The situation as it stands.

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You may not know someone who was raped in a taxi.

You may not know someone who had a hand shoved up her skirt on the school bus.

You may not know someone who was sexually abused by an uncle and then passed around to the rest of the family.

You may not know someone who was dragged by her father into their house by her hair because she was standing at an open doorway watching the boys play street soccer.

You may not know someone who had acid thrown in her face because the person she was with didn’t want to be dumped.

You may not know some who was burnt alive for b3eing lesbian or transgender.

You may not know someone who was shot on valentine’s day through a closed bathroom door.

You may not know someone who was strangled and then burnt by her intimate partner.

You may not know someone who was gang raped on FB Live while the audience cheered.

You may not know someone who came to school in long sleeves every day to hide the bruises she bore for not pouring the tea right after supper.

You may not know someone whose innocent self discovery video was spread on social media by grown men.

You may not know someone, but a lot of us do.

Before you take offence to a hashtag, ask yourself why womxn have reached a state where they are pointing a finger at their own sons and fathers and boyfriends and saying “Men are trash” and instead of retaliating with a hundred reasons why you sincerely feel you are not, look at the company you keep and ask yourself why you won’t trust any of those men you call bro around your own sister, your own daughter, your own girlfriend.

Sure, you may not know someone, but my guess is that you do and you just won’t admit it.

No more fragility. Grow a pair.

When you see abuse occurring, it is your duty to stop it. That is all we ask. That you do not maintain the status quo any longer. That you speak up amongst your family and friends. That you point out how their words, said in jest, sound rapey.

Can you do this? Do you do this already?

You may not be so trashy after all.

People are like a bag of liquorice allsorts.

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When I was still my father’s only son, he used to take me with him to the mechanic. There were two persons always hanging out at the garage front office – one was intersex and the other was ¬†transvestite – from what I can recall explained to me (I didn’t understand the full significance of the word hermaphrodite used to explain intersex and only now know it isn’t exactly the right word but they and my Dad tried and I was about 7) and both of them were very nice to me.

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