Open Letter to a Rape Apologist

(excerpted from an actual letter that I sent to an actual person)

I feel that you and I are on two sides of a fundamental ideological divide that is very, very important to me. I am not sure that it's something we can reconcile, because I don't anticipate changing your mind. It isn't even really my goal to do that.


I do want to explain where I am coming from, though.

I believe that survivors of sexual violence can be, and often are, legitimately harmed by flippant and/or humorous references to sexual violence. This belief is consistent with my own lived experience, with the experience of many of my closest friends, and with my understanding of feminism and human psychology.

That belief works together with my belief that in order to create and maintain effective community, it is beneficial to refrain from doing unnecessary harm to people within that community.

I believe, also, that it is my right and my responsibility to create safe spaces in my personal life for myself and for my friends. I cannot control what happens in all of the world. I can't prevent myself from being constantly exposed to racism, or homophobia, or misogyny, or Christians who want to convert me. I can, to an extent, control the kinds of things I allow into my psychic and social world. I can do my best to create spaces to in which I feel that I can let down my shields a little bit and not worry about being harmed by the people around me.

I understand that you do not necessarily agree with all of these things. I understand that you, from what I can tell, feel that refraining from making light of sexual violence amounts to "coddling" survivors. I do not expect to change your mind on that topic, but: having that particular argument voiced and defended repeatedly is incredibly upsetting to me, whether or not you believe that to be true. I know that you said you were only playing Devil's advocate, but the fact that you felt this was an OK topic to debate in that fashion automatically means that you discount the harm that debating it could do.

From my perspective, disagreeing with this fundamental idea involves believing one of two things: 1) That real harm is not done by those kind of jokes and comments. This, to me, is the same thing as saying, "I do not accept your experiences as valid - in fact, I believe that I know more about your experience than you do, and I know that you have not been harmed." 2) Even though harm is done, that harm is not your concern or responsibility.

I do not know which side of that particular line best explains your position. What I do know is that either of those positions creates space in which I feel unsafe, and which my friends and loved ones are at risk.

when a friend isn't an ally (trigger warning)

A friend is not an ally on humid, house-party Saturday night.

A friend is not an ally when, two or three or four glasses of wine in, they open debate on a latest controversy, when they lean in, primed for A Rousing Debate about whether or not rape culture is a thing that exists, when they expect you to defend your position with the same charm, intelligence, and passion that you do when you're talking about school reform.

A friend is not an ally when they think this is the kind of conversation you're willing to have at a party, when they think that an intellectual discussion of rape goes nicely with a front lawn and an evening breeze and a beer. A friend is not an ally when you wish they were wearing a trigger warning t-shirt.

A friend is not an ally when several acquaintances, one of whom is a comedian, enter the conversation preaching "Nothing is sacred, everything is funny," and the friend doesn't disagree. And those acquaintances smile at their own cleverness, their edge, when they claim loudly against the silent opposition, "There's nothing that can't be made light of," meaning, of course, that they really believe it's harmless (in which case they're hopeless) or that the harm it does, the harm it does to you, is a non-issue (in which case they're fucking assholes).

Because you're non-verbal at this point. You're absolutely incapable of saying anything about this.

A party is not a party once the rape apology avalanche begins, once you start to feel claustrophobic even though you're outside, once you begin to feel afraid of everyone around you and your thought process is panicked, repeating, "I have to leave I have to get out I have to leave I have to get out." A party is not a party when the stifling Midwestern night air feels just a little like someone holding you down, when you start to wish you had something sharp and metal because holding it in your hand would calm you.

A party isn't a party when you leave in the middle of this conversation, telling everyone you're tired. You are tired, but that isn't the reason you leave.

A friend isn't an ally when it doesn't occur to them to follow up and make sure you're OK. A friend isn't an ally when it doesn't occur to them that someone might be made less than OK by this series of events.

A friend isn't an ally when they are too invested in their own privilege to admit it exists.

7 Obvious Signs That Your Relationship Isn't Total Crap

There is a lot of bullshit in the world, floating around, killing my buzz. One example: gender-essentialist dating/relationship advice. It makes so very little sense, and is so divorced from my particular concept of the way People and The World function, that I can't imagine how the authors even come up with this shit.

It's as if someone took a list of things that they have found unpleasant or problematic in their personal relationships, then ran that list through some sort of automated stereotype enhancer fueled by sitcoms and really terrible commercials.

(Oh, wait, I think we call that overculture.)

It's not about milk.

My mother said, "If Ron Paul is president, at least you'll get your raw milk."

She was trying to be funny, a little, and sad, which is the best you can do when talking about politics right now.  A little funny, mostly sad. I find that I've lost any taste for laughing over the latest ridiculous thing that anyone was caught saying. I've lost any desire to follow this primary. The perverse rush that comes of tracking down sources for the latest terrifying promise or the next apocalyptic Dominionist wet dream scenario? It's gone.

All of the blitzy front-page HuffPo stories about Republican shenanigans fall flat, now. As if our laughter could insulate us.

As if raw milk were some kind of consolation.

Yeah, I'm one of those hippie-foodie types. I don't think the Feds ought to be raiding natural foods co-ops. I think there are bigger threats. Trying to keep up with the news in this arena puts me in contact with some pretty fucked up ideological circles. (Yeah, I am all good with that article until the Ron Paul endorsement. And the comments are scarier than many one sees on the internet at large.)

Identity politics is a powerful force. I'll admit that I had to do some research on the whole Ron Paul issue before I really understood how terrifying he was. I'll admit that I had some vague, theoretical conversations about interventionism with (generally white, male) friends of mine in which Paul was portrayed as a possible solution.

And some of those friends, when confronted with more evidence, will admit that he's got "problematic ideas." They'd never, you know, vote for him or anything. But...there's this sort of wistfulness about them when they say it.

Because the fear that he inspires (in all fairness, all of these candidates terrify me) is visceral and cannot be ignored. It is not a theoretical downfall. These are not problematic ideas.

I don't have the luxury of weighing the hypothetical moral benefits of a progressive social platform vs. a non-interventionist foreign policy. His anti-choice stance is not hypothetical to me. His religious agenda is not an interesting theory. It's real, and terrifying, and something that will affect me directly.


I don't know what this post is supposed to be, exactly, maybe An Open Letter to Fauxgressives Who Belong to Too Many Privileged Classes to be Scared of Ron Paul.

If you're not truly, personally frightened of the guy, let's just not fucking talk politics until after the election, OK?  Or maybe ever.

If I want my milk that bad I'll go live on a fucking farm. No way in hell does that even rate. I am sick of people pretending like it does.

agree or disagree: the intricacies of consent (a personal story)

TRIGGER WARNING - discussion of sexual assault

I don't remember his name.

That's not a problem; I'd rather not remember. Part of my mind obsesses, though, runs through generic lists of names, trying to discover it. I can't shut it off.

I didn't really know him - he was a friend of a friend, who happened to be in the same place as me at the wrong time, I guess. I was having a bad day. Week. Year.

I was sitting in my car in the parking lot of the liquor store when I decided I'd sleep with him that night. We were getting a hotel room, four of us, because we still lived with our parents and didn't have a secure location where we could drink, smoke, fuck, whatever. I remember standing at the ATM. I paid for that room.

Agree or disagree: someone is consenting to sex if they go to a private place with you.

I didn't like him, especially, he was unimpressive. I was bored, all evening. After the drinking and the smoking, after the lights went out, I was relieved. I thought things might finally get interesting.

Agree or disagree: someone is consenting to sex if they get drunk or high with you.

Apparently, he had never heard of foreplay. Even though I was pretty drunk, and stoned out of my mind, this was a problem for me. I tried to slow him down, guide the process a little. He was totally non-receptive.

Agree or disagree: someone is consenting to sex if they allow you to remove their clothing.

I tried to stop everything, completely. Told him to stop, repeatedly. He ignored me. I decided that I might as well just go along with it, because it wasn't *that* bad. I was fucked up, and my pain tolerance is generally pretty high. After a few minutes, I tried to stop him again. He ignored me. I let it go. Repeat.

Agree or disagree: a person is consenting if they agree to have sex with you at first, but changes their mind after you've already started.

It seemed to go on forever. I would try to stop him until it became apparent there was nothing I could do, and then I'd try to put up with it until I couldn't take it any longer. I felt the need to remain calm. I was terrified.

Agree or disagree: a person is consenting if they say yes, but their body seems to be saying no.

I eventually got away - I told him I had to use the restroom. He let me up. I was too stoned, or too scared, and I forgot to lock the door, and he followed me in. I shoved him, dodged past him, got dressed, left.

Sat in my car, freaking out. I knew he'd follow me, but he didn't. (He was too busy telling my friends what a bitch and a tease I was.) I called a friend who lived hundreds of miles away. She called a friend who lived closer to me, and he came and picked me up. It was light when he arrived. He took me out to breakfast. Didn't ask too many questions.

The bruises took weeks to disappear. One night, I got drunk and told my mom about it. She said, "Once things get to a certain point you can't expect to be able to stop them."

For years after, every sexual encounter came packaged together nicely with a panic attack. Sometimes, when I started to freak out, I asked my partner to stop. Sometimes I didn't bother.

Often they didn't notice.

Until very recently, this night was filed in my brain under the tab "bad sex." I had a therapist who tried to convince me it deserved another label. I didn't bring it up with any therapists after that.

I recently began the process of becoming a volunteer sex ed coordinator for a non-profit. I haven't done any real sessions yet, I am still in the training stages. Monday, I attended a class on consent.

Part of the purpose of these practice sessions is to address some of the comments, concerns, or issues that might come up in a real class. To plan what you'll say when a student says, "Of course s/he wanted it."

"It doesn't matter what you think someone wants," I said, maybe a little too intensely. "What matters is what they tell you they want."

One of the facilitators paused, looked at me, and said, "Oh, you'll be good at this."

It was a very triggering session, and I should have known it would be, but somehow, until that moment, I was interacting with consent as a concept, as a theory, an idea to explain.

But I wonder how my experience would have been different if, in 7th or 8th or 9th grade, someone had told me, "What matters is what you say. What matters is what you agree to. And you can change your mind." I wonder how my experience would have been different if, in 7th or 8th or 9th grade, someone had told him, "Everyone has the right to give consent, or not. Everyone has the responsibility to respect that."

Would that have changed anything?

Even now, I can argue the concepts and defend the importance of explicit consent, but in my mind, my experience is somehow different.  My own brain is like a rape apology greatest hits album.

I arrived at this conceptual struggle somewhat late in the game, so it's an ongoing process for me.  But might there be one kid, in one of my sessions, one teenager who hears it? One person who learns to pay attention, to back off if they feel their partner hesitating? One who learns how to communicate their own boundaries?

One who doesn't watch all of their own feminist theory collapse in the face of the ways they blame themselves?

I really, really hope so.

creepy dudes see the world as their daughter

This may be incoherent; I am sleep deprived.  You have been warned...

With some regularity I am caught between biting my tongue and pointing out the danger inherent in certain thought processes, ideologies, movements, etc.  Usually I bite my tongue, because a) I really hate conflict, and 2) I often don't have a really solid example to justify my fears that right-wing politicians and conservative evangelicals and random douchebags (Venn diagram of that one looks quite like a circle from a short distance, BTW) are OUT TO GET ME and RUIN MY LIFE.

Ahem.  See here .  The Daughter Test?  Seriously?  The government should outlaw everything that you don't think your (female)* kid should do?

Like crossing the street with no hand to hold?  And leaving veggies on the plate at the end of dinner?  And wearing the wrong length/type or skirt? Sitting too close to the television?  Running with scissors?  Dating that person you don't approve of?  Generally being strange in any way that offends your personal aesthetic?

Really, think about that - the government should have the same rules that you do for your child? 

And I'm the crazy socialist hippy liberal.  I thought I was supposed to be the one restricting your freedoms and such!  I just wanna take away your assault rifles and your SUVs, not tell you that you can't go hang out with Jimmy because his daddy's an atheist.

So, thank you, random douchebag contingent, for contributing a concrete example to the paranoia vault.  It is muchly appreciated.

Thing two, from the political/religious side of the fuckery, is this.  Inspirational pro-life movie about how abortion is SO EVIL that it's less evil to lock up girls in a basement dungeon until they give birth, or something.

Self-described pro-life.  Self-described horror.  I haven't actually seen it, just the trailer, and I think there might be some disconnect there what with the "Don't have an abortion because we are scary and will come get you!" not really helping their case, so much.  I mean, when was the last time you saw a locked in a basement movie in which those doing the locking were supposed to be the hero?

Logical disconnect = not my problem.  People who like to fantasize about locking women in basements and forcing them to give birth = everyone's problem.  Everyone who happens to have a uterus, anyway.

So how's that for you?  People who want the government to be your parents (literally), and people who want to kidnap women pursuing legal abortions and lock them in basements.  SCORE.  At least I get to be increasingly smug in my insistence that we are TOTALLY FUCKING DOOMED.

Zombie apocalypse sounds better every day.


* Because, of course, it's the girl children that need to be protected and legislated over.  There is a whole separate level of creepy to this which deals with the actual relationship between fathers (with their protecting and controlling) and daughters (with their helplessness and silly woman brains) in our culture, but that wasn't the point of this post.  This note is simply to point out that I understand that angle, and it's totally worth discussing, but I am not going there at the moment because I've had almost no sleep in the past 36 hours and I need a nap.  And I didn't even need the government to tell me so!

Quick note: "You look great!"

Why are you required to say this anytime you see a woman that you haven't seen in some time?  I am getting tired of all the "you look great!"s.  I look exactly the fucking same as I did last time you saw me.  Move on with your life.

Is it just me?  Is this required for men, too?

trigger me, baby (thoughts on how FA is great for everyone but me)

Note-sub-1: Trigger Warning: for weight issues, dieting, eating disorders, and assorted mental and emotional hell.

Note-sub-2: Disclaimer: This entry is personal.  This is about the way I feel about myself and my life and I do not intend to imply anything about anyone else via any of the words I write below.  This is only about me, and a struggle that I am currently and actively engaged in.

Note-sub-3: On a lack of specifics: I am avoiding including things like numbers and pants sizes except when absolutely necessary, as they are exceedingly difficult for me to write, and often triggering when I read them elsewhere.

This is going to be difficult - but it is necessary, for reasons listed below.
Reason Number One:  I am gaining weight, and it's terrifying.

I exist with a moderate level of discomfort about my weight.  This moderate level of discomfort varies, from me being barely aware of how much I hate myself to being actively, passionately engaged in despising the image in the mirror.  When I gain weight, though, when things stop buttoning and zipping, my awareness is heightened.  I am suddenly consumed with my chin and my arms and the calorie content of one fucking tomato. 

It is not that those last however many pounds are that relevant, it's that the only way I am able to exist at relative peace with myself is to Not Think About It.  To not think about how I look, or how I walk, or what I am eating or what people think of me.  Jeans that won't button are hard to ignore. 

Reason Number Two:  It's the fucking holidays.

It's time to dress up and look pretty and go to swanky New Year's parties and...oh yeah, I forgot, only skinny people can do that.  All the formal dresses and strappy shoes and pixie haircuts and whateverthefuckelse - they're for skinny people. 

Looking pretty is the whole reason people go to those stupid parties - to look pretty and look at other pretty people while I, of course, am sitting in the corner in my hopelessly generic purple and green mother-in-law ankle-length dress from the thrift store because it's the only thing they had that fit over my ass, eating way too much shitty dip.

Party on.  I think I'll just stay home.

Reason Number Three:  It's the fucking holidays.

And it's resolution time!  It's time to admit that none of the shit I said I'd do last year actually happened.  It's time to admit that instead of losing weight this year, or the year before, or the year before, or the year before that, I've been steadily gaining, and it's only a matter of time befor I'm completely unable to even leave the house because of the stairs!  Wow, 2011 sounds swell.

Once I've admitted all of those things, it's time to plan.  It's time to add and subtract and divide, and weigh everything and make worksheets and go into HYPER SELF-BERATING MODE whenever I skip the gym or eat anything that isn't on my list.  This, of course, will last a week or two, result in no significant weight loss, and make me more miserable than I've been in at least a month.

Reason Number Four:  This isn't me.  Or is it?

I know how to lose weight.  In high school and college when I got above a certain number I'd opt for ridiculously simple plans.  I'd eat salad and hummus for a week or two.  I'd fast one day a week for a month.  I'd limit my portions of everything except fruits and vegetables. 

I'd go to the gym every single day, for an hour, or two, or three.  I'd have a week of 500 calorie days, while going to the gym.  I'd lose enough, and stop worrying about it for a while.

When I lost a scholarship and had to leave college, I spent a summer proving that I was in control of my life by losing a few sizes.  My mother told me I was too thin, and I felt like I'd won a prize.  I also thought she was being ridiculous, and I kept losing weight until I met up with the worst idea I'd ever had.

I settled into my first "serious" (what does that even mean?) relationship and stopped worrying about my weight as much.  For about six months I was genuinely happy.  When things went to hell, the way things do, my weight was a huge issue.  We argued about it all the time (or, he yelled and I cried).  Weight gain that started out slow and probably benign was then fueled by secret grocery store trips and fast food runs.  I ate in secret, in huge amounts.  He wanted to track everything I ate, took my ATM card and wanted every receipt.  I got around it.  He paid for a personal trainer and I followed up my appointments with McNuggets.

By the time I got my head out of my ass and skipped town, I'd almost doubled my weight from my lowest point.

And, yes, I left.  I moved on.  I am happy and well-adjusted and I respect myself, or something.  Except I never lost most of that weight, and it's been four years.

Reason Number Five:  I'd actually like to be healthy.

I would actually like to eat few processed foods, and be active and go hiking and biking and take some dance classes and YOGA.  My addled brain needs yoga.

I want to be one of those whole-grain-grass-fed-I-grew-this-lettuce-myself types.

Somehow I can't separate the two.  Somehow the whole-grain-grass-fed-I-grew-this-lettuce-myself girl is really skinny, in my head, and reading ingredient labels and counting calories are the same thing.  And I can't go to yoga because everyone there is skinny.  And I can't take a dance class because OMG leotards.  And I can't go hiking because I am out of shape and I know I'm conflating these things, and I know that "capable of completing a challenging hike," is not the same thing as "comfortable with one's appearance in a leotard."  They're different, only they aren't, to me - no matter what I do it's all the same thing, the same people and the same words, it's just me being not good enough.

Reason Number Six: I am triggered as fuck.

Not just because of reasons 1-5, but also: because my cousin is going on a "weight loss plan" with her TEN-YEAR-OLD daughter.  Because I told my mom that I thought that was horrific and my mom just said, "Well, she does need to lose weight."  Because apparently the pantyhose I wear are too light, "since I gained some weight."  Because it's a constant theme of every holiday function, who lost or gained what on which program and why you should try it!

And how can I defend myself to them when I can't even defend myself to me?

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My resistance to Fat Acceptance is defensive, I know that now and I knew when I first encountered the idea.  I knew that my reluctance to accept this whole concept that Fat Isn't Bad stemmed from the knowledge that they were talking about me, too.

And I do a pretty good job of maintaining that cognitive dissonance.  So far, it is OK.  For everyone else.  I have no right to police or judge or really give a fuck about what other people do or don't do or how they look or don't look.  Totally.  Not.  My.  Business.

It's OK for other people to be fat - really, truly OK - it's just a modifier, not a quality judgement, it's no more indicative of value than eye color or hair color or nose shape - but it's still not OK for me to be fat.

If it's OK for me to be fat, then I will never, ever, ever lose weight. 

And I will always struggle in the ways that I struggle now.  I will hate myself in the morning before I leave the house.  I will hate mirrors.  I will hate shopping.  I will hate events that require me to dress up or dress down or have a costume.  I will hate pictures of myself.  I will hate dancers and runners and yogis and ice skaters.  I will hate everyone that I walk past in a day at work who is perfectly thin - people whose clothes fit well.  People who don't have to worry about how offensive their very presence is to all the normal, skinny people.  I will hate talking to people.  I will hate sitting and standing and walking and turning and raising my arms.

It's so exhausting, all that hate.  It wears me down little bits at a time.  Sometimes I fight through it, and sometimes I sit on the bed and cry because I just don't have the energy to choose clothes, look at myself in the mirror, and go out into the world anyway. 

But I can't let it go, not really.  I can't move on.  I can't just accept that I am stuck like this forever and ever and ever and that I will never really like myself, and never really be OK with my body, and never feel comfortable and never feel like I fit in.  I'll never feel in control, never do any of the physical things I like to do, that it will just get worse, and nothing will get better, ever.

And somehow, going back to reason #4 - if I am never able to be the person I was before that relationship, if I'm never able to heal from that damage, to purge what remains of that time, then he wins, doesn't he?

And if I sit here and bitch at myself and weigh my rice, then he wins again.

And I know that I've got it all twisted, and I know that I don't have a fucking clue, but attempting to articulate where I am, right now (I just started tracking all of my food yesterday) seems important.

the myth of a "moderate" pro-life movement - thoughts on the rape and incest exception

A friend posted this article on Facebook recently, and I was halfway into a comment on her post when I realized that I'd probably exceed the character limit without ever actually making my point.

She expressed horror that anyone would oppose abortion in cases of rape and incest.  I find the concept of a rape and incest exception is incredibly problematic for a variety of reasons.  Below are three.

1) It would be impossible to implement.

The legal system's response to allegations of rape is far below even remotely acceptable.  Who qualifies for this rape exception?  Women who report?  Women whose reports are taken seriously?  Does the rapist have to be caught?  Convicted? 

Sure, because pressing charges is not amazingly traumatic.  Because cops always listen.  Because judges don't use any possible excuse they can cook up to acquit.

What about incest?  I'm sure those parental notification laws would be really convenient there!

2) It's inconsistent and blatantly misogynistic.

If you fervently believe with all of your conservative, religious heart that abortion is equivalent to murder, of course you want it to be illegal. If you sit around on Tuesday evenings mourning for all the little lost babies (who would all, of course, have grown up to be white, cis, het, Christian Reconstructionist genuises who cured cancer and paved the way for the glorious return of Jesus Christ by retaking both houses of Congress) then of course you're out picketing clinics and harassing women who are foolishly attempting to fend for themselves and be in control of their own lives.

I don't agree with you - I think you're misguided to the point of being evil. But in the land of if...thens, you've got a pretty solid case.

If you believe that abortion is murder, except when the woman in question was victimized, then we need to take you back to logic school.

You have here invoked a hierarchy of evil deeds, in which killing an innocent being is less heinous than continuing the victimization of a rape victim via forced pregnancy. Not an entirely ridiculous premise - people are allowed to have their own values and assign them varying points on the "how horrified this makes me" scale.

Continue down the list, though, and your Horrifying Deed Index looks like this:

1) Most Horrifying: Forcing a rape victim to complete a pregnancy
2) Slightly less horrifying: Murder
3) Not horrifying: Forcing a woman who had consensual sex to complete a pregnancy

The only difference between 1) and 3) is the victim status of the woman in question. We have agreed that forcing a woman to carry a pregnancy to term is a horrible violation, but ONLY if that woman did not consent to sex. If the woman did consent to sex, then she deserves what we've already termed is horrible. We are punishing women for having consensual sex.

Anyone with any knowledge of rape culture knows that we do this anyway, as a matter of course, but the idea that the rape and incest exception is the more "moderate" position is frankly terrifying to me. If you're a "no abortion, ever" conservative, then you're "extreme" - but this position does make logical sense from some ideological standpoints. The "no abortion for you - you asked for it" conservatives are portrayed as reasonable and accomadating, when in reality their misogyny is just as frightening as that of their arguably more principled counterparts.

3)  It perpetuates the myth of a moderate pro-life movement.

Obviously, or hopefully obviously, I do not believe that abortion rights should be restricted.  But one of the most insidious things about encroachments on reproductive freedoms is that they come in pieces.  No one really believes that abortion should be legal and available BUT all women should have to hear a detailed description of the physical characteristics of the fetus.

The powers that push for those laws aim to chip away at reproductive choice a little piece at a time.  Chip, chip, chip, until the system is so complicated and the regulations so inane that no one will be practicing anywhere in your county, or your state, or the next three, and your choice isn't one at all.

Every single time a new law or regulation or requirement is passed, it takes a little bit of the decision-making power away from women who ought to be trusted to make their own decisions.  And every time we step back and say, "well at least they're not EXTREME pro-life," we're missing the point. 

There are only two positions here - women should be able to make their own choices, or they should not.  Women have the right to decide what is best for their lives, or they do not.  The seemingly gray area in the middle is a lie, and to believe that lie is to fall into a trap that strips our choices and our options away a little at a time, until we have none left.

quick thought

There is no -woman equivalent to the phrase "family man."

I am going to start using the phrase "family woman" and see what kind of funny looks I get, then politely ask people to explain to me why it sounds weird.

no longer home

I went to an all women's college. This is important.

I experienced my first year, poli-sci 101, "holy shit, it's all a lie!" political awakening in the wake of 9/11. I do not intend to downplay the significance of that event by using it as a backdrop for my own, nascent sort-of-radicalness, but this is important, too.

And for me, it was backdrop. I wasn't directly affected. I understood the pain and horror of that event the only way one so far removed can - through a lens, through a filter, through as much empathy as one can stand before bleeding from the ears. My awareness was nothing but a faint echo, a shadow, a vague unease.

Campus was quiet. People were slow and sad and lonely and worried and scared. And when the quiet faded, and the rage kicked in, I watched classmates and discussion partners and news outlets turn rabid. My first tears were not for the victims of the attack, but for a hallmate who suggested, on multiple occaisions, that we should "bomb them all" - referring to whom, exactly, I'm not sure - she was just referring to that other, that them.

what do I say? (TW for fat hatred)

My parents just returned yesterday from a week-and-then-some trip to Yellowstone with my maternal grandmother. I picked them up from the airport around 4:30 PM. A few initial pleasantries got us out of the airport, but once we hit the highway, the conversation turned to dinner.

Dad: "What do you want to eat for dinner, Mom?"

Grandmother: "I don't even...all we do is talk about food! Where do you want to go, what do you want, blah blah blah. All we did the whole time was eat and talk about food! I don't want to talk about food."

(Background: My mother and father are fat. I am fat. My grandmother is not. She is one of the very few people in family who are not fat. My mother, her sisters, my cousins - almost everyone except my grandmother is fat.)

My mother is getting that tense thing in the back of her neck. I am driving, and she's in the back seat, but I can feel it, because I do it, too.

why I am not taking any more business classes (part one)

I took this class - "Human Relations" last year. It was one on a list of several business classes I intended to take, knowing that it would please my management and hoping it might grant me more skill in navigating the political minefield that is corporate America. I wrote this right before the class had ended, but I think it bears posting here.

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This textbook, for the record, is a fucking joke. Behold: several of its most ridiculous quotes. I acknowledge that these are taken out of context. Believe me, or don't, when I say that the context doesn't really improve them much.

"Pinstripes may make you appear as though you are trying to imitate male apparel." (141) So might pants, apparently, because they aren't even mentioned as an option.

"Men at work tend to talk to preserve independence and status in an organizational hierarchical social order. Women tend to talk for closeness to develop relationships, in which people seek and give confirmation and support." (160) Well that just about explains everything, doesn't it? Maybe if the women weren't so busy making friends, they could get some damn work done!

"Research supports that women are more emotional than men." (209) No citation, mind you.

"Off and often on the job...men are more willing than women to say directly what is important to them and state their expectations. Women generally trust that the other person will anticipate what's important to them without having to state their expectations." (304)

"Women [should] not date coworkers or other people in their industry, because if they do, they will be viewed as someone's girlfriend rather than a serious businessperson." (568) I find it amusing that here, and throughout the book, the author consistently uses "-person" terms, as if that makes up for the blatant stereotyping and double-standards.

"Women who perceive they will have problems managing solely because of their sex may be creating a self-fulfilling prophecy." (573) Because sexism is dead! Right?

I am, of course, not even getting into the two paragraphs of parenting advice, but I will leave you with this little tidbit:

"So, the question today is not, Will most mothers work outside the home? The question is, Will she leave work to raise children, and if so, for how long?"

Really, is that the question? Silly me. I thought the question was, How the fuck did you get this piece of shit published?

Published in 2008, that is.

Don't grind your teeth like that, gentle reader. It might give you a headache.

Good morning!

I have been rather lax in updating this blog - the best of my ranting seems to get used sitting out on the balcony over cocktails, waiting for the oppressive heat to drain away from the day.

That said, a new post will be up by the end of the week. Thanks to Shakesville, I've had some lovely readers stop by, and I'd love for them to have something else to read.

Sunday morning rape apology

Good afternoon, hypothetical readers!

This morning I learned something that I wanted to share. My family includes at least two antifeminist rape apologists!

I know you're jealous, and would love some rape apologists of your very own, so that you might also be berated and screamed at for your ignorance. In hopes of sating this desire, I present some of the highlights of our exchange.

The setting is my parent's living room, in which just moments before my mother and I had discussed cuticle maintenance. Just riveting, I know. The conversation migrated, slowly, as pesky conversations are wont to do, and we ended in the realm of bars.

Dark, until recently smokey, loud, crowded establishments in which people interact and sometimes those interactions are less than pleasant, right? Sometimes some asshole will, for example, touch other people in a way that is invasive, rude, inappropriate, etc.

"Well, that's to be expected, I think," my mother says, in her way of being so much wiser than I am because I am after all just the ignorant spawn.

Red flag. BIG ONE. In my face, flying about. "Oh, no." I say. "Let's not go here. This is a hot button issue for me."

late night thoughts (or, of course we can't eliminate patriarchy. and?)

This probably is obvious and silly to quite a lot of people. But I, in grand and selfish form, am not writing for quite a lot of people. I am writing for me, in order to puzzle out all sorts of vague and theoretical ideas for my very own self.

So here is the question, which I might ask a hypothetical radfem, who would hypothetically think I was silly and out of my league, and that perhaps I ought to just put on some more lipstick and continue furthering the interests of The Man, Inc., and meanwhile stop asking stupid questions and let her get back to her Important Business.

This is, like I said, hypothetical. No offense intended to anyone who does think I am silly, or asking stupid questions, or who must return to their Important Business. Please, return to it.

Ahem.

Now that we're quite alone, I ask:

If patriarchy is everything, if it determines everything and controls everything and none of us really has any agency and none of us can really escape or even have any concept of what it might be like outside of patriarchy or how we might make the world better because everything we do is just contributing to the system, like some evil feedback loop, then what the fuck are you doing?

Yes, that's it. I said it. What are you doing, hypothetical radfem? Spreading the anti-gospel that we're all in a world of shit, have always been, always will be? Convincing others that we're totally SOL and nothing can possibly ever change that?

Why?

Isn't everything you are doing, your activism and writing and reading and thinking and walking your dog on a bright Spring morning, part of that system? It's a secular predestination doctrine, isn't it? If nothing matters, then nothing matters. Not even telling me that nothing matters. Not even being right, or changing laws, or anything. At all. Because we have no power and no way of getting it.

Now I want you to understand, hypothetical reader (regardless of your radness) that I am ohsotempted by this kind of reasoning. Friends and family wail and gnash teeth, or at least leave the room, when I start in on this type of thing, because they know it might go on for HOURS. Nothing matters. I am a speck of dust. We are at the mercy of forces larger than ourselves. I am sad, lonely, and emo. Etc.

So, if patriarchy = gravity, a powerful and inescapable force, then what?

Well, then, I suppose, whether or not something is truly feminist and liberated is utterly beside the point, because nothing is. Then, I suppose, we must create a new kind of measure for our activism, our creative work, and our lives. We must ask new questions.

If we cannot ask, "is this act sufficiently feminist?" perhaps we might ask, "is there a way to make this situation better? is there a way to harm fewer people? to help more? to create more joy than pain? to make someone smile?"

We could ask, "can I contribute in a way that is meaningful to me? that will brighten my day, or my life? can I build something I might be proud of? can I create memories that I want to carry with me?"

Maybe these are the questions we should have been asking all along?

Hypothetical radfem is displeased, perhaps - "but you are merely a tool!" she says. "You are not empowered! You are not free!"

And neither are you. And neither is anyone. And so, perhaps there isn't really much use in discussing it anymore. Would you like some wine?

10 reasons why I don't really know what I think about Iceland's strip club law

So, Iceland passed a law banning strip clubs, which "will make it illegal for any business to profit from the nudity of its employees."

When I first read the headline, I thought, "Hmmm." And then I read this quote by Kolbrún Halldórsdóttir: "It is not acceptable that women or people in general are a product to be sold," and I thought, Right. The fuck. On.

And then I headed over to Feministe, and read Jill's take, and I actually started thinking. Because, really, isn't this kind of the Central Debate of Our Day. Or any day? Isn' t this a Big Divisive Feminist Question? Even in my own head, it's a Big Divisive Question. And even if you know why, I'll tell you why anyway.

1) Because I am skeptical of laws that limit personal freedoms. At least in theory. I think we should trust people to be able to make their own decisions. I am concerned by laws that tell you what you can and cannot do with your body. I am concerned with the idea that women are just always victims, and categorically unable to make choices.

2) Because I am aware how often the "person freedom" schtik is used to support abusive, exploitative, power-hungry, victimizing people, organizations, and practices. Personal freedom means little to a lot of people. Personal freedom is money. It belongs to the people with the money and it is their prerogative to share it, or not.

3) Because I don't know where the line is between my right to self-determination and social good. Because there is a line; there has to be - if you deny that you're an absolute anarchist. We must all, to a greater or lesser extent, consent to have our freedoms limited if we are to live in a society, for the good of that society. Blasphemy, I know.

4) Because I am not a sex-worker, and never have been, and am perhaps not likely to be, and so any of my ideas or theories are necessarily based on second, third, or tenth-hand information, and therefore anything I have to say is really not at all relevant.

5) Because I hate the "you're not a real feminist because..." arguments, even if I join them sometimes. Because I hate the privilege inherent in saying, "that's not good for you, trust me I know." Because I don't know, and neither does anyone else who isn't you. Because I think that in a world that doesn't respect or honor individuals, that doesn't really often listen to them, we need to listen to them.

6) Because making sex work of any kind illegal is, to me, kind of beside the point. Because if you want to make sex work illegal because (you assume) women are forced into it due to poverty and addiction, you are not actually fixing the problems of poverty and addiction. You are, in fact, maybe making them worse by removing one potential method of income for some women. If you want to make it illegal because it's not safe, you're not actually making women safe. Because you're assuming, somehow, that sex work is the cause of the lack of safety, that the behavior of the women is the problem, that violence just happens, that it grows organically next to sex work in some kind of natural symbiosis, you're taking the perpetrators out of the equation entirely. AND because making it illegal probably won't stop it.

7) Because it's hard for me to accept that we are going to encourage any sort of gender equality in a society in which the unspoken last resort of women is to sell their bodies, in which women bought and sold and on display is just part of daily life, in which the constant message is that we're valuable first and foremost for our bodies, for what we can provide, for how available we are to eyes and hands and other things.

8) Because we live in an increasingly global world, and even if one suddenly found NO representations or realities of objectified women in Iceland, it wouldn't fix anything. Those representations and realities are everywhere else. Because I don't know how taking away those representations will actually change the minds of the people who make up culture, of the people who buy and sell and create and destroy and write the scripts, for all of us, all the time.

9) Because, as Jill writes, "at the end of the day you can’t regulate or legislate respect."

10) Because patriarchy is like air. It's everywhere, in everything, it not only permeates the atmosphere it IS the atmosphere. There is nothing separate from it, nothing that can really escape or live in isolation from it. I believe this. I didn't used to. Advertising, books, movies, history, music, religion, fashion, humor, wars, resources, politics, business, street names, social systems...it's like air. And therefore nothing we do can really be apart from it, and none of us can really be immune. It doesn't matter what we do.

On that nihilistic note, I suppose I will end.

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.