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(by takumi yashima)
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Dozens hurt by strikes near Gaza’s Shifa Hospital, refugee camp
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The attack near Shifa Hospital around 5 p.m. local time (10 a.m. ET) caused some damage to its outpatient clinic, according to witnesses.
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This is the beautiful Miharu Takizakura, an ancient 1,000 year old weeping higan cherry tree situated in Miharu, Fukushima, Japan. The tree suffered damage in 2005 due to heavy snow and the locals installed wooden supports to save it.   +37° 24’ 27.89”, +140° 30’ 0.58”
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The opposite end of traditional “street harassment”: the girl who never gets cat called
In feminist spaces I see a lot of feminists complain about being street harassed. I read about it and I totally sympathize with their experiences, even though I have never experienced them myself. I am a female myself but am not conventionally attractive. I am not hideous but more or less a plain jane. On top of that I have ALWAYS valued comfort over style, so dressing feminine isn’t something I do on a regular basis. I wear a lot of loose jeans and T-shirts. But yeah, anyway, know that I am not trying to play “who has it harder” or anything but rather I am making this to share my experiences of getting the opposite end of the shit-covered stick that is street harassment that I don’t see being mentioned. I call it street dismissal.
When I say street dismissal I am talking about men who feel the need to subtly announce that unattractive women are not worthy of respect or acknowledgement because they are not a conventionally attractive female or their fellow man. 
Some examples I’ve personally experienced include:
Many guys at parties will arrive or leave, give all the men handshakes, give the attractive women hugs, but won’t even make eye contact with me. I am not a guy or a hot girl so I don’t exist.
I’ve been bumped into in public without an apology by men. I am not an attractive girl or your fellow man, so it makes sense for you to not even notice I am there.
One time I was walking behind a group of attractive women. A guy spotted us. Opened the door for the three women and shut the door in my face. I am not worthy of his time because I am not attractive.
I once was charged a cover on ladies night because I went out to the bar in my work uniform. (red shirt khaki pants)
Another time at a bar, I saw an open space to order a drink. The guy sitting next to me saw me, raised his eyebrows and turned the other way to make sure I don’t DARE try to talk to him. (Because I totally went there to hit on him and NOT get a drink right?)
I once went with my gay male friend to a straight guy’s house he knew. The first thing out of the straight guy’s mouth was “I was totally excited when you had a chick with you. Nevermind!” The whole night he offered my friend drinks and didn’t offer me a thing and seemed frustrated when I asked where the bathroom was. The only other thing he said that night was “Do you have any hot single friends that would come over here?”
Another time I went with a female friend of mine to get drinks. We met up with her guy friend. He ordered a round of beers for everyone except me. His excuse was “he didn’t know she was going to bring someone along and he is low on money” that was until his guy friend from high school showed up unexpectedly and he quickly bought him a drink.
These are just examples that have happened to me. So my question is are there any other “unattractive” girls out there that experience things similar to this? 
I just wanted to speak from the other perspective. We always hear the horror stories of sexism from the perspective of the women who are objectified by men in the sense of “oo I want that.” and not too many in the sense of “oo, ew DO NOT WANT.” 
This may seem like a big long rant that looks like “WAH PRETTY GIRLS GET THINGS AND I DON’T OH MY LIFE SUCKS” but I don’t mean to come off that way. Because I feel the need to mention that guys don’t do this just to get laid. This is where it’s important to bring up the fact that we are treated with less respect than other men. Men aren’t decent people to other men because they want to fuck them. They are decent to them because they see them as equals that deserve basic respect and acknowledgement. But we are women and to these men either you try to fuck them because they are hot or want them to go away. An unattractive woman has no purpose to him. 
Misogyny affects all women negatively. 

When I saw the first line I thought this post was going to be a boohooing tale about someone who desperately wanted to get harassed by men for hotness validation, but it was nothing of the sort. This is important and we should definitely see this brought up more in conversations regarding men’s general attitudes toward and interactions with women.

I hear stories like this mostly from big women or women who used to be a lot bigger than they are now. A woman told me she was once straight up punched in the face, after the guy told her she was disgusting and fat, and he just walked on and laughed. And the saddest part is that she told me, a lot of women harrassed her as well :(
OP is right, women are not left alone or “ignored” just because men dont find them attractive. And as the OP says, ignoring someone can be done in a rude and aggressive way.

And some people get both.
I’m a super fat women and I both get harassed/streetcalled/rubbed up on in public, but I also get completely ignored.
One time super late at night I was on the train and a complete stranger, a man, came up to me and started screaming at me and demanding money. I was reading a book and he got in my face and physically slapped it out of my hands and onto the floor, yelling and threatening me and demanding money and calling me names/insulting me. I loudly stated that I didn’t know him and asked him to leave me alone. Nobody in the train car reacted. The only other woman there stared stonily ahead (I don’t blame her at all). Finally, a tall guy stood up and walked toward me… to sit next to the (slender, conventionally attractive woman) putting his body between her and the screaming guy assaulting me. Nobody addressed the screaming man threatening me. Nobody pushed the brightly lit blue call button to notify the conductor. I didn’t matter. The other (thinner, more conventionally attractive) woman who was (not yet) in the line of fire mattered more than I did.
I wound up scrambling off the train just before the doors closed at the next stop, even though it wasn’t my stop and I knew there’d be a 20+ minute wait for the next train. I really hoped the guy wouldn’t be able to follow me out. Part of the reason I didn’t stay on until my stop (which was the next one after) was because I didn’t want him to disembark with me and follow me home… something that’s happened before.
There are a lot of different ways to harass women. Both responding aggressively to their femininity/perceived sexual availability and also denying it,  devaluing them because they aren’t feminine enough. Both are harmful. Both just… chip away at the person, at the soul, at the worth of someone. It’s a constant slow eroding drip wearing us down.

Yes to all this. I’ve been sexually harassed, fat shamed and invisible depending on how someone decides how valuable I am to them. It cuts at you.

I think I’ve already reblogged this but I don’t care. It’s so important. It’s SO important. In our society, you either exist as an object to be fucked or you’re ignored or greeted with anger if you’re not deemed fuckable enough. And it’s perverse and disgusting and I am so tired of hearing these stories from women. We are more. Whether we’re thin or fat, conventionally attractive or plain, no matter what color we are, we deserve respect and we aren’t getting it, (and many times WOC get it worse than white women, which I think it’s important to remember) and it makes me so tired and so sad.

This needs to be spread. The worst I’ve been harassed is also the most difficult to understand: I was not even a block away from my workplace walking at 8am in the frigid Midwest in a long, black puffy coat with black tights and boots and a man in a car driving opens his window to yell “NICE PUSSY.” I only caught the tail end so I pretended it didn’t happen until he purposefully made a u-turn to pass by me to scream it AGAIN. Thankfully he didn’t stop to continue but seriously, he couldn’t see anything (certainly not my vagina) and I was still nothing but an object. I’ve taken to wearing my headphones walking back and forth from work (no more than a few blocks). Harassment in all forms is degrading and makes one feel like their personal safety is compromised. Thank you everyone for sharing your stories

I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.

I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.

I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?

I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.

I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.

I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.

I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.

I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?

I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.

I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.

I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.

I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?

I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.

— An anonymous guest post on The Lady Garden. This is the reality for so many women. #YesAllWomen (via takealookatyourlife)