A Little F'd Up: Why Feminism Is Not a Dirty Word by Julie Zeilinger

By Julie Zeilinger

Younger women this day have a foul recognition, and for sturdy cause: They’re sexting their classmates, they spend extra time on fb than they do in school, and their urge for food for cloth possessions and fact television is matched purely by means of their overwhelming apathy approximately very important social and political matters. Right?


FBomb weblog writer Julie Zeilinger debunks those (and different) myths approximately smooth early life in a bit F’d Up, the 1st publication approximately feminism for younger women of their young people and twenties to truly be written by means of one in all their friends. during this obtainable guide, Zeilinger takes a severe, sincere, and funny examine the place younger feminists are as a iteration, and the place they’re going—and she does so from the point of view of somebody who’s within the trenches correct along her readers.

Fun, humorous, and interesting, a bit F’d Up is a must-read for the transforming into variety of clever, knowledgeable younger women available in the market who're able to begin discovering their voice—and altering the area.

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Extra resources for A Little F'd Up: Why Feminism Is Not a Dirty Word

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My dress floats and balloons about my thighs, bursts out laughing, turns dark, goes green at the edges, froths just above my knees, I am wearing sea and I gently seaweed my green hair. A bride, I am young and I wait for the night. The night is at the other end of the city, camped out on the terrace of the last house where my father is waiting for me. I hurry. I am dressed in my royal king-blue queen-blue dress, the most beautiful of all, the one that holds me tightly like his arms. Because there wasn’t enough material, my mother cut a bodice that flattens my breasts, but my skirt is full enough for running.

She bumps into me, hangs on to my waist with an enormous arm which goes twice around me, and she takes advantage of the horror that paralyzes me by tearing off a piece of my royal king-blue queen-blue dress with her powerful hand. INSIDE 23 I lower my eyes drowned in tears of fear, and I see feebly quivering through the rent in the blue space of my betrothal an old, white, misshapen thigh floating in skin too big for it. It is me tomorrow and I’m already thirty and could be sixty in my young girl’s dress, and I sit down on the granite terrace of the last house.

97–101 of Dedans, Paris: Grasset, 1969. 20 THE HÉLÈNE CIXOUS READER A mouth with a firm line is speaking to the bowl of undelineated night. The mouth is speaking to me, inside me however, I see its firm lips forming speech. I see a mouth speaking inside me, I do not see myself, I am black, filled with a soft pliable substance, an unlimited mass, silent, vibrant. The lips in profile articulate vigorously: their color? a young man’s lips, full, carmine perhaps, though shaded, warm, a living man, young, eloquent: they persuade me.

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