us and them (in which the author discusses Polanski, the prison system, and other heartwarming things)

Via the Huffington Post, Bernard-Henri Levy shares a letter from Roman Polanski, his "first words since his incarceration."

Polanski writes from "my chalet in Gstaad, where I am spending the holidays with my wife and my children," to thank his supporters for "messages of support and sympathy" which were comforting during his "darkest moments."

The darkest moments of two months of imprisonment? That's less time than the father of "Balloon Boy," who got 90 days.

The support of rape apologists is also a "source of comfort...in my current situation." Oh, right, that situation where he can't leave his chalet.

His 19,000 square foot chalet, where he can be with his friends and family and have parties.

Meanwhile, 2.3 million people in the US are imprisoned. Like, for real, not at a fucking resort. Based on the most up-to-date population stats I could find, that's one out of every 134 people.

One out of every 134, who didn't get to spend the holidays with their families, who don't get to host glitzy parties, who are stuck without access to basic medical care, who are subject to widespread abuse, who are basically forgotten about by the rest of society.

One out of every 134, who are disproportionately African American (40%) or Hispanic (20%), who frequently are imprisoned for nonviolent crimes (about half) including drug offenses (like people serving the 5 year minimum for crack possession under 5 grams).

I do not believe anyone, anywhere, should be abused, regardless of crimes committed. Basic human rights should apply in all cases. As horrific as our prison system is, though, I am more horrified that we just assume that people of means, or education, or whiteness ought to be exempt from it - that idea reinforces the function of the corrections system as a weapon against the working-class and people of color. It reinforces institutionalized and subliminal racism and classism. It reinforces the immunity of the rich and otherwise privileged, which is largely what the Polanski-rape-controversy is all about.

The state of the prison system in our country is relevant because reading about a rich, white rapist whining about how tough it is to be stuck in his palace makes me sick. It's relevant because of the commentary and the petitions. It's relevant because the L.A. times calls Polanski's crime a "child sex case," it's relevant because they're not the only ones who don't call it rape.

It's relevant because we are comfortable, in the U.S., to treat incarcerated persons as throw-away people. We are comfortable drawing a hard, fast line between the law-abiding us and the miscreant them.

Well, mostly. We're not quite as comfortable with it if they're rich, but most of them aren't, or if they look like us, but most of them don't.

Less than half of rapes are reported to the police, and only 13% of rapes that ARE reported in the US lead to convictions. 25% of college men have committed sexual assault, and 8% have attempted or committed rape.

Eight percent. Statistically, that's someone you know. Someones, possibly.

Is that the problem? Is it so overwhelmingly pervasive that people can't process it as a "real" crime? I mean, of course it's bad, but it's not like smoking crack or being poor or something like that. Right?

It infuriates, befuddles, and nauseates me that Levy has been provided space anywhere to "present a different "voice," one that contrasts with the howling of the pack." A different voice? Really?

It's not that different.

It's not that different from the story we're sold by the media, the legal system, the status quo. It fits perfectly into the dominant misogyny. You're not being revolutionary, Levy. You're trying to sell the same damn shit. It smells of elitism, privilege, and victim-blaming. It smells like the product of a dominant culture of oppression, a steady diet of entitlement to whatever-the-fuck-I-want, and a nice side of fear, that if the "pack" objects to one rich white guy getting away with horrific crimes, we might object to more, that those objections might get louder, and that they might eventually change something.

are-you-ok-you-look-strange (in which the author dares to present her naked face at the office)

I am rocking a wonderful cold/flu/something right now. As a result, I have been blowing my nose frequently. (Frequently enough, actually, to be concerned about the environmental impact of facial tissue as opposed to the antiquated handkerchief.) As a result of the nose-blowing, my nose and surrounding facial area is red, flaky, and otherwise non-conducive to application of makeup. As a result, I am not wearing makeup today.

THE HORROR.

Ahem.

I made it forty-five minutes into my day before a well-intentioned (and rather condescending, but that's another story) gentleman felt the need to comment upon my status.

"Are you OK? You look... [he actually paused, as if searching for an appropriate descriptive word] ...tired."

As you may or may not be aware, "you look tired" is the safest possible version of "you look like hell" that our society has yet developed, even less threatening than "you look sick."

Which I am, which I explained. He answered with something about "smooching" that was supposed to be clever, and wasn't. End story.

In my experience, "you look tired" can mean any number of things, as long as one of those things is related to makeup. "You look tired" might mean that

-my new undereye corrector has a lifespan of thirty minutes and has just died
-I forgot my eyeliner
-I forgot my blush
-I decided to say "fuck it" today and wear no makeup at all

I am willing to bet that if I actually looked tired (if I were falling asleep or yawning) no one would find it necessary to comment upon such. One might as readily say, "you look like you're wearing pants" to someone who was, indeed, wearing pants. It's not news. It's not worth the minuscule expenditure of calories required to manipulate vocal cords and mouth parts.

So, then, what is the purpose of this thinly-veiled "you look like hell?"

To alert me, in case I didn't know, that I am failing to be decorative?

On days when I actually care, it takes up to thirty-five products to get me out of the house. Thirty-five. And as I muse about the glory that is primer (it goes after the AM anti-wrinkle cream and before the foundation), I am also caught by the massive idiocy of the package, the industry, the BFOQ * that, regardless of ability or status or pay grade, women be pretty.

Well, as pretty as thirty-five products can make them. Plus Botox.

And then I get angry, because I remember that although my department, company-wide, is heavily female (104 women to 26 men) seven of the ten highest positions are held by men.

I get angry because, while a man needs nice shoes and a nice suit and a pretty-standard haircut to look professional, he can still get promoted if he's a little overweight or going gray.

I get angry because, given the resources, it's not hard to figure out what that suit-shoes-haircut package looks like. I get angry because there is no safe "professional woman" costume. It's easy to look too sexy, or too utilitarian, or too feminine, or not feminine enough.

I get angry because even though there's no safe answer, I still have to try. And if I don't, it doesn't take long for someone to take me to task for not looking pretty.


* Oh, wait, you mean it's NOT?

on coolness and beer cans (in which the author is disinvited to a social event)

I have spent a lot of time associating with dudes.*

I've hung out drinking shitty alcohol and watching shitty movies and eating shitty pizza in many a shitty apartment. I've admired floor-to-ceiling beer can sculptures. I've seen kitchens and bathrooms in which the next new pandemic illness might be evolving rightthisveryminute.

I am cursed with chameleon skills; I strive to blend and largely succeed. This has sometimes led to misunderstanding and confusion, but in the land of Scarface posters and refrigerators containing only condiments, it was an asset. It led to me being cool.

Being cool meant that the one time I brought another female friend to a dudely function, all of their offensive remarks were followed up with apologies - to her. I didn't get any apologies; I never had. I was cool. I didn't get (act) offended by scatological humor or detailed descriptions of sexual exploits, regardless of misogynistic tone.**

Let us fast forward to present day. My mother is going to a function tomorrow evening, involving that bastion of high art, stand up comedy. She was given free tickets by a mutual friend, who also offered me free tickets.

My mother doesn't want me to go. Lately, she notices that I am so easily offended, by, you know, that kind of thing. She is concerned that I'd cause a scene.

Really, me? A scene? When did I become that person? When did I lose all my cool?

I don't want to be sad and alone and no-fun-at-all. I'd like to think I could appreciate a good joke. That said, the last time I had a run-in with stand-up comedy, the comedian did a dissection of the "I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last man on earth" idea that went something like this:

"What do you mean? If you were the last woman on earth, and I were the last man on earth, you wouldn't have a choice! What are you going to do, call the cops?"

I finally told my mom that, since rape jokes are the new hot thing in comedy, she's probably right, I would likely be offended.

What I didn't tell her is that how much it hurts me that she isn't offended, and how much I wish I could show her that cool isn't worth being complicit in a culture that systematically encourages rape and harassment.

I didn't want to make a scene.



*Dudes, n. White, cis, het, middle-to-upper class young men who drink, smoke, adore Seth Rogen and may or may not play Texas Hold 'em.

** The one thing that I've never been cool with, though, is racism. Several of these dudes saw my cool evaporate real fast on more than one occasion when they said the wrong thing.

Intro Post

Hello.

I am a feminist. I considered myself a feminist for years before I really took any time to comprehend what that meant. I was, perhaps, frightened of the changes in my life that might result. I was worried I'd have to change my relationship with things like lipstick, high heels, and uncritical consumption of mass media.

This blog is a result of my recent immersion into feminist theory. I am hereby making an attempt to reconcile the things I believe, the things that are true "in theorem," with experiences in my daily life, as well as news stories, cultural phenomena, and whatever occurs to me as relevant at the time.

Writing about some of these ideas seems the best way for me to process and deconstruct them, so here I am.

And I'm not giving up my heels. Not yet, anyway.