2013 was not the best year for feminist politics in America as women watched their rights to choose slip away in many states, and anti-choice politicians seemed to sneak their legislation into every political and budget debate possible.
Feminists had high hopes for President Obama to speak on their behalf during the 2014 State of the Union, chastising those who use clearly established reproductive rights to distract from more pressing issues, such as joblessness, foreclosures and education equity.
President Obama shamed employers for punishing men and women who desire parental leave and made a reference to the show “Mad Men,” saying work policies for women should not resemble that time period. He reminded viewers that policies about lower-paying jobs are more likely to affect women, leaving women fighting for both equal pay and fair pay for lower-paying jobs. A brief reference to an initiative for young black men also generated excitement, until President Obama failed to elaborate or include black women in this initiative.
In some ways he was the feminist president we hoped he could be, and in other ways, he remained silent in ways that he shouldn’t have. Instead of rehashing what we thought, we’ll let Twitter tell the rest of the story.
If you want to check out more interesting perspectives on the State of the Union on Twitter, we couldn’t stop reading these hashtags:
Want another recap of The State of the Union? One Ms. Magazine editor finds the perfect drinking game to take a look at President Obama’s feminism and does a pretty good analysis of his speech as well.
Beyoncé’s latest self-titled release is an artistic, feminist, strategic triumph so big we’ve only begun to wrap our heads around it. Something tells us we’ll spend much of 2014 trying.
Of course some folks don’t get what all the fuss it about. To them I would say: some things aren’t meant for you. And that’s ok. But if you’re curious about what “Beyoncé” means to two twenty-something feminists from Oh-tucky, keep reading.
Like millions of Bey fans, I downloaded the album a little after midnight on Friday (technically) with the fervor of a starved animal. After all, we’ve waited a loooooong time for this, since her last album “4” was released in 2011. Sometime after my first listen to “Pretty Hurts” I texted Marchaé, and the following conversation transpired. Enjoy, and let us know your thoughts about the biggest musical event of the year in the comments below.
Grace: Beyoncé is BLOWING MY MIND.
Marchaé: Just bought it. I had no choice. Lol.
G: Nope you didn’t.
I bought it with anxiety like, if I don’t buy this now maybe it’ll run out.
She is a flipping business music feminist genius. Goddamn. So much to write about.
M: Haha. I had considered it for about five minutes. Then told myself to get real. She has a song with Drake. It was like we were meant to buy it. Lol.
How could she tell so many shitty female musicians to fuck off without ever saying it? Lol. She literally said fuck the fuck off.
G: She’s just like all y’all fuck off. Y’all don’t know the first thing about me but here’s a taste. Love it live it be grateful for it.
And if ANYONE tries to make me feel bad about worshipping her I will fucking put a boot up their ass. White dudes have SO MANY people/things to idealize.
For instance the Western conception of what God is!!!
M: And the people who want me to hate her because she wears heels can literally take a heel in the crotch.
G: :-) :-)
She can do more in heels than them on bare feet anyways.
People just can’t stand to see women worship another woman for being flipping amazing.
M: I actually got really angry at an article I read the other day from a black woman’s perspective, saying she feels bad for women who wear hair extensions because that has to mean they want to be white or want to be traditionally defined as pretty. I am like Christ. CHRIST.
G: I would pay good money to see you put a heel in Beyoncé hater’s crotch.
M: Haha. I would do it for Bey. And then I’d rub them with poison ivy for Blue Ivy.
G: Hahahaha that’s called poetic justice natches.
I just want to go somewhere and lie down on a bed of pillows and listen and let the sound envelope me in beauty.
Black women can’t win at anything can they?
Because you couldn’t just make your own fully-informed beauty choices
Like a fucking intelligent adult.
M: No. We can’t. I just want people to be like this, this is it. I don’t slut shame, but there is a relevant argument that you can differentiate what artists use to maintain and create buzz.
Like, hey Miley, this is it.
Beyoncé is sexy and talented and works with male artists. But they collaborate with her, they don’t exploit her.
G: I had the thought while listening to “Mine” with Drake, that Drake could lick Beyoncé’s boot. And I fucking love Drake.
Aaaaah I can’t handle this, I’m so glad I have someone to enjoy this with!!!!
Beyoncé is the power Miley was trying to exploit.
If that makes sense?
M: It makes sense. And I am interested if white feminists will weigh in. Yes, they will say Beyoncé is amazing. But with all this talk of appropriation, it’s time to show a black woman doing it right.
G: I’m sure people will argue that Beyoncé isn’t authentic enough. Too mainstream. But that’s because black women/women in general can’t win for trying.
I’ve heard people criticize her feminism for being watered down. For her entire nice girl image. And I’m like how to you expect her to be so massively popular but not play by the rules sometimes. Be freaking reasonable!
Looks like there’s a lot of good talk about race and Beyoncé on Twitter. But not by white people that I see.
M: I can’t wait to dive in later and see what people have to say. I like Twitter, good or bad, because it’s dominated by black youth. It keeps me in tune with things I might not be, if that makes sense. One place black folks set the pulse.
G: Ooh I didn’t know that!!
M: Marcelle told me the term black folks have for what the black community says on Twitter is called “black Twitter.” I’ve searched that phrase and she’s right.
That’s why places need to stay in touch. How many bigwigs know what black Twitter is, ya know?
When certain things happen, black folks will say, “black Twitter will have a lot to say about xyz” or wait to see what “black Twitter” says. It’s something white media people either don’t know or ignore.
G: Twitter is really awesome for that it seems. Twitter > Facebook.
M: I feel a post coming on…lol. I think Facebook, in its efforts to be popular and profitable, isolate people from what’s really trending or relevant. That thought is a blog in itself.
G: Agreed. You get to live in this little world of your own making.
M: Saw a tweet from MTV saying Lorde released a surprise single. I wanted to tweet, “#no” lol.
G: Whoever made that call is kinda dumb. Maybe they figured she can ride on Beyoncé’s coattails. I can hear the news now, “music fans got TWO surprises from two of Pop’s biggest names.” But Lorde doesn’t have the pull to do a surprise single on her own.
M: “Flawless” has an amazing speech in it!!!! What? I am dying. And being reborn.
G: Lololololol truth.
Today is Beyoncé Day forever and always.
Is that your fav so far?
M: Not so much my favorite, just was bad ass. That one was really saucy in an intelligent way. Because when they released a clip of that song when she leaked it a while ago, people said how can she be a feminist by saying “bow down”? Question. Answered. Bitches.
We should read a bell hooks book together over break, I’ve been meaning to read her for a while. She’s a Kentuckian which is really cool.
M: Let’s do it.
Here we go.
M: I want to write a comment that says NO.
Literally, I just don’t care to hear it. Be angry. But not at other women who aren’t oppressing you. Beyoncé has great legs. So do I. I hope people don’t passionately hate me for it.
G: Agreed. Other women are not the prime enemy here. Although we can certainly not help things.
Basically don’t impose your sense of feminism on another woman. Let’s stay focused on the prize, which is ending the death grip of the white patriarchy.
M: Whether you like Beyoncé or not, if you really think Beyoncé is the root cause of patriarchy…you’re annoying. Haha.
G: Plus Beyoncé works hard for her body she and anyone else who loves their bod should show it off however they see fit!
Let’s just run away and write a book about Beyoncé together.
M: Haha. That’s an amazing plan.
For more Herlinked on Beyoncé, check out “Beyonce responds to feminist blogosphere…indirectly!” and “One song, big debate”
For more great commentary on Beyoncé, see:
When I was 12 and television for adolescents involved a little less sparkle and a little more thought, I watched one of my favorite Disney Channel original movies. This one wasn’t about a mermaid or leprechaun but still had a touch of magic.
I remember the plot of the movie as if it were yesterday. “The Color of Friendship” takes place in the late 1970s and follows the family of African American Congressman Ron Dellums. A young, white, South African teen participates in an exchange program to live with Dellums and his family, which happens to consist of a daughter her age. The South African teen assumes the American family will be white, and the American family assumes the African teen will be black, based on misconceptions about what it means to be African or American.
At first, the exchange student wants to go home and resents staying with the black family. The South African teen eventually learns the errors of her prejudices and gains a larger understanding about the the oppressive government of the white minority in South Africa.
The movie, which is based on a true story, gives most of its cultural evaluations through the fictional version of Congressman Dellums. He fought for the American government to use sanctions to distance itself from the legally segregated South Africa.
I had no clue what apartheid was when I first saw “The Color of Friendship.” As a 12-year-old American child with a traditionally isolated education focused on U.S. history, I couldn’t even identify where South Africa was on a map.
However; it didn’t take a geography or a world history lesson for me to understand the importance of what ending apartheid meant. Institutionalized racism is something we all learn as normalcy from birth because that’s simply how this world is. We are either benefiting from it or suffering because of it in some way, whether it is legislated in law or simply indoctrinated in our behaviors.
As soon as one experiences the effects of racism, she is equally likely to experience the denial of that racism, or even the denial of the existence of the systems and laws that manifest it. When American children open a history book, they hear the sympathetic reasons whites both owned and freed slaves and learn to believe those events have no impact on the world today.
Watching “The Color of Friendship” was one of the first times I recall consuming media that explained to me in a relevant way that my struggle is the same struggle my brothers and sisters across the oceans endure. That movie didn’t attempt to distance the connection between what this world has been and what it is today. Instead, it encouraged children to understand that separate bathrooms and marches aren’t so far away, and if we’re not careful, that same hatred will allow history to repeat itself forever.
Sometimes, I wonder why they don’t make more movies like “The Color of Friendship,” but when Nelson Mandela died, I think I got my answer.
Those who maintain power through racism would be in trouble if people started to consider what they have in common opposed to what they don’t. If everyone evaluates prejudice, the world might not be as numb to the ways institutionalized racism still exists.
Nelson Mandela was beyond a great man, and in recognizing the amazing scarifies he made for freedom, we are forced to acknowledge both the prejudices and greatness within ourselves. Extraordinary or not, Nelson Mandela was still human, and with that in mind, other men have to consider their potential of the same greatness. Maybe there is a little Mandela in all of us, and we can all be confident soldiers in the fight against the inequalities of the world.
I wept for the loss of Madiba, but I also wept for all of us he left behind. With him, we lost one more piece of tangible resistance and are left to make of history what we will. We are left to validate his cause by invalidating hatred, defining the color of friendship by erasing the color lines surrounding it.
While You’re At It…
We know, we know. You missed us.
We took a hiatus in order to equip ourselves with the professional tools we need to keep up the good ole fight.
In other words, Grace is in law school, and I am attempting to get back into school for public policy. While writing, blogging and even tweeting have a great reach and are increasingly great ways to interact with many people, those same people might not respect what we have to say without certain credentials, or what I like to think of as “Sesame Street” cred. We also love blogging and spreading the feminist truths of the world, but we both want to get involved in the public sector in a way that’s more tangible so that our blogging can be both opinions and reflections from real-world experience.
As Grace continues her efforts in law school, I back her up 100 percent. She will swing by when she can, but law school is no piece of cake. (If it were, it certainly wouldn’t be as happy as funfetti.) So, the rebirth of the blog will primarily feature quips, articles and observations from me and a guest writer here or there.
We encourage you to get involved! Comment. Follow us. Write to us. Write for us. Share. If there is something happening in your area that you want to share, we are all ears. 2014 will be a great year for Herlinked and we hope a great year for feminism.
Until next time, I’m Ron Burgundy?
The barbecues. The pools. The fireworks.
I understand why Independence Day is so popular in America. It’s easy to get caught up in the grandeur of the festivities and the free time most people get to enjoy with their families and friends.
I’ve had my share of red, white and blue outfits. I’ve clapped and kissed beneath the big booms.
But as I get older, I can’t help but feel a little dishonest for celebrating the Fourth of July when most people, including myself, are not really free in America.
It’s hard not to be a skeptic when women such as Wendy Davis can’t use their time to fix our broken education system or crippling debt, but instead have to focus their political energy on legitimizing my right to do what I want with my own body. Governors such as my hometown “dicktator” John Kasich, find it appropriate to take away funding from organizations that could help women be happy and healthy, and continue to focus on marginalizing people whose rights have already been affirmed by law.
Celebrating independence also seems like a farce when I can’t hold my girlfriend’s hand at a July 4th celebration without acknowleding how LGBT people have to fight to protect their loved ones from harassment and legal exploitation. A trip to the Supreme Court was a step in a long journey that shouldn’t be necessary.
I could continue. Privacy rights. Immigration reform. Class disparity. Voter oppression.
A shrinking minority of conservative bureaucrats continues to dissect and diminish the rights of minorities who are increasing in number but whose opportunities to control their own lives are dangerously disappearing.
For the most part, we are not free. We are drowning in legislation and legislators who want us to believe in a democracy that is slowly eroding. There was a reason the United States was established, yet the idea of freedom as the result of revolution is something Americans now avoid, and to some extent, fear. Until we follow the examples of people such as our brothers and sisters in Egypt, we may never show our leaders that freedom and independence are something we expect to be true, not something we blindly celebrate once a year.
Yet, I will still attend a family picnic today. And I will still drive as long as it takes to get to the best local fireworks in the area.
Because I know I deserve to be free, no matter who agrees with me. And that’s still something to celebrate.
Three women, kidnapped as teenagers, were found alive on Monday after missing for nearly a decade. The amazing recoveries of Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight from a house in Cleveland defied the tragic endings of most lengthy disappearances.
The women were discovered when Berry started to break through the door of the house where the women were being held captive, catching the attention of neighbor Charles Ramsey, who called police.
Each woman appears to be in good condition, despite years of sexual abuse leading to violent miscarriages and at least one child, who belongs to Berry. The unbelievable discovery of the women made national headlines, deservingly so. It is unimaginable what they endured, living in the home of a man who neighbors say knew at least one of the victims.
My initial reaction to this miracle is similar to many other Northeastern Ohioans and countless others who will hear about this rescue. I am elated for the people who have a second chance to squeeze their daughters, sisters, and friends close one more time. I am equally relieved a man capable of such heinous crimes, and potentially the relatives who helped him, cannot hurt anyone else, at least for now.
The more cynical part of me, however, can’t participate in this local celebration without lamenting the topics people won’t discuss on the grimmer side of this miracle. While I appreciate the news coverage of the hundreds of people supporting these women in the streets, I wonder how many news outlets will discuss the reality of sex trafficking and the ways it continues to claim millions of victims in both the U.S. and abroad. Will news outlets discuss the harsh realities of overcoming any type of sexual abuse, whether it is repeated or a one-time occurrence? Will anyone consider why it’s so easy to be lost in a land where disappearances aren’t daily news but daily norms?
We owe it to Amanda, Gina, and Michelle to make their story more than evening news, but instead, a cautionary tale. These women didn’t suffer so everyone could chuckle at Ramsey’s offbeat interview about saving the women as it gains popularity on YouTube, then go back to our daily routines.
Sex trafficking is an international epidemic which didn’t start with Cleveland and won’t end until it is recognized for the international crisis that it is. Maybe it took a local miracle to open Ohio’s eyes to sex trafficking, but I hope our collective eyes don’t close before people take a stand against this devastating practice.
Editor’s Note: I chose the video featured above because it is an attempt to look at the long-term effects the victims may face as a result of their captivity and sexual assault. I find these discussions too rare on television and believe mainstream media discussing the effects of sexual violence legitimizes that there are such effects to those who need such justification.
That place meant much to few and little to many before a rape scandal, involving football players from Steubenville High School, rocked the small town, and ignited debates about sports entitlement, free speech, and rape prosecution.
During a series of parties after a high school football scrimmage, a teenage girl from West Virginia was “allegedly” raped by multiple members of the Steubenville High School football team. The victim was carried from party to party, unconscious throughout most of the events. Numbers of teens witnessed the crime(s), and none of them stopped it by calling authorities.
The victim was unaware of many of the events until she started seeing and hearing about the attacks via social media, such as Twitter and text messages. Most of the Tweets, videos, and messages about the incident were deleted when the event became more heavily investigated.
Why is a rape case from August still relevant news?
The police force was accused of being lax with the evidence, including the treatment of on-the-scene witnesses who decided to speak against the main defendants in the case. Some feared the victim would receive little to no justice, but a blogger and a group of activist hackers started following the case, demanding the removal of preferential treatment for the football players and exposing personal connections to the accused and some public officials.
Now, typical to the cyclical nature of the American news cycle, people will get outraged briefly, question how something like this could happen, and continue about their day-to-day lives.
I’m tired of American news consumers treating every news event as something happening in some mysterious “other” place to some mysterious “other” person. When we fail to acknowledge the misogynistic culture that allows underage athletes to feel as if they can gang rape a teenage girl because their trophies will get them out of it, we fail every person who will ever fall victim to such a horrific crime as rape.
Steubenville is every other town or city in America. Shadows of the horrific effects of such sexist culture linger in the hallways of high schools and colleges across the country.
My hometown of Ravenna, Ohio was no different.
When I was a senior in high school, I learned what it meant to be a woman in a country that often values the skills of male athletes more than the safety of everyone around them.
I had a friend who babysat for one of the coaches there. This coach was married with children. Many valued his status in the Ravenna schools programs because he was involved in so many sports.
The first red flag I had about this coach was when he told this friend her “boobs were nice and he could put his face in them.” I couldn’t believe my ears when she told me this, and I told her it was inappropriate for him to say such things for any reason.
The friend reconsidered babysitting for him but continued to help him, believing his comments were a slip-up. Then, the coach left her a disturbing voicemail, inviting her to a Cleveland Cavaliers game, just the two of them, because he had been thinking about her.
Immediately, I begged my friend to go to a counselor or principal about the situation, but she instead stopped babysitting for him and wanted to let the incident disappear with time. I asked my friend to reconsider and while she was present, I told a female teacher about what happened.
The teacher discussed the situation with other faculty, and before I knew it, I landed in talks with the principal about my allegations about the coach.
Except, there was no investigation. And there was no dismissal or suspension of this coach.
The principal discussed the incident with the coach before he talked to me and concluded my entire accusation was a conspiracy. According to the principal, the coach claimed to be close friends with my mother and knew about a large number of parties I was attending. In the coach’s opinion, I created this entire story about his inappropriate behavior to stop my mom from hearing about these parties I was attending.
I was shocked. There was a voicemail proving my story was true. There was not truth to this coach having anything close to a friendship with my mom, which could have easily been proven by a phone call. I attended very few parties in my high school career. I was too busy being one of the school’s valedictorians, captain of two sports teams, and maintaining leadership roles in honor societies and volunteer groups.
And none of that mattered.
The principal wrote me off as a newspaper editor looking for scandal, and the coach continued to coach. There were more rumors about him and other girls, and based on the lack of punishment he received when he was caught harassing an underaged student, I’m sure those rumors had validity.
I’ve never told that story publicly until this blog post. Even though I was trying to help my friend, a victim, I was made to feel ashamed and embarassed because the adults who were supposed to protect me were slave to a bigger master than the truth. That principal chose to protect a mediocre sports coach and a mediocre school’s reputation instead of protecting the past, current, and future students at that school.
That is the definition of rape culture.
It is a school, a city, a country, or world where victimization breeds fear and secrecy, and rapists and harassers receive confirmation of their normalcy.
Today, I am breaking my silence. I refuse to be quiet about that school year that taught me to dismiss my concerns when I perceive sexual harassment or violence. I’m taking back my power.
The best opponent to rape culture is the refusal to accept it. I will not be intimidated. And for those who ever doubt telling their stories, I hope you read this, and feel as if you don’t need to be again.
The New York Times: Is New Delhi So Different From Steubenville?
The New York Times: Rape Case Unfolds Online and Divides Steubenville
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How to pick your outfit appropriately by Grace.
Editor’s Note: The following post was submitted to Herlinked.com by a guest author. In order to protect her identity, the author does not want her name released. The editors stand behind the integrity and honesty of the author’s work.
Never throw a frog in boiling water. It’ll know it’s in danger and jump straight out. Now, if you put it in some cool water and crank the heat—it’ll be boiled half to death before it realizes the heat’s on. This is the story of how I got boiled to damn near destruction.
I met Frank when I was 21. I was naïve, inexperienced. He was kind and funny. We hit it off and things became serious. My first time with Frank, he fucked me like a blow-up doll. Frank had more sexual experience than I did, so I thought maybe that type of sex wasn’t abnormal. I believed Frank cared for me, and I couldn’t imagine he would try to make me feel cheap. Then, another issue arose. Frank often had trouble finishing. Was it his depression? I didn’t know. But, I loved him! I could work with this. But, when Frank began sharing grandiose stories of his past sexual exploits, my confidence waned. Was I the issue?
To assuage my fears, I tried to fix the problem. I bought sexy lingerie. His response: “I’m not a lingerie kind of guy.” I made efforts to gently discuss our sex life. To this, he responded in one of three ways: stare and ignore, make fun of me, or become angry. When we did have sex, sometimes it was good. But sometimes, I still felt like the goddamn blow-up doll Frank had fucked months ago.
Over the course of our relationship, my self-esteem diminished. I felt plain, powerless, and small. The decline was gradual. In time, feeling like shit became the new normal.
As my self-esteem deteriorated, so did my health. I already had a short history of stress-induced chronic pain. This developed after my sister died suddenly many years before. But, the pain was mild and I was never diagnosed with a disorder. I was in remission for several years before meeting Frank. But, after we’d been together about four months, my pain returned. This time it was severe, and with many new and different symptoms. Flare-ups felt like the devil himself was shooting fire straight into my bladder and vagina. Doctors were baffled. I started having anxiety attacks. I was falling apart. Then, sex began to hurt—the pain ranging from minor to excruciating.
At some point, I don’t remember when, Frank decided my body was his property. He would make a move. “No, I’m in pain,” I would say. He would keep trying. “I’m hurting; I can’t.” He’d climb onto me anyhow. He was “nice” about it, laughing and smiling. How fucking creepy. This sex was torture. My vagina was an open wound to his searing sandpaper dick. I would hurt for hours or even days afterward. I lost sleep, dozed off in class. Even wearing jeans became painful.
Why didn’t I fight it? Kick him or scream “get the fuck off me”? Maybe I saw no point, him having ignored my protests again and again. Maybe I didn’t want to embarrass him; given his sexual insecurities, I rationalized that he wanted to prove something to himself. I guess he did, because he never had trouble finishing when he forced himself on me. Maybe it was because my vagina was locked up in spasms like some goddamned vice grips. Did he think because I didn’t physically push him off, I was giving passive consent? (Oh wait, there’s no such thing as passive consent…) So I resigned, body spasming, spirit numb.
We had consensual sex sometimes. Frank occasionally showed consideration for my pain. But the rough times persisted. Stress tore me down, becoming so severe that on one occasion, when he was unkind to me, I passed out from a torturous flare-up and didn’t wake up for twelve hours. Between these spells, he was kind and caring…at times. That’s how I convinced myself he loved me—I clung to those rare displays of tenderness. I excused the inexcusable.
…And the pot simmered…
People who say politics are slightly personal are absolutely wrong.
Politics are completely personal.
They define who we are, where we go, and what we have.
The election today requires a definitive referendum about what rights we believe we deserve and who we think our government should protect.
Ohio is the unofficial “decider” of this election, and the voters here are in the national spotlight, with their clashing viewpoints and concerns treated as a microcosm of the entire country.
One Ohio voter, who I know personally, demonstrates how a vote for Barack Obama is both a rational choice and necessity for proponents of women’s health and rights.
Kaley Costello caught HPV from a former boyfriend, who she trusted with her heart and body. She not only received the news she had HPV, a common disease among American adults, but also discovered she had a severe type, which could quickly lead to cervical cancer.
Luckily, Kaley was able to get proper screenings and surgery because she was eligible to receive care through the “Affordable Healthcare Act,” as she was young enough to receive care from a parent’s benefits.
Millions of women who need preventative screenings, contraception, or treatment for diseases that significantly affect women, such as cervical and breast cancers, currently receive help through policies or programs Mitt Romney would cut or eliminate.
Kaley is one of those women. Politics is not some obscure idea that she can’t touch. A political conviction by Barack Obama is the reason she had preventative surgery instead of cancer treatment.
Kaley started a movement, “Run Against Romney,” to express her gratitude and support for President Obama and his commitment to protect women’s health. She encourages male and female runners to purchase “Run Against Romney” shirts, to spread the word against Romney’s agenda during anything from a morning run to a marathon.
When someone sees a runner in her baby blue “Run Against Romney” t-shirt, it is more than a political statement. It is bigger than partisan bickering. It is a commitment to the man who wanted all people in this country to have a right to healthcare. It is appreciation for a man who thinks family planning and contraception is a government priority, not nuisance. It is a thank you to the man who believes Kaley’s body, and my body, and any other woman’s body is just that. Ours. And not anyone else’s.
I am proud of Kaley for telling her story. When statistics have faces and voices, they are harder to ignore. Politics are completely personal, and choosing a candidate defines you as a person.
Herlinked.com is proud to stand with Kaley and the millions of women who will vote for Barack Hussein Obama because we refuse to lose the ownership of our rights or our bodies.
We hope you take this election personally, too. Get out there and vote as if your life depends on it. Kaley’s did.
For more about Run Against Romney and Kaley’s journey, click here:
The editors at Herlinked.com are looking for new contributors for the website. We pride ourselves in taking a snarky, yet refined point-of-view to the tough, and not-so-tough, issues of today’s woman.
The level of commitment to the site and the topics covered are pretty flexible. We are looking for writers, video bloggers and illustrators. Please check our contact page for the link to the application. Email Herlinkedblog AT Gmail.com (Take that spammers) if you have any questions.