Street Harassment

I don't make eye contact with people I don't know. At least, I try really hard not to. About a month and a half ago, I was at a club/bar with two friends of mine, accidentally met eyes with a guy as I scanned the crowd, and then looked away. I was drunk, and didn't quite realize what was happening when he took hold of my arm and started pulling me toward the exit. I couldn't pull myself out of his grip. Nor could my friends hear me when I cried out, owing to the fact that the band we were there to see was playing. I managed to whack at my sober friend's arm, who had the presence of mind to grab me. What ensued was a short tug of war, and that ended with my head slamming into the bar and my friend's victory. That, in short, is why I tend not to make eye contact with people I don't know.

I stopped making eye contact with people when I started realizing that eye contact initiated comments. I realized that the same tactic my father taught me when I was little of not making contact with pamphleteers and crazy people worked, about 50% of the time, for men. Normally, men don't try to grab me and cart me away when eye contact occurs (though the bar scene wasn't the first time that has happened, and it probably won't be the last); but the comments eye contact started to elicit when I was about 12 haven't exactly been pleasant.

Twelve was how old I was the first time I was cat called. I remember it vividly. I was walking downtown to the library to drop off some books and pick up some new ones. I was walking past the soft serve ice cream shop, and a guy in a pick up truck asked if I wanted to suck his dick. I really didn't.

I also didn't go anywhere alone again that summer. If I wanted to go to the library, I bribed one of my friends into walking with me or I waited until someone could drive me. The next summer, I biked more. But that didn't stop passersby from honking or shouting at me, and I still preferred to go places in tandem.

Going somewhere with someone else, by the way, doesn't stop street harassment. My walking/biking companion didn't stop the honks, the shouts, the "hey baby"s, the requests that I sit on, suck, lick, "take", fuck, etc. guys' dicks. What it did do was provide another warrior. It allowed for a better sense of bravado. It took away some of the vulnerability.

Just this weekend, I was Hey Baby'd while I was out with a friend. On the scale of cat calling, this was admittedly low. However, my friend was seemingly horrified, and said the guy was creepy. "No", I corrected him. "That guy's a creep. He's not creepy."

I've dealt with creepy. Creepy doesn't shout "Hey, baby" from 5 feet away. Creepy is the security systems guy who gave me a slow thrice over and then leaned way in to ask my chest if I was the new secretary. Creepy is the old man who asked me to teach him how to dance, and who, after I refused, continued to come around to dance with me and my friends, and then leaned in to tell me that I looked sad and should try to smile more. Creepy is the guy at the bar who grabbed me. Creepy is the guy who pulled me around the video store when I was 14, talking to me about his ex-girlfriend and trying to get me further and further to the back of the store (in that instance, I nearly garroted my best friend with her hoodie in my insistence she not leave me alone with Creepy 20-Something). Creepy is the guys who come up to me and make sexual comments when I'm trying to pump my gas.

When I first heard of Rape Culture, probably early on in college, I was put off. "I'm not one of those feminists", I thought. "That kind of thing is what gives feminism a bad name." But more and more, it occurs to me that the changes I make in my behavior in order to not be cat called, to not be subjected to dehumanizing harassment, is a product of a culture that does make it so men can ask 12 year olds, jokingly or not, to suck their dicks.

It means I try not to wear skirts if I know I need to get gas. It means I try to get the pump closest to the convenience store when I do get gas, and that I try to get fill up my tank in the morning before work rather than in the evening after work. It means that I don't make eye contact with people, and don't go out alone very much. It means that I've developed a 'radar' for 'sussing out who is creepy and who is just a creep. Admittedly, as evidenced by Bar Guy, the radar is more of a coping mechanism than any true method of discerning who may be an actual threat and who isn't.

I'm lucky in that I haven't been subject to anything worse than street harassment. I'm lucky that, aside from the odd grope, my physical person has never been truly violated. But that doesn't meant that street harassment isn't a Big Problem. For me, and for others.

Probably the worst thing about it is the fact that it is so prevalent I don't truly notice the minor stuff anymore. Stuff that would have freaked out 12 year old me now doesn't make a dent unless someone else points it out - like the "Hey baby". Without my friend being there and reacting -reacting the way I used to react, the way I wish I would still be able to react - I probably wouldn't have acknowledged it. It would have just flown right over my head, and it wouldn't have sparked this post. I've become desensitized to it; I've become desensitized to the fact that men - not all of them, but more than enough of them - think that I'm in some way public property; that as public property, I can be commented on and touched. And I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be desensitized to it, and I certainly shouldn't be subjected to 'hey baby' or anything else. Because, hey, it does lend to an atmosphere of fear. It does lend to the feeling that the public sphere is still not a safe place for women - for me. It does lend to feeling humiliated, feeling small, and feeling vulnerable.

There have been times I've been tempted to yell back, to do something - anything. But I stop. Because the last thing I want is an angry man on my hands who can actually take things further than a "Wanna take a ride on my dick?", who can actually, you know, press the dick-riding issue. And that just adds to everything else, because it creates a feeling of impotency, along with an actual need for someone else to be there in that space with you, to bear witness to the attack (verbal, physical) and to offer a bit more security against a possible escalation. What street harassment does, aside from leaving me off-balance, is to threaten my very autonomy. So.

I don't make eye contact with strangers. I wear sunglasses. Like, all the time. I travel in twos or more. I don't wear skirts often if I'm out alone. I wear shoes I can run in if I'm out alone. I drive places I could easily walk to. Street harassment slowly steals from me my ability to fully be me, in public. And that's why street harassment, catcalling, whatever, is not a compliment.

Related readings:

Walking As Rebellion?

Walking As Rebellion? A Follow Up

catcalled

HollaBack Connecticut

Seriously, aren't we over catcalling yet?

How Was Your Day?

Me? I went tumbling down the flight of stairs between floors 5 and 4 in my parking garage first thing this morning.

An unusual method of transportation to be sure, though surprisingly effective - and exciting!

Even so, for the next 3 flights, I decided upon the more conventionally boring elevator, cuz walking was just not happening. And you know what? It seems to be just as speedy, if less adrenaline inducing. The plus side, though, is there seems to be less of a chance for serious injury. Or even minor injury, like the bruising and scrapes and cuts I obtained.

No wonder people wait the extra few minutes and just arrive late...

A Few (Somewhat) Random Thoughts

My commute to and from work is north to south in the morning (and thus south to north in the evening) and, on a good day, about forty-five minutes. Some days it is closer to fifty-five, and on iffy days it is closer to an hour. Given that, I spend a lot of time on Connecticut roadways. And what I can tell you, having spent that time on the roads, is this: 

People in southern Connecticut need to learn how to drive in inclement weather. People in northerner Connecticut need to learn how to drive more cautiously in inclement weather.

Why? Well, today's afternoon forecast was a wintery mix. In southern Connecticut, where I work, that meant flurries in the sky that dissolved before hitting the ground. It was in the upper 30s and the sun was still out, meaning there was nothing but the barest hint of wetness on the ground. There wasn't even any slush. And yet... the top speed until I hit the line of accumulation demarcation was about 20 miles per hour. It was like these drivers had never seen snow flakes before, like they were terrified that somehow the snowflakes, if hit too fast, would severely damage their cars. It was, in a word, hell. Meanwhile, after I passed that lovely line of demarcation, after the sun had set because it took an hour to get there when it normally takes 20 minutes, the slowest the cars around me were willing to go was 60 mph. And because snow started gathering before it did in the south, there was actual snow and ice on the ground and the wintery conditions were actually fairly dangerous. That was clearly the time meant for speeding.

Along the way, though, I learned a few things.

One of those was that I love the duet of "As Long As The Grass Shall Grow" sung by Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash. This is a reworking of the song written and performed to protest the treatment of the Native Americans, and it takes almost nothing from the original except the melody and a bit of the chorus. According to a guy who was not Bob Boilen on All Songs Considered (I think it may have been Stephen Thompson), Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash recorded this version of the song about a year before they both died. It is absolutely beautiful, a truly wonderful love song. This may be because it fits right into the musical styling I love, but I also think there is something to the lyrics. This is a song that deftly fits the Cashs' history; and unlike many love songs that highlight the beginnings of love, this one celebrates a robust and aged love - a love that is still strong even though its participants are nearing their twilight and the love shared between them has spanned the decades. I highly recommend listening to it; it's the third one down in the list of songs featured on the Lesser Known Love Songs list.

Fourth on the Lesser Known Love Songs list is one by Betty Davis. Not the actress Betty Davis, the one whose eyes were immortalized in the Kim Carnes song. This one:

Called "Anti Love Song", Carrie Brownstein on All Songs sums it up when she says, "The lyrics represent a total reluctance and resistance, but the way Betty Davis sings it conveys this undeniability and an understanding that she's going to give in to this very, very soon... ...It's slightly libidinous." 

It is very, very hot. And while there is a bit of that "I don't want to give in and yet I will, what is also there is this power, this recognition that as much as she is going to give in to this love and this libidinous experience, so will he. Because she's that good. And there's about 5 different ways that's awesome.

Then there was a revelation on Bill Moyers' program The Journal. Like many of the programs I wish I actually watched, I generally catch Bill via podcast and so sometimes it is a while before I get around to listening to him. In honor of Lincoln's birthday, Lincoln was the topic. And the guy who wrote one of my history texts for my college Civil War class, Eric Foner, was one of the guests. His postulation, that progressives of the early 20th century

"saw Lincoln as, you might say to go back another couple of generations, a combination of Jefferson and Hamilton at the same time. In other words, Lincoln is a man who believes in Jeffersonian ideals and equality, of democracy, of the government by the people. He's not an elitist in the way of Hamilton, who wanted a monarchy basically. On the other hand, he believes in a powerful government, like Hamilton did and Jefferson did not. He believes the government can be an agent of social change and social reform and improvement."

Lincoln, a combination of two of my favorite revolutionary/post-revolutionary figures!

The last thought is that there are some truly gifted poets out there, and Bill Moyers presented me with one I have not heard before. Nikki Giovanni seems like one of the coolest people to have ever lived. Just listening to her speak on The Journal was like listening to a free form poem. She was entrancing and funny and witty and brilliant. One of my favorite moments was when she said,

"I've always been amazed that you can break up with somebody, and somebody will say to you, 'Well, if you leave me I'm going to kill you.' Now, logic says, if I'm dead, you still don't get me."

I also loved when she said,

"girls are always sitting around listening to stupid things that boys say. And girls, you know, half the games girls play, Little Sally Walker, what is she doing? She's rising to the east, looking for the one she loves the best. What did - what's her name? - Snow White. And she's going to go to sleep until "one day my prince will come". You get sick of that. You got a girl who can spin flax into gold, and her father, "The Miller's Tale", which became "Rumpelstitskin", her father then takes her up to the prince to say, "You should marry my daughter. She can spin flax into gold." What does she need with him? If I can spin flax into gold I would - I mean, she didn't need the prince."

My favorite line, though, was this:

"life is a good idea."

And to end this, the first poem I heard by her on The Journal:

"Bicycles"

Midnight poems are bicycles

Taking us on safer journeys

Than jets

Quicker journeys

Than walking

But never as beautiful

A journey

As my back

Touching you under the quilt

Midnight poems

Sing a sweet song

Saying everything

Is all right

Everything

Is

Here for us

I reach out

To catch the laughter

The dog thinks

I need a kiss

Bicycles move

With the flow

Of the earth

Like a cloud

So quiet

In the October sky

Like licking ice cream

From a cone

Like knowing you

Will always

Be there

All day long I wait

For the sunset

The first star

The moon rise

I move

To a midnight

Poem

Called

You

Propping

Against

The dangers

Crazy Internet!

Posting will probably be scarce in the next few days, due to the fact that I'm attending a UConn Women's College Basketball game tonight and the fact that my internet has decided to wonk out randomly after only a couple of minutes of workability. Sorry!

They Cancelled My Frikkin' Show (Or, An Ode To The Piemaker)

"Two roads diverge in a wood, and I took the road less traveled by and they CANCELLED MY FRIKKIN' SHOW. I totally shoulda took the road that had all those people on it. Damn." - Joss Whedon

I think that is the best eulogy for shows that fall beyond the perimeters of normal television, and then suffer the blow of cancellation. Sure, there are plenty of shows that fall directly within those parameters and are also cancelled. But there is less heartbreak and less sorrow, because as much as a person may have liked that one Law & Order that bit the dust, there are three others still on the air, along with a wide array of CSIs and other procedural shows as well. I mourn the shows that take the road less traveled by, the shows that have some quirk, that are cutesy, that are bright and bold; those shows that qualify for the "Best Show On TV You're Not Watching" cover of TV Guide - if they even still do that any more. Many of the shows I fall in love with are in this camp; though oddly enough, not the show Joss Whedon was talking about, which was Angel: the Series and which ran for 5 seasons. That is much longer than what Sports Night got, what Firefly got, and what Pushing Daisies will ultimately get. Yes, they cancelled my frikkin' show. And more than part of the reason is because it took the road less travelled by.

The myriad of ways Pushing Daisies took the road less travelled by is really quite huge. Even with the handy narrator (who could be a dirt road all his own, especially since he was a Pooh Bear narrator and not a Desperate Housewives narrator), the show is hard to follow. The twists and turns and intricacies of the plot are numerous, and the show moves along at a breakneck pace. For those who miss one week, the secondary tension between two characters will have been completely changed, because they were adults about it and actually talked it out. The primary tension[s] of the show really rarely change between each set of characters, since they deal with the unlikely gift of being able to bring back people from the dead and the fact that particular gift along one of the people who most recently benefited from said gift are secrets kept from the majority of the cast.

Then there is the language the show uses, and the rhythm of the dialogue. Language is one of those joys in life for me. I love almost anything written well. I'm working my way (slowly but surely) through Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections right now, and I hate a majority of the characters; the thing that compels me to read is the fact that it is just so well written. The words and sentences carry the reader along, until a promise to read only a chapter is broken numerous times. The show is like that in terms of language, though it has a one up (or a 6-up) on The Corrections in that it actually has likable - even lovable - characters. I recently got the first season DVDs of Pushing Daisies, and I am torn between a need to pop in the next disk right away, and drawing out the experience in order to best savor the 22 episodes I'm ultimately going to get. There are wonderful lines like, "Now where'd I put that rat's ass I could give?" And at the end of every episode, I can remember delighting in any number of lines, but the amount of them and the speed at which they are delivered makes it infinitely difficult to remember them all.

The other road incredibly sparsely travelled is the very idea for the show. A guy who can wake the dead and who spends his days making pies of everlasting fruit. That doesn't seem like a premise that will automatically draw the crowds in, no matter how cute Lee Pace is. The premise is even more out there, I think, than cowboys in space or behind the scenes at a sports show. The joys of breaking away from the pack is that your creation is unique and stands out amongst all others. The problem with breaking away from the pack is that people do like that well travelled road. And not always for reasons one would suspect. I myself wondered if I should keep watching Pushing Daisies, not because I didn't want to enjoy its wonderment any longer but because I wanted to break up with it before the networks could make it break up with me. It is a lonely thing to become emotionally invested in a piece of entertainment and then have it leave you suddenly - and apparently on a cliffhanger (damn you, Bryan Fuller!). One of the reasons to stay with a tried and true formula is that there is no moment when you resent Knight Rider, deeply, and its fans because it has survived to live another day when your show has not. There is no moment when you deride those fans because they chose to watch a silly show about a talking car, whereas you decided to watch a show about a guy who touches dead things and makes them alive again - which could in no way be considered silly. There is no moment when you wonder why, with all of the faults and problems and stupidity (not that I've ever actually seen Knight Rider) of that other show, why did it and its relationship with its fans survive while your show - your perfect, beautiful, shiny, bright, and exquisitely costumed show - is no more.

Alas, that is the trouble of taking the road less traveled by. It makes you an old and embittered television watcher far before your time.

Jessica Valenti At Ramapo College

Due to an unfortunate confluence of events, such as graduating two years ago and finally getting a job that I want to keep (or, at the very least, don't want to lose) as well as having taken off early on friday in order to get to a concert (sorry, boss!), I will not be seeing Jessica Valenti speaking at my old alma mater. Ramapo College of New Jersey's Women's Center is hosting Jessica Valenti from 1 to 3 today, in Friends Hall. If you live in the area and do not fear being let go, please enjoy what I cannot. I'm going to be weeping in my pretzels during that period of time.

Weekend

After a weekend that vacillated from the truly horribly depressing and pretty okay, I'm thinking this story is right what I need: a dog who risked his life to save some kittens. Aw. Good dog!

Time Hurries On

For a while now, a certain Simon and Garfunkel song has been playing endlessly in my head. "Leaves That Are Green" is the song, and it is due to mostly to one lyric:

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song

I'm twenty-two now, but I won't be for long

Time hurries on

And the leaves that are green turn to brown

Here's a video of it:

As sad and melancholy as this song is, as my birthday approaches and as I won't be 22 for long, the song takes on more meaning. It is in one of the last lines of the song: "That's all there is". This is all there is, and hopefully next year I'll find a cheerier song to transition from 23 to 24 with.

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

So, I haven't written something I would consider a real, substantial blog post in about a week due to the sucky job I have found myself and that takes up a lot of my energy and even more of those things necessary to write a good blog post like my self-confidence, my passion, my attention to the outside world, and my obsessive need to research the hell out of something before actually writing about it. Jay Smooth describes the whole thing well, so I'm just going to post his little hater video for now, take some advil, and try to formulate actual and understandable thoughts about my feelings relating to the world. I do have some insight about why a lot of people vote against what would seemingly be their own self-interests though, and that is because after doing mind-numbing work all day, the mind truly is numb and doesn't actually want to do things like seek out the complex issues and really consider and compare reasons for voting for or against each candidate along with the work of really figuring out where one really and firmly stands on any of those issues any way. So it becomes so much easier to allow the talking heads and the cult of personality and identity politics to take over and make a decision that should be a more rational, deliberate, and substantial reaction to the whole voting thing. I'm also going to say that I've been bad in the last couple of days by first accidentally drinking a soda (wow did I get dizzy fast!), and then had some of that alcoholic beverage thing, which also hurts that "posting something of substance" agenda (hence the advil). Now that I'm done with my naval gazing, I'm going to let Jay Smooth do his thing -because I love him:

Yes, I'm Cute; Now Shut UP

So, new job. Creepy guy. And of course, my "creep magnet" is always on, so the creepy guy is not only the person who trains me but also takes a big liking to me -even though I made sure I gave him the death glare and allowed him to catch a glance the book I was reading (that being "The Beauty Myth") as I blocked myself from his view with it. One would think that would have been enough to get him to back the hell off. But no. Like most creeps, a violation of personal space was a must -as was this: he called me "cute". After staring at me long enough to make my skin crawl. So, here's the deal. I understand we live in a culture that bases women first and foremost (and sometimes solely) on their looks. I understand that a lot of men feel free to comment on strange women's looks. But get this: don't. Seriously. There are very few times in my life when I want a strange guy walking up to me and telling me that I'm cute. Because almost from right there, I know that you're not really a guy I want to know. One, you've decided to talk to me based solely on physical appearance and then told me that straight out. I understand we decide who to talk to a lot of the time on proximity and appearance -and we choose to talk to people we are in some way (though not always sexually) attracted to. You know what works better than "you're cute" though? Almost anything else. What can a person really say to "you're cute"? "You can thank the randomness of my genetic code"? "Talk to my parents"? "Fuck off, you asswipe"? Two, a guy who feels "confident" enough to pass judgement out loud about a woman's physical appearance is almost always a guy who seems to feel like he deserves some kind of physical reciprocation for the compliment. Which, no.

So, some ground rules. Talking to someone you find vaguely (or really) attractive about something else -the clothing, the book, the weather, the traffic, dogs, cats, balloons, music, etc- will probably elicit a much more productive response -and as an added benefit, it doesn't make you look like a giant asshole. Also, quick glances are a fine thing, but long stare-downs are the opposite of good. Those looks are rude, intimidating, and have more to do with the "right" to stare at a woman than any compliment. And if the woman in question doesn't seem interested in talking to you, acknowledge her right to be left alone.

Because I don't want to be judged based primarily on my cuteness, partially because that will some day fade and I would rather be judged for something more substantial than fleeting access to attention and praise. But also because I don't care if some random guy finds me attractive. I'm not on this earth to be eye-candy to some jackass, and neither are any other women walking the street. And I should have the right to exist in a space -in a work space, on a street, in a subway, in a restaurant, in a store- without being harassed. Because that is what the "you're cute" is. It is harassment, because I didn't invite the comment, and those comments are made out of the mistaken belief that I should grant my time to any guy who comes my way and deigns to offer his opinion of my physical appearance. So for all the guys out there who think you're delivering compliments to the random girls you find cute? Most likely, you're not. And I'm tired of coming home and feeling beaten up and bloody because I have to fend off men who believe they are entitled to my time, my attention, and my gratitude. So the next time a guy I don't know "compliments" me by telling me that I'm cute, I'm sexy, I'm hot, I'm good enough to take home, whatever it is that day, he is getting my knee to his groin. Because I have had it up to my eyeballs with the kind of "compliment" that makes me feel like I'm just some sort of blow up doll and not a real person. So, yes. I'm cute. I had the wonderful fortune of having good genes in terms of getting a physical appearance that is now culturally acceptable. Now, shut up and leave me alone until you have something of substance to discuss.

The New Set Up

So, I figured I'd better explain the new set up of the page. Well, for one, I've set up a handy poll to gage reader response to the new look. Please vote.

And two, I loved my old page. It kind of felt like it fit the name, Art at the Auction. But something changed, recently. The names of the blogs in the blog roll used to be bigger, and in a different color, than the most recent post highlighted underneath. I have those blogs up there first and foremost for my own convenience (I'm selfish like that), and the change to the format both irritated me and made my eyes hurt. And so I began poking around for a new page. This is the one I settled on, for a couple of reasons. One, it is stark, so it isn't like I'll grow attached to it if they ever fix my problem with the old layout or if I find a great new layout. 

Two, I like the stretch of the writing. The little column I used to have made me worry about how much I was writing, if people would even bother to read it. I've read articles that detail how large blocks of text and forcing the reader to scroll down the page limits on-line readership. Apparently the way to keep people is by not writing very much, adding bullet points, bolding some text, and adding some hyperlinks. But at that point it is less like writing and more like just impersonally throwing up facts on a blank wall and seeing what sticks. And that isn't really what writing is about. Maybe I'm a writing luddite, but I like books. I like articles that explore the writer's ideas -especially on blogs- and I like turns of phrases. I like authors more than subjects. I like subjects too; but one of the things I learned in college is that a great professor, someone who truly knows how to engage students and impart information, is much better to take than an interesting-sounding class. Sometimes the two overlap. Existentialism with one of my favorite professors was a home run. But sometimes the two don't, and taking Chekhov's Plays with a bad professor was so much less enjoyable than taking O'Neill and Williams with a good professor -even though I hate Tennessee Williams. So, I wanted a blog to both impart information and articles that I found interesting and also to give -sometimes righteously angrily, sometimes wittily, sometimes bemusedly, sometimes hopefully- my take on said information.

So, please, vote in the poll. And if you have some time on your hands and want to help (or just really hate the new layout), scout out new layouts for me that I may have missed because I was underwhelmed at the selection I beheld.

Sugar Makes Me Sleepy

In an ironic twist, all of the sugar I've been consuming to help me stay awake has instead been the cause of my problems. Apparently, I have hypoglycemia. This explains so much!

It also, unfortunately, limits the amount of sugar I can eat. Like, none. No sugar in the iced tea, no ice cream, no cookies... Life has taken a slightly less sweet and savory turn and I just don't know what to say about that. Anyway, hopefully with my new diet many of my problems (dizziness, fatigue, blurred vision, passing the hell out, etc.) will pass into the night, never to be spoken of or experienced again. Go medical treatment!

From here I think I should probably segue into another argument, something about the state of health care in this country and how the amount of people who can afford health insurance is a paltry amount and that we should be doing our utmost to fix this problem even if it means taking a slightly more socialized bent than Americans are comfortable with/used to. As if we aren't the country of innovation that would and could manipulate those socialized systems to best benefit us. But I haven't really done enough research yet and am still just basking in the glow of knowing what the hell has been wrong with me since almost before I can remember but also being slightly mopey about the fact that I should give up most of those treats that I love ever so. So this is more of just a naval-gazing post than anything of true substance. Oh well.