Feminism Friday: All About That Booty

By this time, I’m fairly sure that everybody and their dog has heard Meghan Trainor’s song All About That Bass. And you should have, because it is ridiculously catchy and fun and I listened to it about five times in the row just a few minutes ago because I love it.

It’s sung by a girl who is not a skinny teeny thing, and actually that’s the first thing she says: “I guess it’s pretty clear I ain’t no size 2,” which is AWESOME, because music and people everywhere need to see more of that.


As ridiculously catchy and fun as it is, it is also problematic from a feminist perspective.

See, the very next thing Meghan Trainor says about not being size 2 is that she can “shake it like [she’s] supposed to do.”

Wait. We’re SUPPOSED to shake it? Why? I can’t walk like that – I feel stupid and then I fall over.

I, personally, love the chorus, about how her momma always told her not to worry about her size, because body positivity, yay!

And then we lose it with the next line: “Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.”

So it’s ok to be fat so long as the boys still like your body!


And it’s weird, because one thing she repeats several times is “Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top.”

But only if the boys like your booty?

Pros: Wildly singable, catchy phrases. Plus size singer.

Cons: Conflicting info on if you are attractive or not, depending on your butt. Still gives male opinion of your looks priority over how you feel about yourself. I also have concerns over the portrayal of people of color in the video.

Feminism grade: C

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Gender Schmender

At some point, I will stop being annoyed by the conversation I had with my mother regarding my child and his gender expression* and actually discuss it in detail**, but for now, I give you a buzzfeed video that sums up multiple things that make me angry about how every fucking thing on earth is gendered.

*when he comes home with a black eye, it will be my fault
** HER friends would NEVER understand, because her friends comfort is OBVIOUSLY more important than my son’s

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Not a Lunchbox

Dear amazon.com,

I know that sometimes I search your site for things that might seem a little strange. You’ve probably gotten used to it. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure you don’t even look at the things you throw my way anymore – not just in the recommended stuff, which is always a little odd, but in the ACTUAL SEARCH RESULTS. I know you don’t.

Because this?


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Day 1/Day 3

Day 1 of Second Grade:
Voldemort in My Little Pony shirt, bright shoes, and glasses

Day 3 of Second Grade:
Glasses horribly bent, one arm off and one fixed with bright pink duct tape


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A Fuck Up of Epic Slither

As I pulled my car in front of the house, Brandus sat on the tailgate of his truck, swinging his legs and talking to the guys across the street, who were throwing around a football. Voldemort and the dog ran around with the kids next door, and I smiled as I got out and walked around my car to get my stuff out of the passenger side.

A tiny five-year old alia stands in her backyard, bare feet balancing on a wooden garden partition. Her father works in the yard, while mother and both sisters either pick up sticks or otherwise exist in the same space.

alia’s oldest sister suddenly screams, one word floating out above everything else.

The family panics, five people running for the house, father grabbing up the tiny barefoot five-year old and hustling to get inside.


Brandus approaches me with one arm out to give me a hug.


Seven or eight now, small alia walks down her driveway to the house after playing in the neighborhood. In front of her, it moves, and she freezes.

It’s gone in a moment, but she is shaking and cannot bring herself to move her small feet for several minutes.


I glance down at his hand for a brief moment a second before he touches me.


It’s dead. It’s dead, and in the middle of the road. Young teenage alia stands on one side several feet away, staring at it.

She knows it’s dead, she’s not stupid. She knows it won’t hurt her. But she can’t seem to make herself walk past it.

After hesitating for several minutes, she gathers up her nerve and sprints past.

Her calves prickle uneasily for the next ten minutes, wondering if it’s coming after her, even though she knows that is ridiculous.


Wrapped around his hand, the hand he is TOUCHING ME WITH, is a motherfucking snake.

I push him backwards hard, hands on his chest and nowhere near the thing his is holding.

He is still smiling, but the smile fades into confusion when I manage to say, past tight throat and restrained scream, that I can’t believe he would do this.

I don’t care that he looks like he doesn’t understand. He SHOULD. He knows I don’t go near him when he has it out of its cage. He was there the day I nearly crawled up the inside of his car door when he held one and it moved too quickly in his hands.

I make it inside, I make it upstairs, I don’t even take my computer or a book, I just crawl into the bed.

I spend the next hour in the bedroom upstairs, shaking, crying, and not talking to the jackass that just touched me with my biggest fear.

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