Sunday, November 11, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A brief history of my life as a woman who leaves her house
In the middle of what should be cleaning my room, I thought it was time I responded to an old friend’s query about catcalling.
Allie identifies herself as a woman who takes care of her body and spends a little time on her hair. I’m not sure I would even go that far to describe myself. I don’t mean to make myself sound like a total schlub, but I’m a little chubby (on my good days, I find it adorable, but this isn’t a post about body image, or not really) and sometimes, honestly, I just push my greasy locks into a pony-tail and go outside that way.
If I know one thing about cat-calling, its that it doesn’t matter what you look like. Its not about me. Sometimes, its not even about my body. Sometimes, I think, its just about power. Make a girl squirm on the street. Gain the upper hand in passing.
Granted, there are several categories of catcalling. There’s the genuine-sounding compliments, there’s the racialized remarks, there’s overt sexual come-ons. That list is probably in order (least to most) of how much I’m bothered. And it isn’t all in-compassing by any means, either.
I’ve been catcalled all over the world. For a while I sort of jokingly logged the things men said to me while I backpacked in Europe. The best were always in Amsterdam. Early on in my wanderings, a dark-skinned young man called across the street to me, “Ca va ma cherie?!” which is, roughly translated, French for, “What’s up BABY?!”. I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Later, two other men called to me in heavily accented English from the patio of a bar, “Come in and have a drink with us!” I shook my head and kept walking. They yelled after me, “We can just talk! We are university students!”
(The request reminded me of the joke-catcalls some of my friends in New York used to holler at us, “Hey baby, you look like you have read interesting books!” and the like.)
But further South in Europe, I always found it less pleasant. In France, men often reached out to touch me while they told me how beautiful was, how much they wanted me to have dinner with them and the like. It always made me squirm. Made me feel unsafe and a little dirty. It didn’t feel harmless or even amusing.
In San Francisco, it was similar. Everywhere I walked, it seemed, men wanted to comment on my body. In English, Spanish and Spanglish. “I live in this body!” I remember wanting to scream. When I would come home feeling unsafe and violated, the men that I lived with told me I was overreacting. This is just a cultural difference, they insisted, Latino women don’t complain. It made me even more angry. As though insisting people recognize my body as more than an object was some uptight white-girl notion I had.
After I moved to Manhattan, I thought about starting a photo essay. I imagined I would take pictures of myself every day and write the various catcalls I received below. I thought such an essay would show that it didn’t have to do with how a woman looks or what she’s wearing. To prove that men on the street made the same comments to me in my hoodies and dirty jeans and they did in my mini skirts and boots.
In Harlem, where I lived for the first 6 months, the catcalls were all about my white skin, “What’s up, Snowflake?” became my favorite greeting. Almost always making me smile in spite of myself. Sometimes, I greeted men’s entreaties with a stoney face and a straight forward walk. “Manhattan blinders” I call that technique, similar to the way I learned to respond to homeless men asking for money or crazy people on the subway. If I was feeling bold, though, the best way to respond was always politely. Sometimes with a slight affected Southern accent (happens to me when I’m pretending to be polite. That’s a post for another day). “Hey cupcake, how you doin’?” might be replied to with a quick, “I’m fine, how are you?” As though the initial question had been genuine.
All that New York attention made me feel unsafe, usually. I think that was the goal. To remind me that even though my white privilege let me live alone in a one bedroom while my neighbors struggled to get by, I was still a woman. And it was still a man’s world.
Sometimes, though, guiltily, I enjoyed the attention. I remember once walking down the street in a mini skirt and a pair of boots, thinking about how much I hated my chubby legs. Just as the thought had crossed my mind, a man called out to me, “Ay Mami! Nice fuckin’ legs!” It was exactly what I needed at that particular moment in time. I feel like enjoying street harassment makes me less of a feminist. Or at least like I’m not feeling the “right” thing. I try to give myself a break, though. Recognize that its years of being a girl in America that makes me tie my self-worth to the way I look in men’s eyes. That sometimes I don’t even know I’m feeling it. I try to tell myself that I’m allowed to set my own boundaries. To decide what feels good and what doesn’t. That I should apologize for those feelings less.
Allie identifies herself as a woman who takes care of her body and spends a little time on her hair. I’m not sure I would even go that far to describe myself. I don’t mean to make myself sound like a total schlub, but I’m a little chubby (on my good days, I find it adorable, but this isn’t a post about body image, or not really) and sometimes, honestly, I just push my greasy locks into a pony-tail and go outside that way.
If I know one thing about cat-calling, its that it doesn’t matter what you look like. Its not about me. Sometimes, its not even about my body. Sometimes, I think, its just about power. Make a girl squirm on the street. Gain the upper hand in passing.
Granted, there are several categories of catcalling. There’s the genuine-sounding compliments, there’s the racialized remarks, there’s overt sexual come-ons. That list is probably in order (least to most) of how much I’m bothered. And it isn’t all in-compassing by any means, either.
I’ve been catcalled all over the world. For a while I sort of jokingly logged the things men said to me while I backpacked in Europe. The best were always in Amsterdam. Early on in my wanderings, a dark-skinned young man called across the street to me, “Ca va ma cherie?!” which is, roughly translated, French for, “What’s up BABY?!”. I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Later, two other men called to me in heavily accented English from the patio of a bar, “Come in and have a drink with us!” I shook my head and kept walking. They yelled after me, “We can just talk! We are university students!”
(The request reminded me of the joke-catcalls some of my friends in New York used to holler at us, “Hey baby, you look like you have read interesting books!” and the like.)
But further South in Europe, I always found it less pleasant. In France, men often reached out to touch me while they told me how beautiful was, how much they wanted me to have dinner with them and the like. It always made me squirm. Made me feel unsafe and a little dirty. It didn’t feel harmless or even amusing.
In San Francisco, it was similar. Everywhere I walked, it seemed, men wanted to comment on my body. In English, Spanish and Spanglish. “I live in this body!” I remember wanting to scream. When I would come home feeling unsafe and violated, the men that I lived with told me I was overreacting. This is just a cultural difference, they insisted, Latino women don’t complain. It made me even more angry. As though insisting people recognize my body as more than an object was some uptight white-girl notion I had.
After I moved to Manhattan, I thought about starting a photo essay. I imagined I would take pictures of myself every day and write the various catcalls I received below. I thought such an essay would show that it didn’t have to do with how a woman looks or what she’s wearing. To prove that men on the street made the same comments to me in my hoodies and dirty jeans and they did in my mini skirts and boots.
In Harlem, where I lived for the first 6 months, the catcalls were all about my white skin, “What’s up, Snowflake?” became my favorite greeting. Almost always making me smile in spite of myself. Sometimes, I greeted men’s entreaties with a stoney face and a straight forward walk. “Manhattan blinders” I call that technique, similar to the way I learned to respond to homeless men asking for money or crazy people on the subway. If I was feeling bold, though, the best way to respond was always politely. Sometimes with a slight affected Southern accent (happens to me when I’m pretending to be polite. That’s a post for another day). “Hey cupcake, how you doin’?” might be replied to with a quick, “I’m fine, how are you?” As though the initial question had been genuine.
All that New York attention made me feel unsafe, usually. I think that was the goal. To remind me that even though my white privilege let me live alone in a one bedroom while my neighbors struggled to get by, I was still a woman. And it was still a man’s world.
Sometimes, though, guiltily, I enjoyed the attention. I remember once walking down the street in a mini skirt and a pair of boots, thinking about how much I hated my chubby legs. Just as the thought had crossed my mind, a man called out to me, “Ay Mami! Nice fuckin’ legs!” It was exactly what I needed at that particular moment in time. I feel like enjoying street harassment makes me less of a feminist. Or at least like I’m not feeling the “right” thing. I try to give myself a break, though. Recognize that its years of being a girl in America that makes me tie my self-worth to the way I look in men’s eyes. That sometimes I don’t even know I’m feeling it. I try to tell myself that I’m allowed to set my own boundaries. To decide what feels good and what doesn’t. That I should apologize for those feelings less.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Almost like being a rockstar yourself
Once, in Amsterdam, I met Jenny Lewis. Its probably my closest brush with fame. And for geeky me, it could not have been better.
I started listening to Rilo Kiley in high school. Discovered them the way I discovered a lot of music then, one download leads to another kind of a thing. It was the days of Napster and I had a motley collection of music from “Take Offs and Landings” and “Intial Friend”. Eventually I loved them so much, I bought “Take Offs and Landings” from the Barsuk Record site (and a Barsuk hoodie, actually, which would later win me points with Death Cab fans).
I love Jenny’s voice and the bittersweet, sometimes cynical lyrics. In college, I started putting “The Frug” on every dance mix I made. But they were still mostly touring on the West Coast and the one time they came to New York, I missed them. Still, I’ve never seen them live. (And to be honest, I’m not sure I really want to. This new album doesn’t rock my world the same way the older ones did. But that’s another story.)
Anyway, I was in Amsterdam during part of my Junior year Bohemian-Quest-For-Self through Europe. I was in Amsterdam more than once during that particular foray and I seem to remember this being later in my trip. I was walking through the bustling Leidseplein towards my Vondelpark hostel when a tall woman approached me.
“Excuse me? Do you speak English?”
I smiled and said, “Yeah, I do.” In my American accent. And we both laughed.
She needed to know how to get to the Van Gogh museum. Since I was waking that way anyway, I offered to take her. We talked about our mutual love of Van Gogh, the tragedy of his life, Theo’s letters and Love in the Time of Cholera. She asked me what I was doing in Europe. I told her and she complimented my bravery. I asked her and she told me about her band, the show they had played the night before.
The way she was talking, you’d think it was a garage band. Some little project going nowhere. A cheap way to see Europe, opening for bands that really mattered. So I didn’t even ask. It didn’t cross my mind, you know? But before I left her, a few blocks from the Van Gogh, I said, “Hey what’s the name of your band?” Because she was so nice I thought I ought to check out her music.
“Its called,um, Rilo? Kiley?” Seriously. Like a teenage girl, with every word a question. Like maybe I would think it was stupid.
“Oh my god.” I must have gone white, “You’re Jenny Lewis. Oh my god.”
“Oh you know my band!” All sincere and adorable.
“I, um. I brought only twelve CDs to Europe with me. And two of them are yours. I love your band.”
It’s probably better I didn’t ask her who she was earlier. I don’t think I could have carried on a coherent conversation with a woman whose music had moved me so easily through break-ups and new loves. I don’t think I would’ve have talked about Theo Van Gogh so much or worried about my hair so little. So it was better this way and I got a pretty good story out of it, too.
I started listening to Rilo Kiley in high school. Discovered them the way I discovered a lot of music then, one download leads to another kind of a thing. It was the days of Napster and I had a motley collection of music from “Take Offs and Landings” and “Intial Friend”. Eventually I loved them so much, I bought “Take Offs and Landings” from the Barsuk Record site (and a Barsuk hoodie, actually, which would later win me points with Death Cab fans).
I love Jenny’s voice and the bittersweet, sometimes cynical lyrics. In college, I started putting “The Frug” on every dance mix I made. But they were still mostly touring on the West Coast and the one time they came to New York, I missed them. Still, I’ve never seen them live. (And to be honest, I’m not sure I really want to. This new album doesn’t rock my world the same way the older ones did. But that’s another story.)
Anyway, I was in Amsterdam during part of my Junior year Bohemian-Quest-For-Self through Europe. I was in Amsterdam more than once during that particular foray and I seem to remember this being later in my trip. I was walking through the bustling Leidseplein towards my Vondelpark hostel when a tall woman approached me.
“Excuse me? Do you speak English?”
I smiled and said, “Yeah, I do.” In my American accent. And we both laughed.
She needed to know how to get to the Van Gogh museum. Since I was waking that way anyway, I offered to take her. We talked about our mutual love of Van Gogh, the tragedy of his life, Theo’s letters and Love in the Time of Cholera. She asked me what I was doing in Europe. I told her and she complimented my bravery. I asked her and she told me about her band, the show they had played the night before.
The way she was talking, you’d think it was a garage band. Some little project going nowhere. A cheap way to see Europe, opening for bands that really mattered. So I didn’t even ask. It didn’t cross my mind, you know? But before I left her, a few blocks from the Van Gogh, I said, “Hey what’s the name of your band?” Because she was so nice I thought I ought to check out her music.
“Its called,um, Rilo? Kiley?” Seriously. Like a teenage girl, with every word a question. Like maybe I would think it was stupid.
“Oh my god.” I must have gone white, “You’re Jenny Lewis. Oh my god.”
“Oh you know my band!” All sincere and adorable.
“I, um. I brought only twelve CDs to Europe with me. And two of them are yours. I love your band.”
It’s probably better I didn’t ask her who she was earlier. I don’t think I could have carried on a coherent conversation with a woman whose music had moved me so easily through break-ups and new loves. I don’t think I would’ve have talked about Theo Van Gogh so much or worried about my hair so little. So it was better this way and I got a pretty good story out of it, too.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
The return of old friends
Armistead Maupin never ceases to remind me of the comfortable, almost forgettable pleasure of unconditional love. Of the way it feels to choose to love someone completely; the constant bliss of having made the right choice.
I remember first reading the “Tales of the City” series, though “reading” is probably the wrong verb there. I devoured them. I crawled inside of them. I breathed them in. I inhabited them. I swallowed them whole. I couldn’t sleep for nights because I couldn’t stop reading. It was a feeling I’d had for much of my childhood, sure -- hiding with a flashlight under the covers long after “bedtime” had been announced – but I remember Maupin as the first to make me feel that way as a teenager.
I identified so strongly with Midwestern Mary Ann. Wanted to follow in her footsteps, run away to San Francisco, learn to let my hair down, too. I wanted to feel like Mona, though, Maupin’s brazen lesbian character. She and Mary Ann were close, but very different women. While Mary Ann was fighting to free herself, Mona seemed to have been born that way. I don’t want this to be about my sexuality, but I find it hard to believe that it isn’t. I read Tales of the City (and all of its sequels) while I was still closeted, my sexuality still a secret even to me. Is it a surprise that I was so easily seduced by a world where sex was always on the table?
Reading “Micheal Tolliver Lives” was like visiting old friends. I finished it too quickly, the whole experience was less than four hours long. I caught myself missing sentences as I read greedily. I think it is only Maupin that makes me read like that. So excited to finish, I can barely stay in the game. I know he says the book wasn’t a sequal and I hear him on that. It didn’t pick up where we left off. The style was different. Everyone was so much older, so moved on, that the text stands alone. But still, it was Mouse and Brian and Anna. Living in a city that has changed as much as they have.
I’ve been to the “real” Barbary Lane. I took a whole, roll of photographs walking up and down rickety stairs that were different in actuality than they ever looked in my mind. I don’t love the “real” San Francisco as much as I love Maupin’s version of it. But I love my friends, my “logical family” as much as Mouse loves his. That truth is hard to pin down and I’m glad Maupin has done it.
I remember first reading the “Tales of the City” series, though “reading” is probably the wrong verb there. I devoured them. I crawled inside of them. I breathed them in. I inhabited them. I swallowed them whole. I couldn’t sleep for nights because I couldn’t stop reading. It was a feeling I’d had for much of my childhood, sure -- hiding with a flashlight under the covers long after “bedtime” had been announced – but I remember Maupin as the first to make me feel that way as a teenager.
I identified so strongly with Midwestern Mary Ann. Wanted to follow in her footsteps, run away to San Francisco, learn to let my hair down, too. I wanted to feel like Mona, though, Maupin’s brazen lesbian character. She and Mary Ann were close, but very different women. While Mary Ann was fighting to free herself, Mona seemed to have been born that way. I don’t want this to be about my sexuality, but I find it hard to believe that it isn’t. I read Tales of the City (and all of its sequels) while I was still closeted, my sexuality still a secret even to me. Is it a surprise that I was so easily seduced by a world where sex was always on the table?
Reading “Micheal Tolliver Lives” was like visiting old friends. I finished it too quickly, the whole experience was less than four hours long. I caught myself missing sentences as I read greedily. I think it is only Maupin that makes me read like that. So excited to finish, I can barely stay in the game. I know he says the book wasn’t a sequal and I hear him on that. It didn’t pick up where we left off. The style was different. Everyone was so much older, so moved on, that the text stands alone. But still, it was Mouse and Brian and Anna. Living in a city that has changed as much as they have.
I’ve been to the “real” Barbary Lane. I took a whole, roll of photographs walking up and down rickety stairs that were different in actuality than they ever looked in my mind. I don’t love the “real” San Francisco as much as I love Maupin’s version of it. But I love my friends, my “logical family” as much as Mouse loves his. That truth is hard to pin down and I’m glad Maupin has done it.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
If all else fails, turn it off and the on again
I have always maintained that our children won't know what to make of it when we attempt to fix fancy future technology by blowing on it.
The Educational Value of YouTube
Sometimes, when I get going on an angry anti-capitalist rant, or when I'm trying to explain systemic hierarchy to someone for the first time, I end up a Marxist. A reluctant, apologetic Marxist. Cause I'm not really a Marxist, you know. I'm not really an anything-ist when it comes down to it.
Anyway. As a not-really-Marxist, I appreciate this video. I mean come on, costumes, unicorns, economic theory? Who says YouTube can't be educational?!
Anyway. As a not-really-Marxist, I appreciate this video. I mean come on, costumes, unicorns, economic theory? Who says YouTube can't be educational?!
Friday, November 2, 2007
I love Astrid Lindgren (pt. 1)
I love Astrid Lindgren. With the deep, all-consuming love I have for my very favorite authors. I love Astrid Lindgren the same way I love Madeleine L’Engel; because each time I open a book by one of those women, I am transported back to the first time I accessed the secret world inside.
I love Astrid Lindgren and its not all about Pippi. In fact, its very little about Pippi, though I love her, too. For me, Astrid Lindgren is about Ronia. I understand the appeal of Pippi Longstocking, her silly clothes and fun adventures. Her irreverent, almost accidental feminism. But Ronia is another beast entirely.
Ronia the Robber's Daughter
is probably my favorite heroine. She is dearer to me than any “Paperbag Princess” or reimagined fairy tale. Lindgren makes no apologies for the femininity of Matt the Robber’s only child. She is as wild as Sendak’s Max as she runs through the magical forest surrounding her house. No one tries to stop her because she is a girl, nor is that fact even emphasized in the text. Her gender is secondary to her other qualities – her ferocious courage, her stubborn will, her deep love for her parents, the robbers and her only playmate, the son of her father’s arch-enemy.
The world that Lindgren creates for us is perfect. It is similar enough to the world that we know that it is easy to leap into the imaginary. The harpies and grey dwarves that lurk in the forest are believable foes. The wild horses that Matt and Ronia tame are perfectly perched on the edge of fantasy.
I love Ronia because she is not afraid of knowing what she wants or of doing what needs to be done. She is guided by love and compassion, but never sacrifices herself. I imagine her beautiful and wild-haired (I often contemplate getting her image tattooed to my shoulder). And she could kick Cinderella’s butt.
I love Astrid Lindgren and its not all about Pippi. In fact, its very little about Pippi, though I love her, too. For me, Astrid Lindgren is about Ronia. I understand the appeal of Pippi Longstocking, her silly clothes and fun adventures. Her irreverent, almost accidental feminism. But Ronia is another beast entirely.
Ronia the Robber's Daughter
is probably my favorite heroine. She is dearer to me than any “Paperbag Princess” or reimagined fairy tale. Lindgren makes no apologies for the femininity of Matt the Robber’s only child. She is as wild as Sendak’s Max as she runs through the magical forest surrounding her house. No one tries to stop her because she is a girl, nor is that fact even emphasized in the text. Her gender is secondary to her other qualities – her ferocious courage, her stubborn will, her deep love for her parents, the robbers and her only playmate, the son of her father’s arch-enemy.The world that Lindgren creates for us is perfect. It is similar enough to the world that we know that it is easy to leap into the imaginary. The harpies and grey dwarves that lurk in the forest are believable foes. The wild horses that Matt and Ronia tame are perfectly perched on the edge of fantasy.
I love Ronia because she is not afraid of knowing what she wants or of doing what needs to be done. She is guided by love and compassion, but never sacrifices herself. I imagine her beautiful and wild-haired (I often contemplate getting her image tattooed to my shoulder). And she could kick Cinderella’s butt.
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