May/May not be Shaughnessy Conley Speirs

My name came from a street sign I'm in progress. The current edition is bad. Follow me on Twitter @badedition Work I've done is here:

[souaesthetic]

[staghunted]

“This one is very serious, guys:

I came upon these two on the sidewalk. They were having a conversation. “Excuse me,” I said, addressing the girl: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but is there anyway I can take your photo?”

“Why would you want my photo?” she asked.

“Because you look beautiful,” I said. And she did. She was Sudanese. There is a very distinct beauty among people from the Sudan, and she was filled up with it. Suddenly the man cut in: 

“I was just telling her she was beautiful,” he said. 

Naively, I assumed I had just walked up on one stranger giving a compliment to another. I wanted to capture the moment. “Let me take your photograph together,” I said. The man seemed reluctant, he started smiling nervously and inching away. But the girl called him back. 

“Come take a picture with me,” she said. Encouraged by her attention, he returned. She put her arm around him, and I took the photo.

As I examined the photos on my camera, the man started whispering to the girl. She answered him in a loud voice: “I told you! I’m not that kind of girl.” She seemed agitated now. Finally sensing that I had misread the situation, I stepped between them. The man began hurrying down the sidewalk.

When the man left, the girl’s demeanor changed completely. She seemed shaken. Her eyes were tearing up. “He just offered me five hundred dollars to go out with him,” she said. “And then when I said ‘no,’ he offered me one thousand. Why does this always happen to me?”

“It happens a lot?” I asked.

“All the time,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m getting emotional. I just can’t go out of my house without this kind of thing happening. I have a son. I’m a mother. I would never degrade myself like that. I just don’t understand why this keeps happening.”

“Do you mind if I tell this story?” I asked.

“Please,” she said. “Tell it.”

Let’s hope this man, and all men, realize the emotional damage they are inflicting on the women they try to buy. In the meantime, feel free to SHARE.*

Dear Tumblr, fuck you for trying to erase this. 

[madamethursday]

[Image: A picture of a tall, very thin Black woman with her shoulder over a shorter, older white man wearing traditional Orthodox Jewish clothing on a New York sideway.]

I’m saving this post because as many times as Tumblr tries to erase this woman’s story and act like anything about this was okay, that’s as many times as I’m reposting it. They can either cut me off or stop being assnuggets about this. whichEVER. 

[shaughnessyspeirs]

Pass it on. 

[shaughnessyspeirs]

"I think that there's a fairly natural inclination for a lot of queer people to want to be gender ambiguous even from a young age. I remember thinking, 'this is how I feel comfortable.' That's what I want from my clothes now. It took coming out to get me back to the clothes that made me feel comfortable. I want a space for other women who feel that way to be able to shop."

--Molly Barrett, from the forthcoming interview in Molly Magazine on her new fashion venture, DapperGirl.com.

[ohdeargodwhy]

[washingtonpoststyle-blog]

On Valentines Day in 1884, Teddy Roosevelt’s wife and mother died within hours of each other. This was his diary entry for that Thursday.

via LettersOfNote by way of Gene Weingarten.

[shaughnessyspeirs]

For Whitney

The last few weeks have taken a stern toll on the legacy of soul. In January, we lost an icon in Etta James. Only a week ago, Don Cornelius--creator of Soul Train--tragically took his own life. These people were legends who spoke to the spirit of American music, who had formative roles in its flourishing. Now another legend is gone: Whitney Houston.

With family like Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick, that Whitney Houston would be talented was inevitable, and eventually became undeniable. She was one of the most frequently awarded women in music. Her work--love ballads and dance beats, bridging a gap between soul and pop with her gospel roots always in evidence--had a unifying effect.

The loss of a legend is always very sad, but losing Whitney is something a degree more heartbreaking to me. I got an education watching her in The Bodyguard. I sang ballads like "I Will Always Love You" into hairbrushes, to the chagrin of everyone else in the house. I found solidarity and strength in the loneliness of being single with "I Wanna Dance with Somebody." I don't think I'd be alone in saying the songs of Whitney Houston gave me a musical education in being a woman and a lover.

But most people don't think about Whitney Houston as her music anymore. She has spent a large part of her life characterized by her drug use; she was public about her struggles with cocaine and sought help in 2011. Her tumultuous relationship, one that was also plagued by drug use, with Bobby Brown ended in 2006. Though the details of her death have yet to be fully discovered, it is altogether possible--arguably probable--that her addiction claimed her at the young age of 48. Addiction is one manipulative bitch and recovering is a lifelong endeavor. Worse, we live in a culture that treats addiction merely as a vice and its consequences as deserved, rather than as a debilitating illness whose sufferers deserve respect and compassion.

But even while she became less a person than fodder for tabloids and material for stand-up routines, some of us still saw her as someone, though damaged, full of tenderness and possessing of singular talent. This is a woman who vocally opposed apartheid, refusing to deal with agencies who did business with South Africa at the time. This is a woman who formed a non-profit organization for empowering children. This is a woman who did a rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at the 1991 Superbowl that was so stirring that it went on to be both critically acclaimed and released as a single. Yes, she was troubled. But there was so, so much good in her and it was so much more than her voice.

We throw around the phrase "too soon" when we lose people we weren't expecting to lose. But Whitney really wasn't done. She had projects yet to complete. She was set to attend a party with Clive Davis tonight, undoubtedly wearing something flawless. Her performance of "The Star Spangled Banner" shows someone effervescent, joyful, and radiant, a person whose return from darkness and struggle many of us still felt we were awaiting. We won't get a chance to see that person again. We're all a bit worse off for it. I'm broken-hearted. 

[shaughnessyspeirs]

Snowed-in weekend at a house that I lived in for ten years but in which I still feel like a guest now

[shaughnessyspeirs]

I'm so glad to see Glee cover "Smooth Criminal." It's such a good song, and so loaded with character and drama that it is really the perfect song to be transformed on the screen. I'm also happy that they chose Santana and Sebastian to perform it, two characters who have each taken their turn as the most hated figures in the entire ensemble. The song is darkness and mischief, so it being performed by the show's "villains" is as appropriate as them being accompanied by these gorgeous black cellos.

Anybody else agree that Santana is much easier to appreciate now that she has the winning subplot of her sexuality? It makes her so much more interesting.

Furthermore, it has given me a list of things I need to do:

-Wear my fedora

-Buy a pair of black ankle boots

-Learn to play the cello

That's all.

[shaughnessyspeirs]

Source on red wines: http://www.frenchscout.com/types-of-red-wines

[growing-orbits-blog]

This is the time of year that’s apt to put a hammerlock on a healthy appetite, old anxieties back into the night, insomnia and nightmares into play; when things in need of doing go undone and things that can’t be undone come to call, muttering recriminations at the door, and buried ambitions rise up through the floor and pin your wriggling shoulders to the wall; and hope’s a reptile waiting for the sun.

Bill Christophersen, from “February” (via the-final-sentence)

[shaughnessyspeirs]

Chip on my shoulder.

She is an overweight black woman; she is unfamiliar with not being marginalized. Already, there are marks against her, and she wins anyway because there is no denying she is good. She stands at a podium smiling and grasping a shining statuette and when she lifts it, gives a wide-eyed, jokingly shocked expression at how heavy the thing is. Unlike at the last awards show, her silver dress covers her arms. I wonder whether she examined herself in a mirror after and decided she wasn't making that mistake again. Going sleeveless brought too much negative attention. Next time she'll know better--never mind that the lavender was beautiful on her. She is so weighed down by this albatross of a few pounds that she can't see herself and frankly, no one can see her. To People magazine she graciously admits she could stand to lose a few pounds, ha ha, if I admit it myself then I am safe. Look, you cannot judge me, because I got there first; I am judging myself enough for the both of us, see? I hate to read this on the computer screen, where in bits of binary code like letters she is stripped to herself, her "less valuable" (in her own words) self, nothing but a fat black woman, when the woman I watched accept her award was like a tower: crying and laughing and trembling with pride and gratitude and fear.

I spend so much time fighting for myself, telling myself I am wonderful and no one can judge me, that it is strange how quickly a person can be immersed in an adolescent self-awareness.

I am a senior and my first lead role in a play has me in a constant state of pride and grownness; I've worked hard, I've been here long enough, I deserve this. I am on the edge of the stage, leaning back on my hands, ankles crossed, next to my friend, Jesse. The director is Sandy Scott, and she gives notes in a cold list, listening for a "thank-you" from each recipient, which I give politely, as is the custom. Then, with as much ease as she says things like "move that chair forward", she says, "Shaughnessy: suck in your stomach."

I feel like I've lost the air in my lungs, and I crumble and cry and later, my friend Jesse halfheartedly comforts me but she is preoccupied with the problem of it being time to lose interest in me as a friend, which soon happens.

I am at speech team practice, where Phillip Rohrbach is already sitting, and he is stewing because of an angry fight he had at the meet yesterday with a teammate. Other people are in the room. Maybe Sierra is there? Maybe Ben is there? I can't remember but I do remember when I try to say something to him he spits, "Shut up, Shaughnessy, you self-righteous bitch with your fat, pregnant-looking stomach."

It's been seven years since I was a senior in high school. Does Phillip remember me, does Jesse, or Ms. Scott remember? Do people ever remember who they hurt?

Do the grown men who shouted at me out a car window as I was jogging to lay off the donuts? 

I want to stop letting other people set the bar for me. I want to be more relaxed in my judgment of myself than anyone else. These moments in my life are moments of condemnation and hate, and I have let them get out of control; they are the running soundtrack to my life.

When you criticize a woman's body, as though any part of her is relevant to you, there is a smattering of convenient excuses to shroud your disdain. I wish I could say that I'm sorry you have to look at fat people, but that wouldn't be honest--I'm not sorry. If you can't look at a fat person without controlling your hate and your mouth, you've got your own set of problems, and I feel sorry for you. God, how poetic is that? The overweight are one of the most vilified contingents in American society, and this fat girl feels sorry for you. I'm tired of being sorry for myself, for judging myself, for hating myself because I've got meanness and spite playing in a loop. I'd rather pity the people with hate in their hearts.

I'm releasing this hate. I don't deserve it, and if you want it, you can have it back; I'm sure it would have you. But I'm not going to hide. As a fat person, what I can do to make the situation better for people who identify with me is not allow myself to be marginalized. For the people who hate fat people, who will continue to hate fat people, who indeed may always have that vacant, spiteful place, the worst revenge I can give to them is to force them to look at me.

[shaughnessyspeirs]

[shaughnessyspeirs]

I miss my hair

[shaughnessyspeirs]

The Obliteration Room by Yayoi Kusama at Queensland Gallery of Modern Art

[micaceous]

They look much shinier and sparkling in real life but anyways, oh, do you see the snow outside? It’s been snowing all day!

[shaughnessyspeirs]

Everybody is glittering their shoes. I feel like I must do this.

[jordanchandlerturner]

Megan Massacre is gorgeous.

[shaughnessyspeirs]

And she was absolutely right to defend herself for posing nude when her NY Ink coworker said it was slutty.

[shaughnessyspeirs]

Bobby socks have nothing to do with me, Jason Wu

When I first saw this, I wondered why Jason Wu was trying to infantilize me. 

Are fashion and pop culture trying to make women seem younger? Um, duh. Yes. This is no secret. This is why women are lauded when they look "youthful and fresh," and men are praised for looking "distinguished" when they get gray hair. 

But it seems like they want us looking younger and younger. I don't think I'm imagining that. Right?

Granted, she's a high school student on the show. But it's impossible to examine Jason Wu's collection next to Rachel for any length of time without seeing that, at least, one was influenced by the other. 

When I first looked at the collection, I was proud of the fact that I could distance myself from the tendency I have to love something just because a designer touched it. Just a quick click around will give you an idea of the collective internet response to the collection, which makes it seem like Jason Wu's clothes-making hands are so filled with magic that he doesn't even have to touch anything and all the fabrics are carefully spun with threads made by some exotic species of silkworm that was thought to be extinct until Jason Wu revealed he had rescued them and given them productive and fulfilling work in his magic factory for magic clothes. 

Something weird happened, though. The more I looked at the collection, the more I liked it. These are really pretty clothes. But then this thought occurred to me:

Maybe I need some bobby socks like those.

No, really, look again.

Attention, grown women: if you ever find yourself wondering if you need to get a pair of bobby socks, question your priorities. 

And dudes in charge of fashion: I don't need bobby socks! Take those grown women out of bobby socks!

WE ARE ADULTS

Photographic evidence that I am an adult