After eight months of pre-trial incarceration, endless speculation, and millions of dollars spent on attorneys, the United States of America v. Sean Combs trial came to an unsatisfying conclusion earlier this month. Combs, a hip-hop mogul with endless access to fame, wealth, and power, was facing a life sentence if convicted of the five counts charged by the Southern District of New York. Despite compelling testimony from several of his victims, including his former girlfriend Cassie Ventura, the jury ultimately acquitted him of three of the most serious charges, including sex trafficking, and convicted him on two counts of transportation to engage in prostitution.

Combs is now facing 20 years, with legal experts estimating that he will likely be sentenced to less than five years and will have that time reduced by 13 months because he was denied both pre-trial and post-trial bail. It is certainly a disappointing outcome, especially for those of us—me included—who perceived this as the proverbial first domino in the long overdue reckoning owed to Black women in hip-hop.

I understand the hopelessness. I even understand the fear. However, as we sort through the wreckage of this trial, another possibility emerges. The jury acquitted Combs on two counts of sex trafficking for a number of reasons, including the fact that the SDNY overreached with the charges. But as I followed the trial, it became abundantly clear that the prosecution was committed to presenting Ventura and the witness known as “Jane” as victims who were forced to participate in sex acts. However, the defense team was able to split those hairs, lean into the sexist idea that these women were willing to compromise themselves for access to Combs’ wealth and fame, and ultimately convince the jury that they were willing participants in their own abuse.

But between those two legal extremes, there is another option here, one that could signal new protections for women who are publicly regarded as girlfriends to powerful, wealthy men but are privately treated as sex workers existing at the beck and call of their primary client. If the movement to decriminalize sex work were successful, there might be an avenue for those like Ventura and the anonymized Jane to seek recourse when they are abused in the act of providing of service without facing the possibility of being criminalized or prosecuted for participating in sex work. If these women were regarded as workers instead of the gold diggers Combs’ defense team depicted them as, then there might even be space in our cultural imagination to debunk the notion that these women were willing to compromise their “moral integrity” in exchange for access to wealth, power, and fame.

While there’s been a slow thaw towards openly talking about miscarriage thanks to social media, the word itself still contains an air of old-timey superstition and precious shame in most everyday contexts, something I would quickly learn in the aftermath of my own. Even now, chatting with friends or neighbors, I’ve found the word “miscarriage” invokes an involuntary wince, in both myself and others, because it’s just not something we talk about in a casual way.

Meanwhile, in a medical setting, doctors will bluntly inform you of how wildly common miscarriage is, ending 1 in 4 pregnancies, mostly in the first trimester and often before you’ve even realized you’re pregnant. One would hope that something that happens that frequently would be—I don’t know—discussed? But overwhelmingly, it’s not—until, as I learned, you join the miscarriage club yourself.

I’m not going to get into the public political discourse on pregnancy here—that would require several books, not an article. But with the trend of states legislating a stranglehold on women’s reproductive rights, it feels more important than ever to have open, candid, and clear conversations about the reality of pregnancy—including potential miscarriage. And that means sharing our stories, no matter how uncomfortable, so that we have a realistic, informed, and nuanced view on the many things becoming pregnant can entail.

So, here’s mine.

cross-posted from: https://beehaw.org/post/21033066

In which Mars-in-Theory🦋 goes into how 'common sense' and similar discussion terminating cliches are fascist and merely exist to maintain and prop up the status quo.

Detention of 18-year-old man part of anti-terror police force’s first case linked to involuntary celibate movement

The depiction of strangulation in pornography will be banned in a move to protect women from violence, the Government has announced.

It was an audacious moment. During a recent government hearing, allies of former President Jair Bolsonaro berated Brazil’s environment and climate minister, telling Marina Silva she was “hindering our country’s development,” didn’t deserve respect and should “know your place.”

“You just want me to be a submissive woman,” Silva replied. “But I am not.”

A lifelong Amazonian environmentalist credited with helping slash Brazil’s deforestation rates, Silva walked out after further verbal attacks from members of the powerful ruralista caucus—a pro-agribusiness bloc known for pushing policies that drive deforestation and land conflict with the people living in the rainforest.

For a growing women’s climate movement, the exchange was more than political theater. It revealed a connection between aggressive resource extraction and attacks on women.

Lake and other women in the movement describe climate change not as a glitch in the system, but the system’s logical outcome, the result of centuries of extractive economies built on disconnection from the natural world. For these women, the path forward isn’t just cleaner energy—it’s a deeper transformation that heals the relationship between people and the Earth.

Ayshka Najib, a climate activist based in the United Arab Emirates, put it this way: “Capitalism is only 500 years old—we created these systems, and we can create newer ones rooted in equality, justice and respect for everyone’s rights.”

To do that, the movement increasingly is looking to women in the Global South—the Indigenous, Quilombola and local communities that have resisted extractive industries while cultivating their own sustainable economies.

For this, the Kichwa women of Sarayaku, Ecuador, are providing a master class. For decades, multinational corporations have sought to extract oil and minerals from their ancestral lands in the Amazon. With the arrival of industry to the region came workers. And with workers came prostitution, alcohol and violence, said Patricia Gualinga, co-founder of the Amazonian Women Defenders of the Rainforest (Mujeres Amazónicas Defensoras de la Selva).

Driven by escalating threats, Gualinga and others formed Mujeres Amazónicas Defensoras de la Selva, a coalition of women from multiple Indigenous nationalities, around 2012. They organized protests, partnered with groups like Amnesty International and defended their territories by physically monitoring the forest and turning to the courts. Gualinga’s testimony, for instance, helped Sarayaku win a landmark victory based on the Indigenous right to free, prior and informed consent at the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in 2012.

Their activism has come at a cost: They’ve faced threats, harassment and arson attacks. Still, the women have persisted.

In 2020, as the world was gripped by the coronavirus, the killing of George Floyd shocked Americans into action and into the streets by the millions, protesting the unrelenting killing of Black people by police.

The moment sparked a nascent reckoning in America around systemic racism and institutional inequality — in many cases, with Black women at the center. They led protests and were hired to fix broken institutions and diversify boards. They also did the emotional labor of educating their friends and neighbors. Already the backbone of our democracy, many were called on to also be a bridge to racial healing.

Then, it seemed like the country was ready to listen, understand and move toward a freer, fairer, more equal democracy. Five years later, many of these same Black women find themselves at the center of a backlash, confronted with attacks on the diversity, equity and inclusion efforts that were previously championed.

As I reflected on the five-year anniversary of the start of the reckoning, I thought about the Black women who were on the frontlines — in the streets and workplace, from the boardroom to the classroom. At this milestone, I wanted to hear from them about what this moment had cost them, then and now.

I reached out to several Black women I talk to often with a single question: “Five years after the racial reckoning of 2020, what did that moment ask of you — and what, if anything, did it give back?” Their answers, in their own words (with some editing for length and clarity), were insightful and honest.