The Fuck You Project

The #fuckyouproject is about women existing in a space without permission. It is a reminder that no one controls our hearts, minds, bodies or lives, while giving a finger to those who try.

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Folks need to stop having a sense of entitlement about anyone's hair but their own. 

And I definitely need people of all races to stop trying to touch my hair. Everyone thinks their opinion about my hair should matter to me, whether they think I should only wear it natural or they think I'm prettier with it straight or they don't think I should wear it so big or whatever. But in the end, there's only one opinion on how to wear my hair that matters--mine.

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“Fuck you to all the people who said I was not black enough”

-Ginger

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A poem by Christina R. 

Vantablack Stitch

The stitch that holds my identity has been unraveling twisting--tearing from the fibers of my being. the pigment in my hue causes disdain among the distain. from the exports of my cotton to the imports of my hemp, lays the ground work to my textured soul.

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As an Iraqi-American woman, I’ve always received mixed messages about how a woman is “supposed” to be. It’s confusing and defeating, and it stifles who we really are. I try to tune out the noise and listen to my own truth, forge my own path somewhere in the middle. I find solace there. I think about the women who came before me who had to do the same thing and I find strength in that.

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Growing up, people always criticized the way I speak. I talked too much, too loudly, or nobody wanted to hear me speak. Now I'm a comedian and I still struggle with those insecurities. I still talk a lot, and too loudly. But now I think that if you don't want to hear me talk, you're the one who's missing out. I have a lot to say.

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Mental illness is an extremely large part of my life - it’s something that’s heavily shaped my personality, is still present and active, and dictates much of what I do. I’ve struggled with it for the majority of my life and through and through, have been met with either apathy or disgust. I do my best to explain that I have major depressive disorder and complex-PTSD so that people have an understanding of who I am and why I behave in particular manners, in hopes that they will be accepting of me and my behaviors. Despite my efforts to clarify who I am (which requires an unnecessarily huge amount of energy), particularly when I talk about my specific disorders, people choose either not to listen or act as an authority figure on the subject, especially if they have never personally experienced mental illness. Frequently, and now expectantly, I hear, “You should exercise more”, “You should change your diet”, “Get some more sun”, “Have you sought professional help?”, etc., without them even thinking I’ve tried or am already actively doing these things. I’m pushing for people to be less ignorant on the subject and more accepting of it and those affected, mostly because people deserve to be able to accept themselves without shame. Though personally, I’ve come to this conclusion: fuck people that expect me to be this perfect little-unsullied princess, I am imperfect and it’s okay.

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Not wearing a bra means I get a lot of looks. It used to bother me how much other people cared about the presence of two little dots poking out of my shirt. Now I don't give a shit. Look if you want. We all have them, let's liberate them.

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Just because I prefer a skirt to jeans doesn’t mean I’m a damsel in distress. I’m a producer, I get shit done. My femininity is part of my strength, not my weakness.

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For as long as I can remember, people have tried to water down my identity in effort to make themselves more comfortable. I'm either too loud, too passionate, too mixed, too angry, have too many tattoos, or am too opinionated. Learning to embrace my body, my mind, and my spirit is an ongoing process. I've come to the decision that the people who want a subdued version of me don't really deserve any version of me and that my voice, my rage, my love, and my presence are imperative to my survival.

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They called me "La Casper," as in the friendly ghost. My complexion, hair, and body confuse some people. I've been called "ethnically ambiguous," which in itself feels ghostly, like, a phantom. As in, maybe I don't exist in either world…If you can't identify me right away, than I am what you make me. I am Mexican, Chicana, Mexican-American, the daughter of immigrant parents, supernatural, the apparition. I am earthly, I am the unbreakable spirit.

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Liberation is a Process

The act of taming to fit some status quo is, at this point, regressive. It gets us nowhere beyond where we've always been. This project helped me to realize this and to further celebrate and embody the power that has always existed within me, that exists within all women. Though my hair acts as a symbol of resistance, of empowerment, of taking up space, it is in the active process of engaging deeper with myself and with others, in speaking up and out (even where there is little or no room to do so), where I find the truest form of liberation.

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People say things to me like, "Wow, do you really have to be that loud?" or "Ladies, talk slower and softer.”

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While we worked outside, my boss suggested I wear a looser, long sleeve shirt next time so that I would feel comfortable. It’s interesting that he made time to comment on my clothing, all while running a big budget film set.

My boobs must’ve scared him.

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Hello Catcallers!

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Being assertive means believing in myself and in my voice. It means I have something to say and I’m not hesitating whether you like it or not. It’s been a struggle at work, in meetings with superiors and especially doctors. It’s my, “I know what the fuck I’m talking about,” social worker voice. It feels good to be myself in front of everyone. 

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It's strange to write this today because I actually finally feel a little bit healed of the grief in this picture, four years later. Though in some ways it makes the point even more: grief has no timeline, and it has no "should.” My baby's a vibrant, healthy five year old now so I shouldn't have had grief in the first place according to those around me. But you can't control when grief comes into your life. Death is not the only loss. And grief becomes a companion that you can make peace with eventually, but you can't just kick it to the curb because someone else says so.