We Live in a Rape Culture

...i'm starting to get that creepy feeling...the one i felt at college parties when, during a lull in conversation, or a moment when the cd was changing, some moron said something like, "i knew this guy who got anally probed," and would wait for someone else to latch on to the comment so everyone involved could ponder the depths of anal probing...what usually happened was a general migration away from said moron, a looking anywhere but in his direction, a mental note not to get trapped on the balcony or next to him in the bathroom line...invariably, though, this moron couldn't gauge the body language of the crowd and would move onto another small cluster where he could mention anal probing again until someone would take him up on the conversation and he could elaborate and reveal that he was the one who'd been probed or done the probing and was looking for acceptance since he actually, really, liked it...

...no one at the party would've voted that moron into public office...

...it's been thirteen years since those days, yet each time i turn on the television or read an article online i'm faced with older versions of those party morons...except now they're politicians...who, somehow, joined the republican ticket...and they're using their platforms to define rape...specifically the 300,000 women who are raped each year in america...they don't mention the 93,000 men who are raped or the 248,000 sexual assaults that happen each year...they also discount the 9.2% of american children who're sexually abused each year...all they seem to be focused on are young women who dare to go for a drink after work...

...something about the way these politicians classify rape makes me feel like they're a little too intimate with the knowledge of each category they work to define...it's like they want to talk about it so they can punch each other in the arms and assure themselves there's not a former co-ed somewhere who didn't press charges when their date got out of hand...

...qualifying rape is like qualifying paralysis--it's done, it's damaging...the how is not the issue...here's the issue: we live in a culture where over-confident politicians are quick to victimize and justify the aggressor...they're sickening...and frightening...

...my ears burn each time i hear "rape" presumably because i'm a woman, complicated by the fact that my father was a serial rapist...i come to the defense of victimized women and live with the very real fear that i--or one of my relatives--could be raped...it's a fate worse than death to live with the anger, fear, frustration, and shame that are part of the aftermath of rape...and our culture treats raped women like pariahs or side show attractions, as if rape weren't so common that five women will be violated in the time it takes to read this blog...

...there's a basic principle my daughter puts into practice in her pre-k class...each day she's encouraged to "make good choices"...many male politicians are rushing to classify, qualify, and justify a rapist's poor, hateful choice...

 ...instead of qualifying rape, politicians should recognize the real problem: we live in a rape culture...i'm sure i don't need to remind anyone of the Sabine women, of the rush of "civilized cultures" to rape their way into power...our country was founded on the rape of land...we continue to rape the earth of her natural resources and call it "survival"...if rape wasn't so ingrained in our culture there'd be no reason to flood college campuses with emergency call boxes and rape defense courses...i wouldn't live in a world where, just last night as i walked to my car through the campus parking lot, i found myself in-step with another woman who held her keys in her fist...when i smiled and acknowledge her weapon she shrugged and said, "never can be too careful"...we struck up a conversation all the way to our cars...strength in numbers, though we didn't say it...

...in the cases where a pregnancy is the result of the rape, women under a republican regime may soon be treated even more unjustly...25,000 rapes result in pregnancy each year, and party-going morons are attempting to take away what little control traumatized women have over their damaged bodies...they'd like to kibosh the right to a safe medical procedure (except in the fictional cases listed above)...

...when i was in second grade i found the old OED in a musty back corner of my small town's one-room library...i opened it and looked for the word that had come to dominate my household for months...the definition was clear: "the unlawful compelling of a person through physical force or duress to have sexual intercourse"...the large book went on to define rape as "any act of sexual intercourse that is forced upon a person"...even in fourth grade i knew what rape wasn't... 

...i encourage you all to read more about rape culture AND VOTE AGAINST IT...here are some links to get you started:

Shauna Prewitt: Raped, Pregnant and Ordeal Not Over

Force: Upsetting Rape Culture

The Sexist

How Widespread is Campus Rape?

The Nation: Ending Rape Illiteracy

Kill the Babies: Why Everyone Should Participate in a Writers' Workshop

...my husband, an english professor, walked by a colleague's classroom yesterday morning and heard her shouting at the 30 students in her literature class, "You've got to learn to work together in groups!  Getting along with people is part of living in the real world!"

...i contemplated the passion, and then the sanity, of this woman...if it was her intention that her students all get along to do their work, i'd have to tell her she's wasting her good screaming voice...grown ups don't have to get along, or even be friends, to work together...i learned that lesson in the fourth grade when i was paired with a semi-conscious classmate on a "Spaniards of the California Coast" diorama project...she smelled of brie, did none of the writing or reading, but she owned clay and made kick-ass fleets and conquistadors...i never hung out with her at lunch, never traded allegiances on the playground...we didn't get along, never spoke of my little ponies or barbies, we just mapped out stolen gold and catholic missions...i avoided the smelly girl--who flashed her privates to boys at the bus stop and lived in the swankiest house in town--in part because she frightened me, and in part because she was just smelly...i don't even remember the mouth-breather's name...but i remember that project, the fact that for two weeks she and i had to spend an hour after school working together to finish our diorama...we both knew our report cards were at stake, and we got the job done...the project earned an A...

...in writing workshops, some fifteen years later, i finally realized the value of the smelly girl...i could actually work with someone--give praise and criticism--even if i didn't know them, didn't like them, or we didn't get along...we had something in common, and we were working together to get it...there were plenty of bozos in those classes--they let me in, after all--people who took themselves too seriously, or not seriously enough...people i envied whose work was excellent, complete, publishable...people i despised whose work was weak, half-assed and a waste of time...

...one semester in graduate school, as i was making notes on one man's story--a man who reminded me so much of the smelly girl, i could almost picture her brie face--i gave him some praise for a string of words i still remember...i couldn't stand this guy...he'd nearly sexually assaulted a friend of mine, was skating by on a fellowship, and spent his time composing long emails to the graduate class and drinking at local bars...i was working full time, busting my ass just to keep up...he was everything i despised about the world, yet there i was giving him a solid...i could've really let into him, how worthless i thought he was...but the story was a good one...i didn't want to be left in a room alone with the guy, but as far as the workshop went, i had constructive criticism to give...

...writing workshops should be made a core requirement of all high school and/or college curricula...nothing is more humbling than turning over your golden baby to a room full of meat-depraved hell hounds, and having that child ripped to shreds...workshop criticism is a daily reminder of a few key principles of adulthood, which if learned early enough, would keep college professors from becoming wild-eyed, screaming monsters...

• you are not the center of the universe--the world doesn't revolve around your time table
• no one can read your mind no matter how much you will it--if it's not on the page, it doesn't exist, thus the project fails
• everyone has somewhere better to be--if you're not compelling, people lose interest
• you are not your work, no matter the genre--at the end of the day you're a person, and your writing is your writing (see Barthes and Derrida, et. al.)

...on the first day of writing workshop, and then every so often during the course of our time together, i tell my students we're in workshop to improve our writing, not to make friends...it's not about groupies or who's more popular, it's about writing the right words, helping along someone who has a glimmer of talent but is too cocky, too lazy, or otherwise falling short of that talent...i encourage them to kill each others' babies...to do it often...to give praise where it's due..to grow a thick skin...

...that's what adulthood is about too...growing calluses so the mouth-breathers, the wild-eyed, the self-assured, just graze the surface...adults don't have to get along with the people around them to complete a task...most adults don't have time to like everyone they encounter...they're too busy hating the world...

...if all students had to complete a year or two of writing workshops they wouldn't be driving their frazzled literature professors insane with their inabilities to just get along...they'd be grown-ups...

Skinny Jeans?

...i knew i wanted to buy ellie black jeans because she already had two pair of bootcut blue jeans, but since i'd never purchased a pair of jeans for her at an actual old navy store--i get them at goodwill--i didn't realize there were so many styles to choose from...straight, flare, boot, skinny, slim...an entire wall of denim...an avalanche...i climbed the ladder to the top shelf and snatched a pair of size 5 skinny jeans and turned to my shopping companion, my hip sister-in-law..."do you think ellie would wear these?"

"jack loves his" she told me, referring to my nephew who is only a couple of years older than my daughter...

...with this endorsement, and since ellie loves leggings and tights, i bought the pants...and today sent her off to school in them...

...the popular style of pant when i was growing up in the eighties was tapered jeans...we'd fold over the narrow end, roll them, and scrunch two pairs of socks between the cuff and our vans...yep, that was fashion...but as i got older, i realized a big-butted girl like myself looked like an upside-down triangle in any pants...no need to accentuate the negative with tight denim...bootcut and wide leg pants became--and remain--my bffs...likewise, my husband prefers baggy levis called relaxed fit...we don't have the time or energy to squeeze ourselves into anything form fitting...

...i first noticed young men wearing peter pan jeggings in my writing classes...i usually don't pay attention to what my students wear, but when they sag them below their asses and bunch the tight cuffs at the ankle, i tend to raise an eyebrow...i never noticed my nephew wearing these pants, but when we returned from our shopping trip, sure enough, his jeans were tight from the ankle to above his navel (he likes to pull them up high)...and his father wore a similar pair...neither one of them sagged them, but they cut silhouettes like eggs on toothpicks...

...i pulled the new jeans from a bag and showed them to ellie who said "those look likes tights" and squealed with delight...

...last night we went through her drawers and found a t-shirt and sweater for her to wear with her new tight pants...they were similarly tight-fitting, so she wouldn't look like a box atop a straw...for some reason, i have an obsession with symmetry...large objects on the bottom, smaller--thinner--on the top...after she'd gone to sleep, i sat in the living room with adam and said, "when guys wear those jeans, where do they put their junk?"

"what?"

"skinny jeans...when guys wear them, how do they situate themselves...they're like tights...where would you put it if you were wearing tights?"

"it's malleable, so it would" he shrugged "adjust"

"but wouldn't that be uncomfortable? rubbing against tight pants all day long?"

"how would i know? i don't wear them"

...we were watching a baseball game and i said, "the only men who should wear tight pants are football players...it makes them aerodynamic...and even baseball players' pants aren't that tight anymore...and they wear cups to keep themselves in place"

"isn't it just a trend?"

"but how did it get that way? what man saw a woman wearing tight pants and thought 'i want to wear those'?"

...adam had been trying hard not to laugh at how earnest i was being, but he couldn't hold it in anymore and he started rolling...

"i'm serious"

"i know" he said "that's what makes this so damned bizarre...why do you even care?"

"it just seems feminine...i'm all into bending, hell breaking gender roles, but this seems wrong somehow...i mean, if a guy is going to wear those pants he should don eyeliner, nail polish, and a guitar...and they should be leather"

"the guitars?"

"ha ha"

"maybe they just want to be in fashion"

...thinking back to my own cuffed pants and doubled socks, i decided to stop while i was ahead...but then i saw skinny jeans everywhere...in budweiser commercials, reruns of law and order, the opening sequence of boardwalk empire...am i the only person in the world who thinks steve buscemi looks like he's wearing clown shoes and a wooden promotional sign over his suit jacket as he walks up the beach?

...maybe it's my own self-consciousness over my large hips and calves...maybe i'm just jealous of tweens who can pull off tight pants and knee-high boots...maybe i just want my husband to have a little more style and show off his junk...but these skinny jeans just don't sit well with me...

...in my middle school years the style suddenly went grunge...jeans were ripped and loose overnight...i begged for a pair of distressed jeans...my grandmother's solution was to rip up a pair of second-hand jeans and in each hole sew a different color lace...while my trendy cousin wore doc martens, hip flannel and ripped jeans that flashed skin, my own pants sported pastels i was forced to pair with a collared shirt and keds...

...when i dropped off ellie this morning, i couldn't help but notice how cute she looked...if a little boy wanted to emulate her style, so be it...maybe now i can concentrate on the real problems that come with my daughter's growing up...

Open Letter #6

dear Redneck Neighbor

...it's that time of year again--fall...a time when i winterize my yard, cover all those bulbs and roots with pine straw, put out the pumpkins, and watch the leaves turn yellow and red...it's also a presidential election year...time to vote for the lesser of two evils...i can't wait to flex my political muscles at the polls, and even though we seem to differ on all matters lawn-related, it's refreshing to see that you too are gearing up for the election:

...i had to stomp down some grass and push aside the dying branches
of the  knockout roses to get a good picture...the fact that this sign
 is in this yard is enough to keep me voting the other way for years...

...i can't help but notice your choice of candidate...

...correct me if i'm wrong, but there are three government-funded programs your ticket is vowing to abolish in which you've participated:

1. rehabilitation--after your stint in jail, you spent some time in a rehab...on my tax dime...and yet i, unlike your candidate, have chosen not to kick these sorts of programs to the curb...

2. welfare--you work part-time, your sister doesn't work, your mother hasn't left for work in weeks...you're managing to feed three adults and five or six kids how? i did notice the small ponies missing from the back yard...if you slaughtered them last tuesday they may be starting to turn...

3. child heath care--that Peach Care program that covers all five or six of your kids? yeah, hug a democrat

...maybe my list reveals more about my prejudice towards your party than it does about your actual ticket...mostly, when i hear the term "republican" i think of rich men and women--him, with a bad fake tan, her with bleached-blonde hair--who pay illegal immigrants to do what working-class americans once did--gardening, domestic help--who "play" the stock market as if they're sitting at a poker table, send their kids to private school where learning is a side-effect of networking, and are generally people who lack integrity and humility...

...sure these are extremes...i hate extremes...especially when extremists are manipulated to represent an entire group...you know, the way your vp candidate associated gun violence with inner cities...so...republicans are probably, for the most part, just ordinary folks who happen to vote for rich-white-old-men over and over...who see something they like and go for it...like that candy bar in the check-out line...but if you eat too many candy bars at once, you'll hurl...that's the candy bar's job--to be a tempting indulgence that will eventually make you fat and sick...just like republicans...

...there's a chance you are the new face of the republican party...have you written to them? maybe they'd race right over to interview an ex-con whose done a stint in rehab, is raising five or six kids on her own, and, instead of defaulting on a mortgage on a larger home, has converted the garage into more rooms to suit such a large occupancy...seriously, you could be mentioned in the next debate...the only caveat i'd add: take a cue from your ticket and hire that illegal gardener...really...

..i see a choice between two rich candidates as no choice at all...and if we're talking about degrees of evil in democracy then there's a problem much larger than this election...it'll take more than a sign plopped into six months of front yard growth to solve it...

...but before you start to adorn your vehicles with romney/ryan stickers, i'd ask you to do some poking around and read up on your ticket's real agenda...surely you don't fit into that 47% of americans romney was talking about a month ago--you pay your taxes, are doing everything you can to advance yourself and your children--but that doesn't mean you're among the 53% he actually thinks he represents...

sincerely,
your neighbor who really, honestly, hopes you'll do the math...

"You Can't Write About This in an Essay"

"I remind him profanely of his family and tell him I will search them out and write about them badly." 
                              Barry Hannah, "Bats Out of Hell Division"

...a few years ago, i was friends with a woman a decade my senior who, every time she spoke, would preface or end her musings with the phrase, "You can't write about this in an essay."  soon, each time we spoke--about her cats, her affairs with subordinates at work, her pampered childhood--she became increasingly anxious and had to repeat the phrase "You can't write about this in an essay" a few times...

...eventually, i did mention her in an essay, in an attempt to point out how desperately different i was from most women in the southern united states, or at least how different i was from her...she was her parents' only little jelly bean, who hadn't worked a real job until she was forty, and still asked her father for advice on most matters...she loved the essay so much she even attended a conference with me and sat in the audience as i read it...i don't think she ever got the irony...

...as i get it now...

...i'm no longer friends with this woman...the constant nagging about not writing about her led me to continually think--and now i wish i'd said--you're not that interesting...nothing of any significance has ever happened to you...you're an upper-class, southern, white woman who votes for the republican party...i don't need to write an essay about you...flannery o'connor and william faulkner pretty much covered your demographic and you're proof positive not much has changed...when i told another friend about this continual nagging, she offered this insight, "She probably wants you to write about her and is upset that you aren't. She wants you to make her interesting." 

...Lee Gutkind (the "Godfather" of creative nonfiction) says the first rule of writing cnf is "Don't make stuff up"...in his essay What is Creative Nonfiction? he writes, "The word 'creative' refers simply to the use of literary craft in presenting nonfiction—that is, factually accurate prose about real people and events—in a compelling, vivid manner. To put it another way, creative nonfiction writers do not make things up; they make ideas and information that already exists more interesting and, often, more accessible" ...if it's true that my former debutante friend wanted me to make her more interesting, i'd have to lie, breaking rule #1...afterward, to maintain the lie, i'd have to stray from the very formula Gutkind describes...i couldn't maintain a friendship with someone who expected me to compromise my craft...i couldn't perform the literary miracle of making her interesting...thus, our relationship deteriorated...

...the few times i subsequently interacted with her, she acted odd, out of sorts, flighty, and downright insane--it was clear to me and those around her she was having a mental breakdown...ironically, she became more interesting the less we had anything to do with one another...with a year or two to reflect on our relationship, i mentioned her a few times in my writing...and she accused me of being a liar...for five years she'd preempted every conversation we'd had by saying "You can't write about this in an essay" because she assumed i'd be revealing some interesting truth about her boring life...but when i finally do tell the truth about her interesting life, i'd become a liar, someone who had to fabricate, to make stuff up, just to fill empty pages...i could understand her anger if i'd written about her badly, if the sentences weren't eloquent, if the diction left her wanting...but my phrases were so spot on, several people told me how much they'd enjoyed them...no, what upset her was the truth-telling...the fact that there are truths we tell ourselves, and then there are truths everyone sees...

...i've been meditating on the "ethics" of cnf, what lines i'm willing and unwilling to cross...most people think my life is an open book, that i have no filter, that i write about anything and everything that happens to me, the people around me...not true...i leave out plenty...there are currently seven familial dramas unfolding in my life and i've purposely avoided writing about them...even in the memoir i'm working on i've left out details i recognize to be painful to the people involved...

...Lynn Z. Bloom, in her incredible essay Living to Tell the Tale: The Complicated Ethics of Creative Nonfiction, says, "Children who know the family secrets also understand the family taboos" ...as a child i lived a tangle of secrets, deceptions, and half-truths...it's become ingrained in me to understand what makes for inappropriate, insignificant, or downright wrong subject matter...there are forbidden dances, dark corners to avoid...some things we just don't discuss...

...Bloom goes on to say, "I write for the usual reasons writers write about anything important: to get at the truth; to make sense of things that don't make sense; to set the record straight; to tell a good story"...it's a mantra passed down from Didion, from Capote, from Tom Wolfe...at the crux of it, though, is the idea of importance...if something is worthy of being written about, it will be...

...i see my writer's brain as a pressure cooker...lots of things go in...they mix with other things--memories, events, facts--and eventually the cooker starts to whistle, the steam rises and forms some piece of writing...it takes time, more than anything...making those connections, realizing the implications, forming the sentence, the paragraph, the page, into a truth-revealing story...avoiding judgement and attaining objectivity takes self-control and a certain amount of distance...

...the reflection necessary for a quality piece of cnf is at the heart of what i do...which is why i hardly ever write about the heavy dramas immediately unfolding in my life...i have to be able to look back on them with something i've learned...i have to wait for wounds to scar, for dark corners to be illuminated...then, as delicately as i can, i begin...

Rules for My Future Self

...i'm still high on the fumes of the SWWC...i've reached the last stretch of the memoir-in-progress...the manuscript currently tips the scales at 406 pages and my outline calls for at least three more chapters...yes, the time i spent in Rome was well-spent...

...the camaraderie of other women writers--different ages, backgrounds, cultures, and religions (yes, they weren't all born and raised southern baptists)--has lead me to ponder the type of woman i want to be in my late-30's and 40's...i've had some pretty bad role models when it comes to this demographic...especially after last year's debacle with a 40 something woman whose actions convinced me all women in their 40's were spoiled little girls who played at being demure but were really evil, manipulative, barren she-cats...i'm so elated to have my faith in womanhood, in sisterhood, restored...

...still on that high, and in the spirit of Gretchen Rubin's "Rules for Adulthood" (if you haven't read The Happiness Project, do yourself a favor, get a copy and start your own Project), i've come up with a list of rules for my future self...

Rules for My Forties

1. Continue to dye your hair and use face cream: though face-lifts are not en vogue among the writing community, neither is looking your age...this goes out of fashion somewhere around age 16...you want people to see the vitality you carry on the inside, so project it on the outside

2. Continue to garden, though ask for gardening advice sparingly: if you're in your forties and don't know how to care for the lawn, plant flowers appropriate to the environment, or winterize your shrubs, you're just plain pathetic

3.  When surrounded by women who're smarter, prettier, or more talented than you--and there will be many many many---remember to swallow your jealousy and value their words and opinions, refuse to judge them, and embrace the new ideas they present...no matter how naive they may seem, they've gotten to where they are for a reason

4. Be sure to keep your patronizing comments in check: you won't know, nor could you possibly comprehend, the experiences of other people, but experience has taught you that those who consider themselves superior--and constantly voice that superiority--are usually the most character-poor people in the world

5. Quit taking in cats: having 1, 2, or 3 is okay, but when your house is occupied by more four-legged creatures than two-legged it's time to reevaluate your grasp on reality

here i am in my twenties with two college pals...

no, this was not a costume...

we actually thought we were cool in those overalls...

i'm hoping for better things as i mature (somewhat gracefully)...

6.  If you find yourself longing for your misspent youth, instead of attending a NIN concert, call someone who knew you during your twenties and have a good laugh about yourself

7.  Love your child: hug, kiss, tickle, praise...that's your legacy at the end of this crazy road...the days are long, but the years are short (thanks, GR)

8. When you get down on yourself--there will be many many many of these days--look to yourself for happiness instead of lashing out at the women in #3

9. Do one thing each day you've never done before: getting caught in a routine is not only dangerous to the people around you who'll bear the brunt of your stagnation, it's downright boring...what will you write about if you just quit living?

10. Dress appropriately...and by this i mean, don't dress as if you're a decade older than you are...reserve the kitten heeled pumps and tulip skirts for a time (maybe in your seventies) when you want to look like you're on your way to a bridge tourney