerry felt he ought to know about it. These girls always knew what was up.
There was a night in late September when my commuter - her name was Jessica - was in her own room across the street being miserable with a lousy cold. I had successfully postponed practically the entire first three weeks of classes, so had a lot to do scattered around my desk. (I'd already been accepted to grad school, and by this time had become one of those people who went to school in bursts. By mid-October I'm sure we'd spent as much time on the Cape and Vineyard as we had in Boston. Maybe more. Jess was seventeen, from eastern Colorado, she'd never seen an ocean, she adored the Atlantic at first sight - and was in it thirty seconds after seeing it.) I spent that night at my desk chopping down my backlog while our premier mascot lowered my Murphy bed and watched TV until she conked out halfway through Tonight and slept, unmolested, until morning. (She was a freshman, a cutie, and a child. She was actually older than Jess, but Jess was not a child and no one, upon meeting them, would believe Jess was the younger of the two.) Her name was Doretta, Within ten minutes of meeting her the boys had, inevitably, rechristened her "Dorito." (Within fifteen minutes she was answering to it.) When she got up she helped herself to the use of a hairbrush, swiped a shirt, and off she went.
Brief digression. The girls were always wearing our shirts. As nightgowns, of course, but also through the day. Not T-shirts. T-shirts weren't outerwear much in my day, once you got out of the gym or off the field. Jess made sure to get to the dry-cleaner's box first and invariably wore my shirts once before I did. (By the end of September I wasn't even trying: she was just picking them up directly from the cleaners - startched lightly to her taste.) Huge as they were on her she wore them all, but she favoured formal-wear, and espcially liked the ones with pleated bibs, worn with studs and cufflinks. The tuxedo in the closet was mine, but she got as much use out of the shirts that went with it as I did. She was pretty good about not losing too many studs, too. (Didn't wear the links, the sleeves were way too long. She just rolled them up.) Since she wore my shirts first, I had her, distantly, in my nose all day. Which was not bad.
Anyway - back to the flight deck - putting us on Bay State Road worked. Jerry, RA and Grand Exalted Mystic Ruler, was kept aware of what was transpiring, and it seemed our presence did make the street safer. We didn't stop the problem altogether, but we did cut it down considerably just by being there, which had been the object. If they thought about it at all, the university likely viewed us as a sort of Gomorrah, given the way we interacted with our neighborhood, and there were probably those among them who may in some sense have regretted the experiment, success though it was. No question: when the doorbell to the boy's dorm could be answered by a girl with a glass of wine in one hand, wearing little beyond a floppy hat and some guy's shirt, (Marcy - who looked incredible wearing little beyond a floppy hat and one of Georgie's shirts, and a picture of her so attired appeared in the yearbook), this could give pause to even the most liberal of housing administrators, thrashing desperately through the troubled seas of a rapidly changing world. Our little place was crawling with half-dressed girls at all hours. You can't stick 32 boys in the middle of 1,000 girls and expect no repercussions. 32 is a small enough number that they could get to know and be comfortable with all of us. They did - and were.
It was, obviously, a different time, and I remember with some amusement (well, considerable amusement) that in those innocent days BU's first solution to making Bay State Road safer for the girls was what you might once have regarded as the obvious one: ship in a bunch of boys! It was taken for granted that we'd be on their side and would, to some extent, watch out for them. (Carefully never said! BU's lawyers would have had a cow!) Expressed idea or not, we were, and did.
Talking to my young friend, I don't think there's a chance in hell this would be any school administration's first reaction in this day and age. I suppose by current standards the 32 of us were a walking "trigger" just on the basis of anatomy, if you choose to look at it that way. I prefer to look at it, insofar as it's possible for me, through the eyes of a girl I didn't know knocking on our door one windy night in mid-October. She asked rather tremulously if someone would be willing to escort her to her door down the dark street a few blocks away. She had seen, or heard - or imagined - something, and she was frightened. Two of the boys disentangled themselves from the gang watching TV in the living room, linked arms with her as gently as though she were made of Dresden china, and walked her home. (And probably gave her a key to our front door, for emergencies.)
She probably, in those far-off innocent days, thought we were a good idea. (She didn't realize she'd knocked on the door of the tiger cage.) That kind of thing happened every week. I wonder if it would happen at all today, a lone girl knocking on the door of a building she's likely been warned is stocked with monsters - the least safe space on campus. It probably wouldn't. I find that sad. So does this kid I told this story to. It's a real story, a memory; a reminiscence if you like, I've told and thought a bit about before. Neither of us, me or my young friend, know quite where we are these days, and neither of us knows quite how we got here. But it's a very strange place.
TLDR: women didn't have to worry about walking at night because rough men were perfectly ready to offer violence on their behalf.
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2019
I've heard similar, interesting stories from conservation officers about how they control bears, and minimize interactions between hikers and bears in parks - if an area has an older male that is aware of what people represent, but continues to avoid said people, the officers will go out of their way to assist that bear in retaining it's territory as long as possible, even going so far as to tranquilize and remove especially strong challengers for the territory. The older, "relatively placid" bear is a much lower risk to humans, and will work really hard to chase off young males, in order to preserve their claimed range, and with the young males, there's no such guarantee that they won't challenge humans, or attempt to raid for food.
Obviously, it's not a 1:1 comparison, but it mirrors the supposed common tradition amongst the 3LA when they were setting up organized crime taskforces - enlist those from other mobs to give you the expertise to anticipate the move of the mob you were trying to take down.
Edit: Update from Wes Yang about the statements made about him - https://twitter.com/wesyang/status/1370941858663251968?s=20
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- Joined
- Jun 12, 2020
Can't believe these racists are keeping the people in wheelchairs from hiking. Mountains should not be built unless they're handicapable.
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- Joined
- Apr 6, 2015
by working to fix it they mean SHUT IT DOWN or harass white people who do it
and not
you know
going hiking themselves
and not
you know
going hiking themselves