Grab Em by the Dick

Sometimes I don’t know if I can sustain this, living in our social media world. I can’t help it, I have a hard time holding back regarding certain topics, and I regularly find myself in a few days long cloud of frustration and anger and Facebook arguments. Now it’s because of Donald Trump. ‘Grab em by the pussy’. And, what I find just as creepy if not a little more, Billy Bush asking the soap actress for a hug for him and Donald. Those sneaky ways men cross boundaries. He can pretend he’s ‘only asking for a hug’, while he’s actually putting her in a position of not really being able to deny him physical contact.

A major frustration for me is hearing and seeing posts from so many men that this is not a common way men talk, they’ve never spoken like this, they’ve never heard anyone speak like this, etc. It’s frustrating because they’re taking it a little too literal. Sure, maybe you or your friends haven’t said something as base as ‘grab em by the pussy’, but you can convey the same feeling, the same message, without using words like pussy, or bragging that you grab pussies. It’s such a complex issue because, as this perfect article (http://everydayfeminism.com/2016/10/yes-actually-it-is-all-men/?utm_content=bufferb4c73&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer) on Everyday Feminism writes: ‘The thing about privilege is that it’s often invisible from the inside. It’s hard to see the scale and scope of a system designed to benefit you when it’s as all-encompassing as patriarchy. And that might lead you to buy into the idea of “not all men.”’

Here’s some examples of things that have happened in my life or in the lives of the women I know that aren’t so blatant as ‘grab em by the pussy’ but still manage to be grossly violating and indulgent of male privilege:

Waiting tables at 22 years old, serving a father and son who look around 60ish and 25ish, respectively. Friendly banter, they ask several questions about the menu each time the waitress replies ‘yes!’. The father then laughs and says ‘she sure says yes a lot! I wonder what else she’d say yes to!’

Female purple belt in Jiu Jitsu, 5 or so years of training. Rolling with an 18 year old male blue belt, submits him with a triangle, a choke in which a persons head and arm are trapped between your legs, their face near your crotch. A guy from the other side of the gym (a 30 year old Surgeon, educated, respected at his job) shouts ‘that was the best moment of his life, he never wanted to tap!’ When the woman tells him not to say something like that, he says ‘you don’t ever need to talk to me again!’ Everyone else in the room is men, roughly 20 of them. Not one of them says a word.

A girls birthday party, her friend brings a friend, a guy. He’s introduced to the birthday girl and a few minutes later leans in to her and mumbles ‘so you need some birthday dick?’

Husbands share texts about all the 20 year olds they’d be fucking if they weren’t married.

Husbands receive photos via text from younger, single friends of half naked girls they’re sleeping with, moan about how sad they are they can’t fuck anyone but their wives.

Husbands comment euphemisms about their boners on Instagram photos on the accounts of playboy bunnies.

Husbands call their wives ‘crazy’ when they’re upset by these things.

Waitress politely fends off drunk dudes attempts at flirting while still giving great service; is later stiffed on any tip after first telling the manager she was rude and gave bad service.

Girl in high school who’s drunk older brother hugs her tightly, a little too closely to her breasts, and says in her ear ‘you have the best little body you know that?’

Lawyer gets told by opposing council, a 65 year old man, IN COURT that she looks like an exotic dancer and should be named like an exotic dancer. Refuses to call her by her actual name, only by the exotic dancer name he’s given her.

 

These are just some examples that, off the top of my head, I was able to rattle off in the last few minutes. These are all men so very alike all of the men out there saying ‘never me, never us!’ ‘Grab em by the pussy’ comes from the same head space as when a man has ever called any woman ‘crazy’ for having a reasonable and legitimate feeling; the same place as when a man insults or offends a woman, finds out she has a boyfriend or husband, then apologizes to the boyfriend or husband.

It comes from the same place as the idea that a woman should give any man a pass for what happens at a bachelor party. Because once, some many years ago, a man gaslit his wife in to believing she was overreacting about him having gone to a strip club, that it’s just ‘what guys do’; or called her crazy for getting upset when he felt entitled to go to a strip club, or to lie about the hookers or strippers or whatever else you saw at your or your buddies bachelor party (fun game for the ladies: ask your partners if they have ever participated in a bachelor party that sounds like this and watch the split second of panic in their eyes).

It’s regular dudes like all the ones we know, like you and all the ones you know, who participate in perpetuating the freedom men have, that allows them to do things like this, to say ‘grab em by the pussy’, and to actually grab women by the pussy. Because society and patriarchy have allowed you to decide how much and when girls and women deserve your respect and decent treatment, and they deserve it when you decide to give it to them. Because you are the one with the power, the one who’s word matters most. That’s the world we live in. You might want to say ‘not me, I don’t think like that.’ But to some level you all do. Another great passage in the Everyday Feminism article describes it well:

‘Living in the United States, every single one of us is socialized under patriarchy – a system in which men hold more power than other a/genders, in both everyday and institutionalized ways, therefore systematically disadvantaging anyone who isn’t a man on the axis of gender. As such, we all (all of us!) grow up to believe, and therefore enact, certain gendered messaging…And this doesn’t have to be explicit to be true. When we find it difficult to say no to our male bosses when we’re asked to take on another project that we don’t have the time for, or to our male partners when they’re asking for emotional labor from us that we’re energetically incapable of, it’s not because we actively think, “Well, Jim is a man, and as a not-man, I can’t say no to him.” It’s because we’ve been taught again and again and again since birth through observation (hey, social learning theory!) that we are not allowed – or will otherwise be punished for – the expression of no. In the meantime, what men are implicitly picking up on is that every time they ask for something, they’re going to get it (hey, script theory!). A sense of entitlement isn’t born out of actively believing oneself to be better than anyone else or more deserving of favors and respect. It comes from a discomfort with the social script being broken. And the social script of patriarchy is one that allows men to benefit at the disadvantage of everyone else. And all men are at least passively complicit in this patriarchal system that rewards male entitlement. We see it every single day.’

So often it’s this entitlement that plays in to all of our every day lives. Entitlement in all of those examples I gave, and the entitled expectation that women are supposed to acquiesce or accept your behavior and move on, regardless of how degrading or hurtful it is. That expectation is your own version of ‘locker room talk’. Locker room talk doesn’t necessarily literally mean locker room talk. It means ‘it’s ok for me to talk like this because everything in life is in place for it to be generally accepted.’

There is the distinction that Donald Trump is admitting to sexual assault. I am not saying that all men have committed sexual assault or assault, or that the anecdotes above are assault. But what they share is overall a general crossing of boundaries, with varying degrees of seriousness.

And many argue ‘women talk like this too, they’re just as bad!’ Ok. If a woman said she regularly goes up to men and grabs them by the dick, that would also be sexual assault. So enough of that. Do women talk crudely about men? Yes. Do women cross boundaries? Yes. But the difference is that men can expect with near certainty that they will get away with this kind of behavior if they’re caught, but a woman can behave this way at her own risk. Why? Because we get punished for straying from that ‘social script’. The punishment could be death, like in the case of Tiarah Poyau who was shot in the face after telling a man to stop grinding on her at a music festival. Or it could mean having your career ruined like Dr. Jamie Naughright, after being assaulted by Peyton Manning. Or it could be more subtle, again coming back to womens feelings getting brushed off or mocked because they’re ‘crazy’ or ‘overreacting’ or ‘too emotional’.

I know there are great men out there who have a thoughtful awareness of all of this, men who don’t and may not ever have said something so over the top as ‘grab em by the pussy’. But even the most earnest ones miss it. Like in the article by Chris Kluwe, former NFL player, who wrote, ‘Oh sure, we had some dumb guys, and some guys I wouldn’t want to hang out with on any sort of regular basis, but we never had anyone say anything as foul and demeaning as you did on that tape.’ http://www.vox.com/first-person/2016/10/10/13230346/donald-trump-locker-room-talk-chris-kluwe

What’s up with those ‘dumb guys’? To me that sounds like some guys who crossed some lines, were probably somewhat degrading, but because they didn’t brag about grabbing women by the pussy or use major vulgarity, they’re just ‘dumb guys’. But those guys do damage too. And brushing them off as just ‘dumb guys’ is damaging. Having Donald Trump and his words as a qualifier isn’t going to count out the behavior and words that aren’t quite ‘as bad’.

So what do we do? We women keep screaming our emotional, overreacting heads off. We keep supporting each other. We keep calling out sexism and privilege on all levels, across the board, and maybe, just maybe, a drop of knowledge and insight will get through now and then. Like Beyoncé said ‘what’s worst, lookin jealous or crazy, jealous or crazy? Or walked all over lately, walked all over lately? I’d rather be crazy.’
Let’s go crazy. Buck wild, over the top, unbridled crazy. I got you.

Shameless

A handful of years ago I saw a therapist for a while, she was the third one I’d ever tried. The other two were like movie stereotypes of therapists, the first seemingly convinced Jung had it all figured out and everything just meant I subconsciously wanted to bone my dad, and the second would literally just sit there and say nothing, as if all I needed was to flap my gums for an hour. About 6 years ago I was living in Brooklyn, just beginning to date my future husband and was crippled by the terrifying love I was feeling. Love that triggered monster childhood wounds, like the certainty of his inevitable rejection that would end me; that felt like life or death, despite him being very sweet and loving, because the years of my life had so far conditioned me to never, ever feel deserving of something good.

I was working in a coffee shop in Union Square in New York City and one day could not avoid having a panic attack, something I’d been able to avoid ever having so far. I left the espresso machine and went downstairs to the office where my boss and a co-worker were working, two angelic bleeding hearts that in that moment I was too lucky to be working with, seeing as I still had a job after this day. They saw me hovering near the doorway, pulled me in and closed the door, which made me wholly, uncontrollably breakdown. They cared for me with such tenderness that allowed no shame, one going upstairs to fill in for my absence, the other sitting just to my side, occasionally setting a firm hand on my back or arm, letting me be. I didn’t finish my shift- which still had nearly 7 hours left in it- and they stayed with me the whole time. My boss waited for the right moment to give me her therapist friends info, my co-worker brought me chamomile with steamed milk and honey. So perfectly caring, loving in that mythical, magical way that women are sometimes.

I started seeing the therapist my boss recommended, not sure it would work out because I- like so many others- had kind of decided therapy doesn’t work, because for me it hadn’t yet. I ended up seeing her for almost 2 years, through pregnancy and the first few months of my daughters life, my daughter who came with me in those months, breastfeeding while I battled post partum, something my therapist convinced me was normal and would pass (she was right). I’ll always, in many ways, credit her with saving my life. She had (has) a real gift for healing, for listening and putting together the puzzle of a persons darkness. If we hadn’t moved I’d still be seeing her.

Fast forward to a few years later, to now, and I’m needing and craving that same care, that same magic that seemed to have come together so I could begin the lifelong process of chipping away at my wounds; care that I needed again from women, to balance the many hours I spent in Jiu Jitsu with men, always so many men, their energy that is somehow invigorating and exhausting, that energy that innocently can never fully provide.

An old buddy of my husbands started training with us a few weeks ago and I met his wife, a yoga teacher. After chatting for a few minutes we came to an agreement to trade yoga and Jiu Jitsu, starting with yoga. I arrived at her home about a week later and was greeted with a strong embrace and the nostalgic smell of burning sage, candles, and essential oils. The windows were open and a warm pre-hurricane wind was moving through her house. I sat on the floor across from her at a low wooden table and she told me her yoga practice was designed to heal the mind, spirit, and body. After a few intuitive questions I was cracked open and crying, snotting all over my face, encouraged by her to be with it. An embarrassing thing but I did it, as a result of her careful and deliberate care, as a result of her having the same gift to heal as my old therapist.

The reason I was compelled to put all this out there was really only that. To put it all out there. Two posts ago I wrote about my childhood and some wounds that happened then and remained/remain raw in to adulthood, that are embarrassing and uncomfortable, that are so alike so many other peoples own wounds. Wounds that many children end up carrying for a long time, or forever, because their parents or whoever can’t face the hurt they caused. And the last five years or so, beginning with that humiliating breakdown (that was the effect of SOMEONE LOVING ME), have been a journey to exorcise that embarrassment, to hack myself open and bleed it out, to claw out of that deep dark hole.

Part of that became a need to be wide open in front of the world, despite it feeling really horribly uncomfortable. Not because I thought, ‘this could be helpful to other people’, but because I just needed to get it the fuck of my chest. And since doing that I’ve learned that people appreciate it and some don’t like it at all, and that some (women) will be so willing to lend themselves to me that it’s beyond a willingness. It’s just them, they just exist that way.

I also learned that some people will get angry, because it triggers something for them somehow, and they’ll feel compelled to deny your experience. It happens all the time in all cases of abuse. It’s easier to believe someone is embellishing or lying than it is to accept someone behaved horribly. After my post about motherhood and my childhood, a few people were angered by it. So much so that they were compelled to tell me they disapproved of it, this sharing of my life, my experience.

Being honest and open is a powerful thing, so powerful that it can cause such a wide range of reactions from people who weren’t there, people who didn’t live it. I’ve found that the more I allow myself to be open, the easier it is to say ‘I did it for me and no other reason’, or simply ‘I don’t care if you like it or not.’

So for now I guess just look away if you need to, or beware. Beware of the mystical, mythical, magical power that I can feel growing, that is driving me to continue to share myself and my experience. That is shameless, despite it all, that is giving and accepting of love, despite it all, that is honest, despite it all.

Rule of Thumb

The same week that Johnny Depp allegedly hit his estranged wife Amber Heard, my older sister was getting an MRI to investigate chronic neck, back, and arm pain. The results showed old injuries, the doctor asking ‘did you experience any physical trauma about 10 years ago?’

About ten years ago I was a blue belt in Jiu Jitsu, still sometimes battling the discomfort of sparring with men, the discomfort of being the only woman in a humid, sweaty room of dudes, trying my best to get better despite it. My sister had met someone who apparently trained at my gym, but the other location. I’d never met him but she seemed excited.

Fast forward some months, I don’t remember how many, and I answer my phone at work the morning after her birthday, dropping to the floor as she explained she was leaving the hospital after spending her birthday night getting beaten up by him, being saved by neighbors who called the police when they heard her screaming ‘stop please I don’t want to die’. Something she doesn’t remember saying, her hindbrain battling through her unconsciousness to try to save her.

After telling the owner of my gym what happened, he was kicked out, only to be allowed back a few weeks later with the condition that he couldn’t go to the location I attended. He was sorry, they’d said, didn’t he only hit her once, someone asked, he won’t come here, they promised. He still trains there, all these years later. Her jaw still clicks when she chews; nerve damage and damaged discs send pain throughout the right side of her body; her eyes always checking the periphery in case she might run in to him while running errands with her daughters. About ten years later.

The memory of a guy asking me at the gym ‘didn’t he only hit her once? he said he only hit her once’ will be so bright in my mind, forever I think. So will the bruises on her cheeks, her chin, behind her ears, on her forearms (from trying, trying to protect her head), and the ones on her legs as she strained to walk for several weeks after, because he mounted her and pinned her with his hooks and hips, using Jiu Jitsu to control her as he knocked her head back and forth.

As if *only* once was, of course, excusable. As if there was a lot of fuss being made over nearly nothing. It’s so much easier for some people to believe that these women are full of hysteria, are manipulating and trying to fool us all, rather than these men simply being monsters. That these men are just ‘boys being boys’, or that these men were just raised to believe ‘he’s mean to you because he likes you’.

It doesn’t matter how many people speak up to say ‘he would never do this, he’s so kind, he’s always been so gentle, I’ve never seen him lose his temper’ etc. Wouldn’t it be convenient if everyone who did evil, despicable things was that way all the time? But they aren’t that way all the time, to all people, are they? Sometimes they’re quiet and kind, sometimes they’re charming and extroverted, sometimes they make blockbuster movies and are beloved, handsome celebrities.

The same week that the world calls Amber Heard a liar, a manipulator, posting pictures of her black eye with captions like ‘sorry Amber but Johnny Depp was across the country last week when you say he hit you’ (as if a bruise lasts only one day, as if that proves he couldn’t have hit her the day before or the day after), my sister sees him in the street, not knowing who he is as she begins to politely smile and press the brakes, letting him cross the street before realizing it’s him, before driving the last mile home, before taking her youngest daughter out of her car seat and running inside, locking the door as her neck throbbed and sent pulsing pain through her body.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Recently a male Facebook friend shared a meme. It was of a man carrying the world, Atlas style, and a naked woman sitting up with a straight, expectant back, the caption ‘You forgot the moon and stars’. A handful of men I didn’t know commenting underneath the picture in agreement. Later that day I saw the meme again on Instagram, another male friend had seen it and ‘❤️’ it, putting it out there for the world to see. Both men are married.

I rolled the idea around in my head and thought about these men, and the other men like them, who feel so burdened by the wants and needs of their girlfriends and wives that they’re compelled to put it out in to the infinite ether for all to see, even those of us who know them and know their wives. And I wished I could ask them: Who told you you were giving her the world? Or that she wasn’t giving you the world too?

It reminded me of Don and Betty Draper in Mad Men. Don buys Betty beautiful dresses, a house in the suburbs, they have children, Don thinking this was the recipe for being a good husband, fulfilling the needs and wants of his wife; to be a housewife. All the while Betty languishes in cavernous loneliness. It reminded me also of The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, a short story written at the turn of the 20th century about a woman whose husband treats her depression by making her rest, not allowing her to work or see anyone or do anything, and eventually she loses her shit because of the oppressive life she can’t escape.

It reminded me of Mad Men and Gilmans story because, again, it’s men telling women what our limits are. It’s men being worldly providers and women needing too much, it’s men telling women ‘you are asking for more than you deserve’. Gaslighting at its purest. If you can convince someone they’re too demanding, they’ll eventually stop asking for anything. But it goes both ways- if you convince someone everything they do is enough, a request will feel like an affront. The husbands of The Yellow Wallpaper era raising the boys who become the Don Drapers, in turn raising the boys who become the men who passive aggressively demean their wives for all the Wide World Web to see. Because they’ve been convinced they’ve been giving their women ‘the world’. Whatever the fuck that means. You can’t actually give someone the world; not literally, obviously, and not figuratively. No matter what, we’re all touched by a nag of emptiness, a nag of something missing, or of not being enough. Like Carson McCullers wrote, “…we are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.”

The need for marriage isn’t what it once was, women don’t need the security it used to provide, socially and because it was mostly the only choice. It’s really just for giving and taking and loving and trying. Trying to fill that bit of loneliness none of us can shake alone. To the men who feel so much affinity for the sentiment of that meme, forget your father for a moment, your fathers father, your blood: maybe your girlfriend or wife isn’t that interested in this world you think you’ve given her. Maybe the stars and the moon you think she’s asking for is really just her asking for a hand to grab, through the mess of that nostalgia, that urge for foreignness, that place we’ve never known. That muddy cloud that finds all of us every now and then. A hand to pull her out; a hand you also grab, just as often.

Lemonade

I can’t stop thinking about Lemonade.

I’ve never really been a huge Beyoncé fan; I can always appreciate a good pop song that I can dance to and ‘Halo’ is pretty, but the cliche ‘If I were a boy’ was a big turn off, then years later the reference in ‘Drunk In Love’ to Ike and Tina Turners abusive relationship was confusing and enraging. So when she had concerts with ‘FEMINIST’ emblazoned behind her, and quoted Ronda Rouseys misguided (though important message of self love) ‘do nothin bitch’ speech, I mostly ignored her, save getting involved in one Facebook discussion on why she wasn’t a feminist.

But then I came across a friends Facebook thread that was about Beyoncé, it was a discussion among a few women of color, and one shared this article by Tamara Winfrey Harris: https://bitchmedia.org/article/all-hail-the-queen-beyonce-feminism. After reading it, a thorough examination of all scrutiny of Beyoncé, I was kind of embarrassed. I realized I heard this woman- this rich, beautiful, famous woman- call herself a feminist and immediately doubted it. How could she really get feminism, with all her wealth, all her privilege? Part of me expected her to be a feminist in the same way I am, and when she wasn’t, it invalidated her claim. Or as Harris succinctly puts it: ‘But ultimately, the policing of feminist cred is the real moral contradiction. And the judgment of how Beyoncé expresses her womanhood is emblematic of the way women in the public eye are routinely picked apart—in particular, it’s a demonstration of the conflicting pressures on black women and the complicated way our bodies and relationships are policed.’
I was doing that. And like Harris says, the importance of Beyoncé calling herself a feminist at the same time that American darlings Taylor Swift, Kaley Cuoco, and Shailene Woodley were pointedly denying themselves as feminists, is huge. With all of her reach through her diverse fan base, Beyoncé was at least somewhat making it appealing to call yourself a feminist.

To be honest though, that’s about as much as I ever expected from Beyoncé. I cheered that she was making such a positive statement, but I couldn’t imagine she would ever go deeper than that.

But then ‘Formation’ came out. The music video is stunning. I watched in awe as every image was a work of art, one after the other. Her face hidden under a wide brimmed hat, long braids, on the porch of a plantation style house, with black men around her, waiting; her head aggressively nodding up and down to the haunting beat of the song, the only movement in the shot. This broken up with scenes of her energetic dancing, her body exposed; an interesting juxtaposition from her face hidden by the wide brimmed hat, clothes all black. As I watched, thrilled at the power of the music, the blatant, raw self love of her womanhood, the haunting beauty of each shot, the haunting beauty of New Orleans, I knew it wasn’t for me. She was reaching out to black women.

Beyoncé has long been criticized for pandering to the male gaze, as Tamara Winfrey Harris points out, and for staying away from making statements of racial identity, as well as receiving criticism for remaining silent during the inception of the Black Lives Matter movement. But she heard that and she responded with ‘Formation’. It is raw self love, a raw statement of her identity as a black woman (‘My daddy Alabama, Momma Louisiana/ You mix that negro with that Creole make a Texas bama/ I like my baby hair with baby hair and afros/ I like my negro nose with Jackson Five nostrils/Earned all this money but they never take the country out me/ I got a hot sauce in my bag, swag’). She also takes on a sort of stereotypical masculine bravado, common in hip hop, referencing name brands, copping to jealousy and possessiveness (‘Paparazzi, catch my fly, and my cocky fresh/ I’m so reckless when I rock my Givenchy dress (stylin’)/ I’m so possessive so I rock his Roc necklaces’); is she mocking it? Or reclaiming it? Or is it more a statement of unabashed confidence, doing what she wants and feels and having no shame in admitting it?

Then came the HBO special, Lemonade. While I was in awe of ‘Formation’, I knew, like I said, it wasn’t for me. But a few minutes in to Lemonade I was having a body reaction, my gut, my heart, my skin; Lemonade was for all women, for me. She describes a journey with a cheating spouse, questioning herself, wanting to run, etc. Not an especially new storyline. But like ‘Formation’ the meaning is layered. Every shot is stunning, careful images narrating the lyrics, women throughout, supporting her. Handing her a baseball bat with a huge smile, dancing for her and with her, solidarity and support throughout a story of struggling with a cheating spouse and failing relationship, through a failing self image; the singularly special support only given by female relationships, silent if needed, but unfuckwithable. It is a truly beautiful work of art.

The reason it’s so important that Beyoncé decided to tell this story is because she has rarely shown insecurity, and more importantly, because even someone with an image of such untouchability struggles with self worth. It sounds simple, but really picture the scope of that. In a world where women are called crazy for pretty much anything that isn’t total agreeableness, for getting angry, for crying, for having sex, anything, she’s cracking open her facade of *agreeably making no waves*, and connecting with the women (and hopefully girls) who are listening, and only the women. While her words are about her relationship, she presents an unspoken message to women through the images, a need for women. To me seeming to realize she can be fulfilled by relationships that aren’t marital or maternal, and in a way that is void of any pretense. She’s not saying ‘look, I’m just like you’, but saying ‘look, this is me’. It’s very different than anything else she’s put out, very different than anything anyone is putting out, and it’s so important we acknowledge that difference and support it.

It calls to me to fight that occasional pull to judge and disregard the content of other women because it may not be as ‘enlightened’ as I think I am, or may not be a decision I’d make, and to instead fight more for that unique and powerful connection that can happen between women, that connection that can be so massively powerful, that is so untouched by the overwhelming patriarchy we are bombarded with every day. To support the growth of all women and as Harris says, rather say ‘I don’t like that decision but this one I really like’. It calls to me to, when women say ‘look, this is me’, just respond with ‘this is me too’.