There are some words, phrases, and ideas I love. I love them because they fit in my mind like a key in a lock I've had for years, finally putting words to a soft and shapeless idea I couldn't name.
Operationalize is one of them. I love that word.
Bodily Autonomy (or bodily integrity) is another.
I first read the phrase bodily autonomy (or integrity...it was probably integrity, but my brain likes to say autonomy more) in a twitter rant about abortion rights. This smart and well informed individual was making an argument for bodily integrity, that we have laws protecting bodily integrity of one person over the well-being of another. For example, you cannot be compelled against your will to donate blood to save someone's life. Or to donate a kidney, or a piece of your liver. Because that would be insane, right? To force someone against their will and by law to donate a kidney to another person, a stranger or a family member, just because it could save their life. We don't do that in the United States because we value freedom above all else.
If you aren't a woman with a uterus.
Because if you are a woman with a uterus, you do not have the right to bodily autonomy. I mean, you do, sort of, right now. But it really depends on the state you live in, how much money you have, what your docto's religious beliefs are, who is on the supreme court and what judges and lawmakers in your area think. Because if you are a woman, and you happen to let a sperm past your complicated, expensive, and onerous system of reproductive defenses, you can lose your bodily autonomy to a pulsing packet of cells.
Forever.
I have already ranted and raved to everyone who will listen about the physical and psychological tolls of pregnancy, delivery, and do not get me started on the cost of what I hope is effective parenting. So let's look at the other side of my new proposal:
I refuse to listen to any pro-life person who has not already donated a kidney.
If you are truly pro-life, if you truly believe in saving lives, and have two functioning healthy kidneys, why on earth are you torturing some poor soul on dialysis when you could save a life?
Don't worry, I'll wait.
Because nephrectomy is major surgery? Sure. But it is a major surgery with minimal risks and less than 1% chance of future kidney failure according to the Mayo Clinic. The risks associated with the Cesarean section that saved my baby and I from complications carries far more risks than a routine kidney transplant. This is especially true in the United States, where we have a rising rate of maternal mortality, the worst record in the developed world.
So childbirth is potentially deadly, and pregnancy requires 9 months of life-altering preparation as your organs and bones shift to accommodate a human, then a painful delivery and recovery that is life-threatening in this country, followed by weeks of recovery and months of your organs, bones, and skin slowly shifting back into place. Also, you have to raise a human being. Or put them into the complicated system of foster care or adoption, where many kids go their whole lives without ever having a stable family.
But that's another rant, titled "If you are so pro-life, you better foster and/or adopt some of those children you forced to be born!"
By any measure, kidney donation is far easier, less impactful that childbirth. But we do not mandate kidney donation. Or life-saving bone marrow donation. Or even life-saving blood donation (which everyone should do, because it saves lives, is easy, you get a free cookie, and donation rates are dropping in the US). But we do not mandate that people give up their bodily integrity in any of these cases, and I can't figure out why. Are the 5-year-old children with bone cancer not as cute as a 10-week or fetus? Was my uncle who died because dialysis was too painful to endure not as important or worthwhile a person as a clump of pulsing cells? Or is it just that men have bone marrow, blood, and kidneys, and they don't want to give up their bodily autonomy?
This does not even touch on the number of abortions given to women who need them for medical reasons, who make the heart breaking choice to end a wanted pregnancy to save their own life, or prevent the suffering of their child. But you pro-life assholes don't want to talk about forcing mothers of wanted babies to slowly bleed to death and die of sepsis while their beloved child dies inside of them, do they.
Fucking assholes.
So, until we make blood donation, kidney donation, bone marrow donation, and liver donation mandatory in life-saving cases, every single pro-life politician can go fuck themselves all the way to the moon, and then suffocate silently in the cold darkness of space and leave the rest of us in peace.
/rant
Friday, October 19, 2018
I'm done.
I am so done with men this week.
Okay, not actually men, just patriarchy.
White supremacist, hetero-normative, ableist, cis-gendered capitalist patriarchy.
That fucking shit.
I am *so* done with it all.
This week, I had to walk a young female student and her friend to their car because a guy has been stalking her; waiting for her outside of her class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. After eight weeks she finally asked for help.
And I get it. I have had the same problem, and when subtly taking out work or checking emails doesn't work, I resorted to ducking the guy by going out different doors, leaving at different times. Plus, my annoying guy was much less persistent. One of the benefits of entering my late thirties and growing a mom-bod is that far fewer people want to bone me, so I can move through the world with less friction. To say it is a bittersweet victory would be understating it.
But I remember those days well, and they still happen often enough to remind me that as women, we are the emotional laborers of this society. It reminds me of a philosophy professor who suggested, as an exercise, that we assume that gravity is created by tiny creatures shooting arrows with rope attached to things to keep them from flying off the face of the earth. I pictured a version of the gremlin that used to haunt Bugs Bunny, hundreds of thousands of them under the surface, keeping the machinery of the world functioning as we know it.
That's the emotional labor of women. We are walking around all the time, being patient with a frustrated colleague, listening to the feelings of a stranger, letting a guy hit on us when we would much rather be sitting in silence. But most of us, most of the time let it happen, make the emotional space for the guy in the situation so we don't have to find out what would happen if we don't.
Even when we don't articulate it to ourselves, that's why we do it. That's why we are nice, or patient, or don't argue, or give out a fake number, or lie about a fake boyfriend or husband or appointment, or wear headphones or bring a book or walk with friends to mix up our route or keep our route the same and therefore familiar and safe. We put in all that extra work to protect the feelings of the men around us, strangers, family, friends, and peers, so we don't have to find out if this is the kind of guy who will snap. Or the situation that will make this guy snap. The anger and violence and ego of men is the fuel that drives us to do all of this emotional labor. We do not want to do it, even if we have tricked ourselves into believeing we don't mind. No one wants to work for free.
But we all do. We all do all this emotional labor of patiently making some guy's feelings or concerns more important than ours, more important than our precious time, because you never know when or where or which guy is going to snap and hit you or yell at you or threaten you or stab you or rape you or dehumanize you in some way because you made the mistake of asserting your autonomy, your humanity in the face of their own.
As if you were an equal.
And, how dumb would that be?
Okay, not actually men, just patriarchy.
White supremacist, hetero-normative, ableist, cis-gendered capitalist patriarchy.
That fucking shit.
I am *so* done with it all.
This week, I had to walk a young female student and her friend to their car because a guy has been stalking her; waiting for her outside of her class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. After eight weeks she finally asked for help.
And I get it. I have had the same problem, and when subtly taking out work or checking emails doesn't work, I resorted to ducking the guy by going out different doors, leaving at different times. Plus, my annoying guy was much less persistent. One of the benefits of entering my late thirties and growing a mom-bod is that far fewer people want to bone me, so I can move through the world with less friction. To say it is a bittersweet victory would be understating it.
But I remember those days well, and they still happen often enough to remind me that as women, we are the emotional laborers of this society. It reminds me of a philosophy professor who suggested, as an exercise, that we assume that gravity is created by tiny creatures shooting arrows with rope attached to things to keep them from flying off the face of the earth. I pictured a version of the gremlin that used to haunt Bugs Bunny, hundreds of thousands of them under the surface, keeping the machinery of the world functioning as we know it.
That's the emotional labor of women. We are walking around all the time, being patient with a frustrated colleague, listening to the feelings of a stranger, letting a guy hit on us when we would much rather be sitting in silence. But most of us, most of the time let it happen, make the emotional space for the guy in the situation so we don't have to find out what would happen if we don't.
Even when we don't articulate it to ourselves, that's why we do it. That's why we are nice, or patient, or don't argue, or give out a fake number, or lie about a fake boyfriend or husband or appointment, or wear headphones or bring a book or walk with friends to mix up our route or keep our route the same and therefore familiar and safe. We put in all that extra work to protect the feelings of the men around us, strangers, family, friends, and peers, so we don't have to find out if this is the kind of guy who will snap. Or the situation that will make this guy snap. The anger and violence and ego of men is the fuel that drives us to do all of this emotional labor. We do not want to do it, even if we have tricked ourselves into believeing we don't mind. No one wants to work for free.
But we all do. We all do all this emotional labor of patiently making some guy's feelings or concerns more important than ours, more important than our precious time, because you never know when or where or which guy is going to snap and hit you or yell at you or threaten you or stab you or rape you or dehumanize you in some way because you made the mistake of asserting your autonomy, your humanity in the face of their own.
As if you were an equal.
And, how dumb would that be?
Thursday, May 17, 2018
The Emotional Labor of a Nation
If you haven't heard of Gina Haspel, there might be a very good reason. I mean, she was a spy for most of her career. I'm sorry, a highly decorated agent in the clandestine services. By all accounts she has spent the majority of her professional life as a measured, capable, smart member of elite people who sacrifice some level of normalcy to gather an utilize intelligence about international goings-on. Then the current president, who goes through staff faster than I go through cheese, needed a new director of the CIA. The first female director, which is great,e specially because she is, by all accounts, great at her job. Experiences, level headed etc.
But. For a week during the Bush administration she over saw a Bangkok black site where a man was waterboarded three times. Later, against the recommendation of some, she penned a memo for her boss directing the tapes of some waterboarding to be destroyed.
There is a lot in those two sentences, a lot to unpack. Waterboarding is torture, and torture is wrong. Bad. Problematic. A lose-lose. Most experts agree that torture does not get useful information, and is against the Geneva Conventions. It is a violation of human dignity.
That being said, when Gina Haspel was in Bangkok, we had a president and an administration who considered waterboarding okay. They called it 'enhanced interrogation' to skirt the law, and they said it was necessary to prevent a mushroom cloud in Manhattan or something. Before Gina Haspel arrive at the Thai facility she briefly oversaw, another detainee was waterboarded more than 80 times. That poor man lost consciousness and actually died, and had to be resuscitated. The descriptions are horrifying. Haspel took over, briefly, over saw the same horrific act conducted 3 times, and then shut the site down and moved on with her career.
I am not here to assuage her guilt, or defend water boarding. But I can't help but feel like holding this woman, who over saw a tiny fraction of the horrific acts done in the name of U.S. national security and actually worked toward stopping it but shutting the Bangkok facility down, is misguided. We had a president who supported it 2002, and we have a president who claims we should do more than water board suspects now, and no one is questioning either of those men. Nor is anyone bothering to speak to the man who was in charge of Gina Haspel's conduct, who placed her in Thailand for those weeks in 2002. Nor is anyone questioning the individual who actually did the actual water boarding. Or who actually destroyed the tapes.
We are questioning, haranguing, the woman in the middle, between the men with all the power and the men who follow orders, and holding her responsible. To me, that seems like we are asking Gina Haspel to answer for our national sins, our election of these presidents and their appointed cabinets, because we still can't.
Talk about emotional labor.
Seriously. I understand that she is being elevated to a high position, that deserves a high degree of scrutiny. But can we all agree that she didn't decide to waterboard anyone? Why is no one asking any of these tough questions of our current or past president, both of whom rationalized and excused torture when it was convenient, and sacrificed the humanity of others to stay in power, to look strong.
It is so much easier to rest it all on the shoulders of Ms. Haspel, because even though she neither gave the orders nor took the action, she is the woman we can all turn to and ask if it is ever going to happen again.
I mean, do we all need a national mommy that bad? Maybe we should elect one, then.
But. For a week during the Bush administration she over saw a Bangkok black site where a man was waterboarded three times. Later, against the recommendation of some, she penned a memo for her boss directing the tapes of some waterboarding to be destroyed.
There is a lot in those two sentences, a lot to unpack. Waterboarding is torture, and torture is wrong. Bad. Problematic. A lose-lose. Most experts agree that torture does not get useful information, and is against the Geneva Conventions. It is a violation of human dignity.
That being said, when Gina Haspel was in Bangkok, we had a president and an administration who considered waterboarding okay. They called it 'enhanced interrogation' to skirt the law, and they said it was necessary to prevent a mushroom cloud in Manhattan or something. Before Gina Haspel arrive at the Thai facility she briefly oversaw, another detainee was waterboarded more than 80 times. That poor man lost consciousness and actually died, and had to be resuscitated. The descriptions are horrifying. Haspel took over, briefly, over saw the same horrific act conducted 3 times, and then shut the site down and moved on with her career.
I am not here to assuage her guilt, or defend water boarding. But I can't help but feel like holding this woman, who over saw a tiny fraction of the horrific acts done in the name of U.S. national security and actually worked toward stopping it but shutting the Bangkok facility down, is misguided. We had a president who supported it 2002, and we have a president who claims we should do more than water board suspects now, and no one is questioning either of those men. Nor is anyone bothering to speak to the man who was in charge of Gina Haspel's conduct, who placed her in Thailand for those weeks in 2002. Nor is anyone questioning the individual who actually did the actual water boarding. Or who actually destroyed the tapes.
We are questioning, haranguing, the woman in the middle, between the men with all the power and the men who follow orders, and holding her responsible. To me, that seems like we are asking Gina Haspel to answer for our national sins, our election of these presidents and their appointed cabinets, because we still can't.
Talk about emotional labor.
Seriously. I understand that she is being elevated to a high position, that deserves a high degree of scrutiny. But can we all agree that she didn't decide to waterboard anyone? Why is no one asking any of these tough questions of our current or past president, both of whom rationalized and excused torture when it was convenient, and sacrificed the humanity of others to stay in power, to look strong.
It is so much easier to rest it all on the shoulders of Ms. Haspel, because even though she neither gave the orders nor took the action, she is the woman we can all turn to and ask if it is ever going to happen again.
I mean, do we all need a national mommy that bad? Maybe we should elect one, then.
Wednesday, May 09, 2018
#MomLife
10:45 pm Baby is crying. Bring water, pacifier. Snuggle him back to sleep, then stumble back to bed
12:45 am repeat
1:55 am repeat
3:50 am Baby is crying. Approach with water and search for pacifier blindly only to find pacifier is sitting in pool of chunky vomit. Wipe hand on own pajamas, and reach for child, who is only damp with vomit. Move child to clean, dry area. Replace his pajamas, wipe vomit off of face, hair, and hands. Give child cup of water to occupy himself. Remove bed sheets, mop up vomit, throw offending items in a pile in the bathroom. Lay a clean rag over the stain because you are too lazy to put clean sheets on the bed when there is only one more hour of sleep to look forward to anyway. Bring child, sippy cup of water, favorite stuffed animal, and favorite blanket into bed with you and sleeping, snoring partner.
4:15 - 4:50 am Baby rolls around in the bed, pretending to be sleepy while poking and kicking.
4:51 am Baby sits up to drink water
4:52 am Baby begins to throw up water. Grab still-vomiting baby and try unsuccessfully to catch vomit in your hands, pajamas, anything but beloved stuffed animal or bed sheets. Carry gathered bed clothes, pajamas, and vomit-y baby back into baby's room, wipe up vomit, change pajamas. Sleepy partner puts clean sheets on mostly clean crib. Snuggle now clean baby back to sleep, tuck in, close door. Change out of own vomit-covered pajamas into new pajamas.
5:20 am Baby is asleep, you are awake but already behind schedule. Make coffee, prepare alternate baby breakfast of simple oatmeal in anticipation of further tummy trouble. Shower, and dress in robe.
6:15 am Baby is crying. Again. The room smells like poop. Baby is damp and smells like poop. I lay baby down, then think better of it and grab a baby blanket to lay baby on. Begin process of pulling wet, shit covered pajama pants off of resistant baby. Baby cries more as I wipe feet, thighs, and mop poop into a pile. I grab another towel upon which to lay the shit soaked pajama pants, nearly useless diaper and growing pile of wipes. Being stripping poop soaked pajama shirt off of baby, trying to keep poop out of face and hair. Realize poop traveled up back and into armpits, and begin mopping up poo.
Baby is clean, dry, and crying. Dress him in optimistically chosen day care outfit, substituting sweat pants for shorts after imagining next wave of vomit or diarrhea streaming down bear baby legs. Groggy partner takes baby to our bed to snuggle, possibly sleep. Change crib sheets, begin washing large chunks of vomit and poop out of collected laundry, and start a washing machine load with lots of detergent and bleach. Wash hands, thoroughly. Smell robe for poop and add to laundry pile.
6:45 am Baby is quiet. Partner is quiet. Pour coffee into cup, sit down at desk and begin answering work emails. Text daycare back ups for availability.
7:30 am Baby is up, but not crying! Timidly offer baby special breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries. Baby eats four bites and then insists on more exotic fare. Feed baby whatever he wants. Bemoan options with partner; is he too sick for daycare or not? Baby's temperature is take multiple ways for accuracy. Nothing is learned. Partner agrees to stay home with baby, I agree to come home early. Day care rejoices. Move laundry from washer to dryer.
8:30 am Finally dress for work. Baby is crying, partner puts him down for a nap. He cries, demonstrating a strong will, and then falls asleep. Apply make up, arrange hair in what I assume is the style of a person who slept more than I did.
8:55 am Reheat leftover fast food burrito and eat it for breakfast while standing in the kitchen, debating making another cup of coffee. Remind self to feel lucky for a schedule that allows for such a leisurely morning. Remind self to be grateful for blessed child, despite his inability to keep partially digested food in his body. Remind self to be grateful for leftover burrito, which is better than the granola bar under the front seat of the car.
9:08 am Leave for work, late. Arrive at work, find decent parking space magically available.
Spend the rest of the day wondering if I missed a spot of vomit or poop, still somewhere on my body. Or maybe in my hair?
12:45 am repeat
1:55 am repeat
3:50 am Baby is crying. Approach with water and search for pacifier blindly only to find pacifier is sitting in pool of chunky vomit. Wipe hand on own pajamas, and reach for child, who is only damp with vomit. Move child to clean, dry area. Replace his pajamas, wipe vomit off of face, hair, and hands. Give child cup of water to occupy himself. Remove bed sheets, mop up vomit, throw offending items in a pile in the bathroom. Lay a clean rag over the stain because you are too lazy to put clean sheets on the bed when there is only one more hour of sleep to look forward to anyway. Bring child, sippy cup of water, favorite stuffed animal, and favorite blanket into bed with you and sleeping, snoring partner.
4:15 - 4:50 am Baby rolls around in the bed, pretending to be sleepy while poking and kicking.
4:51 am Baby sits up to drink water
4:52 am Baby begins to throw up water. Grab still-vomiting baby and try unsuccessfully to catch vomit in your hands, pajamas, anything but beloved stuffed animal or bed sheets. Carry gathered bed clothes, pajamas, and vomit-y baby back into baby's room, wipe up vomit, change pajamas. Sleepy partner puts clean sheets on mostly clean crib. Snuggle now clean baby back to sleep, tuck in, close door. Change out of own vomit-covered pajamas into new pajamas.
5:20 am Baby is asleep, you are awake but already behind schedule. Make coffee, prepare alternate baby breakfast of simple oatmeal in anticipation of further tummy trouble. Shower, and dress in robe.
6:15 am Baby is crying. Again. The room smells like poop. Baby is damp and smells like poop. I lay baby down, then think better of it and grab a baby blanket to lay baby on. Begin process of pulling wet, shit covered pajama pants off of resistant baby. Baby cries more as I wipe feet, thighs, and mop poop into a pile. I grab another towel upon which to lay the shit soaked pajama pants, nearly useless diaper and growing pile of wipes. Being stripping poop soaked pajama shirt off of baby, trying to keep poop out of face and hair. Realize poop traveled up back and into armpits, and begin mopping up poo.
Baby is clean, dry, and crying. Dress him in optimistically chosen day care outfit, substituting sweat pants for shorts after imagining next wave of vomit or diarrhea streaming down bear baby legs. Groggy partner takes baby to our bed to snuggle, possibly sleep. Change crib sheets, begin washing large chunks of vomit and poop out of collected laundry, and start a washing machine load with lots of detergent and bleach. Wash hands, thoroughly. Smell robe for poop and add to laundry pile.
6:45 am Baby is quiet. Partner is quiet. Pour coffee into cup, sit down at desk and begin answering work emails. Text daycare back ups for availability.
7:30 am Baby is up, but not crying! Timidly offer baby special breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries. Baby eats four bites and then insists on more exotic fare. Feed baby whatever he wants. Bemoan options with partner; is he too sick for daycare or not? Baby's temperature is take multiple ways for accuracy. Nothing is learned. Partner agrees to stay home with baby, I agree to come home early. Day care rejoices. Move laundry from washer to dryer.
8:30 am Finally dress for work. Baby is crying, partner puts him down for a nap. He cries, demonstrating a strong will, and then falls asleep. Apply make up, arrange hair in what I assume is the style of a person who slept more than I did.
8:55 am Reheat leftover fast food burrito and eat it for breakfast while standing in the kitchen, debating making another cup of coffee. Remind self to feel lucky for a schedule that allows for such a leisurely morning. Remind self to be grateful for blessed child, despite his inability to keep partially digested food in his body. Remind self to be grateful for leftover burrito, which is better than the granola bar under the front seat of the car.
9:08 am Leave for work, late. Arrive at work, find decent parking space magically available.
Spend the rest of the day wondering if I missed a spot of vomit or poop, still somewhere on my body. Or maybe in my hair?
Friday, March 09, 2018
Thoughts While Driving to Work
"How well did I wash my hands?"
That was the thought that occurred to me as I nibbled bits of bran muffin from underneath my finger nails and drove my son to day care. How well did I wash my hands? Because, about twenty minutes earlier, I was cleaning poo off his bottom. And his thighs. And his shirt and pants. And his changing pad. And his junk. Oh why is it so hard to get bits of baby poop out of the tiny creases of baby testicles?! It is the worst.
And I washed my hands, but I was also keenly aware that the clock was ticking and I had about 70 minutes to finish up with the Poop-Apocalypse, get a clean and dressed kiddo into the car, and make the 50 minute round trip drive to drop him off and get to work on time. Since breakfast time had been replaced by an early nap wake up and a surprise poo-splosion, I grabbed a bran muffin after cleaning up everything to the minimum level of acceptable hygiene and threw the kiddo and I into the car.
Finally in the medium-chill place of knowing that I was at least on the road and moving towards my goal I started scarfing my muffin down, savoring every crumb, including the ones under my finger nails until it occurred to me that it might not have been wise to both skimp on hand washing time and go after *every* crumb.
Oh well.
It's too late now.
And by too late, I mean both that the poo/crumbs are in my tummy now, and that I am late to work.
That was the thought that occurred to me as I nibbled bits of bran muffin from underneath my finger nails and drove my son to day care. How well did I wash my hands? Because, about twenty minutes earlier, I was cleaning poo off his bottom. And his thighs. And his shirt and pants. And his changing pad. And his junk. Oh why is it so hard to get bits of baby poop out of the tiny creases of baby testicles?! It is the worst.
And I washed my hands, but I was also keenly aware that the clock was ticking and I had about 70 minutes to finish up with the Poop-Apocalypse, get a clean and dressed kiddo into the car, and make the 50 minute round trip drive to drop him off and get to work on time. Since breakfast time had been replaced by an early nap wake up and a surprise poo-splosion, I grabbed a bran muffin after cleaning up everything to the minimum level of acceptable hygiene and threw the kiddo and I into the car.
Finally in the medium-chill place of knowing that I was at least on the road and moving towards my goal I started scarfing my muffin down, savoring every crumb, including the ones under my finger nails until it occurred to me that it might not have been wise to both skimp on hand washing time and go after *every* crumb.
Oh well.
It's too late now.
And by too late, I mean both that the poo/crumbs are in my tummy now, and that I am late to work.
Monday, January 22, 2018
Aziz Ansari and Other 'Regular Guys'
So, the thing about waves is, the aren't exactly the most controlled of forces. The ocean does not care what you had planned, and waves will wash over everything in their paths. Waves will over reach. What I'm trying to say is, it was inevitable that we would get to this point, where we'd have to have a reckoning between the folks who said, "yes, obviously, Harvey is a monster, but.." and the folks for whom there is no but.
And I think we're here.
Stuff is continuing to come about about less egregious forms of sexual assault, harassment, and dysfunction. Grey areas are being wadded into, uncomfortable truths are emerging, and everything has gotten a whole lot more convoluted. Most recently, or not, since I am by no means the most up to date, Aziz Ansari and James Franco have been pulled in for somewhat more complicated offenses.
And, to me, the crux of the issue comes back to a favorite winter song, Baby It's Cold Outside. If you've never heard the song, hop on to youtube for the original, or any of the many, many, many, updates and remakes of the classic song. I'll wait. It's a lovely, controversial, date-rape-y song. Recently, I was online in the midst of kitten videos etc. when I stumbled onto a more uplifting take on the song's origin. The argument was that the song was not, in fact, date rape-y, but a woman making excuses to stay the night with a man she liked. See, in the not-so-good-old-days, women lacked the freedom to make sexual choices on their own. They were the brakes, and men were the gas (and everything was hetero-normative as hell....sorry about that). Women were responsible for maintaining their chastity against the hoard of sex hungry, uncontrollable men that were their friends and neighbors. Essentially, we pretended that everyone had the sexual norms of cave dwellers, but in snappy 1940s and 50s attire. And we didn't talk about it.
But people are people, and sexual appetites vary, and some women, even back then, just wanted to get laid or fool around with the guy they liked, so they'd have to come up with a guise of being too drunk to go home, to play the part of unwilling but unable to fight prey, so that they could maintain their social standing to some extent. Basically, the argument is, Baby It's Cold Outside is actually a ladies' anthem for repressed sexuality; she's playing the game with him, making excuses so she can spend the night. Which is a much more pleasant subject for a song.
BUT.
Here's the problem.
We don't know if that's true, because she never gets to say, "hey, by the way, I want to stay, I am just playing this dumb game." Because she's not allowed to because of social constraints on female sexuality. Social constraints that persist to this day. And this is the real problem we are all struggling with now.
Without women and men (and people of all genders) growing up in a nonjudgmental space of sexual expression and enthusiastic "Yes!" and "No!" responses to sexual advances, we can't even really know our partner's take on our own sexual encounters. Women (at least from my not-that-long-ago, born in 1980+ generation) are still growing up with the idea that sex is something inherently gendered with roles on predator and prey. I know I grew up with potent images of the romanticism of sexual dominance and violence, to the point where i fantasized about it with my friends as a child. If you think you didn't grow up with the same images imposed upon you, thing about everyone's hero, Harrison Ford, who makes his way through Star Wars and Indiana Jones franchises kissing women by force, against their will, until they submit, admitting it was all an act.
How the fuck are we supposed to learn about consent from that?
We didn't. And Harrison Ford is just an easy target; think back to other movies, whether women say no when they mean yes, how violence is portrayed around sexuality. One of my favorite dumb movies, Mr. and Mrs Smith, starts out with a battle to the death between spouses, and ends in a bloody sex scene. Complicated. I find myself searching media now, for signs that the people being kissed, trust upon, are actually into it. It is a disheartening exercise.
Herein lies the problem. We have completed trained ourselves to not expect female consent. All of us. I feel like this piece of writing articulates the complication of it all very well. And maybe it's changing, but these things take time. Aziz and James are close to my age, so I assume they grew up with something similar to my cultural milieu, and I can tell you I've had tons of sex I didn't really want. Bad sex, unpleasant sex. Sex I had because I thought I was proving something to someone, or because I thought it meant something. But for a very long time I had a lot of bad sex because I thought, truly, that I *should* say yes to every offer that came my way. I was never cool, I never considered myself pretty, but I was funny and had big boobs, so I would attract some guys some times. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I didn't always feel like I had the right to say no, because who was I? Who was I to turn these guys down, who were cool, or bought me beers, or seemed funny at first, or didn't care that I was on my period. Who was I to say no?
If you've read the New Yorker piece Cat Person, you know what I'm talking about. There are so many fine, grey lines in between what we all want for everyone, which is joyfully consented to enthusiastic sex, and what we are used to expecting. I might be alone in the way I valued myself in my early twenties, but I know I am not alone in what I am seeing echoed throughout the world lately. Scores of women have had sex they didn't want. Sometimes, because they were forced, coerced, drugged, tricked. And that is rape. Sometimes, they had sex they didn't want because they felt it had gone too far to stop, or they didn't no how to say no, or their partner didn't think to seek an enthusiastic yes. Sometimes someone screams no in their head, but smiles, and goes along with it, because that's what you do. Because if you say no, it could go from a bad sex story to a terrible rape story, to a beating, to some other more heinous act that you can already imagine. At least if you don't say no, you are holding on to some facet of control in the face of the looming culture that demands that women be the source and substance of sexual gratification for all, without necessarily taking too much of it for themselves.
What I'm trying to say is, it is complicated. And we are all to blame. If I had said no when I meant it, I would have brought the world a little closer to the enthusiastic yes that I believe we all deserve. That is SEXY AS HELL. But it took me a few years to learn that I was worth the no and the yes, and that both were part of my feminism and my sexuality. As a society I see more enthusiastic "Yes!" moments in movies and tv, which is important. We learn a lot from media. We need to teach ourselves and the next generation that sex is great for those who want it, and great to not have for those who don't want it. That it is a complicated mismatch of flesh and feelings, and that respecting the other person you engage in it with is the most important thing. We need to find a way to talk about this without jumping on each others' perceptions and experiences, and come at some of these situations with some empathy.
And we are talking about it, so that's a start. We need to keep talking, and listening, and questioning. Especially things that make us uncomfortable. That's how we get out of this quagmire of grey.
#imho
And I think we're here.
Stuff is continuing to come about about less egregious forms of sexual assault, harassment, and dysfunction. Grey areas are being wadded into, uncomfortable truths are emerging, and everything has gotten a whole lot more convoluted. Most recently, or not, since I am by no means the most up to date, Aziz Ansari and James Franco have been pulled in for somewhat more complicated offenses.
And, to me, the crux of the issue comes back to a favorite winter song, Baby It's Cold Outside. If you've never heard the song, hop on to youtube for the original, or any of the many, many, many, updates and remakes of the classic song. I'll wait. It's a lovely, controversial, date-rape-y song. Recently, I was online in the midst of kitten videos etc. when I stumbled onto a more uplifting take on the song's origin. The argument was that the song was not, in fact, date rape-y, but a woman making excuses to stay the night with a man she liked. See, in the not-so-good-old-days, women lacked the freedom to make sexual choices on their own. They were the brakes, and men were the gas (and everything was hetero-normative as hell....sorry about that). Women were responsible for maintaining their chastity against the hoard of sex hungry, uncontrollable men that were their friends and neighbors. Essentially, we pretended that everyone had the sexual norms of cave dwellers, but in snappy 1940s and 50s attire. And we didn't talk about it.
But people are people, and sexual appetites vary, and some women, even back then, just wanted to get laid or fool around with the guy they liked, so they'd have to come up with a guise of being too drunk to go home, to play the part of unwilling but unable to fight prey, so that they could maintain their social standing to some extent. Basically, the argument is, Baby It's Cold Outside is actually a ladies' anthem for repressed sexuality; she's playing the game with him, making excuses so she can spend the night. Which is a much more pleasant subject for a song.
BUT.
Here's the problem.
We don't know if that's true, because she never gets to say, "hey, by the way, I want to stay, I am just playing this dumb game." Because she's not allowed to because of social constraints on female sexuality. Social constraints that persist to this day. And this is the real problem we are all struggling with now.
Without women and men (and people of all genders) growing up in a nonjudgmental space of sexual expression and enthusiastic "Yes!" and "No!" responses to sexual advances, we can't even really know our partner's take on our own sexual encounters. Women (at least from my not-that-long-ago, born in 1980+ generation) are still growing up with the idea that sex is something inherently gendered with roles on predator and prey. I know I grew up with potent images of the romanticism of sexual dominance and violence, to the point where i fantasized about it with my friends as a child. If you think you didn't grow up with the same images imposed upon you, thing about everyone's hero, Harrison Ford, who makes his way through Star Wars and Indiana Jones franchises kissing women by force, against their will, until they submit, admitting it was all an act.
How the fuck are we supposed to learn about consent from that?
We didn't. And Harrison Ford is just an easy target; think back to other movies, whether women say no when they mean yes, how violence is portrayed around sexuality. One of my favorite dumb movies, Mr. and Mrs Smith, starts out with a battle to the death between spouses, and ends in a bloody sex scene. Complicated. I find myself searching media now, for signs that the people being kissed, trust upon, are actually into it. It is a disheartening exercise.
Herein lies the problem. We have completed trained ourselves to not expect female consent. All of us. I feel like this piece of writing articulates the complication of it all very well. And maybe it's changing, but these things take time. Aziz and James are close to my age, so I assume they grew up with something similar to my cultural milieu, and I can tell you I've had tons of sex I didn't really want. Bad sex, unpleasant sex. Sex I had because I thought I was proving something to someone, or because I thought it meant something. But for a very long time I had a lot of bad sex because I thought, truly, that I *should* say yes to every offer that came my way. I was never cool, I never considered myself pretty, but I was funny and had big boobs, so I would attract some guys some times. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I didn't always feel like I had the right to say no, because who was I? Who was I to turn these guys down, who were cool, or bought me beers, or seemed funny at first, or didn't care that I was on my period. Who was I to say no?
If you've read the New Yorker piece Cat Person, you know what I'm talking about. There are so many fine, grey lines in between what we all want for everyone, which is joyfully consented to enthusiastic sex, and what we are used to expecting. I might be alone in the way I valued myself in my early twenties, but I know I am not alone in what I am seeing echoed throughout the world lately. Scores of women have had sex they didn't want. Sometimes, because they were forced, coerced, drugged, tricked. And that is rape. Sometimes, they had sex they didn't want because they felt it had gone too far to stop, or they didn't no how to say no, or their partner didn't think to seek an enthusiastic yes. Sometimes someone screams no in their head, but smiles, and goes along with it, because that's what you do. Because if you say no, it could go from a bad sex story to a terrible rape story, to a beating, to some other more heinous act that you can already imagine. At least if you don't say no, you are holding on to some facet of control in the face of the looming culture that demands that women be the source and substance of sexual gratification for all, without necessarily taking too much of it for themselves.
What I'm trying to say is, it is complicated. And we are all to blame. If I had said no when I meant it, I would have brought the world a little closer to the enthusiastic yes that I believe we all deserve. That is SEXY AS HELL. But it took me a few years to learn that I was worth the no and the yes, and that both were part of my feminism and my sexuality. As a society I see more enthusiastic "Yes!" moments in movies and tv, which is important. We learn a lot from media. We need to teach ourselves and the next generation that sex is great for those who want it, and great to not have for those who don't want it. That it is a complicated mismatch of flesh and feelings, and that respecting the other person you engage in it with is the most important thing. We need to find a way to talk about this without jumping on each others' perceptions and experiences, and come at some of these situations with some empathy.
And we are talking about it, so that's a start. We need to keep talking, and listening, and questioning. Especially things that make us uncomfortable. That's how we get out of this quagmire of grey.
#imho
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