Personal Space and Being a Lady

[Trigger warning–something I don’t usually include at the beginning of my posts since my whole blog is a trigger for some people.]

AHEM. Hey remember me? NO? Fuck off! Just kidding. I love you, even though the thing you got me for my birthday broke 45 minutes after I opened it and I know you took a second piece of cake before everyone even had one.

SO. What I really want to say! The other day I read this article and it really grabbed me: Schrodinger’s Rapist: or a Guy’s Guide to Approaching Strange women without Being Maced. That’s a mouthful, eh?

In a nutshell, the author, Phaedra Starling, claims that women, to varying degrees, constantly assess their personal risk of harm when confronted with men in daily life. This is everywhere–on the street, in the workplace, on the first few dates and even with men you have known for years if things go south suddenly. It’s not a new idea in the realm of feminist thought and discussion, but I think it’s worthwhile in the sense that the Starling takes a really matter-of-fact, non-hostile tone without cajoling or pandering. I feel like it’s the best possible way to present this idea to men who are genuinely good guys. A chance to say, hey, this thing that you may not be aware of–women’s fear of men–is real and takes up a significant part of women’s daily lives and energy. It would be great if articles like this were published in men’s magazines, wouldn’t it? AH HA HA HA HA, oh, I think I just hurt myself there.

The article is a good and essential read for a lot of people, men and women alike. Here is a snippet that gets at the essence of the problem:

Now, you want to become acquainted with a woman you see in public. The first thing you need to understand is that women are dealing with a set of challenges and concerns that are strange to you, a man. To begin with, we would rather not be killed or otherwise violently assaulted.

“But wait! I don’t want that, either!”

Well, no. But do you think about it all the time? Is preventing violent assault or murder part of your daily routine, rather than merely something you do when you venture into war zones? Because, for women, it is. When I go on a date, I always leave the man’s full name and contact information written next to my computer monitor. This is so the cops can find my body if I go missing. My best friend will call or e-mail me the next morning, and I must answer that call or e-mail before noon-ish, or she begins to worry. If she doesn’t hear from me by three or so, she’ll call the police. My activities after dark are curtailed. Unless I am in a densely-occupied, well-lit space, I won’t go out alone. Even then, I prefer to have a friend or two, or my dogs, with me. Do you follow rules like these?

So when you, a stranger, approach me, I have to ask myself: Will this man rape me?

I shared this article with a couple of men in my life–men I consider to be allies of feminism and pretty aware and cool guys. Men who would not stand by if they saw or heard women being slagged or hurt in cases where they could not defend themselves. Men who are aware that there are inequalities, and try to act in ways in their daily lives that move men and women closer to being equals.

“What do you think about this article?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone of voice that said, “There is no carrot for the ‘right’ answer.”

“I think it sounds pretty extreme, like an overreaction,” one of the men said. “But I don’t know what it’s like to be a woman,” he hastened to add.

I paused for a moment and tried to think if there were any women I knew who didn’t think in these terms to varying degrees, and this friend characterized the thesis of this article “extreme” and an “overreaction.” This extremely unscientific survey confirmed what I suspected, which is that these sorts of articles and discussions are absolutely critical.

It also made me think about how I live my own life, especially since having children. Before I had children, I didn’t pull any punches. If a man talked to me and I was uninterested I would ignore him or tell him to leave me alone, either neutrally or harshly, depending on my mood and the situation. Having children put a chink in that armor, and instilled more fear of strange men in me. If I acted in ways that come naturally to me to curtail unwanted conversations with strange men, which is coolly or with hostility, would the situation escalate? Could I risk some man getting angry with me because I wasn’t cooperating and watch the consequences unfold in front of or possibly to my children? Better to smile and play along.

This bleeds over to my life when I am without my children, too, which is, of course, when most men make unwelcome advances toward me. In the past, when I was only responsible for myself, I would tell men off if I indicated I was disinterested and the situation escalated. If things got ugly, it often ended in me being called a “fucking bitch” or a “cunt” or something equally charming. Now I feel I have an obligation to my girls to make it home in one piece, and so I nod and smile at whatever inanity/sexism/grossness is tossed my way.

Thinking of these compromises I make on a daily basis made me also think about the concept of rape culture, and of an excellent article I read by Melissa McEwan on Shakesville recently on the topic.

As the title of the piece promises (Rape Culture 101), McEwan provides the reader with a good background in different aspects of rape culture. Among many other great points she addresses what I think of as the perception/behavior problem.

Rape culture is 1 in 6 women being sexually assaulted in their lifetimes. Rape culture is not even talking about the reality that many women are sexually assaulted multiple times in their lives. Rape culture is the way in which the constant threat of sexual assault affects women’s daily movements. Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you’re alone, if you’re with a stranger, if you’re in a group, if you’re in a group of strangers, if it’s dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you’re carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you’re wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who’s around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who’s at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn’t follow all the rules it’s your fault.

[Links from this passage omitted but available at original post.]

(As an aside I should say that I am aware that I am a participant in rape culture, to some extent, and I actively educate my daughters in the tenets of it. This is something I have been considering writing about in the near future.)

So I have been thinking about this a lot since reading the Schrodinger’s Rapist article. Do I give my energy to being pleasing and compliant to the wishes of strange men who actively pursue conversations and interactions with me that I don’t want to have? Or do I go back to resisting: unsmiling, ignoring, intolerant, which is another sort of energy drain?

I walked out of my building, which is smack in the center of downtown, with a half-formed resolution in my head: for a month I would try the old way. I would not dial things up to defcon 1 the minute a man said “hello,” but if I didn’t want to talk, I would not. Something that is important to know about my typical demeanor is that I walk fast, avoid eye contact, and have giant can-style headphones that block everything out except the most annoying leafblowers. I am not sending the message that I am available for casual conversation.

I approached the corner and immediately there was a man standing next to me, trying to get my attention. I deliberately turned my head away, waiting for the light to change. A couple of times I turned my head forward, and saw him in the corner of my eye attempting to get my attention to speak to me again. I looked at him and watched him take a breath to speak and turned away again. He attempted to speak to me, even after this. This made me think of a passage from Starling’s article:

Women are communicating all the time. Learn to understand and respect women’s communication to you.

You want to say Hi to the cute girl on the subway. How will she react? Fortunately, I can tell you with some certainty, because she’s already sending messages to you. Looking out the window, reading a book, working on a computer, arms folded across chest, body away from you = do not disturb. So, y’know, don’t disturb her. Really. Even to say that you like her hair, shoes, or book. A compliment is not always a reason for women to smile and say thank you. You are a threat, remember? You are Schrödinger’s Rapist. Don’t assume that whatever you have to say will win her over with charm or flattery. Believe what she’s signaling, and back off.

[….]

So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.

Did this man on the corner scream at me, pinch me, light my hair on fire? No. What he decided was to try to initiate conversation with me four times, after I deliberately and pointedly ignored him, with my body language and with my headphones.

There are exceptions to every situation, of course, but when the light changed and I walked away, I realized that women DON’T do this. Women do not interrupt people wearing headphones unless they need something. I pick a woman to interrupt, and I see other women at places like bus stops do the same. If a woman interrupts me, there is a good chance that she needs directions, the time, change for a dollar. If a man interrupts me, nine times out of ten it’s to say he likes my hair color. That’s nice; I don’t care.

Starling is right: if you behave like this, “your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone.” Put another way, a man engaging in these behaviors is not treating a woman like an equal. Would this man make four attempts to pay a compliment to a man on a corner who was also keeping to himself? If I had to guess I would say no.

So here I am, resolved to “reclaim my space,” as one of my friends said. I am letting this little experiment run at least through the end of the month. I will let you know how things shake out.

Shameless Promotion

Hey Team,

A friend of mine entered an essay contest to win angora goats for her farm. Yes, this is complete and utter bias, but she is a good person, a good friend, and runs a lovely farm. Her farm is an investment in her future and the future of her children, two of whom are autistic. In a nutshell (ho ho) she has started a walnut farm to support her dependent children in her old age and beyond. The goats would be a great addition to her farm and for her future planning.

I know she agonized over the writing and editing of this and her friends are very excited for her. I gladly looked at drafts for her, but I really had no comments to make! If you think she has written a worthy essay, I hope you will cast a vote for her. (Note: if you are two or more people on one computer, know that they are monitoring for ballot box stuffing!) Thanks for considering.

NB: An IE person just told me they could not get in with a direct link. If you have trouble, try accessing the main site, and my friend’s name is Veronica Tuggle-Welch, and it is the Goat Giveaway. VOTING ENDS FRIDAY!!

FYCL 7: The Interrupted Podcast

FYCL

Hey, it’s lucky number seven! The exciting news here is that we are now on iTunes so you know it’s too legit to quit. Sexual taboos, dubious and non-dubious sex toys, Kanye West will let you finish but first he will be a jackass, and finding work in academia.

Direct grab: http://www.uppitywomen.org/media/FYCL7.mp3
RSS: http://fycl.libsyn.com/
iTunes (free): http://www.apple.com/search/ipoditunes/?q=FYCL

Hey Guys What’s Going On?

I got stabbed by a “well-meaning” doctor last week who gave me some vaccine that caused a crazy reaction.  At least there was no medical mask over beard hairs. BARF OUT. Ladies only, yall. Long story short, I was kind of jacked last week. No podcast, no nuffin. Last Saturday night I was a samurai hobo with Ruby, except this time the sake was terrible and I couldn’t finish it.

Ruby took me to see the comedian Arj Barker, whom you may know from Flight of the Conchords fame. I do not, since I only listen to the videos on internet, but I heard him on the radio once and he seemed okay to me.

The funny thing was before the show, when we discovered that the Showbox decided to perpetrate a cruel sociological experiment by setting up some of the bar/counter seating with an odd number of chairs. This resulted in an empty seat next to me. Presently a short man, possibly even a midget, walked up with another chair and brandished it at us slightly.

“Could I get you all to move just a couple of inches,” he said, in an entitled-dick voice. He was with a lovely, tall blonde woman who looked like she was wishing she were somewhere, anywhere else as she assiduously looked off to one side as he harangued us.

“If we moved over,” I said, with logic that was approaching epic levels, “she will get bumped off the end of this bar.” I pointed to a hapless woman at the very end who was looking concerned.

“If we could ALL just move TWO INCHES,” said Entitled Dick.

“I don’t know these guys and I don’t want to get ANY closer,” Ruby said, indicating the men next to her and making me love her even more.

He took one last run at it: “Just TWO INCHES.”

“That’s what she said,” I said. He squinted at me, but it was getting loud in the club.

“It is VERY CROWDED,” Entitled Dick said.

“That is because you are horning your chair in,” I said.

Finally Ruby and I passive-aggressively scooched our chairs over the tiniest bit and he squeezed in.

I quickly forgot about him and went back to enjoying my vodka tonic and chatting with Ruby. I couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of my eye he spent the entire time before the show on his iPhone, poking it and scrolling around while his companion looked around and over his shoulder, bored. I had a moment of wanting to pull a “IS THIS DICK BORING YOU, BABY?” but I restrained myself when I remembered I am not actually Justin Timberlake.

Right before the opener came out Entitled Dick took a phone call and he pulled his companion and left. Two men that we did not have a traumatic history with swooped in and took their seats, which was great with me.

GOD HELP ME all I want to do today is listen to “Landslide” and eat spray cheese out of the can.

In Which I Go Up My Butt and Around The Corner

I have often wondered what makes people write. I know, I know, there’s a lot of reasons: catharsis, expression, communication, revenge, dollas, whatever. Then there is writing for self and writing for an audience. You may know I have been thinking a lot about Pepys’s Diary in the past few months, in large part because I see parallels between what someone like me does and what Pepys was doing, specifically, relentlessly creating a record of the tedium of everyday life. I wonder how aware he was that his writings would fall into someone else’s hands after his death–was he self-editing at all? Did he go back and reread his old ones and think about his past self and how he felt before, and the mistakes he made? Did he experience the rush at finding that exact day or week that was a pivot point into a really good or really bad patch? Would he have killed for a search box like mine??

I think I have mentioned before I have nightmares if I stop writing all together. I had terrible ones when Strudel was first born in 2005 and I was lurking offline and was reading voraciously but too tired to say anything myself. This is the same when I was younger and painted as well, before I switched to words only. When I was 18 I had an intense dream about NOT painting, since I was slacking off quite a bit in the few months after I had gotten married. I dreamt I was in a waiting room and someone called me, but into the hall. There was row after row of paintings that stretched down a long hall and the woman who took me out there (played by Liz Phair, I am not kidding) said, “This is all the work you haven’t done.” And there they were, all these loud tacky paintings that were in my terrible style from when I was in my late teens and early twenties. DEPRESS. Just like everyone else, my brain is trying to kill me.

I have discovered something about myself in writing online for eight years. I have had breaks in between, which I think is good and necessary (though in one case was court-ordered and lame), during which I write offline. I write offline while blogging as well, when I get the urge. And I have found I still self-edit as if someone is looking over my shoulder. I don’t know if I can actually go to the bottom of my brain and write all the terrible truth from there, whether it is base or just boring. Memoirs–you may be reading them. I don’t have the gumption or self of steam to charge for this.

I see a lot of writing I have done as a shorthand for what I was having deeper thoughts about. Some phrases can send me back and I see the words as hypocritical (either a lie to myself or someone else), as a screen, or as a code that triggers something more complex and detailed. Some writing is a secret message to other people, but even the intended target can’t really experience all the layers to it. A friend of mine says she doesn’t understand what I’m talking about sometimes but enjoys it anyway, which is pretty nice. There’s a lot of levels of enjoyment you can get out of something like writing. Novels I read as a kid are a vastly different experience now–sometimes richer, sometimes shallow and disappointing.

I am getting meta this week because I am on a sort of a vacation and Nothing Hoppon. Another thing I have discovered is that I need a Baby Bear situation. Life cannot be TOO TRAUMATIC nor TOO BORING for me to write often and decently. Right now, life is TOO BORING and I am waiting for things and my brain is trying to slide out of my ears. I can barely read a book.

SO. Why do you write? How do you write? Does your brain try to kill you if you stop creating whatever it is you create?

What’s Your Damage, Heather?

Act now, or at least before 8 p.m.-ish PST Friday (which is when we do the podcast), to get in on the opportunity to receive dubious advice from ladies who have over 9000 years of experience between them. You may comment or email sj at this domain.

Thank you!

Appalling Personal Problems That A Person Cannot Hide, Not Even for One Night.

ETA: whatladder says this is a DO NOT EAT WHILE READING post. I say WALK IT OFF, PUSSY. You have been warned.

I went out to Calgary and I told the story so many times I don’t feel like telling it again! I went, it was fun, the end. You saw the pics, probably. “Critics Declare Buttcon 9 a Success.” Really, the most fun conference I have ever attended. Buttcon 10 is in Iceland, so I had better start saving up now.

I think what I want to talk about what a wreck my skin is. That’s more interesting anyhow. THIS IS MY HOUSE I’LL DO AS I DARN PLEASE. So, I have keratosis pilaris, and pretty much always have since I was a baby. When I was a kid, this affliction was known as “I don’t know why your skin does that, weird, huh?” I didn’t really realize what it was until I read about it on Tomato Nation, and I had that OH moment. The cool thing is that it starts clearing up between twenty-five and thirty, so my skin looks fine most of the time. But if something goes wrong now typically I can’t go, “Woe is moi I have skin affliction,” I have to say, this is a ZIT. Alas.

I have a history of just attacking myself, too. Years of fucked up skin combined with pretty good healing ability has made me somewhat fearless. I used to beg to pull my sister’s teeth when she was a kid and I would do home surgery on someone else in a second, if they let me. So my thing in more recent years has been what I guess are sebaceous cysts, where sometimes I will get a zit and it will just NOT go away.

My first experience was this monstrosity on my back, which was a zit that looked done and felt done, but would refill itself repeatedly. It got larger and larger and I could feel something lurking under my skin. So in the past year or so I got one in one of the worst places–under my BOOB. Right where my bra sits. I would prod it and I could feel something was in it…pirate’s booty? Spider eggs? Jeff Goldblum? Sorry, I am still running that into the ground from yesterday. It wasn’t funny then, either.

I was trapped in the hotel Saturday night with my sleepy kid, kind of bored and knocking around. Lewd texts I sent went ignored. TV was meh, as usual. But I had a pair of tweezers and a magnifying shaving mirror in the bathroom, and I noticed as I took my bra off it was sore again. Hmm…

It was a pretty easy operation as these things go, unlike the first time, which was on my back and very hard to reach. I could see the center and grabbed it after a few tries with my tweezers. What always sticks with me is the feeling of pulling some relatively hard object out of a hole in my body. I can feel it sliding out and then I have this THING that causes me sometimes a year-plus of irritation. I am the princess, and it is my pea. It is HEAVENLY having them come out, no joke.

Then I have the huge hole that goes down to forever and I am like CAN I SEE MY LUNGS through there? GRACIOUS. And it does not bleed. The next morning I woke up and it was a krillion times better, and today it is just a little scar. GO TEAM HOME SURGERY!

In Other News: FUCKING WHOOPS TIMES INFINITY

Franny: AUUUGH, Mom, what IS that at the top of your website???

Me: That. Is a wound. On a man’s. Leg.

Franny: That looks like a BAD one.

Me: Yes, but they sewed it up and he is okay now.

Franny: Okay, good.

FAIL!