Social Experiments

*This blog is for my fellow women, though many men will likely appreciate it. I am in no way trying to stomp on women's rights, or say we don't have a lot of work ahead of us (See my previous post regarding my disgust with rape culture, something real and perpetuating). I'm just saying, "Now, let's be fair."*

Before I go to bed, I have a thought. About all these baiting "feminist social experiment" videos. There are two on my feed right now. And some of you might even share them and say, "Oh, how appalling!" But I offer a dissenting opinion on behalf of all humans who don't like to be stereotyped negatively by their genders as these videos are doing by trying to "prove" it's already being done. By making small problems (or non-problems) with the nature of man into huge issues, they are perpetuating the idea that the nature of woman is to be irrational, hypocritical, and unrealistic.

One video is "Woman goes on dates in fat suit to prove how shallow men are." Now, I am both a (sometimes insecure) fat woman and a proud user of gender generalities (Women are crazy. Men are stupid.), but this video wasn't a fat woman on Tinder (which would have been a valid "experiment". What do men say to fat women? Do they make dates with them? Do they show up? Are they earnest? If they are is it just because they have a fetish, which is far different from attraction, FYI.). No, this was a video where a super-hot model lady made dates with men on Tinder with a profile full of pictures of the real her. All smiley and ripped in bikinis and such. Then the guy showed up and she was wearing a fat suit that made her body an unnaturally proportioned size of mine, and her face transmogrified. Yeah, if a guy shows up expecting a model and sees that, he would be taken aback. I would be taken aback. Wouldn't you say something slightly rude or a ditch a date that posted a picture of Channing Tatum and Jack Black showed up? There's nothing wrong with Jack Black, but maybe he's not your type. Or maybe you're not really all that picky, and would have gone out with him--had he been honest. Or maybe you were really just stoked to have dinner with Channing Tatum, and were disappointed he wasn't there. I don't blame the guys who walked away. In fact, I think the one guy who stuck around is either just INCREDIBLY open-minded or a date rapist/serial killer, because there's no way we would let a man that fucking sweet still be single. He'd either be married or ruined by a harpy by now. EDIT: I forgot to mention my favorite part of the video. When the two men (MEN!) who produced the video were introducing the concept, a montage of preparation went by, and the woman was rubbing the belly on her fat suit making over-exaggerated "sexy faces", effectively mocking the belly and telling us she finds it repulsive as well. Just a fun fact.

The other video was "Woman wears camera on her bra to see how many men look at her cleavage." I'll get straight to the point on this one (and I'm speaking only about choosing to wear revealing clothing, as the woman was in the video. If they're just big, I feel you, and I'm sorry.): If it's hanging out there, someone's gonna look at it.  A guy is a creep if he tries to look up or down or through anything, but if it's seeing the sun, it's fair game. Does it give him a right to touch you? Approach you? Catcall? Stare at you so long you think he has x-ray specs or otherwise disrespect you any way? No. Absolutely not. But if your boobs are in his face, he's going to look at them. If I wear a low-cut shirt, I expect my chest to be glanced at. Sometimes, that's even what I want to happen (ego boost for me!). And I have been caught looking at a woman's chest before, and I'm so straight I'm almost narrow. The cleavage was... ridiculous... and she was wearing a giant gold necklace on top. My eyes struggled valiantly, but ultimately had no place else to go. Wear whatever makes you comfortable, happy, etc. But you can hardly be upset with someone for looking at art that's on display. If you don't want anyone to see it, keep it covered or put away. And double-bitch on you if you stick them out for a guy you're attracted to and tell another he's a pig. And then see above.

The last one I saw the other day, it was meant to be empowering. It was basically a "fuck you" to the idea that humility is beautiful. Now, I'm not saying it has NEVER been the case, and that no man is of the opinion that a woman should be mild-mannered and modest. But what I am saying is, that CAN be attractive. Men play that game all the time. Super hot guys who know they're hot but pretend not to, and we let them because we want to believe they're that sweet. Or some super nerdy guys who actually don't realize how beautiful they are. (That shy shit gets ME every time, even if I know it's an act. Case in point: The Australian) Have you ever read/watched a romance? Unassuming men are a genre. Why wouldn't it be attractive when a woman does it? And why is it chauvinistic if a man expresses that attraction? The woman in the video cited songs, etc that I found, and still find, nothing wrong with. Other than the fact the one was by One Direction. Shh.. boy bands died after *NSYNC... Is it chauvinistic to say that's how women SHOULD be or else they're undesirable bitches? Yes. Of course. Not all women are like that. Be strong. Be confident. Know that you are beautiful. If that's you. Don't tell me what I have to be and that no one should find it attractive. You want to say, "Don't look down on me for being confident." But how many guys  do you know that are so "confident" it's unattractive. Be it cockiness or overcompensation, there is such a thing as going too far. As a human being.

And I'm not speaking anyone but myself personally when I say this: I understand we have it worse, and I understand there are skewed perceptions against us women, and it does happen to us all the time, but just because you're a feminist doesn't mean you're NOT being a bitch. The world isn't always out to belittle you. Sometimes you are over the top. What you might call confident, I would call cocky. What you might call strong, I would call being a dick. (p.s. why am I allowed to use that word as an insult in any number of ways, but all mention of feminine genitalia is so offensive it ends in "-word"?) Any human can be a dick in my eyes. I work in customer service and when someone comes up to me and is demanding, I think they are demanding (and use gender-appropriate insults in my mind). For me, personally, there is never a time a man is an asshole to me and I think, "Wow, what a strong leader." And I'm not going to think it about a woman just because she is a woman. You're being an asshole. Get away from me. In fact, I have become sexist because so many business women are out to prove that they CAN and SHOULD be strong and SHOULDN'T be soft, that they have lost all empathy. If you were a man, I would still think you were a bitch.

In conclusion, it is my humble opinion that if you want to abolish gender inequality and stereotypes, stop perpetuating them. Fight the good fight, but practice what you preach. If you want there to be human equality, live it.

It's Not Okay

I've been pretty quiet on this issue. I have opinions, of course, but they're already being said, and I'm not a talk-show host (and, contrary to popular belief, I don't believe normal "unpopular" people constantly tweeting opinions is necessarily affecting change... or making them look smart).

But I just scrolled through my feed to see 3 things... in a row... and I'm so tired of being a woman right now.

First, a girl who went on a Tinder date and got an unnecessarily long and detailed email the next day letting her know just how amazing her personality is and how grotesque he finds her body in comparison (she's 15lbs overweight).

That's not okay. Be attracted to me. Don't be attracted to me. Odds are you're not, but it wouldn't be okay to describe, in detail, how perfect I would be if only my body weren't so disgusting. This is called Body Shaming. A manipulation tactic designed to mold someone into exactly what you want them to be through negative reinforcement. (This one goes both ways, but is more societally prevalent happening to women.) Not okay.

Next, Bill Cosby. I haven't investigated this issue fully. I'm not invested in this particular case, nor do I have all the facts about it. But that's sort of the point. I know that, in this case, it's easy to say the girls came forward looking for fame. And sometimes people will make wild accusations to get attention or cover up their own misdeeds (Salem Witch Trials). However, do you need to know all of the facts before you start suspecting someone of something heinous... after 40 people came forward? Many people were, but many more are convinced that the women have banded together in a lie, and we shouldn't think he's guilty until there's proof. Meanwhile, that makes the victims guilty, greedy, liars. No wonder they never came forward. The real problem is that it wouldn't have mattered if the accused wasn't famous. Not really. And that's not okay.

This is called Victim Shaming. Blaming the victim for something that happened TO them, creating a social stigma about coming forward with wrongs that were done to you. It's the same reason children are afraid to tell people they're being abused (or, god forbid, molested). They know what's happened to them is bad, and somehow believe they will take the blame if it comes to light. As adults, they would. People would look at them with side-eye suspicion and ask them what they did to invite their attacker. What were they wearing? Did they know the attacker WANTED sex? Did they drink too much? (that last one is admittedly a gray area for me, but that's not the point). But we shouldn't immediately jump to asking all those questions. We shouldn't immediately try to find a reason to discredit the victim and/or justify the attacker's actions. You can say it's because they might be innocent, and you don't want to condemn until you're sure. Well, extend that courtesy to the victims. Because by telling the victim you don't believe them, you're accusing them of lying, and telling them that seeking justice for their personal horror has done nothing but rocked the boat, and effectively frightened future victims from doing the same. You have empowered the rapists. Not okay.

Finally, someone has posted a list of tips, apparently provided by offenders, on how, as a woman, to avoid being raped. By a stranger. On the street. I just... it took all the wind out of me. To see all these things in the world... and then this. When, where and how a woman is most likely to be attacked and ways to prevent it. Women can't walk alone in a parking lot. Why do we go to the bathroom together? Mostly to gossip, but in many places, it's unsafe not to. We are to look as difficult as possible to rape. Like we're going to put up a fight. Carry a weapon (or umbrella), have short hair (and certainly not a grabable bun or pony tail), difficult to remove clothing (though he's probably carrying scissors, aka his own weapon, anyway). Look any man around you in the face so he knows you know what he looks like. It's heartbreaking. I don't know how you think it isn't. Be safe, sure. But when it comes down to it: Women are most afraid of men. If you ask any of us, we probably wouldn't say it. We wouldn't even think it consciously. The fear is so ingrained, it's just a part of us, a part of our lives and the society we've created.

And that's not okay. Schools are enforcing strict dress codes left and right, and I'm not in a fight against modesty, but to publicly shame a young woman because her tank doesn't have two-inch straps, to announce to all the world, all the young women--all the young men--that a girl must be covered because men won't be able to help themselves? Do you not understand what you're telling them? That men are animals, and that's okay, and we as women are their prey. It is our duty to fight them off if we don't feel like being consumed that day.

When I was 20, a guy I was getting to know came over to my apartment. I didn't invite him. I didn't even tell him it was okay. He just said he was coming over. I told him no. I didn't feel good. I didn't look good. I didn't want any company. He said he was coming over. He made it sound nice. "I'm just in town today and wanna see you. I live so far away, when will we get a chance to get together again? It'll have to be quick anyway cause I have my dogs with me." Finally, I relented, "We'll say hi, but that's all. I'm sick and don't feel like doing anything today." I knew he wanted to make it a booty call (for lack of a better phrase) and told him, in no uncertain terms, it wouldn't be happening. He agreed, aghast at my assumption (the women are rolling their eyes right now) and came over.  I hadn't even changed out of my pajamas. And all of my (former) roommates can tell you, I don't wear enticing pajamas. Longer story shorter, it became apparent to me pretty quickly that he wouldn't leave until I'd slept with him. There was much back and forth. It wasn't like he just sat there and stared at me for 15 minutes and I said, "okay, fine." Several times I told him no and that he should leave. After almost 2 hours I gave in, because I wanted him out of my house. He was a terrible person. Racist asshole, left his dog in the car, etc. I never wanted to see him again, let alone have sex with the man, but I did. Because I wanted him out of my house.

I should have screamed bloody murder. Threatened to call the police. Anything but what I did. But I didn't. Because it was (I felt) my fault. I shouldn't have picked up the phone. I shouldn't have let him in. And after I had, and he wouldn't drop it, I was afraid of what would happen if I fought it too hard. I'd rather NOT be raped, wouldn't you? I was also too ashamed of the aftermath. Admitting I let him talk me into letting him come over, knowing he wanted to have sex with me, and then complaining when it happened? Saying I'd felt forced, when I'd agreed to every step? People would roll their eyes and list all the things I could and should have done to prevent it. It was my own stupid fault. I didn't even tell my best friend at the time how I'd really felt. I was very casual about it, nonchalant. Boys are stupid, right?

I didn't (and still don't) consider this rape. I consented, under coercion, but I didn't fight, and I didn't scream, and I wasn't unconscious. I'm not victim-blaming myself (shit happens), and I didn't tell you to bum you out. I'm telling you this for an altogether different reason. Whatever I should or shouldn't, did or didn't do, the point of this story is, I shouldn't have had to make those decisions. I shouldn't have had to have been in that situation. Men shouldn't be taught to take, force, bargain while women are taught how to defend, avoid, escape. At this point, women have to know these things. We have to carry mace and not sit alone in our cars in parking lots, because we have fostered a culture where things like this are okay. And you might say, what happened to me, a school dress code, and a guy waiting in an alley are three drastically different things. But they're not. You raise boys to think they can't help themselves, then let men do things like this and say, "Oh, boys will be boys." Then suddenly, one of them takes what has been socially accepted, even encouraged, just two steps too far and it's a horrible crime. (One step being date rape which, as we've discussed, is viewed a questionable lesser crime.)

And it's not okay. None of this is okay.

P.S. Yes, I did see all of these things on my feed today.

P.P.S. Before anyone trolls in here thinking I'm saying all men are pigs, blah blah blah, whatever: I'm not.  I say and believe a lot of things that would get me kicked out of the Feministas (for some "anti-feminist" double-standard shredding see my blog), but these are basic human rights I'm talking about.

Would you read this book?

Would you read a book that started like this? Or is it the most boring thing that ever boringed.
Honesty please, there is a second idea that starts with the same 2 paragraphs, then goes a completely different direction.

Liz woke alone in a stranger’s bed, every part of her hurting. She tried to remember getting hit by a train, but her all she could come up with was an airport bathroom. She’d been on her way home...

No, that wasn’t right.

She’d been on her way to Sam’s new house in New York. She‘d felt lousy the whole trip, gotten sick at the airport, and then she must have fainted. Actually fainted. How embarrassing.

Which brought her back to waking up in a semi-dark, seemingly enclosed space. Instinctively, Liz had opted to lie still, lest she attract unwanted attention, but her eyes were wide and darting to ever corner of her periphery. Her … bed, she assumed because of the obvious cushioning, was either in a tiny little room or in an alcove off of a larger one. Best she could tell, the head, foot and left side of the bed fit right up against a wall lined with … books? Maybe? Small rectangular objects at least.

The space to Liz’s right was open, which actually made her more nervous than the alternative. What or who was over there? She debated whether or not she should chance a peek, finally deciding to let it be. It was either an unfamiliar empty room, or a crazed psycho kidnapper. Either way, looking probably wouldn’t help. Anyway, she was starting to panic. The haze of unconsciousness had lifted, subtly turning dreamlike curiosity into urgent dread.

Something had happened between the fainting and this room and Liz had no idea what it was. She vaguely recalled gaining consciousness at various points. There had been music and pain and the most wonderful smell.

People had been talking.

Sam had been talking.

Sam! Sam is here! Liz surprised herself by letting out a squeak at the thought. Her throat was hoarse, almost dusty from lack of use; she hadn’t made a sound in such a long time. How long had it actually been?

Deciding it was probably safe, Liz turned her head toward the emptiness to her right. Gaps between drawn curtains showed that it was clearly daytime. But what day? Other than an old oak desk and a small television mounted to the opposite wall, the room was unremarkable, offering Liz no hint of her whereabouts. She sat up slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning before taking a look at the closest wall. The rectangles were, in fact, books. A lot of science fiction titles she didn’t recognize, and a few mainstream thrillers. Liz prayed she wasn’t about to live one.

Liz took a few moments to flex and stretch before allowing herself to peel back the flannel blanket and stand. It took several minutes of swaying and tottering to get herself sorted, but her legs were eventually able to support her weight well enough to pace around the room. She had been lying there a while.

Once in motion, Liz didn’t relish the idea of lying down again, so she decided to take a chance and venture forth. To her surprise, the door opened easily, allowing Liz onto a small landing with two other doors and a downward staircase. Finding no one, Liz descended the stairs and ended up in a well-appointed kitchen. She opened the fridge automatically, but thought better of it. She wasn’t even hungry.

Her search of the lower level yielded minimal result. Living room, den, dining room, kitchen—lots of rooms with no one in them. Liz estimated it to be a four bedroom home, though she hadn’t opened any door that wasn’t wide to her. Part of her was afraid of what she might find, the other part just felt it was wrong. She thought it reasonable, however, that she should be allowed to explore outdoors and took her self-guided tour out through the kitchen.

The backyard was a baseball diamond at least of long, lush grasses interspersed with towering trees, their frequency subtly growing toward the edge of the property and blending into the surrounding forest. It looked like a cozy spot, and Liz resolved to return after checking out the neighborhood.

But there were no neighbors. Liz had walked around one side of the building, through another small yard edged by trees, and onto the expansive front lawn. More trees, more grasses—very little else. Not even a road was visible, just a long dirt drive winding into the woods.

On the opposite side of the small yard, the house had been expanded to converge almost entirely with the forest. The walls were glass, if the roof was any indication, but thick vines completely shielded the inside from view.

Normally, Liz would not have had the energy to climb a tree nor probably even the desire to do so. However, curiosity combined with the restlessness of days spent asleep and she decided to climb past the top of the house and take a peek through the roof. Upon reaching the last climbable branch, she was disappointed to find that there were another five or so feet before visible contact with the roof. She was just about to climb down and admit defeat when the light of a reflection caught her eye. Leaning away from her anchor, Liz tentatively reached out to the wrought iron lattice. It appeared the vines here were sparse and loosely packed, more easily moved than those below.

Two large bookshelves, a canopy bed, and some cardboard boxes, partially unpacked, were the most Liz could make out through the grimy glass. There were posters on the walls with some familiar faces and homey looking knick-knacks strewn about at random.

Actually, that black dragon looks just like the one Sam got me for Christmas last year. And the pattern of those books…

“AH!”

Suddenly, Liz was on the ground. As she’d maneuvered to get a better look, her foot had slipped and she’d fallen—much harder and faster than anticipated. One moment she had been ten feet up, hanging between tree and trellis, and the next she was lying on her back, nursing a bruised tail bone. Back inside the main hallway, en route to an ice pack, Liz remembered the room. The room filled with suspiciously familiar things. Tail bone forgotten, she took off in what she thought would be the right direction. It took three tries, but she eventually found the right door.

Immediately, Liz knew the room was hers. Maybe not hers, but certainly filled with her things. The posters and books were the same: old and ratty. Someone had taken the time to put up and arrange them as she would have. Her favorite knick-knacks were present, most important prominently on display, the lesser probably still in a box. Even the color scheme was exactly what Liz would have picked for herself, had she any concept of style. It was all reds, blues and purples.

There was a dresser, armoire, desk, and a fairytale canopy bed—none of them her own. Though Liz did recognize the book cases. She rummaged through the desk and shelves and found that her stuff was all there, put away in someone else’s house. She did not find, however, anything of a personal nature. Her journals, for example, or her old mix tapes. High school yearbooks, photo albums, and a box of notes passed in class: also missing. Liz left the room a mess, not really caring to clean it up, lost in thought as she was.

Where the hell am I? Why is my stuff here?

Liz found herself in the kitchen, unconsciously having decided to get some water.

What if this is Sam’s house? I mean, I know her family invited me to live with them until I was on my feet again, but not here, in the woods. No one said anything about moving. Do they expect me to be okay with this?

Liz already had a glass out, though she couldn’t say from where.

Why would they move here anyway? Are they kidnapping me? Is that what this is? After all those years of friendship, they’re holding me for ransom?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Liz told herself.

“But neither does anything else,” she responded.

Liz raised the glass, now inexplicably filled with water, to her mouth.

Besides, Dad wouldn’t pay. They know that.

Oh yeah.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I just posted a most profound status update (Come on, let me have this.) It read as follows: 

"I have said it, and will continue to do so. It all works out the way it's supposed to. It's just... sometimes you have to take a step back and go through the full sequence of events to see how yesterday's negative is actually today's positive. To remember all those things and people you thought you'd never get through, and realize they're the past, just as this will be."

And I thought, that's an easy thing to say. Not everyone has seen what I've seen. Proof. They need proof. I have proof that the worst day of your life can turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you. This story isn't "happy" per se. And if you know me, you already know it. But, should you choose to read it, think of the implications. It's not about what happened. It's the why of it all that gets me.

When I was 11 years old, my mother sent me to visit the father I had only ever visited twice in my life. She never took me back. You... can not imagine how that felt, to be called by your mother, the only person you've ever known, loved, and trusted your entire life, and be told you won't be coming home to her. But she'd call. Over time, the phone calls became more and more infrequent. Weeks turned to months, turned to a few times a year. my father would say things like, "She should just stay gone." I hated him for saying that, thinking it, for years. She was my mother! 14-18 went by in complete radio silence. Theories were tossed around. I was told she might have died. I was told she'd never call again.

When I was 18, she called. I went back ... for 2 months. And in those months I saw where I would have been. She'd been homeless for my high school years, become an addict, and was still with the man who would steal my wallet and empty my bank account. Which was ridiculous because, had she asked, I would have given her all of what little I had. Her response to this was to cry and ask me what I thought she should do. Her recently robbed teenage daughter. The last shred of respect I had for her evaporated in that moment. And when she disappeared again, she died to me. Well before my grandmother ritualistically unpacked and disposed of her belongings left behind, I had completed my mourning.

I learned that fateful summer that it wasn't a matter of her never asking for me, but my father never sending me back.

And I thanked him.

I suddenly understood why he got mad when she called. Because it upset me. Depressed me. A little glimpse of that suicidal (yeah) child came back every time, and it pissed him off. It pissed me off too, in retrospect. She should have stayed gone. I'd had... a life between the phone calls. I'd had birthday parties and best friends, a house and plenty of food (some would argue too much lol). I had a car when I was 16 and a horrible first job. I'd graduated high school. I was on my way to college.

I never so much as smoked a cigarette. Can I say it would have been the same had I stayed with her? I somehow doubt it. When I was there, upset about my wallet being stolen, she offered me a drink. That was her fix. That was how she made things better. How many drinks would I have drunk before I wanted something more, and how long before she gave it to me? How many parties would she have before I was molested or worse? Or maybe I would have been good. Naive. Malleable. What would I have stolen, sold, or bartered because she'd asked me to? I'll never know. But I do know I wouldn't be where I am if she hadn't sent me away. If my father hadn't refused to send me back. And I know that where I am is far better than where I could have been. Would have been.

I am a (relatively) healthy adult. I didn't finish college, but I'm not stupid. I work for a good company in a job I like (most days). I've written a book. I've written a song (that I actually got to hear performed, at least in part, by my favorite musical artist). I go to concerts. I'm saving for London. I have friends and a family I can count on. I own furniture and am a generally likeable person (although I have my moments). I don't have all my shit together--though I'm not sure anyone ever really does--but I have a good start. A good life. I'm still standing, although at one point I thought I never wanted to again.

It's going to be okay.

I've tried to publish my book with no success. I entered a contest. I didn't do well. But, guess what? I got great insight into my own writing. Improved my manuscript and will continue to do so with a renewed sense of motivation. I also saved hundreds (possibly thousand) of dollars it would have taken to follow through on the commitment if I had done well. Money I can use to relocate now that I have so suddenly found myself homeless yet again. I'll be relocating with a co-worker and soon to be friend who is currently in his own bind, wanting to move, but unable to do so on his own. He's sick of living with men and, if you've talked to me anytime in the past year, you know how I feel about living with another woman. Although the sudden nature of this change has left me at a bit of a financial disadvantage, the timing is altogether serendipitous.

It's going to get worse before it gets better. That's just how my life works. I'm going to contemplate giving up, digging a hole and never coming out.

But deep down I know: I'm going to be okay. It's all going to work out. It has to. It will. I have proof.

I have faith.