Hugo Schwyzer is a narcissistic blowhole. This week, many of the women whom Schwyzer attacked and villified online over the years have successfully pushed the media frenzy around his recent admission that he's a fraud and an abuser into a bigger, more important discussion about the role that race has played in progressive, feminist media's support of Schwyzer over the years.
Take time to read through all the tweets on #solidarityisforwhitewomen, a hashtag started by Mikki Kendall, where people are posting all sorts of insights about how avowed white feminists can ignore and dimiss people of color—including the years of harassment Schwyzer inflicted, but also on other issues like the wage gap and media coverage.
Grassroots anti-street-harassment group Hollaback organized the event, welcoming community organizers, nonprofit members, and just plain angry folks to share histories and to air out grievances about everyday sexual harassment.
It's clear that at the end of the event that street harassment is all about ownership of space.
This month, Bitch is collaborating with Her Kind, a literary community hosted by VIDA: Women in Literary Arts, by posing a series of questions to a talented woman writer. Seattle interdisciplinary artist and poet Natasha Marin took on eight questions about bitchiness.
When was the first time you remember being called a bitch? What were the circumstances?
NATASHA MARIN: Honestly, I can't remember the first time someone called me a bitch. I remember the first time someone called me a nigger though, but that's a different kind of story.
Two weeks ago, you might have read Questlove's piece about his experiences being profiled daily as a black man in light of the George Zimmerman verdict. "You ain't shit. That's the lesson I took from this case.... These words are deep because these are words I've heard my whole life." The musician describes dampening his emotions and heightening his perception of how others perceive him in public as a black man. Citing one instance in particular—when he found himself alone in the elevator of his swanky apartment building with a woman who made her discomfort known—he discusses how both personal interactions and society at large broadcast loud and clear that his life, like that of Trayvon Martin, "ain't shit" to other people.