Female Privilege: The GOP, the War on Women, and Class

Let's talk about privilege.

priv - i - lege (n): a right, immunity, or benefit enjoyed only by a person beyond the advantages of most.

There's the now-ubiquitous take down of white male privilege explained in gamer terms (that I love, for the record, and I don't even play video games). And honestly, public discussions of privilege generally center on white male privilege, and for reasons well and good, but there are other types of privilege.

Female privilege, for example. Now, you must understand before you decide to crucify me that "female privilege" and "white male privilege" are not exact correlations. The kind of privilege I am going to talk about with regard to women is not the all-encompassing power of cultural superiority that white men hold. But still, there have traditionally been some privileges afforded one by being (white and/or wealthy) female. These privileges fall generally under the condition of "immunity" rather than "right," but that doesn't preclude them from being privileges, as you can see, from the above-quoted definition.

It's a political truism that there are two kinds of freedom: freedom from and freedom to. Generally, people don't specify which they mean because (in my extremely humble opinion) the people that yell the loudest about "freedom" usually mean "freedom from" and that's a rather inferior sort of freedom, don't you think? I think so. I mean, I'd much rather have the freedom TO go where I please than have the freedom FROM men yelling at me on the street. It is more important to me that I be able to set my own goals and accomplish them, which requires a more or less absolute freedom of movement, than it is to never encounter something unpleasant. That's how I parse the difference between freedom to and freedom from.

(N.B. - Ideally I'd have both, but I am, despite my unflappable optimism, a realist, and getting both is a little greedy so I'll take the freedom to, thankyouverymuch. And do whatever I can do ensure that maybe my great-great-great-great-great-granddaughters will have both.)

However, that's how I value-weight things. I am not the only person, nay, nor even the only woman in the world. And women have, since time immemorial, enjoyed a particularly privileged position when it comes to "freedom from." There are concrete examples, like street harassment: only going out with a male chaperone is a pretty effective way to not have dudes cat-calling and/or trying to grab parts of your body.

But the female privilege of freedom from extends much farther than such concrete examples, as privilege is wont to do. The privilege of freedom from is the freedom from all sorts of unpleasantness. Let's face it, everyone, the world is a pretty awful place. Navigating it is hard work. Making decisions, weighing options, walking the tightrope between self-care and caring for others: these are difficult, draining things. They are difficult and draining things for everyone, regardless of gender. But women have had the privilege of avoiding these things, by letting men make such decisions for them. The privilege of women has long been the freedom from having to chart a course through the universally-determined awfulness of the material world.

Sexism is, at its core, a belief that women are not capable of doing this. Women are not capable of making decisions, weighing choices, wielding power, and navigating the world. Because they are not capable, they must be protected, given freedom from having to do these things. That explains men that want to limit women's choices.

But what about women? They must realize that they're capable of choosing things for themselves, they must realize that they are capable of navigating the world. They must. Particularly high-power, high profile women, women like Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin and Nikki Haley, they must realize that the perception that women can't do the things they have done is wrong. So why do they (and hundreds of thousands of other women) align themselves with a political party that is dedicated to legally limiting women's choices? This is the question of the hour! Everyone is asking it!

Here's my take: privilege. It's not that these women are stupid, or self-loathing, which are the two explanations I see advanced most often. No, they are neither. What they are is deeply, deeply aware of their female privilege. We're at, you might say, a tipping point. Feminism has advanced to the point where women can indeed become Ann Coulter and Nikki Haley and even Hilary Clinton. But it has not advanced so far that actual equality is achieved, and thus, female privilege is preserved.

The option of retreating from the world, of ceasing to navigate it's awfulness and messiness, still exists for women of a certain class. The option of being protected and deferred to still exists. Women like Coulter and Haley and all the others are scared of losing that privilege.

At the Republican National Convention this year, there is something called the Women's Pavilion, organized and presided over by GOP women, where salon services and feminine hygiene products are available, and where women can meet to talk to other women "in ways women can relate to." The whole thing strikes me as redolent of a harem, minus the sexual overtones. Women winking over what the men say and speaking to each other in a coded, female-specific language; women occupying a place where men are forbidden; women assigned a specific sphere of influence. Even the name, "pavilion," calls up images of ladies sitting on comfortable chairs and shaded from the sun that might damage their complexions whilst they chat idly over lemonade. This is the privilege of women: a space "just for them," a language all their own. But, of course, by virtue of gender-exclusionary practices, nothing will get done in this women's pavilion. There will be lots of talk and no action. No decisions will be made, only communication, only translation.

Because the privilege of women is the freedom from decision-making. In an interview with Mary Anne Carter, organizer of this women's pavilion, a telling quote turns up:

I would think that the current healthcare bill that may or may not be repealed — I don’t want to call it ‘Obamacare’ but I can’t remember the name of it — is potentially a serious war on women, allowing women to make their own healthcare choices.

Allowing women to make their own healthcare choices, instead of having them dictated by a husband or a father or a doctor or even (in a pinch?) the government that is run by men is the real war on women, for those that are terrified of losing their female privilege. Having to take responsibility for those kinds of things, those things that happen in the real and awful and terrifying and messy world is a pretty scary thought. It's much easier to rest on female privilege, on the perception of the fairer and weaker sex, on the idea that women need a space and a language all their own, on the construction of the general world as male and therefore outside your purview.

Women have historically been great enforcers of gender roles. We shame and punish each other for being sluts, for breaking the rules, for doing what women aren't supposed to do. Why? Because we all know that we're capable of managing our own lives, but some of us really don't want to have to. The world is awful and living is hard.

The problem is, of course, that not all women have the option, the luxury of relying on the female privilege that is largely the demesne of the wealthy. And setting public policy for the comfort of the wealthy has never worked out indefinitely for any culture. But still, that doesn't stop people from clinging to their privileges with terror-hardened fingers.

Who Deserves to Die?

A year ago, during the awful lead-up to and then even more awful execution of Troy Davis, I started thinking about the death penalty. And now, as Texas sets itself to execute (another) cognitively deficient man, I'm thinking about it again.

What is a "death penalty?" Killing someone for a crime committed. Lots of people find such punishment appropriate: "An eye for an eye," goes the refrain of the religious who support it; "Some people just can't be trusted," say the less Biblically minded. In essence, a death penalty is a judgment of irredeemability. Killing someone for a crime necessarily means that society has judged that person incapable of rehabilition; they will never be a functioning member of society, and therefore must be removed from it so as to prevent further harm.

You might be able to guess that I am not a supporter of the death penalty. I find the idea of judging someone beyond redemption a horrific display of hubris and privilege that leaves me sick to my stomach. Of course, as soon as I start to talk with anyone about my moral objections to the death penalty, they'll inevitably come up with one scenario or another for which I have no good rejoinder. The expense of keeping people behind bars (if we quit locking people up for years for non-violent offenses, the cost of locking up violent offenders would be much more tolerable), the danger to other members of the prison population posed by certain offenders (sociopaths are a thing I really have no solution for), the inherent inhumanity of a lifetime of isolated confinement in an 8 by 8 space (a point made eloquently to me by a man that vowed to get himself shot before being locked up again; I think he meant it, too).

I don't have practical solutions to these issues. All I have is the absolute conviction that killing people is wrong. And it is just as wrong to kill someone that has killed someone else as it is for that person to kill someone else in the first place. The practical issues of human beings being awful to each other are messy, but the morality of it is crystal-clear to me: killing people is wrong. Full stop.

So what does it say about us, as a society, that we have authorized the state to validate our own worst impulses and kill people? What does it say about us that we suffer a governing principle that does not demand of us to better ourselves, but rather allows us to close our eyes and stop up our ears like children frightened of something in the dark? Because desire to hurt another being always stems from fear.

It says nothing flattering about us, to be sure. It says we will suffer stagnation. It says that we, as a culture, refuse to move beyond fear and reactionary retribution.

And I can't help but draw corollaries between state-sponsored execution and vigilantism and mass murders. We continue to grant the state this power of life and death over its citizens because we will not let go of the idea that we ought to have the power of life and death over each other. The different, scary Other deserves to die, and we will be the instrument of death if no one else steps up, it is our RIGHT to extract pounds of flesh and harvest souls.

Yes, I know that generally sane, well-adjusted people don't tend to be the ones that take up arms and kill people. But that's the point, isn't? Generally sane, well-adjusted people don't do that sort of thing. Generally sane, well-adjusted people don't kill other people. So why are we, collectively, killing people left and right? We must not be generally sane, or well-adjusted. Perhaps we should do something about that.

A culture that continues to hold that there are people that deserve to be killed will continue to breed Loughner's and Holmes' and Page's.

Walking a Tightrope

Every relationship has rules. There's a sort of standard set of them (monogamy, financial sharing, modicum of care) that is the basic template for modern, American relationships. Individual couples work out the details of their particular relationship and apply variations of these rules, or chuck them completely and start from a blank slate, building as necessary.

Many relationships break down when the rules aren't followed. Many others break down because the rules were never explicitly defined, and so one party or another violates them unknowingly or someone starts pushing for a defined set of rules which is often casually referred to as "labeling" the relationship and the other person freaks the fuck out because defined rules mean they have to follow them, too, and not having any rules to follow is so nice.

I've got very little problem chucking the basic template and building from scratch. Most things in my life are negotiable. I don't have a great many strong convictions about anything (although, to be fair, the few things I do have strong convictions about are pretty much iron-clad and you will never get me to negotiate on them) so I'm willing to compromise a great deal.

What I have a hard time dealing with is uncertainty, or operating without a defined set of rules. I am a person that needs to know where the lines are, and why they are there, and how important each one is. This is equally so that I don't unintentionally cross any boundaries, and so that if I do cross a line, I know what the likely outcome will be. I like to rebel with purpose, you see. If I'm going to set something on fire, I will be very careful to pick the thing that will produce the exact impact I'm going for.

I really do weigh things that carefully; it's the natural consequence of being a worrier. I calculate risk with an internal scale that is so finely calilbrated it distinguishes between 6 hours of sleep and 5.5 hours of sleep; between a margarita and a manhattan; between $20 and $25; between "I love you" and "I am in love with you."

But all this calculation depends on data, on having the information necessary to weigh risk, and so in relationships with undefined rules, I have no data on which to make decisions. This is how I get hurt. When I don't know what I'm leaping into, I tense and hit the ground hard and shatter. When I can see, I can relax and roll with the punches.

Maybe what I'm supposed to be learning right now is how to roll with punches while blind. Maybe what I'm supposed to be learning right now is the value of the undefined, the freeing nature of letting go of risk calculation, the joy of floating even if there's a 100-foot waterfall just up ahead pulling you inexorably toward the precipice.

Mostly it feels like walking a tightrope without a net, and falling every other step. I'm not ready for this. I need some rules to work with, I need some data on which to make decisions. I need to calculate whether the tightrope is worth walking.

The Incredibly Fucked Up Classism of The Dark Knight Rises

I saw The Dark Knight Rises last night (and stayed up far, far beyond my bedtime, so if this is muddled I'm going to blame mild sleep deprivation and not my own flawed analytic skills, mmk?) and good God, someone has the most fucked-up sense of class consciousness ever.

Honestly, that was the over-arching thought in my mind as I left the theater. I initially assigned this incredibly convoluted, nonsensical world view to Christopher Nolan, and I still think that it's largely him, but he is working with characters and stories written by other people, so it might not be entirely his fault that nothing makes a whole lot of sense.

There's a fascinating little vignette near the end of the film as lightly (nightsticks, the occasional handgun) armed cops that have been being held underground for months escape and march through the streets to confront legions of heavily (automatic rifles and machine guns) armed revolutionaries that have all the power. The sense of existential vertigo is startling and almost nausea-inducing if you've been paying attention to the news. Who has power? Who should have power? How do you take power and keep it without becoming the thing you took it from? The symbolism is both stark and gradient.

This movie is both cartoonishly comic and simplistic, and simultaneously jumping on the trend of heroes as anti-heroes, or at least complex beings living in unbearable tension. Character sketches of the four main characters, with particular emphasis on class, go something like this:

Billionaire playboy/superhero.
Billionaire female investor/CEO.
Working-class female cat burglar.
Escaped male convict.

What's fascinating in Nolan's universe is the interplay of these four main characters. Both the big hero AND the big bad are wealthy elites. Both of their sidekicks are decidely neither wealthy nor elite. Both the big hero and the big bad espouse "helping humanity" rhetoric. Neither one of them does nearly as much good as they could if they weren't so fucking self-absorbed.

(Don't argue with me. Batman is a megalomaniac. I mean, it's cool to watch him play vigilante, but he is absolutely an incurable narcissist.)

So, the world is threatened and destroyed by two people of the same class. Both have help from the underclass. And really, that's where the characterizations get interesting. Before I get to gushing about the incredibly fascinating, human portrait that is Selina Kyle (and you can call me a whatever-you-want, but she was absolutely the best/most interesting part of this movie, I don't care what sort of purist opinion you've got because I've never read a comic book in my life), a few notes on Bane.

An escaped convict that we find out lost his face after protecting a six-year-old girl born in a prison, he's set up for most of the movie as the villain. It's only at the end that we find out, despite his self-consciously pseudo-Stalinist rhetoric, that he's actually been acting on behalf of that wealthy lady investor, who turns out to be the kid he saved from some hell-hole prison. So, at sort of the last possible second you realize most of his rhetoric was empty (and there are some truly hilarious/cringe-inducing/exasperating visuals, including a scene straight out of Marat's French Revolution with Cillian Murphy inexplicably holding court atop a pile of desks; the gold-velvet upholstered Regency wing chair made me sigh/sob/choke all at once) and so maybe you don't have to be terrified of people advocating for a world in which the few do not live large on the blood and tears of the many.

But, most people won't think that far, and clearly the savior is a billionaire and the villain cloaks himself in "people's revolutionary" garments and then proceeds to pretty much destroy everything, so that's the message most will take. Sigh. Christopher Nolan, fuck you.

Still, the actual villain is herself an elite and monied woman. And Bane did, years ago, save her from a pretty desperate fate at the cost of his face. He clearly does believe quite strongly in the idea of caring for others, no matter the cost. He just goes about it in spectacularly bad fashion, acting out of an implied love for the (beautiful, innocent) girl (who is very beautiful but not at all very innocent) who leads him astray. (I am not going to begin a feminist critique of this movie until I've seen it several more times.) Human beings make mistakes; maybe that's why we should be trying to make sure no one human being has the power to make mistakes that will destroy everything? Just a thought. Although I can't say definitively that it's one Nolan had. But maybe he did. Who knows. Anyway, it's just pop-culture, right?

But Selina Kyle. Selina Kyle is a goldmine of nuanced super-hero characterization. She wants social and cultural change. She can taste it. She is acutely aware that the world she lives in is stacked against people like her. And she steals. The implicit suggestion of her as a Robin Hood figure (steals expensive things from fabulously wealthy people, but lives in a small apartment in a crappy part of time; has a big-sister relationship with a young woman) is touching, but she consistently deflects it. She's equally repulsed by the wealth of Wayne's world and attracted to it. In that sense, she's a good allegory for most of us in relation to our economics: horrified at and covetous of excess.

In the final analysis, she (literally) saves Batman's life because she can't just abandon him. Clearly, there's sexual and romantic tension there (but I'm not writing a feminist critique until I've seen it WAY MORE TIMES) but I like to think at least some of that is her own morality. She believes in helping her fellow beings, so she helps, at risk and cost. And in the end, when she's being inexplicably squired around Italy in luxury by Bruce who was suppposed to have lost all his money, what came to my mind was a bitter comment she directed at him an hour earlier in the film: "You people don't even go broke like the rest of us." Maybe she's betraying her ideals, maybe she sold out, as was suggested to me in a rather incoherent phone call as I walked home from the theater at 2 am, but she, like Bane, is human, and makes mistakes, and if we're going to give him the benefit of the doubt about his motivations for being such an evil monster, she certainly gets the same consideration considering she hasn't actually done anything on his level of maliciousness. Yet. That yet is implied, of course: once you're living the high life it's hard to disentangle yourself from its siren song. As long as temptation exists, you have to fight it.

What is undoubtedly most fascinating about this film as a dissertation on class and class consciousness is the interplay of these four characters: the ways in which they are the same and the ways they are different, the way those similarities and differences were grafted on by external conditions or consciously chosen. Bane and Selena could maybe have, with different choices, ended up in each other's shoes; so, for that matter, could Wayne and Tate.

And that's why, despite all the heavy-handed, trite, simplistic SUPERHERO COMIC OMG shit, it actually is a pretty complex movie. If you're bothering to think about it. Or, overthinking it, as I'm sure I am. Then again, the real world is pretty simple on the surface, too, which is why so many people are convinced they have it figured out: they just ignore the pieces that don't fit.

"I Don't Want To Go Out Alone Anymore."

I find myself increasingly unable to handle "creepy" men.

Several weeks back (a few months, even? I'm so bad with time.) I was at a favorite bar for a show. Three bands on the ticket, two I knew sandwiching one I'd never heard before. A lovely acquaintance is in the band that was to play last. In between sets, I stepped outside to have a smoke. I do that. When I re-entered the bar between the second and third sets, I stepped up to order another beer. There were two men who had clearly been drinking for some time slumped into their bar stools next to me.

The man immediately to my left gave me a sidelong glance, as people do, and then started up a conversation, as people do. I go places alone often; I often get in conversations with strangers. It's one of my favorite things about going places alone, actually. Anyway, this guy started up with he'd never been to this particular establishment before, I told him it was one of my favorites because of its excellence as a live-music venue.

And from there, the conversation degenerated rapidly. He started asking me what "kind" of music.

"All kinds!" I said "Everything from folk-pop to hip hop to the noisiest noise rock you can imagine. Tonight there are three bands, all with heavy folksy vibes."

"Would I like it?" he asked me.

I hesitated. I had no idea. "Well, do you like folksy or bluesy music?" I asked him.

"Would I like the band?" he badgered me.

I tried to explain to him that there was no way I could answer that, given that I had no idea what kind of music he liked, but I was really into all three bands on the ticket and I definitely recommended checking it out.

He then proceeded to call me a "dumb bitch," say I was "stuck up," and mutter loudly about how women were all awful to the buddy sitting on his other side, while glancing at me every five seconds to make sure I knew he was talking about me.

I was so freaked out I left. I never saw the last band, the one my lovely acquaintance is in.

Last night, I was a bit blue: out-of-sorts, restless, unable to bring the snarls of my various thoughts into anything like a smooth-flowing order or even a neatly knotted braid. No, everything was willy-nilly. It's Summerfest in Milwaukee, so after the toddler was passed out cold, I kissed my mother and hopped on my bike and pedalled down. Death Cab for Cutie live? That will totally make me feel better, I told myself.

So there I was, hanging around the very edge of the back of the crowd, half-watching for a friend who was on his way down, half watching the screen, when a hand grabbed my ass. I jumped. A very large, very sweaty, very drunk man was behind me.

I scowled at him, moved to the other side of the table I was standing next to, and tried to forget it.

The next time I looked around, the man was planted on a table across from me, staring.

I was so freaked out, I left. The friend I had been waiting for turned up about ten minutes later and couldn't find me. I only saw about 40 minutes of Death Cab's set.

That's twice this year that I've been driven from something I really wanted to be at by creepy, inappropriate men. Ten years ago, even five years ago, I think I wouldn't have left either circumstance. I'm not sure if this is progress, or regress.

On the one hand, it's possible that ten years ago (or five years ago) I wouldn't have been aware just how creepy and inappropriate and downright awful these kinds of things were. I might have just brushed it off as drunkenness or a bad night. If I'm more aware now, that's progress. On the other hand, this "increased awareness" might be just increased fear. I'm allowing fear of worst-case to rule my own behavior in ways that I would have been utterly defiant of ten or five years ago. If I'm reverting to fear-based reactions, that's regress.

I've been thinking about this since I left the festival grounds last night. And I come, inexorably, to the conclusion that I'm reacting to increased fear. Five or ten years ago, I was at least somewhat secure in the belief that even *if* the worst case scenario happened, things would be done about it. Perpetrators would be brought to justice, courtroom drama would ensue, I would cry prettily. (I can't actually cry prettily, for the record: my face turns the color of boiled tomatoes and my eyes swell shut and my nose runs.)

I have spent too much time reading true horror stories, and seeing the non-cosequences of violence against women and rape to be secure in that belief anymore. Today, I believe that if the worst case scenario happened in any given circumstance, I would be blamed for it. It would be my fault for being out alone/having some drinks/wearing a dress/smiling at people/take your pick.

This is the reality of rape culture: I don't want to go out alone anymore. I would rather remain cooped in my house if I don't have the protection of another person with me. I don't want, or have the strength of mind, to fight through all the fear that is building up around being out, in public, alone. And why is it incumbent on me to have to fight through all that just to enjoy the world? Because I'm a woman? Bullshit.

Men, quit acting like this. I don't care how drunk you are. I don't care how long it's been since you got laid, or how badly your last relationship ended. Just knock it the hell off. There's no excuse for it.

I don't want to go out alone. If you know me even a little, you must understand how momentous a statement that is. I don't want to go out alone anymore.

Inadequacies and Judgments

You know what will make the sanest, most even-keeled person go a little bit insane? Sexual insecurity. Serious. Imagine this, for a moment: you're floating along with someone, hanging out, making out, having a good time, enjoying each other's company. You start to think, "Wow, this is really nice. Maybe I can trust this person!" And so you do, and the two of you have sex, and a week later you're getting the "I'm just not really available for any kind of relationship right now" line.

Punch. To the goddamn. Gut.

If you're reading this, and you know how to handle that kind of thing without going completely off the rails for a few days or a few weeks, please let me in on your secrets. I've never been able to deal other than being an ugly walking anger ball for a while, and I *really* don't like being an ugly walking anger ball, even if it's only for a few days.

The thing that makes sexually-based rejection so much harder to take than rejection based on other criteria is the specter of all the other issues raised by a rejection that is, at heart, physical.

I’m not right for you because I talk too much? Ok, well, I do shut up sometimes, but that’s cool, I’m just a talker and I probably always will be and if it really bothers you that much, well, then.

I’m not right for you because I’m a bleeding-heart? Fine. I can understand how it might be difficult to integrate orphan’s Christmas and an ever-shifting array of household guests into your life, but I’m not going to give up those things, so let’s part ways.

I’m not right for you because you don’t like how I have a tendency to put my life and my feelings out there for the world to read? Sigh. Yes, I get it. I can try like hell to respect your privacy and leave you unidentified, but I’m always going to want to write and say things and try to communicate, and if you’re really uncomfortable with that, then we’re not right. I don’t want to hurt you.

All of those things hurt. They do. Any rejection stings. But rejection based on some kind personal characteristic, no matter how much it stings, can be gotten over so long as you hold true to your conception of yourself.

But, “You’re bad in bed; I’m out” is so much more hurtful. For me, at least, it raises all my unsettled intellectual insecurities. To be rejected for something physical means that what is most important is my physical being. It means my value to this person lies in my body, not my mind. It turns me into arm candy. Or, that’s what it feels like, and that’s what makes me crazy. The idea that I decided to trust someone who doesn’t give a flying fart what’s between my ears, only between my legs, and that that’s not even good enough, makes me question my judgment. And questioning my judgment makes me de-value my intelligence even further on my own until I arrive, finally, at the rock bottom conclusion that I am, in fact, nothing but arm candy and spend a few days crying silently, afraid to raise my voice or my head.

I’m not the most even-keeled person to begin with, please keep that in mind.

After I’ve hit that point, I usually rebound enough to think at least marginally critically about the whole thing. Often it turns out that I’ve been basing the whole assumption of rejection based on sexual inadequacy on something specious, and there are (in fact) myriad possible reasons for the rejection. Because there usually are. Hurt makes us jump to conclusions that are insupportable in the calm light of reason. Passion is a beautiful thing, it really is, but like any beautiful thing it can blind you if you stare at it too long. Then it’s a matter of talking myself through the other rejection-scenario and pep talking myself up to a point where I’m more or less functioning again, although fragility remains, always, a little more brittle, a little less able to withstand.

Rejection always, always hurts. There’s no way around that. Or at least, no way that I’ve found that leaves my basic empathy responses intact. There’s no way to feel for the world without feeling the world, and that means that you are going to get hurt.

Alternatively, I manage to work myself into a state of righteous indignation long enough to cut the person loose because it really *is* true that they only think of me as arm candy and I don’t need people like that in my life.

That’s a cop-out on my part, if you didn’t notice the hypocrisy I just exposed. When it comes down to it, everyone has the right to be happy and it would be awesome if we did that without hurting anyone else ever but that’s a pipe dream. And if the sex really doesn’t work for you, that’s as valid a reason for ending a relationship as any other. I recommend giving it more than one shot, but hey, some people make decisions quickly, who am I to judge. Saying that appearances don’t matter is naïve; denying that the physical self has as much reality as the mind is ignorant. We aren’t just brains. We’re bodies, too, and our bodies matter. Someday I’ll have to get as comfortable being judged for mine as I am with being judged for my ideas.

I’ll take any tips you got that on that, too.

Doubt

I have been struck by a terrifying thought: How much of my morality is simply gender-socialization?

I can talk quite prettily about how love will save the world, about the need to build communities that care about each other by building individual connections between people who care about each other, about learning to care for your neighbor and your neighbor's neighbor and on and on and on. And all of that is without a doubt the basis of my moral understanding. Everyone is a human being, and simply by virtue of being a human being they are deserving of dignity and respect.

But the real world is messy, and real human beings are complicated, and you can't love someone punitively. Therefore the other underlying tenet of my moral understanding is a well of infinite forgiveness, side-by-side and co-mingled with that bottomless well of compassion I try to cultivate. Without question this is influenced by my Catholic upbrining; people make jokes about "Catholic guilt" because of confession and a whole host of other things, but what is missing from those pithy understandings of Catholicism is that the guilt is not the point. The point is forgiveness. God is infinitely forgiving if we are sincerely contrite, and He will go on forgiving no matter how many times we screw something up.

The process of institutionalization took this incredibly noble ideal and turned it into the doctrine of dispensation, which was the straw that broke Martin Luther's back. And we all know where that went. On the whole, the Lutherans and the Calvinists and their doctrinal brethren are far, far more into guilt than Catholics ever were, but that's neither here nor there.

The point is: Forgiveness. You cannot love punitively. You cannot love and fail to forgive. If you want to teach someone that they matter as a human being, love and forgiveness, not guilt and shame, is the way to go. Jesus was down with this. He spent most of his time wallowing in the gutter with all those poor people that broke all kinds of social and even legal conventions, because: forgiveness.

But the practical effects of my understanding of these moral imperatives have the interesting, terrifying side effect of making me sometimes indistinguishable from that most perfect feminine form, the doormat.

I can rant and rave and rail against instutionalized misogyny (and I do) but when it comes to individuals, I have a hard time condemning. Because, forgiveness.

I can talk a big game about the need for personal responsibility in relationships, but I have a hard time implementing it because my moral understanding always, always leads me to undervalue my own needs and desires and over-emphasize someone else's. Like any good helpmeet, I'm quite willing to submerse myself in someone else's goals. The Quiverfull people could probably brainwash me in about two days flat.

There's no answer. Now that I've come face-to-face with the realization, I am always going to be living in the tension between my desire to be recognized as a full human being despite my gender and my belief that it is my duty to recognize everyone else as such. As long as there are people willing to take advantage of others, I will be a ripe target. And worse than the gullible fool with the wool pulled over their eyes, I know what I'm walking into, at least some of the time. But if I don't walk into it, the guilt of having failed torments me. Rock, meet hard place. Let someone else hurt me, or inflict an equally painful wound on myself.

I wonder if men that have similar conceptions of moral good feel emmasculated? Or effeminate.

Worst of all, the tension makes me question my beliefs. It makes me wonder if I'm not just creating an elaborate rationalization for behaving in exactly those ways that society expects me to behave. Maybe I should just shut up and sit down and look pretty, too. I do that pretty often, anyway, because you can't change anyone's minds by yelling at them or forcing them to confront things they're not ready to confront. So why, exactly, am I bothering with anything, again?

I've been unable to abandon either my moral principles or my belief that I can make a difference, so I guess living in the tension is working out. But it's stressful, and I am full to bursting with doubt that's spilling out over every decision I make. I doubt everything these days, myself most of all.

Practice Radical Compassion

I've been listening to people ask the question, "What now?" a lot.

"What now?"
"What next?"
"Where do we go?"
"Where do we start?"

Everyone I know has been inspired by big things -- myself included! make no mistake! -- and all those big things have been happening fast and piled on top of each other. Protests, recalls, elections, occupy, marches, even one brave girl standing against her culture: it's all one giant source of motivation and strength for anyone with an eye on changing the future.

And those moments, those big moments, are important. It's important to know that you're not utterly alone in wanting a different world, and it's important to know what it feels like to stand with 100 or 10,000 or 100,000 of your fellow human beings, voices raised together. It's important to know what that feels like, for an individual, and it's important for the world at large to know that there are so very many individuals working in concert.

But the big moments are demonstration, not change.

Politics will never change the world. I'll say it again: Politics will never change the world. Part of this is the nature of politics as compromise. Perhaps we've all lost sight of this, so here's a reminder. Politics is the art of compromise through persuasion. But that means you are never going to get everything you want, and your opposition is never going to get everything they want. Even a majority must compromise with the minority in a representative, nominally democratic system.

(Side note to everyone involved in politics: Could you maybe start compromising? Just a little? It's your job, so do your job, please.)

But politics imposes a consensus compromise on people from the outside. To change the world, you have to change the people. The only way the world will get better is if we make humanity as a whole better. The only way to stop people from doing awful things to each other, either actively by waging war and murdering and raping, or passively by ignoring the hardships they suffer, is to make every person in the world acknowledge the humanity of every other person.

Overwhelming. It's an overwhelming thought. Are you overwhelmed?

Don't be.

No one, no one in the world, can alone effect change of that scale. No one. It's not possible.

Here's what you can do: you can change one person. You can reach out to one person and show them that you're human, and they're human, and that you respect their humanity. You can show one person the effects of the decisions they make. You can show one person that you respect them, that you love them, despite any and all differences, and you can hope that such a demonstration inspires them to change even a little.

Here's another thing you can do: live humanely. Live your life to the best of your ability such that you respect and care for other people. Think about how you define "people." Then think about how you define "people who deserve respect." Are these two definitions the same? Probably not. What can you do to make them the same?

Who are your neighbors? Do you know their names? Do you know what they value? Do you know what they dream of? Can you help them? Who are their neighbors? What do they dream of? Can you help them? Build a community based on personal relationships; the larger community will build itself, so long as you maintain the long view of respect for all people simply because they are people. Those people don't have to have the same values you do; they don't even have to agree with you on anything. Your job is to respect them anyway. Your job is to care about them anyway. Your job is to love them anyway. Lead by example. It's the only leadership that works.

Politics in America, and everywhere, has long been the art of defining "The Other" for one group or another. Most of human history, in fact, can be viewed through the lens of power pitting groups against each other to maintain power. Reject that history. Reject it forcefully. Refuse to think of anyone as The Other, as unlike yourself. Refuse to accept that you have to denigrate and degrade another person, no matter how far away and no matter how strange their life seems, just to make yourself feel better.

After all, you are the scary, frightening Other to someone else. What would you prefer they do, when you meet: kill you or listen to you? Don't conjecture about what is LIKELY to happen. Don't rationalize shooting first, or cutting someone off, because of what you think they will do, or even are likely to do, or what they've done in the past. Stick to this alone: which would you rather happen? Then you have to choose to do the thing that you would like to happen despite whatever fear, rational or irrational, you feel.

You want to be a radical? You want to be a revolutionary? Here's the ultimate radical act: Love the Other. Love them like you'd love your own child. Endure deprivation for them, live with the knowledge they might take advantage of you, forgive them when they do, and go right on loving. Love them until they cannot but recognize your humanity, and love you back. It takes courage, and forgiveness, and a deep sense of self, and a firm commitment to the worth of the future being built. But you can do it. And if you mess up, if you can't do it, if you're too scared or too dazzled by the world, forgive yourself, too: you're human.

And then, try again. Pick yourself up and try again. And again. As many times as it takes.
Love will change the world, and the world will change one human being at a time.

The Palm, the Willow, the Way Forward

When I was nine, I spent part of a summer with my paternal grandparents in South Carolina. My family's relationship with my father's family has always been complicated, so this trip was something of an anamoly in the firmament of my childhood. The experiment was a nearly unmitigated disaster; my grandmother and I fought like the pig-headed autocrats we both are inside. However, the pine forests of the Carolinas are beautiful, majestic, regal, and to this day I sometimes dream about how they smell and the quality of silence that's created by the muffling effect of years upon years of pine needles decomposing beneath your feet.

About halfway through the trip, my grandfather took me for a drive along the Carolina coast. This was 1993, as I recall, after Hurricane Andrew. There were palm trees along that drive that were growing crooked: gnarled and bent over and sticking out from the earth at a uniform impossible angle.

"Do you know why those trees are bent?" my grandfather asked me.

I shook my head.

"They bent in the hurricane's wind. They bent so that they would remain standing. The trees that didn't bend are gone now."

We spent the rest of the drive in silence. Even at nine, I knew what he was trying to tell me. And I was a little ashamed that he felt he had to impart this lesson to me, and I was little resentful that he wasn't trying to impart it to his wife instead, and I was about as thoughtful as a nine-year-old gets.

My grandfather died a few years ago; my grandmother is still alive in the Carolinas, and the last few times I've seen her, it's certainly seemed as if she's learned to bend in the wind.

The palm trees in the wind are the beginning of mystery. I am grateful to my grandfather, and the hurricane, and those trees, for giving me such a concrete lesson, but it's time to move on from the palm trees. The palms, you see, they bent in the wind so that they would survive. That's all. That's it. Acceptance so that survival.

I've been having trouble bending to the winds lately. I've been having trouble accepting merely to survive. My horizon is broadened, and mere survival seems small. I feel buffeted at every turn, everything and everyone seems hell-bent on knocking me over and leaving me small and broken on the ground. Events, yes, but also people. From elections to relationships, I cannot bend the way I ought. I have no acceptance because acceptance feels like defeat. I don't want to succumb; I want to thrive. I don't want to be a solitary palm tree, isolated and broken and just hanging on. I want so much more than that.

A few days ago, I randomly stumbled on a parable that I can no longer place, but it showed me where to go, how to continue to bend to the winds.

The willow shoot bends in the wind until it is a forest that can break the wind.

Time to grow into a forest.

Scott Walker, We Don't Want You No More

This is the text of Gwen Moore's amazing, lyrical, stirring, heart-pounding poem/stump speech, delivered at a Get-Out-The-Vote rally in Milwaukee on June 1, 2012. Bill Clinton appeared at the rally as well, but was (in my extremely humble opinion) utterly upstaged by Congresswoman Moore's way with words and passionate delivery. Transcribed from video by a dear, equally amazing friend. The recall election in Wisconsin goes down June 5; if you're in Wisconsin, please vote. Please. I beg of you.

Great scott, Scott Walker! You gotta go, baby -  

'cause we don't want you no more.

Walker, you're a slick talker, baby. Your jargon to cut spending

didn't mention that our right to bargain would be ending.

Though public employees agreed to pay more to help ensure the pension

you arrogantly proceeded with your labor negotiation suspension.

You gave tax debits to corporations and invested in your budget repairs

while you raised taxes on the poor and the elderly 

by gutting the earned income and homestead tax credits.

What were you thinking, baby?

When you cut funding from public education 

and curtailed municipalities from local resources allocation.

How can we maintain our skilled and professional workforces

by striking technical college and university courses

You want to create 250,000 jobs, you purport

But you declined over a billion dollars in federal support 

for job creation on behalf of Tea Party ideation.

Great scott, Scott Walker! You gotta go, baby -  

'cause we don't want you no more.

[missing section in video] 

You set back women's economic progress by repealing women's pay equality.

Your respect for women is a misconception and a mere deception 

to which we take exception.

Great scott, Scott Walker! You gotta go, baby!!  

'cause we don't want you no more!

Your rigid requirements for photo identification 

is a sleazy attempt at voter nullification

Your tactics have been met with disdain

and almost a million signatures to end your tyrannical reign

You know what? We tested you with a phone call from a phony rich man

where you revealed your plan 

with much aplomb

to destroy the middle class by dropping the bomb

Hey! We're not laughing. We don't think it's a joke

that you've coldly calculated that things go better with coke - 

The Koch Brothers, that is.

Not with us - the voters!

You've rebuked us, the people, for not being in tune

but we recall ALL of your sins, and we'll defeat you in June.

Great scott, Scott Walker! You gotta go, baby.

Going With The Flow

I have come to the conclusion that (as I am apt to do) I have crossed the line into buying too deeply into my own bullshit. Not that love and compassion and the need for human connections and serving each other is bullshit. It's all very real and true and I believe in all of it absolutely and without reservation. But I am prone to Taking Myself Too Seriously Syndrome and it's about time I called myself on it.

The crux of it is that I've been feeling for a while now that most of my relationships are unbalanced in some way: the two-way street doesn't flow with equal force in both directions. Problematic, for a dyed-in-the-wool idealist like me. But I talked myself down from it! I really did! I was all,

"Self. Nothing is perfect, Self. You have to look at flow over time, Self, and I'm sure that over time everything shakes out even, so don't get so upset. Relax. Go with it."

The first remarkable thing is that this ridiculous pep-talk actually worked. It's possible that the actual language I used when talking to myself in my head was somewhat different from the words above, but the gist was the same, and no one really wants to know how pretentious and pedantic I am to myself in my own head. It's positively precious, how hoity-toity my tone can get. I probably don't need to tell you that, dear Reader, since you're reading this and you know perfectly well how pretentious I am.

But over days and weeks of meditating on the concept of flow and time, I came to what I thought was a very determined peace with the fact of lopsidedness in relationships. I was OK. I was on an even keel.

It didn't last, clearly, or I would have nothing to write about. Everything is fodder for more words, dripping from my fingers like lovely and useless petunias. (Gilded lilies? I can't decide whether I prefer the continued alliteration, or the hilariously arcane allusion.)

But I've been snippy and mean and generally uncomfortable for a few days (sorry, Mom/Dad/Baby) and last night (yesterday? last week? It's hard to know whether the moment of epiphany occurs at the moment of verbalization or some time before that) I realized that I'm still struggling with the idea of all my lopsided relationships.

You see, I am unbelievably, unutterably, indescribably lucky. I am privileged beyond your wildest imaginings to have really amazing, awesome, awe-inspiring people in my life. These people are also ridiculously generous with me. I have been plagued by the sense that I am getting so much more from them than I am giving them, and that makes me so uncomfortable I can't deal with it. In fact, it makes me so uncomfortable I become a raging anger ball and kind of (a little bit) a bitch.

This is selfishness. I'm only ok with lopsided relationships if I get to play the martyr, be the selfless giving monolith? Not cool. Not cool at all. I believe absolutely in the power and the value of love and compassion and serving others. But it goes too far when you won't let other people have compassion for you, or love you, or serve you. Because if the purpose of a life is to do these things for other people, you're denying other people purpose by refusing their generosity.

Not ok, Self. Not. At. All. Knock it off, raging megalomania.

Why am I so uncomfortable? Because I don't credit the idea that me, myself, is enough for my friends the way that they, themselves, are enough for me. This kind of thinking denies these amazing, wonderful people that I love so dearly any agency. They don't get to make determinations for themselves; my determination of "not good enough" or "not enough" or even "lopsided" supercedes whatever they feel. Everyone is an adult capable of managing their own lives; I do believe this. So if they feel cheated by me, they'll tell me or they'll drop me, and until such a thing happens, I have got to stop worrying. I have got to let go of the idea that I'm getting more than my share, because my "share" is whatever is willingly given. The more we all share, the more there is to go around.

Flow is a multi-directional thing. And my perspective is not the only perspective. And if I'm going to love the whole world, I have to let the whole world love me, too. I have to let go, and just go with the flow.

Balances

Life, the Universe, and Everything have been conspiring to bring the idea of balance to the forefront of just about everything I do lately. Everything is an exercise in balancing, or a lesson in how to balance disparate wants and needs against each other, or a warning about what happens when you lose your balance.

How do you balance the obligation to take care of yourself with the desire to take care of others? How do you balance the need for stability against the demands of incurable wanderlust? How do you apportion your time so that everyone with a claim to it gets a share? How do you decide who to give claim to your time? How do you keep from leaning on anyone too hard when you're tired?

All questions of balance.

Perspective has a way of shifting rapidly; a month ago, two months ago, I would have told you that my life was much like strolling through a wide, flat field: lots of room to frolic, lots of margin for error. Lately I feel more as if I'm walking the knife-edge of a precipice. There's an exhilaration in the endeavor, a degree of excitement, a playful tendency to tempt fate. But there's not a lot of room for error. One misstep and I'll stumble. Maybe I'll fall, maybe I won't, maybe the fall won't be so bad, maybe falling off the edge is the only way off the precipice.

Or maybe I just need to change my perspective, maybe it's not a ridge pole I'm walking after all, maybe the field is still wide and flat and I just can't see.

I am struggling with balance, though. I keep getting knocked off of mine. You're never really done learning a thing; I thought I had found my balance. The key to balance is to find the solar plexus, the center around which everything else moves. This is as true in some amorphous idea of "life" as it is in the body. Life is a balancing act, give and take, ebb and flow, the self against the other against the world, a series of calculations and judgments and weighings.

So here is life, the universe, and everything teaching me that balance is not something you find once and have done. Like anything else, it's a constant process of learning and refining. The balance I found a year ago doesn't work today, because I am different and the things I carry are different and the people around me are different and my life is different. I am not Snow White; I do not live unchanging under glass, and everything is always in a state of flux.

I think I'm adding things, willy-nilly, careless: I think my wanderlust is overpowering my balance. I strike out for new things and new experiences and new horizons heedless of the distance and my unpreparedness and realize halfway there I might not make it and then I want someone else to carry me.

How silly. If someone carries me, I never actually arrive there.

So, here I am. Reaching for new things that are only half-seen and less-understood, blindly groping for the newness of it, the adventure, the thrill. I will probably always do this. This is wanderlust, in some rarefied form that doesn't actually require me to go somewhere else. I will always be finding my balance anew.

If I lean on you too often too long too heavily, give me a hug and push me off. Smile. I'll remember that I'm striking out for new horizons and that if I let someone else carry me I'll never actually arrive. Then come with me. Because I'll want you there in whatever new land I land in.

The Saddest, Most Infuriating Troll This Month: Newsweek and Katie Roiphe

Like much of the internet, particularly the lady-oriented bits of it, I found myself reading Katie Roiphe's Newsweek cover story this morning. It was sort of like watching a train wreck, really: I couldn't STOP reading it. Now I can't stop reading reaction to it, which is also like watching a train wreck.

I know a lot of people don't like Roiphe. She's not my favorite person in the world, either, but she wrote a piece for Slate once titled "Does Everyone Think Single Mothers Are Actually Crazy?" that really resonated with me, so I am more apt to defend her (despite her history of dismissing date-rape as a thing that doesn't happen) than most people. That's a round-a-bout way of saying that I don't diss everything she writes out of hand the way some people do.

And this piece is no exception. Roiphe is really a pretty smart lady. There are more than a few good points made: Sexual desire is not beholden to political correctness; fantasies are generally about leaving behind the world you're living in. And, snob that I am, her jabs at the awful prose that is Fifty Shades of Grey make me snicker to myself. Because, honestly, it is awful writing. If you want literary female-submission porn, there are far, far better-written stories than Fifty Shades of Grey. REALLY. This shit is like Twilight all over again, and it offends me most as a writer, or someone who considers herself an aspiring writer. Or something. Bad prose is offensive, ok?

The basic problem with all of Roiphe's assertions can be summed up thusly: she's talking about modern women and their sexuality when she ought to be looking at modern life in general, and pressures on and fantasies of both sexes.

Fifty Shades of Grey is enormously popular! No one can deny it. It's become a bonafide sensation. There's a pretty good piece on Jezebel explaining why this particular piece of words strung together is perhaps not as culturally revealing as we would all like to think it is, because the rules of supply and demand and also the unspoken power of cache apply.

But ok, that would be boring, so let's run with the idea that this particular story, with its themes of submission and losing one's self, IS popular because it stirs up some latent need or desire in the collective unconscious. I'll bite that hook. I happen to think that the allure of sexual submission does, in fact, come from pretty much that exact set of desires: the desire to let go, to not be in control, and ultimately to not be responsible for whatever happens. Roiphe backs up this reading of our culture at large by referencing a scene from HBO's new comedy Girls in which one of the characters, waiting for an OB/GYN appointment, briefly fantasizes about having AIDS because such a diagnosis would free her from the responsibility of ambition and making something of herself.

I think we can all identify with that urge.

And that's where Roiphe goes wrong. We ALL can identify with that urge. Men, too. The urge to leave behind responsibility and just float for awhile is not uniquely female. And the fantasies that we engage in that run along this theme are not uniquely sexual: for all that it occurs in a gynecologist's office, the scene in Girls is not at heart a sexual fantasy. The desire to shed responsibility for a while comes up in even the most mundane daydream about going on vacation. Hell, I get excited about the prospect of my dad taking my kid to my sister's house for the day because it means that my walk home from work is conducted without the specter of responsibilities to be shouldered immediately upon returning home. It's an hour of time that is normally scheduled and deadlined which is suddenly, utterly, blissfully free, and that is SUCH a great feeling. But not in the least a sexual one.

By pegging this completely natural desire to leave it all behind as (one) only for women, (two) sexual in nature, (three) universal and (four) irrevocable, Roiphe has done a serious disservice to all of us. Men, in Roiphe's world, exist only to cater to the fantasies of women. They don't get to have any of their own. They don't get to want to indulge in the fantasy of giving it over and giving up control for a while. I would love to hear Roiphe explain the prevalence of the FemmeDomme in popular culture, if men don't even want to give up control. Women, in Roiphe's estimation, are all exactly the same, with exactly the same fantasies. The popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey translates to an absolute universal: since a lot of women seem to enjoy reading this, all women want to experience this. And, like Freud before her, Roiphe assumes that everything can be reduced to sexuality, when the truth of human behavior is actually far more complex. And while I myself indulge in some pretty hefty abnegation-of-responsiblity fantasies, at the end of the day, I do enjoy my autonomy and personal-decision-making capacity, and I'd really like it a whole lot if the culture I lived in would acknowledge that I am both capable of and have the right to make all personal decisions for myself. This is why I am a feminist. Just because I, like everyone else, sometimes would like to not make any decisions, doesn't mean I never want to make any decisions. Submission fantasies do not mean that feminism, with it's basic demand that women be viewed at all levels as complete human beings, is wrong.

This is where some of the feminist criticism of Roiphe, and of BDSM in general, breaks down, for the record. They take the opposite position, and they're equally wrong: feminism does not mean that submission fantasies are bad. If feminism is the struggle to gain credence to that women are people, then the ultimate feminist goal is a completely humanistic view of all people. And that means that women, as much as men, have the right to daydream about being free from pressure now and again, and even to achieve that feeling through whatever means they deem fit.

Of course, the larger context of this piece of Roiphe's matters. It's a Newsweek cover story. The headline reads "The Fantasy Lives of Working Women" and the accompanying image is of a naked, blindfolded women with suggestively parted, perfectly painted red lips and perfectly sculpted coiffure. She is slender to the point of emaciation through her neck and arms, but with hints of a generous, voluptuous bust. The image is titillating, and rife with the kind of impossible beauty standards we as a culture hold women to. The title plays on the language of "working girls" and delights in wallowing in the idea that women that own their sexual desires are sluts and prostitutes. Given Roiphe's own fascination with spanking, the association that women need to be punished for owning their sexuality is unavoidable.

The content of the article is sadly narrow. The context is utterly infuriating.

Even-Keeled I Am Not.

I'm a little bi-polar. Note bene: I don't mean that I've seen a psychiatrist and have a diagnosis in my permanent medical file or ought to be on a lot of medications. I have a friend who is actually bipolar, and I'm not that. What I mean is, more so than the average person, my emotional state goes up and comes down with very little regard paid to external stimuli. Happy things will make me happy, and sad things will make me sad, but sometimes happy things make me less happy because I'm in the nadir of my natural emotive cycle and sometimes sad things make me less sad because I'm sitting pretty atop the zenith of that cycle.

When I'm "up" (which ought not to be confused with happy, because they're not really the same thing) I am fast. I talk faster by at least a factor of three, and sometimes as high as a factor of ten. I am wittier; my brain moves fast enough for me to come up with those charmingly barbed bon mots that we all love Violet Grantham for. I am constantly looking for new stimulation when I'm up. I meet new people at an alarmingly high rate. Sometimes I take reasonably alarming risks. I feel invulnerable, you see, so I can totally split that hash joint with some random man who is completely unconcerned by the fact that I cannot understand him outside the tiny dive bar in a city where I don't speak the language. Nothing will happen. I am fast, I am quick, I am capable and I'll get myself out of whatever happens. Nothing's going to happen anyway.

(In my defense, nothing ever has happened. For the record.)

When I'm down, I am slow. I speak slower than average. It takes me whole seconds to find the words I mean to say. I do not want to meet people. I want to lie in my bed. I want to watch movies that I have already seen again. I want to reread favorite novels. I become a worrier, half-way convinced that the roof over my head is going to collapse at any moment. And I become defeatist, because I am convinced that while the roof is going to cave and crush me, there is nothing I can do about it. Going outside would be too much effort, you see, and my bed isn't outside, anyway. I have no energy for getting out of the way of whatever impending disaster my worry-wort brain has settled upon.

(In the interest of fairness, none of the disasters I've predicted when low have happened, either.)

There are people that only know me when I'm up. They met me when I'm up, and I only see them when I'm up and flitting about like a manic social butterfly with my tiny butterfly feet in every pie I can spy. There are lots of these people. It's not really personal that they only know me manic, it's just that when I'm low, I tend to sit in bed. Not a lot of opportunity for social interaction when you're sitting in your bed, you know?

There are a few people, one or two, here and there, that only know me when I'm down. I can only imagine what they think my life is like. I count myself blessed beyond measure to have these people, even though most of the time I don't think about them at all.

And as I get older, there is an ever-growing number of people that know me both up and down. Anyone that knows me long enough is likely to come to the conclusion that I'm a little bi-polar. The longer someone knows me, the more likely they are to realize the full magnitude and interpersonal impact of my brain chemistry. I now know people that I've known for more of my life than I've not known them. This makes me feel old, a little, but it also is an amazingly affirming realization. People have decided to keep in their life for this long. They've done this even though I'm a little bipolar, and can't be easy to deal.

But I wonder, in these stretches of worrying and defeat and solitude, how all this up and down makes me appear. I'm horrifyingly image-conscious, when you come right down to it. I care very much how people see me and what they think; I put enormous and disturbing amounts of energy into cultivating public personas that are agreeable and likable and desireable. Or, rather, I do all that when I'm up. When I'm down, I don't have the energy, and so I withdraw from the world, and I often wonder what these absences say to people. It's impossible to determine how absence and silence affect perception, because in order to find out you'd have to appear and ask, breaking the absence and the silence.

Because I only stop to think about it when I'm low, I imagine that these retreats must make me seem unhinged, unreliable, flaky, flighty, unable to control myself. Something unflattering and damaging, to be sure.

I spent about three weeks, recently, UP. I was ON. I was HOT. It was great. It lasted forever.

Well, not forever, because I haven't left my house except to go to work or the grocery store since last Wednesday.

I fend off absolute despair by reminding myself, in mantra-like repetitions, that my emotional cycle is a cycle and I'll not be this tired, this uninterested, this uninteresting, this irritable forever. Acceptance really is the best check on anything. Accepting that I'm a little bipolar helps to moderate the lows. I have yet to figure out how to moderate my highs; I don't really want to, I guess. I suppose that feeling invulnerable will get me in trouble some day, but it hasn't yet. So why bother?

Maybe that's just the lows talking. Probably.

Traveling Light

I bought myself a plane ticket to Spain for my birthday. I leave tomorrow. I intend to spend the dawn of my 28th year on earth in misty mountain solitude, listening to medieval chants and wandering around the oldest still-functioning monastery in Europe.

After that, I'm going to Barcelona to party.

I am refusing to take a suitcase on this trip (not such a strange thing, for me) but I am also resistant to even taking a backpacking pack. It's too big. I'm packing a duffel bag for this trip, the kind of bag one takes on a long weekend. A "weekender," the fashion people would call it. It's fake red leather, and my mother spotted it on the free table at Value Village Thrift Store two months ago and brought it home for me. It has no rips and no holes and the strap is still attached and the stitches are firm and the zipper works, so I'm not sure why it was on the free table, but it has a good home, now. This is a bag I will love.

I have my little duffel loaded up with clothes: underwear, cardigans, a cocktail dress. A toiletry bag. A current converter. I'll add a pair of fancy flats later tonight.

I have a backpack, too, a carry on, the backpack that has been on every single trip I've taken since I was fourteen and went to Oceania for three weeks. This backpack has been around the world. It's been to Australia and New Zealand, it's been to Spain before, it was with me when I got stranded in Morocco, it's been to Paris and seen the Mona Lisa, and it's held water and sandwiches while I hiked in the Schwarzwald. It's met my daughter's father. It's climbed Mayan ruins on the Yucatan, seen waterfalls in the Andes, gone to street parties outside of Santo Domingo. This backpack has been to New York City more times than I can count, seen the redwoods of Big Basin State Park in California, wandered around downtown Detroit. It's been to St. Louis and Indianapolis.

Into this backpack I will put my camera bag, laden with camera and lenses and lens filters and cleaning cloths and memory cards and a battery charger and a card reader. I will put my tiny pink computer, and its charger. I'll put my phone and its charger. I'll put in two books and a wallet and a passport and three packs of American Spirit cigarettes, in the yellow box, and a lighter. The lighter will also be yellow.

I've had butterflies in my stomach for days now, anticipating this trip. My insides are quivering in anticipation of being unattached for seven entire, glorious days. My wanderlust is ferocious, voracious, and stems primarily from a desire to have no attachments at all. My daydreams are always about taking off into the sunset and leaving everything behind. My fondest, most impossible wish is to start over, completely, from scratch. I want to disappear with my duffel and my backpack and never come back, never look back, reinvent everything about myself.

I can't do that. Having babies really puts a damper on your ability to disappear without a trace. Well, unless you're my baby's father.

(Heh.)

So, I take the next best thing: Whenever I can, I go somehwere alone. Like tomorrow.

I have many vices. Cigarettes, coffee, alcohol, pretty dresses, vintage hats, ridiculous high-heeled shoes, loud music, driving too fast. Some of these are probably even full-blown addictions. But of all my vices, and all my addictions, this is most certainly the worst. This is the one that could cause me to abandon everything, hit rock bottom, sever every tie. It would be so easy since the addiction is to rootlessness, restlessness, the ability to move on whenever the urge hits, to put one's life in two small bags and go, onward, forward, sideways, backwards, it doesn't matter as long as you're moving.

The addiction, you see, is to this fluttery feeling I get before stepping off into the unknown. I am addicted to the rush of adrenaline and the limitless vistas of possibility. This feeling is better than any drug, than any drink, than any touch. This feeling is better than any love. This combination of knowing everything theoretically and nothing concretely and being able to see everything and nothing all at once is better than anything else you can name. I would chase this feeling endlessly if I could. I would step off every cliff, climb every mountain, turn down every blind alley to find it again.

If I could. If only I could.

There Is Nothing Wrong With Sex

Social networks make political commentary ubiquitous, so when I see things my friends say, sometimes I laugh and sometimes I cringe and sometimes I do both. A comment like, "This from a climate-change denier who thinks the world is 6,000 years old and that making contraception available encourages sex" will elicit both a giggle and a cringe. I mean, it's funny because it's so ridiculous, but that last line makes my head hurt.  The lover in me immediately read that last bit, "making contraception available encourages sex" and went "WHOA, there, buddy! It doesn't matter if making contraception available does or does not encourage sex, because there's nothing wrong with sex."

And when I put that out there into the public sphere of the internet, I got this reply: "Might want to include 'consensual' and 'between adults.' " And my first reaction was something like, "Well, duh. Obviously." And I was just about to make some polite reply about a 140 character limit and all that noise, when I stopped. Because you know what?

Duh. Obviously.

"Non-consensual sex" is not a thing that exists, world. Non-consensual sex is RAPE. And rape is not sex. When did sex, as a word or an idea or an act, become so tainted that it has to be minutely distinguished from rape in public discourse? Is sex so dirty, so awful, and so much of a violation that it is inherently indistinguishable from rape? No. And it is both disturbing and deeply saddening to come to the realization that a lot of people might feel it so.

Sex is not bad. Sex is beautiful. There is nothing wrong with sex.

While I do think that at least some fear of sex stems from a deep-seated misogyny (you should read some of the things that Bukowski and Warhol had to say about sex and women, golly geez) I don't think it's a universal explanation. The woman that told me I ought to add "consensual and between adults" to my exhortation that there is nothing wrong with sex, for example: I don't think she hates women.

Rather, I think there's a strange modern conflation of love and sex, and also love and marriage, that ends up creating a bizarre triangle in which the points are love, sex, and marriage and everything becomes a tangled mess.

To wit, physical intimacy and emotional intimacy do go hand-in-hand. And it's not a purely female thing, as so many want to claim. Yes, women form attachments when they sleep with someone. So do men. Men are, in fact, capable of rich emotional lives. Sex is better, for both parties, when there's love involved, and trust, and respect. Anais Nin said, "Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy." And she was right.

Sex is often seen as proof of love, which is where things begin to become murky. "Nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from." (Margaret Atwood) Feeling unloved really does feel an awful lot like dying, and because the connection between love and sex is so deeply instilled, the urge to go out and have a lot of sex to stave off that death, that desperation, that utter loneliness can be strong. Nothing in modern culture has captured the absolute soullessness of using sex as a bandaid like Steve McQueen's Shame. I was horrified to read reviews of that film talking about "normal human sexuality" and "unsexiness." The thing that makes Shame such a powerful film is that it is not about normal human sexuality, or sexiness, and yet its protaganist is still a sympathetic and poignant character. McQueen and Michael Fassbender together have created a space in which behavior that be would be considered depravity and degeneration in less capable hands is instead merely tragic. The moral judgment against sex itself is removed, and the obvious distress of the character is the moral grounding of the narrative.

Like everything else in the emotional landscape of a human being, there are greys and gradations in sex. If sex within love is ecstasy, and sex by self-destructive compulsion is tragedy, there are a million things in between those two extremes. All sex that occurs without the merging of hearts and bodies is not the desperate self-destructive behavior of Shame.

"Sex without love is a meaningless experience, but as far as meaningless experiences go its pretty damn good." - Woody Allen

That grey world is where most of us live. We neither find "true love" nor do we descend into addiction. And in that grey world, there is nothing wrong with sex. Sex without love might be meaningless, as Mr. Allen says, but not everything in life must be pregnant with meaning. Not every conversation must be weighted, not every book must be serious, not every film must be exposing social thought constructs, not every sexual experience must be Capital-E-Ecstasy. There is nothing so inherently wrong about sex that it cannot be lighthearted and fun.

“It would be perfect if everyone who makes love, is in love, but this is simply an unrealistic expectation. I'd say 75 percent of the population of people who make love, are not in love, this is simply the reality of the human race, and to be idealistic about this is to wait for the stars to aline and Jupiter to change color; for the Heavens to etch your names together in the sky before you make love to someone. But idealism is immaturity, and as a matter of fact, the stars may never aline, Jupiter may never change color, and the Heavens may never ever etch your names together in the sky for you to have the never-ending permission to make endless love to one another. And so the bottom line is, there really is no difference between doing something today, and doing something tomorrow, because today is what you have, and tomorrow may not turn out the way you expect it to. At the end of the day, sex is an animalistic, humanistic, passionate desire.”

― C. JoyBell C.

Which brings us to the other point of this triad, the other intersection tangled up in all this mess: the conflation of love and marriage. Let me be clear: I believe in love. I absolutely believe in love. And I believe in marriage. But they are not the same thing.

Love is a personal, emotional good. It is the thing that creates empathy in us, it is the thing that causes us to act against survival instincts and for a better world, it is the thing that allows us to see beyond the borders of our bodies and create meaningful connections in the external world. Marriage, on the other hand, is a purely social good. The benefit of marriage is the social stability it represents. But love is not marriage and marriage is not love. You do not have to get married if you love someone. And if you do get married, you do not necessarily love the person you marry.

I think that a significant portion of the "sex in marriage" movement could really be more aptly defined as "sex in love" if we could all just recognize that love and marriage are not the same thing. Way back when marriages were arranged, it was clear to everyone involved that a marriage was a social contract and that love had nothing to do with it. I don't advocate returning to such a system, mostly because of the way it treated women as chattel. But that doesn't mean that we need to dismiss the idea of marriage as a social good. Rather, in a world like today when marriage is not the only basis of social stability, it is even more important that we remember that marriage is merely a social good. One singular one. It is not a magic bullet that will solve any and all problems, either personal or political. Getting married will not make your life suddenly better; if you weren't happy before, you won't be happy long-term after the novelty wears off. And falling marriage rates are not to blame for the plethora of social problems we face (ahem, Grothman/Santorum/et al.). There are other causes, because while marriage is a social good, it is not the social good.

There is nothing inherently wrong with sex, whether meaningful or meaningless. Sexual identity and appetite, in all their varied forms, are not evidence of some other problem. We all need love, yes. And sex is not love. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't have sex. And we all want love. But that doesn't mean we should all get married right now.

Rejection is a Lesson

I think the hardest lesson in compassion is this: accepting that not everyone will want you. And, that's ok.

My struggles with trust and intimacy remain ongoing, and probably will for the rest of my life. These are not things that you ever stop really wrestling with, once you've started. Maybe they'll simmer on the backburner more often as years go by and I become more comfortable with the terrifying notion of letting someone else in on my life, but they'll still need to be revisited. I know this, I've known this, I was prepared for this.

What I was not fully prepared for was rejection. In my hubris and megalomania, I glossed over the fact that other people are people and will have feelings and ideas of their own, and needs and wants of their own, and I am not guaranteed to be something that anyone else either desires or needs. In  fact, odds are I will not be someone that even most people want or need in their life.

It makes perfect sense, when I see it in black-and-white like that.

But still, but still, but still.

When you're struggling through just the idea of letting your guard down, it's really hard to do it and then be rejected. It's really hard to let someone in only to have them walk right back out. It hurts. A lot.

But hurt is not a reason to lash out. Sadness is not a reason to stop exercising compassion. Other people get to do what they need to do, and be with the people they need to be with, in order to make their own lives better, in order to round out their own internal spaces. Other people, also, get to build airy light palaces in their hearts and minds and populate those glass castles with the people that bring them the most joy.

And I don't get to assert that I have to be one of those people, simply because I want to be.

And if I want to bring someone deep into the heart of my airy light glass castle, but they'd prefer I remain in the outer ring of theirs, I don't get to smash things because I'm not getting my way. Compassion is being there for people in the ways that they want, and the ways that they need, at the times of their choosing. I get to make my choices, yes, but others get to make their own, and if there's a mismatch or a disconnect, compassion demands that we continue to do what we have done, even if we wanted more.

Rejection is the right of every person. Every person is self-determining. And no matter how much it aches, respect for those determinations is the heart of compassion. Self-determination is not an excuse for wretched self-centeredness.

My palace is dimmed, but I'll find another way to light it up. And in the meantime, I will not throw stones. I will practice compassion.

Personhood

Two of fifty states have now codified government-mandated sexual assault. Texas and Oklahoma, I'm looking at you while my skin crawls and my internal organs quiver in fear. Virginia is on its way to becoming the third member of this misogynistic, utterly abhorrent club.

Because it is incredibly unhealthy to be a rageball all the time, I am working assiduously at setting aside my anger at the very idea that the government is mandating vaginal penetration with a foreign object for women seeking a legal medical procedure. But let me just say that one more time, so that it sinks in for all of you following along at home:

The government is mandating vaginal penetration with a foreign object for women seeking a legal medical procedure.

Why is this ok? I'm seriously asking. I want to know why this is ok.

I find some of the quotes from people defending these laws to be instructive as to the kind of mindset that makes things like this ok. For example, "They already chose to be vaginally penetrated." Again, setting aside the initial rush of rage, I can start to unpack that statement. Choosing to have sexual intercourse once makes anything that happens afterwards consensual. It's something like a chaste/virgin doctrine: once intercourse occurs (once the hymen is broken?) there is no protection for your ladybits. By breaking the seal (so to speak), you lose claim to any protections. Consent to sex is something that can only happen once, and it can never be revoked. Once you've lost virginity, you are ever-after "open for business" to anyone, including the government! It's the fallen-woman doctrine, gussied up for modern times.

Another came after a Virginia legislator was asked about exceptions for rape and incest. His response? "Sometimes incest is voluntary. The woman becomes a sin-bearer of the crime, because the right of a child predominates over the embarrassment of the woman."

First of all, I am not kidding.

Second, can someone please find me a breakdown of "voluntary" incestual relationships versus molestation and rape by a family member? I would like to know more about this voluntary incest.

Really, I don't think this guy defines "voluntary" in the way that you and I do. Voluntary sex is any sex that happens because you don't kill yourself rather than be defiled. And sex, itself, is always a defiling act. Sex is dirty.

And that's really what all this is about, isn't it? The deeply-seated belief of many people that there is something inherently, irrevocably wrong with sex. The body is dirty, because it is corporeal and not spiritual, and acts of pleasure for the body are naught but devilish distractions from the work of cleansing the soul.

It's a sad, tragic outlook. My well of compassion is almost emptied, thinking about all these people that think the pleasures of touch and give are evil. Women are by necessity nothing but uteruses, because to acknowledge the entirety of a woman would be to acknowledge desire.

Sex is not shameful. Corporeal joys are not lesser than spiritual ones.

And the government has absolutely no right to be enforcing such arcane and deeply personal beliefs. You may wish to hold onto your notion of sex as something that is capital-W WRONG, but you do not get to codify your beliefs. Mandating sexual assault and making birth control inaccessible are inexcusable abuses of power. Women are more then uteruses, and our uteruses are not yours to make decisions about. I get to decide who and what enters my vagina, not a legislature. I get to decide whether I have sex, and whether I want the possibility of progeny to come from that sex, not a legislature. Those are my decisions to make because I am a complete person, with the ability to reason and choose.

You want to talk about personhood? Let's start with the personhood of women.

I am tired of constantly having to defend the existence of my brain, my character, and my capacity for moral decision-making. Women are complete beings. Accept it. And stop treating us as if we are not.