I fear greatly the answers to the questions surrounding death. It pains me to think too much about any of it. Rather than the belief in something after, I believe solely in attempting to make the best of these precious earth-bound moments. And yet, usually catching me entirely unaware, the thoughts creep back into my brain. What lies after? How can we succinctly tie our own spiritualities with the scientific, with the known, with the cold reality of it all?
I remember the immensity that was the moment - that singular moment - when we put down our beloved golden retriever. His head coming to rest for the last time on my shoe. My jerky response as I stood, smashing into the paper towel dispenser. The nurse (nurse? vet tech? lady in scrubs?) attempting to comfort me and me pushing her away because the tears were coming too fast and I couldn't wait to break away and be alone, where no one would see me crying. I realize that this is in no way comparable to the deaths of those humans we come to love so much, but then again, I think perhaps that even those mammalian deaths hold the keys to true humanity. The singularity that ties us all together: love.
No matter how it happens, death holds some sort of quiet whisper, a moment in which time stops rushing and instead, lingers for the exhale. It's not something that will ever leave you. (I do not speak as one wizened by so many experiences, thankfully, although the few that I have had with death have been personally profound.)
I was reading in the bathtub (now that I'm taking baths again, my reading material has multiplied immensely) and I found myself falling in love with the protagonist of the book I'd just started - it's been languishing in one of my book suitcases (yes, I have those) for ages and I've just now gotten around to picking it up. She embodies, for the moment, everything I find wonderful: strength, intelligence, determination, the juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, beauty, courage. And yet, I found myself terrified that she'd die before the end of the book. In that moment, I was certain of her death. I flipped to the last page (a terrible habit, but one I take great comfort in - I even do it with romance novels, and you know from the third page how those are going to end) and sure enough, she dies. It's a beautiful death, really, her soul personified by birds. But now I'm happier to read about her life. I can take comfort in the fact that I already know how she dies, yet I've not at all ruined the book for myself.
This is the point of all of this, I guess: even though you can not know the exactness of your own death, you know that at a certain point, it must come. I look at those yellow feline eyes that I love so much and realize that I can't keep them forever. I push away the melancholy thoughts, realizing that loving him now is so much better than focusing on the pain I'll feel when he's gone. I circle back, from time to time, working myself up thinking about the emptiness that the deaths of those I love will leave. I think it stems from the knowledge that one day, I will be without my mother. In my attempts to soothe myself, I have begun to steel myself against the void I know will exist. Void is inadequate. It will be like a roaring vacuum. It will pull at the edges of my soul.
But it is natural. (I remember this book they got us to teach us about death. I'll never forget how incredibly mystified I was when I read it. I hated the book and yet something drew me to it. It calmly taught children that everything must die, and yet it horrified me. I hated connecting dead leaves to people. Something resonated somewhere deep inside of me. I often think of that book and wonder what it would be like to read it again now. I wonder if it's in a box somewhere in a basement.)
Death and taxes, they say. But they're not wrong. To know the eventuality of it before it happens is to hope that one will be able to fully embrace everything that is life knowing the finality of it all. The chance to struggle and create, to learn and understand, to think, to feel, to be, to love passionately and freely is a gift. Those moments are the footprints we leave behind. To love deeply and live fully are my only goals. If at my funeral, people don't laugh and tell horrifyingly embarrassing yet endearing stories, I will be incredibly bummed. Life is a wild adventure. It's beautiful and bittersweet.
Either way, it is certain. It's comforting, in a way, to know that everyone has to do it. Someone's doing it right now. Someone did it yesterday and someone will do it tomorrow. We are all born and we will all die, but what we do in between belongs solely to us. That's the best part.
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
On the first snow
I've felt that feeling of glorious beginning only a few times in my life, but I can still remember the first moment for all of them.
It's never a complete memory, just a glimpse, a snapshot.
You will never feel the way you do in that moment ever again. There will be highs, lows, the muddling about in between, but there is never anything so pure as the singular realization of possibility.
Today, I was too busy to write about how I feel about fall. About the way the light looks different now than it did a month ago, how the sun shines on crisp leaves. I wanted to show you the leaves blowing across the road, skipping along and settling. I wanted you to feel what I felt. Color set against the gray light. Beauty in the beginning of the end. (The beginning of anything is always the beginning of the end.)
It is one of those glimpses, a moment slipping away before the barren winter arrives.
Tonight is that feeling. Tonight is full of possibilities. Tonight, you don't see it coming; you can't; you're too excited. It'll stay like that forever.
The first snow is the best snow. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it and covers you before you have a chance to take it in. You sit by the window. You stare. You watch the flakes fall. You could watch for hours, you're enamored. You want it to last forever - your childhood is calling. You see snowball fights and snow forts, your yellow kitchen table and mugs of hot chocolate.
You forget the frostbitten toes and pink cheeks. You forget the feeling of wet wool socks. Now, all you can see is the glittering, the snow falling through the eyes of the street lights. You forget that you've forgotten to pull you windshield wipers away from your car; that your winter jacket hasn't been to the cleaners; that you're going to be late for work.
The snow will turn black, eventually. It will melt away until the misshapen clumps become eyesores. You'll ache for fresh flowers. You'll hate how empty the trees are. Autumn fades before you know it, giving way to the endless winter. Just as you think you're about to go mad with want of life, spring arrives to save you.
You feel the rush all over again. Love is the first day you run barefoot outside, only to realize the ground is still frozen underneath the spreading warmth.
Potential.
Either that, or six more weeks of winter.
It's never a complete memory, just a glimpse, a snapshot.
You will never feel the way you do in that moment ever again. There will be highs, lows, the muddling about in between, but there is never anything so pure as the singular realization of possibility.
Today, I was too busy to write about how I feel about fall. About the way the light looks different now than it did a month ago, how the sun shines on crisp leaves. I wanted to show you the leaves blowing across the road, skipping along and settling. I wanted you to feel what I felt. Color set against the gray light. Beauty in the beginning of the end. (The beginning of anything is always the beginning of the end.)
It is one of those glimpses, a moment slipping away before the barren winter arrives.
Tonight is that feeling. Tonight is full of possibilities. Tonight, you don't see it coming; you can't; you're too excited. It'll stay like that forever.
The first snow is the best snow. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it and covers you before you have a chance to take it in. You sit by the window. You stare. You watch the flakes fall. You could watch for hours, you're enamored. You want it to last forever - your childhood is calling. You see snowball fights and snow forts, your yellow kitchen table and mugs of hot chocolate.
You forget the frostbitten toes and pink cheeks. You forget the feeling of wet wool socks. Now, all you can see is the glittering, the snow falling through the eyes of the street lights. You forget that you've forgotten to pull you windshield wipers away from your car; that your winter jacket hasn't been to the cleaners; that you're going to be late for work.
The snow will turn black, eventually. It will melt away until the misshapen clumps become eyesores. You'll ache for fresh flowers. You'll hate how empty the trees are. Autumn fades before you know it, giving way to the endless winter. Just as you think you're about to go mad with want of life, spring arrives to save you.
You feel the rush all over again. Love is the first day you run barefoot outside, only to realize the ground is still frozen underneath the spreading warmth.
Potential.
Either that, or six more weeks of winter.
Monday, October 24, 2011
On Bullshit
*
It's always the same conversation. You're at a bar. It's happy hour. You're holding a gin and tonic that you wish you could just drink in peace. The people around you are annoying or maybe they're only that way because you're annoyed. Whatever.
*
Also, your song of today is a remix of a beautiful indie song.
It's called Skinny Love and it's by Bon Iver.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kS2w5B0MvvY
You start talking to someone. Blah blah blah, my name is so and so, who are you, what do you do? I realize that the career question is important for gauging quite a bit of information about a person, but it's also the biggest chance for filler. Some people immediately jump into a detailed description, including that inflated job title. Some people are more demure. Some pretend to be interested in what you do.
The responses are all bullshit.
The responses are all bullshit.
I spend most of my happy hour conversations bullshitting right along with them and listening to people drop their technical terms like it's going to make them sound, seem, or even be more important. (I did just begin to type "impotent", I wonder if that was my subconscious trying to make a point.)
I love the implied importance, the illusion of grandeur, the self-delusion.
This is where successful people are forged. Either you can hack it as a bullshitter or you can't. Your ability to bullshit directly correlates to your ability to work under pressure. It's not a bad quality; it's just funny that so much of the human race relies on it for basic communication.
P.S. I was at Target a few months ago and there was a little girl (seriously, no more than four years old) walking down the aisle just whispering "bullshit, bullshit, bullshit" under her breath. It was so adorable. But it made me worry about her media consumption/home environment.
P.S. I was at Target a few months ago and there was a little girl (seriously, no more than four years old) walking down the aisle just whispering "bullshit, bullshit, bullshit" under her breath. It was so adorable. But it made me worry about her media consumption/home environment.
*
(sidenote:)
My boss is super rad. We were demonstrating our product for a potential client last week, and when the guy on the other end made a couple of disparaging remarks about women, my boss stepped up and told him to watch it. Considering that I work in an office full of women, he's probably used to doing it without thinking anything of it, but I think it's awesome that he was willing to stand up for us and other women.
*
Also, your song of today is a remix of a beautiful indie song.
It's called Skinny Love and it's by Bon Iver.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kS2w5B0MvvY
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
On the 30 - 50% Rule and the date.
"People only listen to 50% of what you say," I tell J.
We think about that for awhile. Half of what you say, you're saying solely for yourself. That's alright, because 50% of what you say isn't being processed by your audience.
It's the 30-50% rule.
And it's awesome.
You never have to worry about what you say in front of people, because it doesn't matter. Chances are, they weren't paying attention in the first place.
***
"You're not at all like I expected you to be," he says.
We think about that for awhile. Half of what you say, you're saying solely for yourself. That's alright, because 50% of what you say isn't being processed by your audience.
It's the 30-50% rule.
And it's awesome.
You never have to worry about what you say in front of people, because it doesn't matter. Chances are, they weren't paying attention in the first place.
***
"You're not at all like I expected you to be," he says.
"How so?" I ask.
"You wear a lot of black...You're not conventional at all. You look like you would be. You don't even have any tattoos."
Inwardly, I groan. I hear the "not conventional" bit so often that I'm not sure it's even a compliment any more.
Outwardly, I laugh. "I have two," I tell him.
He's got me pegged: "Such a strong personality coming from such a petite girl," he says. "People don't expect that. I bet you don't get along with girls." He's not wrong. I don't. They scare me.
As last night wore on and the bar got slowly more and more crowded, I found my eyes wandering. I love to look at people, to watch them shift uncomfortably, embrace happily, stand still sipping drinks. I watched the businessmen come in, all shiny shoes and Oxford shirts. I made eye contact, then shyly looked away.
He was telling me stuff about his passions, his dreams, his art, and I was listening, sort of. Conversation was good, time passed easily. I got tired - it's the vicenarian curse. Adolescence slips away and all we're left with is the hope of eventual maturity. I'm doomed to be tired from now until the day I die.
It wasn't as horrible as I'd predicted. In fact, it wasn't horrible at all. He would like to see me again. I will. But I'm not sure I'm feeling any sort of promise, any sort of legitimate future frisson. As we said goodnight, I wondered what it'd be like to kiss him. Then I realized I didn't want to.
It got me started thinking about sparks. Instantaneous sparks. There are great moments in life when something beautiful begins. It begins with a look across a dark bar, a chance comment at a party, the fortuitous arrangement of time and place. Sometimes it begins with an internet email. A first date gone well.
I've never forgotten those beginnings. That couch on Carmen St. That New Years' Eve. That party in the snow in Chicago. That night we walked around the city. The night in Cape Town at the pool hall. The road trip where we stayed up most of the night. The first date that never ended. The first time you feel the frisson, the slow curling inside your stomach, the safe knowledge of feelings. I've not known those for some time now. Am I doomed to stir up those memories in the hopes of never losing that feeling?
That feeling is what I crave. And what I'm determined to wait for. Patiently. Or at least until I'm 25 and I get on match.com, whichever comes first.
***
Today's song:
West Coast by Coconut Records
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlYGEaeoBWw
He was telling me stuff about his passions, his dreams, his art, and I was listening, sort of. Conversation was good, time passed easily. I got tired - it's the vicenarian curse. Adolescence slips away and all we're left with is the hope of eventual maturity. I'm doomed to be tired from now until the day I die.
It wasn't as horrible as I'd predicted. In fact, it wasn't horrible at all. He would like to see me again. I will. But I'm not sure I'm feeling any sort of promise, any sort of legitimate future frisson. As we said goodnight, I wondered what it'd be like to kiss him. Then I realized I didn't want to.
It got me started thinking about sparks. Instantaneous sparks. There are great moments in life when something beautiful begins. It begins with a look across a dark bar, a chance comment at a party, the fortuitous arrangement of time and place. Sometimes it begins with an internet email. A first date gone well.
I've never forgotten those beginnings. That couch on Carmen St. That New Years' Eve. That party in the snow in Chicago. That night we walked around the city. The night in Cape Town at the pool hall. The road trip where we stayed up most of the night. The first date that never ended. The first time you feel the frisson, the slow curling inside your stomach, the safe knowledge of feelings. I've not known those for some time now. Am I doomed to stir up those memories in the hopes of never losing that feeling?
That feeling is what I crave. And what I'm determined to wait for. Patiently. Or at least until I'm 25 and I get on match.com, whichever comes first.
***
Today's song:
West Coast by Coconut Records
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlYGEaeoBWw
Thursday, October 06, 2011
"Shame on all of you."
Yesterday's post got me thinking.
Racism blows. We can reiterate that until we're blue in the face.
And qualifying my perspective as being that of a white person isn't nearly enough.
I need to qualify myself as educated, white, woman, and liberal.
That changes things.
I compared it to being gay. (Why? I don't know - it was the easiest [not the best] way to make my point during our lunch discussion.) I spend so much time around my gay friends that I don't see them as gay. It's normalized for me. It's not a thing. There's no need to draw a line, to point out the distinctions, to separate.
I want my kids to be so exposed to people that they stop seeing lines and start seeing people.
It's the same as being _____. [Insert "other" there.]
The more we talk about "other," the more we emphasize it. The more we dwell.
Then I started thinking about the real world. (Sighing as I type this. Oh, real world.) There's not as much integration, not as much teamwork, community building, respect, tolerance....my list could go on.... as there could be. Certain solutions to "other"-ism or "other"-phobia aren't going to work for people with different mindsets - I forget that. The solution remains elusive.
But I would like to point out that even as we evolve to tolerate and eventually accept one "other," we replace it with another "other."
Division based on class differences, social differences, education differences: we're all guilty of it. I think part of being human is forming bonds with people who share similarities to you and then ostracizing people who don't have those interests, features, or characteristics. It's up to us to transcend that.
It's hard, though. I judge stupid people for doing stupid things. I'm sure people judge me for doing stupid shit all the time. I judge girls who wear Ugg boots, yet I get judged for my "if you can't wear it with black flats, why are you wearing it at all?" mentality (I do consider that judgement entirely deserved, for the record. I've grown out of Birkenstock mode...at least until I find my other black clog). I really try to promote a sense of solidarity among women, yet I know a few women I'd like to punch in the face. So here I am, being just as much of a hypocrite as the rest of us. At least I'm thinking about it, though.
Granted, we all aren't going to get along. It's not possible. But we should at least strive to respect and understand. Also, not possible. But ideal. And beautiful.
I was going to post last week about the suicide of a gay teen on the East Coast. I didn't. I was too disgusted (not by him, by his tormentors). After his death, the people who taunted him continued to do so. They said they were glad he was dead. That the world was a better place. For him, it didn't get better. That's one reason we need to stop spreading hate.
That night I was watching the Big Bang Theory at home. And this clip really put it all into perspective for me. Please watch it.
A girl brings home a rather unintelligent date, and her neighbors (all science geeks) make fun of him mercilessly.
Zach (date): "Oh, I see. You guys are inferring that I'm stupid."
Sheldon (one of the neighbors): "That's not correct. We were implying it. You then inferred it."
...
Penny (girl): "You know, for a group of guys who claim they spent most of their lives being bullied, you can be real jerks. Shame on all of you."
Truth.
Racism blows. We can reiterate that until we're blue in the face.
And qualifying my perspective as being that of a white person isn't nearly enough.
I need to qualify myself as educated, white, woman, and liberal.
That changes things.
I compared it to being gay. (Why? I don't know - it was the easiest [not the best] way to make my point during our lunch discussion.) I spend so much time around my gay friends that I don't see them as gay. It's normalized for me. It's not a thing. There's no need to draw a line, to point out the distinctions, to separate.
I want my kids to be so exposed to people that they stop seeing lines and start seeing people.
It's the same as being _____. [Insert "other" there.]
The more we talk about "other," the more we emphasize it. The more we dwell.
Then I started thinking about the real world. (Sighing as I type this. Oh, real world.) There's not as much integration, not as much teamwork, community building, respect, tolerance....my list could go on.... as there could be. Certain solutions to "other"-ism or "other"-phobia aren't going to work for people with different mindsets - I forget that. The solution remains elusive.
But I would like to point out that even as we evolve to tolerate and eventually accept one "other," we replace it with another "other."
Division based on class differences, social differences, education differences: we're all guilty of it. I think part of being human is forming bonds with people who share similarities to you and then ostracizing people who don't have those interests, features, or characteristics. It's up to us to transcend that.
It's hard, though. I judge stupid people for doing stupid things. I'm sure people judge me for doing stupid shit all the time. I judge girls who wear Ugg boots, yet I get judged for my "if you can't wear it with black flats, why are you wearing it at all?" mentality (I do consider that judgement entirely deserved, for the record. I've grown out of Birkenstock mode...at least until I find my other black clog). I really try to promote a sense of solidarity among women, yet I know a few women I'd like to punch in the face. So here I am, being just as much of a hypocrite as the rest of us. At least I'm thinking about it, though.
Granted, we all aren't going to get along. It's not possible. But we should at least strive to respect and understand. Also, not possible. But ideal. And beautiful.
I was going to post last week about the suicide of a gay teen on the East Coast. I didn't. I was too disgusted (not by him, by his tormentors). After his death, the people who taunted him continued to do so. They said they were glad he was dead. That the world was a better place. For him, it didn't get better. That's one reason we need to stop spreading hate.
That night I was watching the Big Bang Theory at home. And this clip really put it all into perspective for me. Please watch it.
A girl brings home a rather unintelligent date, and her neighbors (all science geeks) make fun of him mercilessly.
Zach (date): "Oh, I see. You guys are inferring that I'm stupid."
Sheldon (one of the neighbors): "That's not correct. We were implying it. You then inferred it."
...
Penny (girl): "You know, for a group of guys who claim they spent most of their lives being bullied, you can be real jerks. Shame on all of you."
Truth.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
On Sluts. And the Racism/Feminism divide.
I've written about SlutWalks before, but a quick history: they stem from comments made by a police officer giving a speech. In it, he implied that women could avoid being raped by not wearing provocative clothing. The comments prompted so-called SlutWalks in major cities across the world. Women (and men) have marched (and are still marching) in protest.
To be clear, I really hate the word "slut." It's not a word I feel any inclination to reclaim. I don't want to be called "slut." I don't want to call myself "slut." It sends shivers up my spine. But I really like how moved people were to try and do something about it.
We live in a culture that is not supportive of women, of their clothing, or of their victimization. Rape victims are often reprimanded. Rather than addressing the rapists, we address the victims with criticism, complaints, judgement. New Jersey just passed a law to ensure that victims don't have to pay for their own rape kit processing. As of August 15, it hadn't been signed.
We were driving out of Chicago last summer and passed a scantily clothed woman on the South Side. "She's just asking for it," said my passenger. I nearly slammed on the brakes and made him walk. I turned to him and, while agreeing that her clothing was inappropriate for 4pm on a weekday, asked him how he'd feel if it was me who was being judged. Or how he'd feel if I got raped. "Would it be my fault?" I asked him. I often wonder what would happen, since I'm so outspoken about sexuality and sexual issues. Were I to be raped, would anyone believe me? Would I lose the respect of my peers?
Granted, there are things you can do to help mitigate the potential for rape, but often, nothing can be done. Rape is not the fault of the victim, no matter the circumstance.
The article below, published on the Ms. magazine website October 5, 2011, addresses the issues of racism within the feminist movement.
A few months ago, I purchased Girl Drive, a look at everyday women across America. What struck me was the disconnect that people reported feeling between feminism and their cultures. They spoke about feminism being for white girls. I actually fit the definition of their idea of what a feminist was: it's the academic, middle-class, white girl (basically college me). They spoke about being black rather than being a feminist. Or about being black before being a feminist. It's as though the idea of being a black feminist was impossible. Culture comes first. And sometimes, there's not enough room for both.
On the surface, it seems simple to bridge the gap between race and feminism. But it's not. Peace and love is way harder than you'd think.
Another article, mentioned in the article below, discusses other issues associated with black feminism. It argues that white women have benefited from the "racialized virgin/whore dichotomy," by fostering distrust of white women and blinding the white women to "what a SlutWalk would look like in solidarity with black women, with low-income women" etc. I don't entirely agree with that. I don't think that any women have benefited from the dichotomy, and that separation of women (by race, by income level, by immigration status, etc) only hinders our progress as we must fight among ourselves before we can fight for something else.
[Some] White women embrace feminism and that shouldn't be a reason that anyone else can't embrace feminism as well. People do. There are feminists of all colors. There are poor feminists and rich feminists. Feminists who are double-jointed and feminists who aren't. Feminists who have longer second toes. Feminists who have wonky ears and who have no taste in music.
I am finding that more and more of racial tension (in specific situations and circumstances, not across the board) stems from our attempts to address and acknowledge differences because regardless of our own color, we're so hypersensitive to it. (It exists. We all see it. I absolutely accept that I have "white privilege" but disagree that it blinds me entirely.)
I realize that racism is still alive and well. Racism happens every day in institutions, from schools to prisons, in the media, in government. By acknowledging race before we acknowledge any other characteristic, we're limiting the scope of our focus. We can't see any further. Therefore, we make no progress.
I think that to move past it, we must put it aside. As educated individuals, we must simply step over it rather than letting it be a line that both sides draw. It has to start somewhere. It will trickle out around us. It will grow in the minds of our children. Progress.
As women, we can be that beginning. We can work together as women united by a stronger cause. We can embrace our differences, learn from each other, and begin to create a strong network of support. Regardless of color, women must realize that other women are not the enemy. Neither are men.
The enemy is the idea of inequality, of implied consent. The enemy lies in assumptions.
It is possible to be many things at once. Our connections, our histories, all of those things could lead us to create powerful webs of community. Instead, we let them divide us. We must stop seeing everyone as fractured statistics and start seeing them as whole people before we make any progress on this.
I agree with the author (of the second article - linked here) when she closes by saying:
There’s a reason why many rape survivors don’t come forward with their experiences. They do not want to be subject to such words by a larger society that still blames victims. At least the SlutWalk boldly takes on that word, and in doing so, invites us to empty it of its power and its racist, classist, hetero/sexist meanings. Whether that’s possible is another debate, but for now, it’s useful to remember what Emi Koyama once wrote: “Everyone is safe when sluts are safe.”
Union Square was packed when I arrived at this weekend’s inaugural New York SlutWalk. The crowd was mostly women, mostly young and mostly white. Clothing styles ranged from topless to scanty to normal street garb to formal. One woman wore a business suit. A common thread was “slut” in red and black markers across foreheads, arms, backs and chests. The red-and-black writing was striking: People silently write “slut” across a girl’s chest everyday, but here it was, literalized.
To be clear, I really hate the word "slut." It's not a word I feel any inclination to reclaim. I don't want to be called "slut." I don't want to call myself "slut." It sends shivers up my spine. But I really like how moved people were to try and do something about it.
We live in a culture that is not supportive of women, of their clothing, or of their victimization. Rape victims are often reprimanded. Rather than addressing the rapists, we address the victims with criticism, complaints, judgement. New Jersey just passed a law to ensure that victims don't have to pay for their own rape kit processing. As of August 15, it hadn't been signed.
We were driving out of Chicago last summer and passed a scantily clothed woman on the South Side. "She's just asking for it," said my passenger. I nearly slammed on the brakes and made him walk. I turned to him and, while agreeing that her clothing was inappropriate for 4pm on a weekday, asked him how he'd feel if it was me who was being judged. Or how he'd feel if I got raped. "Would it be my fault?" I asked him. I often wonder what would happen, since I'm so outspoken about sexuality and sexual issues. Were I to be raped, would anyone believe me? Would I lose the respect of my peers?
Granted, there are things you can do to help mitigate the potential for rape, but often, nothing can be done. Rape is not the fault of the victim, no matter the circumstance.
The article below, published on the Ms. magazine website October 5, 2011, addresses the issues of racism within the feminist movement.
A few months ago, I purchased Girl Drive, a look at everyday women across America. What struck me was the disconnect that people reported feeling between feminism and their cultures. They spoke about feminism being for white girls. I actually fit the definition of their idea of what a feminist was: it's the academic, middle-class, white girl (basically college me). They spoke about being black rather than being a feminist. Or about being black before being a feminist. It's as though the idea of being a black feminist was impossible. Culture comes first. And sometimes, there's not enough room for both.
On the surface, it seems simple to bridge the gap between race and feminism. But it's not. Peace and love is way harder than you'd think.
Another article, mentioned in the article below, discusses other issues associated with black feminism. It argues that white women have benefited from the "racialized virgin/whore dichotomy," by fostering distrust of white women and blinding the white women to "what a SlutWalk would look like in solidarity with black women, with low-income women" etc. I don't entirely agree with that. I don't think that any women have benefited from the dichotomy, and that separation of women (by race, by income level, by immigration status, etc) only hinders our progress as we must fight among ourselves before we can fight for something else.
[Some] White women embrace feminism and that shouldn't be a reason that anyone else can't embrace feminism as well. People do. There are feminists of all colors. There are poor feminists and rich feminists. Feminists who are double-jointed and feminists who aren't. Feminists who have longer second toes. Feminists who have wonky ears and who have no taste in music.
I am finding that more and more of racial tension (in specific situations and circumstances, not across the board) stems from our attempts to address and acknowledge differences because regardless of our own color, we're so hypersensitive to it. (It exists. We all see it. I absolutely accept that I have "white privilege" but disagree that it blinds me entirely.)
I realize that racism is still alive and well. Racism happens every day in institutions, from schools to prisons, in the media, in government. By acknowledging race before we acknowledge any other characteristic, we're limiting the scope of our focus. We can't see any further. Therefore, we make no progress.
I think that to move past it, we must put it aside. As educated individuals, we must simply step over it rather than letting it be a line that both sides draw. It has to start somewhere. It will trickle out around us. It will grow in the minds of our children. Progress.
As women, we can be that beginning. We can work together as women united by a stronger cause. We can embrace our differences, learn from each other, and begin to create a strong network of support. Regardless of color, women must realize that other women are not the enemy. Neither are men.
The enemy is the idea of inequality, of implied consent. The enemy lies in assumptions.
It is possible to be many things at once. Our connections, our histories, all of those things could lead us to create powerful webs of community. Instead, we let them divide us. We must stop seeing everyone as fractured statistics and start seeing them as whole people before we make any progress on this.
I agree with the author (of the second article - linked here) when she closes by saying:
There’s a reason why many rape survivors don’t come forward with their experiences. They do not want to be subject to such words by a larger society that still blames victims. At least the SlutWalk boldly takes on that word, and in doing so, invites us to empty it of its power and its racist, classist, hetero/sexist meanings. Whether that’s possible is another debate, but for now, it’s useful to remember what Emi Koyama once wrote: “Everyone is safe when sluts are safe.”
What NYC SlutWalk Was, and What It Wasn’t
Union Square was packed when I arrived at this weekend’s inaugural New York SlutWalk. The crowd was mostly women, mostly young and mostly white. Clothing styles ranged from topless to scanty to normal street garb to formal. One woman wore a business suit. A common thread was “slut” in red and black markers across foreheads, arms, backs and chests. The red-and-black writing was striking: People silently write “slut” across a girl’s chest everyday, but here it was, literalized.
I wandered through the 3,000-person crowd amid signs such as “Women are Souls, Not Holes” and “If I was asking for it, I would ask for it.” “This is what I was wearing when I was raped” read one sign held by a woman in pajamas. Another held pictures of her battered body from a sexual assault a few weeks prior. As I talked with her and other NYC SlutWalkers, they all kept using the same word: empowerment. For many of them, it was the first time they had ever participated in a march about women’s rights, and it was the first time they felt surrounded by other people who “got it.”
When I finally found my way to the SlutWalk organizers, I was feeling pretty slutty and powerful myself. I’d even found a “Slut Pride” pin and attached it to my shirt. But as I reviewed my prepared questions, I remembered the serious qualms I and other feminists had with SlutWalk, such as the recent criticisms from women of color. When I asked Holly Meyer, one of the organizers, about these critiques, she had a simple response:
We have always been inclusive. We’ve always said anyone is welcome to come to our meetings, we’ve never excluded any group. It’s unfortunate that some people have that perspective and don’t feel welcome, but our message is to end sexual violence.
Plain and simple. The point of SlutWalk isn’t complicated. Or, at least, the NYC SlutWalk organizers don’t seem to think so.
Holly was proud to say that many of rally’s official performances were by women of color. From what I witnessed, those performers focused on calling for solidarity and inclusiveness, but did not get into the unique experiences that black and other marginalized women have had with sexual violence and words like “slut.” For example, Amber Stewart of Radical Women said during her performance:
We have to work to tear down racism, because there is no place in this movement for an Us versus Them mentality. We need all voices, all concerns brought to the table.
Holly told me some other great things about the NYC SlutWalk, like its pressure on the NYPD to have sensitivity trainings or its calls to the FBI asking for a change in the FBI’s definition of rape.
Despite all this, it’s easy to criticize the NYC SlutWalk as a rally for privileged white feminists, especially when women of color at the rally were few and far between. I also couldn’t help but wince when I saw a group of men staring, mouths open, at the woman in lingerie pole-dancing on the back of bike during the march. If I talked to those men today, I doubt they could tell me what the march was about.
Overall, however, I left the NYC SlutWalk feeling like it was a work in progress. Yes, it should focus more squarely on women of color issues. But it brought out thousands of New Yorkers against sexual violence at a time when Brooklyn NYPD are telling women not to wear skirts to avoid being raped. It allowed 3,000 New Yorkers to feel like they were in power for a few hours on a Saturday. We should ask SlutWalks to graduate to a higher level of feminist thinking that addresses race and deeper issues within rape culture, but I think we should also recognize them for the work in their freshman year.
Photo of SlutWalk NYC sign holder from Flickr user David Shankbone under Creative Commons 2.0.
Monday, October 03, 2011
On Collecting Thoughts
...this is a post full of random thoughts. Nothing cohesive and certainly no structure. non-apologies, in advance.
Driving home last night, I saw the leaves strewn about on the road and I realized that it's really fall. Apparently, the massive amounts of pumpkin spice lattes I've been consuming have done nothing to drive that home.
That said, I have no idea what I'm going to be for Halloween and I'm started to stress about it. I was Snow White for three of the past four years, which worked out really well. I missed last year, which was a relief creatively and a major bummer in all other ways.
Any thoughts?
It's like that scene from the movie Mean Girls where she shows up at the party dressed in costume, and all the other girls are wearing lingerie and ears.
(linked here - not the best, but whatever. I'm at work, trying to shove ravioli down my throat and type at the same time.)
I want something with a lot of fake blood, or something funny, or something super clever. My friend E has some pants that are her "smarty-pants"...she painstakingly glued packages of Smarties candy all over them. That's cute. I don't want to do that, though.
I don't want to be anything slutty...like a slutty cop. I've never understood that. Besides, furry handcuffs are lame. But then again, I could be Lieutenant Dangle from Reno! 911. That's slutty and a cop. But not in the way you'd expect.
I was 0 for 2 at going out this weekend, so perhaps that's why the party itch is so strong for a Monday. Friday and Saturday were both "let's drunk dial Katie and tell her how much fun we're having and invite her out at ridiculous hours" nights. Boo. Responsibility is so overrated.
Long bike ride with Mike on Friday evening. My Camelbak started leaking down my back nearly immediately after we left the house, and by 7th Avenue, it was dripping down my legs when I stood up. Thankfully, it was a warm night, but it made for a very uncomfortable ride. I hope the weather holds long enough that we'll be able to do a few more of those before it gets too cold.
On the plus side, I did a ton of laundry and cleaning this weekend. My closet is actually being used as a closet. I just don't get why people hang clothes up. But I'm doing it. We'll see how long this lasts.
I was out having dinner on Broadway with R the other night, and he asked me if I'd ever gotten my second bookshelf put together (he built the first one for me back in February - I'd like to interject that I was in the middle of doing it myself, but he interrupted and finished it. I can dig that kind of masculine projection. It saves me some work). I looked back at him and smiled, "I've been meaning to call you about that." He laughed at me. You'll notice he didn't build it for me, though. So that's my goal for tonight. Consider my handyman independence fostered.
Btw, 8tracks.com is my saving grace at work. And so is this mix:
Love to all, and Happy Monday!
Driving home last night, I saw the leaves strewn about on the road and I realized that it's really fall. Apparently, the massive amounts of pumpkin spice lattes I've been consuming have done nothing to drive that home.
That said, I have no idea what I'm going to be for Halloween and I'm started to stress about it. I was Snow White for three of the past four years, which worked out really well. I missed last year, which was a relief creatively and a major bummer in all other ways.
Any thoughts?It's like that scene from the movie Mean Girls where she shows up at the party dressed in costume, and all the other girls are wearing lingerie and ears.
(linked here - not the best, but whatever. I'm at work, trying to shove ravioli down my throat and type at the same time.)
I want something with a lot of fake blood, or something funny, or something super clever. My friend E has some pants that are her "smarty-pants"...she painstakingly glued packages of Smarties candy all over them. That's cute. I don't want to do that, though.
I don't want to be anything slutty...like a slutty cop. I've never understood that. Besides, furry handcuffs are lame. But then again, I could be Lieutenant Dangle from Reno! 911. That's slutty and a cop. But not in the way you'd expect.
I was 0 for 2 at going out this weekend, so perhaps that's why the party itch is so strong for a Monday. Friday and Saturday were both "let's drunk dial Katie and tell her how much fun we're having and invite her out at ridiculous hours" nights. Boo. Responsibility is so overrated.
Long bike ride with Mike on Friday evening. My Camelbak started leaking down my back nearly immediately after we left the house, and by 7th Avenue, it was dripping down my legs when I stood up. Thankfully, it was a warm night, but it made for a very uncomfortable ride. I hope the weather holds long enough that we'll be able to do a few more of those before it gets too cold.
On the plus side, I did a ton of laundry and cleaning this weekend. My closet is actually being used as a closet. I just don't get why people hang clothes up. But I'm doing it. We'll see how long this lasts.
I was out having dinner on Broadway with R the other night, and he asked me if I'd ever gotten my second bookshelf put together (he built the first one for me back in February - I'd like to interject that I was in the middle of doing it myself, but he interrupted and finished it. I can dig that kind of masculine projection. It saves me some work). I looked back at him and smiled, "I've been meaning to call you about that." He laughed at me. You'll notice he didn't build it for me, though. So that's my goal for tonight. Consider my handyman independence fostered.
Btw, 8tracks.com is my saving grace at work. And so is this mix:
Love to all, and Happy Monday!
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