Feeling Fat and Shameful

It's disturbing to explore how deep the rabbit hole of body image issues descends.

It was raining today, and so I wore jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. A close-fitting long sleeve shirt and close-fitting jeans. As I crossed a street, carrying my favorite umbrella and a bag of new-to-me books from the Salvation Army, I looked down at my stomach and immediately felt an all-too-familiar twinge of shame. My belly was quite conspicuous, bisected round the middle by the line of my jean waistband.

Before I had a chance to counter any thoughts I had a wealth of mean, self-hating quips ready. Admittedly I didn't exactly have the desire to counter those thoughts- I felt I deserved every one. The word disgusting came to mind. As did the thought that

Maybe you should stop eating regular food and go back to the poor, starvation diet of lentils and rice everyday.

This makes more sense if you factor in my recent loss of a few pounds. I don't even know how much I lost, only that I can tell that I have dismissed a few extra inches or pounds from my frame due to my lack of money for food, walking more often, and the intense humidity of Manhattan August. Considering that I spent a greater part of my summer sitting in a car cross country or sitting at the bar in my hometown drinking cheap beer and talking the night away, I feel it's appropriate and understandable that my body move back to its somewhat usual shape and size.

But my feelings about this recent weight loss extend beyond "understandable" or "appropriate". I have been feeling proud of the weight coming off. To further clarify, this goes far beyond the healthy aspect of things. I'm not feeling proud of taking care of my body. I'm returning to my more healthy lifestyle of decent food and regular body movement after a summer of relative debauchery, but my gratification has little to do with healthiness. It's deeper and darker, and I'm ashamed that these thoughts are still so much a part of me.

I think there has been built into the system map of my brain an automatic pat on the head and tangible pride when I lose weight, regardless of how it was lost. I remember having similar feelings when I was too depressed to eat more than a cracker or two for a month a few years ago, which I think is an excellent example of losing weight unhealthily. Not all weight loss is healthy, but all weight loss triggers warm feelings about myself in the pit of my gut. Not all weight gain is unhealthy, but it all unequivocally makes me feel ashamed.

What was so disturbing to me about the conversation within myself was how far I took things in so short a time. I identify as a Fat Acceptance Feminist, among many other things. I'm fat and happy with myself for the most part. Catch me on a day when I'm feeling fat, though, (especially after a few days where my lack of money has, in my perception, prompted a loss of fat on my body) and I almost immediately jump to the conclusion that I ought to return myself to a deprivation diet that completely lacks basic nutrition. Great solution, Emily.

I think that it's especially upsetting because I have spent a lot of time and energy fighting a culture that I have been immersed in all my life. If not fighting the entire culture, then at least fighting to uproot its tentacles from my life and my psyche. I feel accomplished most of the time, because I don't carry around a lot of body shame. I'm larger than the average woman, and I'm fine with that. I love my body, I love my belly, I love the way my body feels, and I love that my body is ME.

But I still have bad days. And when I examine my thoughts on those bad days, I feel as though I've made no progress at all or that there is no hope for redemption. I feel discouraged and I fear that I will always carry a masochistic monster deep in my flesh, a monster who is only waiting for its perfect opportunity to jump out and starve me into fitting the BMI expectations.

Why would the monster stop there? If I were to lose the sixty pounds required of me to fit the BMI standards, then why wouldn't I shoot for eighty?? or ninety??? This monster within would certainly never draw the line and be happy at some arbitrary number on a scale.

Which is why I accept my body as part of myself. I can do this on a cognitive level very easily these days. I feel good in my body most of the time. My body does what I need it to do, again most of the time. I like the way my body looks, most of the time. It makes sense to do so.

Adopting these beliefs on a deeper, more innate level is proving much harder. Some days I feel it deep down: I am beautiful. My body is me and I am my body and it is beautiful.

However, I continue to have days like today and when they come I cannot help but wonder if there will ever come a day when, even if I do not feel like a goddess, I find that heinous monster's voice, the one urging me to starve myself, missing.

Lists and Updates.

List of Things I Need to Get:

• Mason Jars for Food Items, such as Rice, Lentils, Quinoa, Sugar
• French Press, so that I can quit making coffee with a saucepan, strainer, and paper towel
• Tea Kettle, so that I can make hot water in something other than a saucepan
  
• Nutritional Yeast
• Laundry Detergent
• Bookshelves
• Air Mattress
• Couch-like object
• Laptop-Television Converter

Things I Did Today:

• Sleep in
• Go on a Date Walking through Central Park
• Eat Sushi with Pickle Squash (mmmm)
• Scrub for 2 hours in the Kitchen
• Discover my Debit Card has Mysterious Charges
• Not my Laundry
• Look for an Affordable Air Mattress

I really feel as though I'm settling in to New York. I'm starting to get a feeling for where the good grocery stores are, how long it takes to get places, and which lines to take on the subway. Yesterday I worked for the first time since moving, which was moste excellente, especially considering how poor I am.

I was working for a lady on Staten Island. I placed an ad on Craigslist looking for nanny work, and what I found instead was work as a Personal Care Assistant. Basically, I accompanied Carolyn all day, drove her van, and ensured that her wheelchair was securely fastened when it needed to be. She also went to Manhattan School of Music (many years ago) so we had much to discuss, which made the day all the more pleasant.

I will continue to work for Carolyn on an irregular basis (including this saturday, when I will drive in Manhattan for the first time!), and it will most likely in the future also involve her children. I'm so incredibly grateful for pleasant income. Truly.

It's time to get ready for bed, as I have a meeting with the registrar in the morning to finalize my schedule!

I'm very excited.

Weekend Events

I thought I'd share about my weekend, seeing as I had been feeling quite melancholy/pensive/gloomy about New York during much of my last week.

My weekend was pretty fantastic, actually. Friday night my housemate, Doug, came home from Michigan. In case I haven't already explained, Doug is from my hometown. With him came Amber, a very lovable canine who shares our apartment. There was a dramatic thunderstorm that night, which kept me from sleeping. I stayed up until around 6 am, surfing the internet and listening to rain. *yawns* Saturday I had a required piano placement exam, which completely embarrassed me and emphasized the fact that it has been 10 years since I studied instead of the fact that I studied for 10 years.

The MOST EXCITING THING that happened during the day on Saturday, though, was that I got my. . .



. . .



(wait for it)



. . .

Library Card!!

I was standing amidst the cd collection stacks in the library on Broadway at 113th, and I got so excited that I actually had a little pinch whenever I breathed. I think that this may have been the turning moment for me in New York.

I love the library so much. It's a deep, supreme sort of love. Besides that fact that I get to take things home and use them for free, which is awesome, the very concept of the library is absolutely radical. Libraries provide free knowledge to the public. Access to any available knowledge- Completely free, without regards to class, creed, orientation, gender, age, ability, etc. Libraries are funded by the state for the betterment of the people. God, I love the library. I'm so excited about the library at this moment that I can't even construct a clear description of why I love the library so much, on an ideological level. Therefore, I'll leave it at that.

At any rate, I got my library card and proceeded to borrow some cds and movies (I'm in the middle of a book already). Movies: Bollywood/Hollywood, La Chinoise, Talk to Me, and Persuasion (which happens to be one of my favorite Austens). I immediately watched 'Persuasion', which I of course loved. I then set out for Brooklyn for dinner, wine, and a movie with my friend Candace.

I brought two bottles of Recession Wine, Candace bought Vegetarian Chinese Take-Out, and we sat on the floor of her new apartment, watching 'Talk to Me' with frequent breaks for cards or talking or more wine. We ultimately stayed up until around 4 am listening to music and discussing everything from our moves (Candace is a friend from the Bay Area, who also just moved to NY) to romantic entanglements to Jay-Z.

In the morning, I trekked back to Manhattan, which I must say is quite a trek. At least to the upper west side. Getting from my apartment to Candace's was similar to the commute I was used to in SF when traveling from SF to Oakland. Saturday night my timing was awesome, and it took about 55 minutes, but Sunday morning, it took much closer to 90. I had intended to visit ABC No Rio on the Lower East Side to join in Food Not Bombs, but after showering, getting ready, and running to the Subway, I discovered that I had left my Metrocard in my jeans pocket. I was to meet friends by 3, so I decided to wait until next weekend to try FNB.

At 3 my friends Richard and Hilding came by in their trusty Volvo and picked me up for an afternoon at the beach. We drove out to Fort Tilden and Breezy Point, a drive that took maybe an hour? It was amazing, as these places are part of NYC, but they are so remote and so removed that one feels as though one is far, far away, in some beach resort town. We picnicked on the beach, H & R went swimming, I dipped my feet in (surprisingly warm!), and then we headed back to the city.

We ended up driving all the way through Brooklyn instead of taking the Highway, which was very scenic, in terms of orientating oneself to a new area. Brooklyn is so unbelievably huge. When we got back to Manhattan, R & H invited me over for dinner at their apartment.

Richard cooked a delicious Swiss pie sort of concoction- filo dough filled with Cheese, Cheese, Heavy Whipping Cream, and Egg. Mmmmmmm. . . And we had a salad and a few beers, after which we proceeded to discuss such things as whether prostitution ought to be legalized, what the purpose of its illegality is, victimization, the difference between homosexual prostitution and heterosexual prostitution in personal opinion, rape and its definition, a possible re-framing of consent as seeking active consent and its implications on the legal definition of rape (much of this within the confines of the Swedish legal system), and of course, our respective summer vacations.

I had a brilliant time, and left to go home around 11.30. At this point, I saw the M4 pass a block and a half away. I ought to have run after it, but I stupidly assumed there would be another one in due time.

After 50 minutes of waiting on Madison at 64th, I gave up, and began an alternate and tedious route. I took the following: M66 to the 6; the 6 to the M96; the M96 crosstown. I then walked 10 blocks home. Grrrrr. . . it was after 1 AM by the time I reached my apartment. *grumblegrumble*

Which brings me to one final rant. As I was walking home last night, I felt generally safe. It was late, but I knew where I was, the neighborhoods I was in were all relatively safe, and I was awake and aware of my surroundings. That being said, I was quite pissed off by a group of young men in my neighborhood. On Columbus, about 5 blocks from my apartment, I noticed three guys standing on the sidewalk, hanging out. I actually prepared myself in case they decided to have a friendly little chat with a single woman walking home at 1 in the morning. (I'm learning that every time I pass a man, especially a group of men, on the street, I must brace myself. It is incredibly irritating, and I'm sure I'll blog about this some other time)

Sure enough, I pass by and one of the guys steps out and says,

"Hey there, Big Girl-"

"Fuck you."

Now, I have never responded to someone I don't know in such a manner. However, the rules of this world definitely imply, and he ought to know, that he has no right to talk to a single female walking down the street at that time of night. I'm in self-preservation mode. I'm going to tell him to fuck off.

"I see you've got your determined walk"

"Yep"

It felt damn good to respond with a bit of fire, I have to say. Damn Empowering.

I made it home, finished some computer things, and went to sleep. This place is beginning to feel like home.


Currently Reading: Male and Female

Accomplishments

During the past few days I have done the following:

-Scrubbed grime that I assume has been living on my kitchen walls since the Reagan Administration

-Listened to at least 10 episodes of This American Life (the radio show)

-Watched 4 episodes of This American Life (the tv show)

-Downloaded 8 songs by Ladytron

-Removed all traces of cigarette refuse and sludge from my room

-Eaten spaghetti with plain tomato sauce every day at least once

-Eaten rice and beans/lentils for the other meal of the day

-Eaten Eggplant Parmigiana (this was free from school)

-Begun decorating my room with Queer Propaganda

-Crafted a makeshift table in my bedroom using the following: Two empty wooden crates, Two half-used paint cans, One striped box, One plywood board, One tapestry-like piece of material

-Put my Tibetan Prayer Flags up

-Met 2 MSM students from Grand Rapids

-Met 60 Billion Grad students who are younger than me

-Met 2 Undergrad students my age

-Gone to the pub with colleagues

-Gone on a cruise around the island of Manhattan (paid for by my school)

-Lost an unknown amount of weight due to sweating

-Discovered the following on my street: French Bakery, Indian/Pakistani/Bangladeshi Take-out, Mexican Take-out, Chinese Take-out, Southern Restaurant, Burger Restaurant, Two Delis, Fried Chicken Take-out, Cafe, Creperie (if I ever have money, I might get to try some)

-Made Coffee at home using the following: a Saucepan, a Small Sieve, and a Piece of Paper Towel

-Discovered that I am taking 18 credits this semester, which is apparently normal at this school. This does not count a couple of no-credit requirements.

-Considered writing an email 67 times, only to write it and send it to someone else

-Applied for work-study at school library

-Bounced continuously back and forth between ecstasy and terror at my present situation

I am very, very tired.

For your viewing pleasure:

View of Bedroom from under loft

View of Loft from doorway

On the School Cruise under the Brooklyn Bridge

This American Life is Sustaining Me

I just finished the third coat of paint on two of my bedroom walls. Red. As in a fiery maple leaf, or a delicious tomato, or. . . ketchup? The cheap kind, not the deep maroon of heintz or hunts, but with an almost orange hue akin to ball park condiments. You might ask what color I chose for the other two walls-

. . .


Yellow.


My room might appear to have been decorated with kitchen sauces by the time I'm done. At least it won't smell like said deliciousness. Mmm. . . vinegar. . . salt. . . smells that last.

Which leads me to the thought of the smell in my apartment building's hall. Putrid seems an accurate term. Let me preface this by explaining that New York has been rather warm since I arrived Monday. Yesterday the fire hydrants in my neighborhood had been turned on, an action I'd seen in movies but doubted happening in the course of normal life. At around 90 degrees in a large city, though, I suppose one does what one must to detract from the oven like sensation that clings to everything.

Ovens are delightful when they're put to good use. They bake delicious things, creating a waft of tantalizing scents, tempting one to hang about and steal a wayward cookie. The hallway of my apartment building is not baking cookies.

The smell is somewhat akin to a combination of ashtray and greasy potatoes. I'm not sure if you have ever noticed the difference between cigarette smoke and an ashtray, but let me assure you that the difference is vast and the ashtray wins the award for most obscene.

Climbing three flights of stairs in the midst of such delightful company is not particularly comforting. Or welcoming. I'm sure that this experience will fade as the following things happen: (1). The weather becomes less kiln-inducing, (2). The follicles in my nose die a little from having lived in a large, smelly city, (3). I become so used to living here that I associate the smell of baking garbage with homecoming, (4). I acquire an actual room to live in so that coming home is a happy and relaxing event and thus don't mind trudging through disgusting odors to visit my oasis.

With regards to (4), I must explain that I have a room, but it is in all sorts of disarray. I am not living in my room, but rather in my roommate's room. It's sort of like camping out in a closet. There's nowhere to sit and hide on the internet (I'm writing this on the floor. My butt has gone numb). There's nowhere to lie down and watch a movie.

None of these things are the end of the world, but for someone who relies on a solid sense of home, who has been without her own stable, personal space for more than 2 months, and who is in the midst of a stressful transition, this is incredibly frustrating. All I want at this moment is to have a comfortable refuge from the difficulty of finding my way in a foreign world.

I mean, I don't even know where to get a good cup of coffee. I have to go exploring, discover new lands and new comfort zones just to find a caffeine fix. Which is fantastic- adventures are exactly what I wanted. However, I have to do the same thing when I get 'home'. There's no marginal space for me to feel at ease or at peace or comfortable. My surroundings are not very supportive.

Inner Peace, babe. It's a struggle.

I know that this will all pass. I know it's part of the big experience of moving and being 24 and trying to make sense of this world. I know in my head that this will get better. But in my gut, I can't help but feel a little twinge, wondering if this risk, this GIGANTIC risk, was worth it.

I think about the story my grama told me about the time she tried to move to New York. She got off the train and looked around, which was precisely when she realized that she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't have a job, or a place to stay, or friends. Her response? Run home. She stayed the night with friends of her mother, and then took a train home.

When my grama told me this story, I gave her a patronizing look. I attempted to be considerate and understanding, but inside all I could think was how stupid and weak she must have been. Why would she try to move to New York without making plans? Why wouldn't she stay?

The truth is this: I have made a LOT of plans in preparation for this venture. And though I have a place to stay, I am still unsure if things will work out. For the first time I understand my grama's decision to return home without a fight. In fact, I almost envy her the ability to admit defeat. Not that I have been defeated yet, as it's far too early to tell that, but I don't feel particularly fierce.

People have been telling me all summer 'how brave' I must be for doing what I'm doing. I've accepted their words, and scoffed inside, just a bit. Well, maybe a lot. Brave?? I'm not brave! It's not as though I had a choice to be sheepish. What else am I to do? This is just where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do. It made sense.

But last night as I took a break from painting my room to go downstairs to the DingDong Lounge (I live above a bar. Sweet.) and have a pint, I realized just how scary this venture is. I could have stayed in San Francisco, where I know my way around, where all the great coffee is, and when free museum days are. I could have stayed in Grand Rapids, where my closest of friends live. Where my heart still beats outside my chest. Where I could probably finaggle a job out of friends and relatives. But I left.

And here I have no cushion. No financial cushion. No real social cushion. This is a big risk. I sat at the bar and drank my Brooklyn Lager and didn't talk to anyone. The act of sitting there, present with my fears, stepping outside of my door to challenge those fears, was enough for that moment.

Halfway through my beer a torrential downpour began. I watched as outside the trees were whipped about and rain fell in great glops. And though it's silly and selfish, I felt as though the rain was for me.

Somehow it made me feel safe.

Loneliness Vs. Alone

I spent last night very alone.

Now before you jump to any conclusions about the emo-centric possibilities of this post, give me a minute to explain. I was not lonely, I was absolutely alone.

At any rate, walking about on one's own at 3 in the morning allows plenty of time to ponder questions of existence. I found myself examining my solitude. I felt as though I were contemplating the edge of a very large pool of despair. I didn't want to dive into bitterness or cynicism or depression. I didn't even feel lonely, but I felt this great pull towards self-pity and emotional drama.

I was tired (ok, exhausted) and I'd been drinking, and I didn't have a place to stay for the night. I was alone, the stars were shining beautifully, everything was just as it ought to be, and I had a perfectly good backseat to sleep on when I arrived at my car. When I finally quieted the voices urging me toward the extremities of human emotion, I realized that I felt rather peaceful.

Then I worried that something might be wrong with me. I mean, culture (especially pop culture) is pretty clear about what being alone is all about. And in case you missed the memo, being at peace with oneself is not the point.

Being alone is in many ways an exercise in vulnerability, which is a devastatingly difficult state to find oneself in. The act of accepting one's own powerlessness in a situation, or acknowledging one's alone-ness, requires a certain level of honesty about how little one can control the circumstances of the universe.

The act of being alone in the middle of a difficult time makes a fierce statement, and it's one I'd really prefer not make as often as I do. Turns out, though, that the experience of being alone has such merit and is so-laden with perspective and growth that I must trudge time and again to the precipice of loneliness and peer in (either that or I've been too slow to learn the first bajillion times). I must again and again find that regardless of the number of friends I acquire, alliances I make, or promises I gather, there will always be a time when I have to stand on my own and breathe deeply without the solidarity of a best friend next to me.

To be clear, I really don't feel bitter about this. I'm not looking for pity or promises about 'the next time [I] feel that way'. Though I fully advocate building close friendships and calling on the strength of those friendships when times require it of you (I could not function in this world without them), I do believe that being alone, even within community, is still a primal part of the human experience. It doesn't matter how many friends you draw close about you, there will always come a time when the presence of others is neither enough nor appropriate. When it is time for me to be truly alone in the midst of trying times, I feel a wavering: should I sink into the fear of loneliness or maintain integrity? There is a panicked desperation in the attempt to stave off loneliness and this alone could force me into a catatonic curl. Do I give in and willingly plunge head first into a self-induced pity-party?

Or do I simply accept the alone-ness as it is presented to me? Being alone is not, in point of fact, that scary. I'm still me, the stars still rotate slowly across the night sky, and my true friends will still be there in the morning even if they're not present for the night. To look loneliness in the face and respond with acceptance is a defiant act, in my opinion.

Being alone is supposed to be the worst imaginable fate, but when you strip away the expectations of it, it isn't. I think the most terrible thing about being alone is how scared and overwhelmed we are by it and how we let those fears debilitate and control us. We have built a definition of being alone during tough times that necessarily implies abjection, and I utterly disagree with this definition. I think being alone is an absolutely healthy part of life.

And just to be clear, I'm not talking about being alone when you need to study or you need a break after work. I think most people would agree that such expressions are natural and healthy. I'm speaking to the alone time that we all desperately need to cope during times of stress or growth. During these times you're supposed to be continually surrounded by your partner, friends, and family. Which is not to say that you shouldn't lean on them during those times. But it should be acceptable to be without those people for a time as well.

All I'm saying is that being alone is not always the big scary monster I was taught it is.

Currently Reading: Cunt

Internalized Misogyny

I have spent far too much time removed from the company of mid-west middle-aged women in the last few years. In no way do I mean that I ought to fully immerse myself in that culture, but rather that my tolerance, my immunity to such prattle, is far below the standards required for prolonged social encounters.

I want to be clear: I am not referring to every middle-aged woman living in the mid-west. I am referring to a very specific set of creatures that I have encountered in abundance during my recent and extended experiences in the mid-west. They have all happened with women of a certain age (middle), with a certain family situation (in a heterosexual marriage with somewhat-grown children), and some sort of job (varies from part-time to full and from unskilled to highly degreed). For these reasons I have lumped together a group in my mind, though to be fair, this group is not exclusive and could include any variety of self-hating people from anywhere.

I have had lunch with a group of these women all week, and the number of times we have discussed dieting makes me want to rush out and buy all of them a copy of Kate Harding’s Lessons from the Fatosphere. If I weren’t absolutely broke (and absolutely a chicken) then I might do just that. Instead, I made a few unnoticed comments about eating what one wanted in balance and left the rest of the conversation to those who preferred its repetitive tracks.

I felt supremely uncomfortable in these conversations. Uncomfortable and quite agitated. In the most recent years of my life I have cultivated my group of friends and urban family rather specifically. I have surrounded myself (and been surrounded by) those who seek to be at peace with themselves- their bodies, their emotions, their place in the world. I have grown so accustomed to the concepts of Fat Acceptance, Self-Love, Feminism, Trans-Alliances, and general acceptance that it is jarring to sit like a sponge in their blatant self-hatred.

Is self-hatred too harsh a term? Perhaps it sounds a bit sharp on the tongue, or maybe it sounds self-righteous. It’s easy to fall into a self-righteous dynamic in these situations, and though I can’t claim complete innocence of that particular quality, I’d like to ignore it for this moment, because the issues at root here are bigger than my predilection toward pretension.

What these women do to themselves on a daily basis is a slow but potent form of self hatred. I remember what it was like when I was on a perpetual diet. The constancy of my self-dissatisfaction and self-shaming along with my utter lack of balance and nutrition were the only things constant about those behaviors. So much of my energy was sapped by my blatant inability to love myself for all of me, to accept my thighs and my stomach and the wrinkles that developed as a result of my fleshy curves. I am appalled when I think of all the things I could have accomplished with that lost energy (literally years robbed by shame) I am deeply saddened and angered. And those feelings are inexpressibly magnified when I consider the collective creative and intellectual prowess that is being spent on belly-shame. There is no question that this self-hatred, a perpetual and derisive self-hatred.

It doesn’t end with the dieting, either. After lunch one day one of the above women was talking to her husband on the phone in front of me. The end of the conversation was annoying to her. It seemed to me that her husband was expressing some insecurity, and when the call ended, she shook her head and said to me, “He’s worse than a woman.”

She made this statement with such general disgust. I was mortified. I have since been told that “worse than a woman” is a saying that plenty of women use as a description often enough, but I could not recollect its ever having been used around me. Think about the implications of a woman describing a man as “worse than a woman”. Does that mean that men are, by definition, better than women? That her annoyance was the result of her husband’s departure from the status quo? That it is unacceptable for a man to reach so low as to be worse than a woman?

Does she realize that she is a woman, and that by invoking such a misogynistic phrase she is putting herself down? Or does she see herself as an individual and not part of the group ‘women’, so that her condemnation of femininity is not as potent a form of self-hatred? I don’t know, and I doubt that she’s ever stopped to question that colloquialism.

Of course at the root of such a statement is the basis of sexism and one of the greatest disservices our culture does us. This statement further defines and separates the concepts of man and woman. Two separate entities, they are, with the ability to be ranked (man always above woman, with all the associations of the ever-cliché missionary position). I would even say there is a cultural obligation to rank them. Male and Female, so definitively different. To be male is Supremely Superior, but to be a male who traverses the definite lines of separation is abominable. No man can express the feminine and continue to be better than the feminine. We must uphold our system of superiority!!

What a corrosive concept to perpetuate. It seeps into everything in our culture until you don’t even realize what you’re saying. Until you find yourself berating your male sons for crying over a scraped knee. Or giving your teenaged daughter a talking to about how ‘nice girls’ don’t talk like that. Or you start putting your husband down by saying that he is worse than a woman.

Women are bad because they have no choice but to express their femininity(?), but a man, a Supremely Superior being, who indulges in expressing parts of his femininity is by far worse. After all, he has a choice, right? Supposedly to choose to embrace a male's femininity is just plain stupid and shameful. This is the lesson we are taught so deftly that we can not even distinguish the moment it begins.

This type of thinking is always subconscious, which is why it is so insidious. It infects so rapidly, because we spread the contagions without ever thinking about it. I don’t know how to engage this woman in an examination of internalized misogyny. I don’t even think it’s my place to do so. I can only be present, live my life as it is, take whatever lesson I’m supposed to absorb and pass it along.

And perhaps next time I will feel a little braver. Perhaps I will ask what she means when she says that her husband is worse than a woman.

Greetings

I hate the immensity of starting a new blog. There is a distinct lack of parameters, and this limitlessness constricts me much more than I'd like to admit. I've been thinking about beginning this blog (yes, another one) for a while. And though I've proclaimed that the reason I haven't is that I've surpassed my need for indecent emotional exposure, the truth is that I haven't begun because I haven't thought of anything sufficiently brilliant to post about. By sufficiently brilliant I mean by the standards of my perfectionist brain, which require that a first blog post at the very least end the Palestinian/Israeli conflict.

Ahem. My solution, therefore, is to create the illusion of continuity. So I'm about to re-post older blog entries from other sources. Then this page won't feel so lonely, and I'll feel less pressure to have created something already, damn it.

Cheers.

Currently Reading: Ship Sooner
(I also would like to keep somewhat of an ongoing record of what I've read, so please indulge my current reading endeavors)