Con Work

I have not written for a while, but for a reason. I spent most of the last week prepping for Trotcon, and was in Ohio all weekend, and as soon as I got home, I hit the ground running on getting a few commissions done. It's been pretty much non-stop work, with hardly any time for writing breaks. Predictably, this did come with some sleep disturbances, a couple 3-6 AM bedtimes, but evening and late night is often the only time I can work undisturbed on customs for long stretches of time. As the con date snuck up on me, I felt increased pressure to make more and more stuff, and even when I was packing up, I still didn't feel like I have enough merch. Of course, I had brought enough stuff in terms of total dollar amount of merch, but I have to do my best to have the greatest variety possible to offer con goers in order to get those sales.

I was hoping to bring home about $1500, but only manage to rake in 1K. It was good enough to pay the rent for the upcoming month and probably keep the power and internet on... but not much beyond that. I spent my last few dollars trying to enjoy Fiver's birthday and get him a couple toys. Small things, some cars and a toy tool set, but better than this past Christmas when I wasn't able to get him anything. I might do Trotcon again next year. Maybe.

The stress of finances is starting to weigh heavily on me. Jesse is having some financial aid problems, and may not be able to return to school in the fall, so the burden of bills is starting to shift back onto my shoulders. I'm starting to consider work again, just to keep my family afloat. Returning to the retail wage-slavery has crossed my mind already a time or two... It's hard to consider applying for any serious jobs and investing time and energy in interviews I may even have to drive miles out of my way to get to. I still don't feel like I'm in a place where I can emotionally handle possible rejection. If I apply for a job, I really go for it. I pour myself into getting that position, and really get attached to the idea of working there. I get my hopes up very high. While it could help my prospects for landing a position, if it doesn't, it leaves me emotionally drained. When I worked for Family Resources already, I was able to take rejection with stride because I was in a position I was happy to continue working; there was a cushion there waiting when I got knocked down. At least then I was secure. Now, not so much. I imagine driving out to Sarasota or Clearwater for a job interview (again, if I were to even get a call back for one), investing precious dollars in gas to get out there and precious time that might be better spent making ponies to sell on ebay, so that if I get turned down for the job, I feel like it was a complete waste of effort.

We should be able to make it through July, even if we have to just scrape by. Rent is set aside, so that by the time we're desperate again, it'll be time for Bronycon, and I should make a few grand there. It should be a lot better than last year, since I'm working months in advance, as opposed to 4 days in advance like last year, and last year was still pretty good. Then 2 weeks after Bronycon, I'll have the Grand Brony Gala where I'll be selling a lot of retail merch. That should bring in at least another grand, maybe two. We might even take the money and move the fuck up north. To hell with Florida.

Jesse's run into some bureaucratic trouble at school and may just be taking some time off, so it's as good a time as any to make the leap. It would be refreshing to all of us just to get out of here, and I don't feel like I'd be cut off from support networks, since I have a lot of family in Cape Cod. I'd only feel bad leaving my mom behind, and likely with only a month or so of notice. I'd probably leave some cash behind to help cover rent or bills for a while, if I can. Just browsing some of the job listings on Craigslist for the area we'd be staying, job prospects look so much more promising than down here. It's really energizing just to fantasize about it, especially since it is becoming and increasingly plausible prospect. It's like a fresh injection of hope into my life.

I Knew Why the Caged Bird Sang... I Just Thought It Should Have Screamed

I tried to watch as much of the Maya Angelou service as I could today, though mothering duties often impeded my attempts. She sounded like such a profoundly wonderful woman to know and I envied the people who spoke of having her in their lives directly. Perhaps it's because I'm still young (relatively), but I don't feel like I have any people in my life who are really that powerfully influential and inspiring. I would love to have someone to personally look up to like that. I think I might have a couple of people who think I am that person in their life, and I confess it makes me question their sanity. Which is really, really unfair, I realize. I just can't imagine truly larger-than-life personalities like Dr. Angelou thought as little of themselves as I do of me. But I wouldn't know. I don't know any larger-than-life people personally. Maybe they did/do. Maybe they're just as crazy as I am, just more successful at it.

My relationship with Maya Angelou is probably not much deeper than most people's. I had to read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings for school as a kid, and my life and social media experience has been sprinkled with various wonderful quotes. I will not pretend Caged Bird was a life-changing book for me - not in the immediate way Atlas Shrugged was - but it was influential, albeit in more subtle ways. When I first read it, I didn't really get it. I did my assignments for it as per my class requirements, but I didn't GET what was so important about it reading it at thirteen or fourteen. Reading about her rape made me feel uncomfortable, her childhood was so surreal, her sexual exploits so emotionally detached. In fact, I recall a distinct lack of emotionality through the whole story, that made the biography seem almost journalistic. I have not reread the book since then, so I don't know how well my initial impressions from a decade ago hold up. I wasn't really sure what to make of it all at the time.

Despite my early disinterest, the story stuck with me. Perhaps that's part of what makes a great book: it leaves you thinking for years afterward, coming back for constant reflection on the ideas and themes and events, such that it's impossible for it to not have an impact in some way. I think I came to really appreciate the somewhat detached voice of the story. It allowed me to experience the story with her, apply my own feelings to the situations. Since she left out so much of her emotional experience, it forced me to ponder: "What must that have felt like to go through that?" She gave enough details that I could imagine myself in her shoes and gauge my own hypothetical emotional responses. And only now am I realizing, her form and style truly allows for exercises in empathy. How conscious of a decision was that? Did she write that way out of a need to just get the story out and shared, did she just not want to delve on her own emotional inner world because it was too painful? Or was it a deliberate artistic decision, was I doing exactly what she wanted me to do with the book? Of course at this point, I'm probably thinking about it too hard.

At the time I read her book, I was very fixated on the titles of stories and why the authors chose it. Unlike To Kill A Mockingbird, another book I was required to read around that time, at no point did she mention birds in cages, either as metaphors or actual things in the world she encountered or reflected upon. I had to put the metaphor together myself. Because of racial tensions and discrimination, her youth, her poverty, her trauma, she was like a caged bird: small, helpless, and trapped. But caged birds still sing, out of, we assume, joy. How can something that feels so trapped still feel such joy in their confinement? At the end of the book, when she discovers motherhood, she finally finds out why.

I got the idea, I understood the underlying inspirational message. I just never really agreed with it. Reflecting on it now, maybe I should have taken the lesson more to heart, maybe I should have looked for more joy in my life when Angelou told me to. Then again, I never really was good at doing what I was told.

From an early age, my mother tells me, I was a crier and a screamer. I was a radically, notoriously discontent baby, and all efforts to soothe me failed. I was not unhealthy or otherwise maladjusted. I was just not the baby she was hoping for. "Your sister was such a wonderful baby, I wanted another one" my mom has told me, more than once. Her hopeful tone drops when she says: "And then I had you." It seems perhaps counter-intuitive in this case that she also tells me I was her "cuddler." Still, I was just not happy. I couldn't tell you what made me that way; I remember my early childhood fondly. I was very active, proud, and tough. My hair grew slowly, and I was mistaken for a boy frequently (and no amount of pink attire would cure this). After moving to Florida at a young age, I dug my heels in to be dissatisfied by principle. I was not happy about the move, and mentally blocked the idea of ever being happy again until I moved back home. At twenty-six, I am still in Florida. Thus, my insanity.

During puberty, I became so passionate about things I felt like I was losing my mind. Sometimes I just wanted my brain to shut off. I still get that feeling sometimes, but as I got older I learned how to temper the intensity. Mostly. I still get pretty worked up sometimes. But whether I'm angry, depressed, or perhaps manic, the problem is always a matter of my intensity.

The past few days, I've felt like I've been slipping into a depressive episode. But for most of today, I've been pretty irritable and snappy. I must confess I think I yelled at Jesse once or twice, over various seemingly minor annoyances. Despite my irritability, I've been able to get a lot done.

I think the irritability started yesterday when Jesse asked me to look at his chest because it was really itchy, and we figured out he had ringworm. This forced me into motion, getting the medical stuff together to treat it and decontaminating where necessary. At first he didn't think it was a big deal enough to treat, but I insisted it was extremely contagious, and I didn't want it, and I didn't want the baby to get it, and we're treating it whether you like it or not, goddamnit. I called my mom, made him take a shower and shave his chest, applied the medicine and dressing, and started washing laundry to decontaminate. I was kind of annoyed with him, both for his lax attitude about it, and for his poor hygiene that probably caused the infection in the first place. But that irritability help me to do what was needed and push back against Jesse's resistance. I was probably unpleasant to him, but I felt I needed to be. It was bad enough it took pretty much all day to get the infection properly treated, with waiting on my mom to bring home medical tape and him dragging his feet to take a shower. The wave of agitation carried over into different tasks, too, like cleaning up the baby's nursery thoroughly, because he had pooped and peed in places that now needed scrubbing (potty training is hell). I collected trash bags and scrubbed carpets. When I sat down at my computer for the evening, there seemed to be a lot more interesting articles online, and my browser was full of tabs in no time (still is).

The agitation carried through into the next day. I wanted to get things done and finish cleaning the carpet and take care of laundry. I also wanted to read more, and was getting more writing ideas. Unfortunately, with the baby interfering with much of the things I wanted to do, I needed some help, and I just wasn't getting it. The baby woke me up before my mom was even up, and when she did wake up and make the breakfast she'd been wanting to make, she left for the afternoon to visit Papa and do a little shopping with a friend. By the time she was gone, Jesse was feeling ill again, and tired, and I couldn't even get him to sit with the baby in the living room to watch him. My agitation turned quickly to irritation as I waited for my mom to get back and help me out. I was (unfairly, even unrationally) mad at Jesse for being sick, for not toughing out his discomfort, for not trying hard enough to help me do the things I needed to do for our family. Of course, these were things I'd been wanting to do for days and hadn't been able to set myself into motion to do. But now, in a more agitated state, it was a little easier to move. I say a little easier: I still struggled somewhat, dreading the task ahead, even resenting the fact I had to do it myself. I yelled a little bit, huffing about shampooing the carpet or having to move load of laundry back and forth. But still, I got things done.

Something that made it easier to start those tasks was that my mom decided to do the dishes, since I still had not done them, and they hadn't yet piled up as badly as before. I had been struggling between prioritizing laundry and the dishes, so when she took on that task, I experienced a relief of some anxiety, and a sense of reciprocity. If she's helping out with the dishes, for all the things she already does, I need to be doing something, too. If I just sit here doing nothing while she works, I'll feel guilty.

I know my annoyance with Jesse was there, but I was aware of it in the moment, I know how unfair those attitudes are, and I hope it was sufficiently muted. I did try to counter the negative thoughts when I had them, but I was still very obviously agitated, and may have taken some of that out on him. I do think I snapped at him about the deplorable state of our bedroom once or twice, as it interfered with me completing some tasks. I said something to him about it, when I noticed he had missed some laundry when he separated it for me the day before, because it was hidden in the mess. I explained it was really frustrating, that I was trying to make sure all the laundry got cleaned so that anything that might be contaminated would be in the laundry, and how his messiness impaired that. I'm not sure how cross I seemed, but regardless, I doubt he listened to me. Because he never does. I could report the problem like a robot and he still wouldn't listen.

I think that's what my anger only ever is: a manifestation of manic agitation. When that agitation does not result in something productive, or I'm unable to do whatever thing I want to do with that agitation, it becomes anger, directed at whatever's in my way. Oftentimes, that gets interpreted as Jesse, whether he is unable, or just plain unwilling, to help out.

But when my agitation is unimpeded, when I "get my way" so to speak, to use a phrase my parents liked to throw around when we were kids, I get a lot done and I feel good. I can be very productive, do a lot of chores and tackle daunting projects. Perhaps that was the root of my irritability from infancy: a powerful desire to do when I simply wasn't able to do hardly anything at all. I just imagine, if I were as helpless as a baby right now, I WOULD be screaming and crying! It would be so irritating and boring and I would not be able to develop all those baby skills fast enough to do the things I wanted to do.

Depression really isn't my default state. I lean into opposition. I don't live under a lot of labels, but I've always sort of identified myself as a fighter. I do not sit back and enjoy. I am not tranquil, I am not peaceful. I am rarely joyful. I am a mover. I push, I pull, I thrash against the bars of my cage and screech in my captor's ears until they bleed. I'm not interested in singing while there's a cage in my way. I want to tear the cage down and raise a rebellion against my imprisonment. I do not find peace and contentment with injustices. I try to burn them down, or burn myself down in the effort.

Today my mom told me everything would be a lot easier if I were on medication like she is for anxiety. "All those things don't matter so much anymore." It sounds horrible. Sure, the dishes and the laundry and the dirty rooms wouldn't get on my nerves so much, but what would that do to the bigger things I care about? Those big, complex ideas and bursting passions and finished projects? Because yes, I rarely feel joy, but I do feel ecstasy. I may not sing often, but when I do, it is the most beautiful song.

The pill doesn't just make the chores matter less. It would make ALL the things I love to think about matter less too. And if the intensity of thought was dulled, how long would it be before I was like her? Unable to cope with the world without pills. Being entertained by shallow-minded memes and video clips of funny animals. Unable to follow a chain of complex thoughts and ideas. Worse! Not even interested in them!

That's the really scary idea of taking medications: having no idea how it would affect all my other cognitive processes. Psychiatry doesn't know what it's even doing yet. It's a science in its infancy. Diagnoses are based on best guesses and a cluster of symptoms, nothing objectively testable (yet). I would have a lot more confidence in psychiatry if we really knew what we were doing with it, but the truth is we really don't know. We're working with best guesses, and right now everyone's just a guinea pig in a poorly recorded trial run. These pills are just Band-Aids at this point, because we are only barely scratching the surface of how the brain and cognition works. When something actually does work, we're not even sure how or why!

I'm not satisfied enough with what we have for psychiatry right now to be comfortable with being medicated. My brain is really important to me, and I'd rather not mess with it if it can be avoided.

Resilience

I'm having a hard time writing now, because I feel like I don't have anything to say, like my mind has gone quiet. Not a boring, peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind of quiet of something just giving up. In moments when I am able to stem the tide of negative thoughts, I can sometimes interpret them as "relaxing."

I did manage to do the dishes yesterday. I woke up (and that is getting much easier, and coming with much more regularity) and asked myself, "Do you think you can do the dishes today?" And somehow, I managed to mobilize myself enough to get almost all of it done, save for a few pots and the last batch that still needs to be put away. Fiver spent most of that time at my feet running around and climbing on things, and didn't want to go play by himself away from me, but he didn't get in the way, so it was fine. I tried to spend the time on the dishes thinking about stuff, but my mind was numb, and had very little to offer. My mom was happy to see the dishes finally done, and Jesse said he had wanted to say something about it, but thought it would sound patronizing. I had to explain to him, I need the encouragement and positive reinforcement, because I have a really hard time motivating myself internally.

My mom keeps telling me about the bills. I don't want to hear about the bills. I can't hear about the bills. I transferred all of my money out of Paypal to pay the rent, and have nothing left. There is nothing more I can do, and I can't stand hearing about the bills. Every time she says something, I try hard to unhear it. I have to accept there's nothing I can do about it, and throw all the faith I can muster into Jesse to figure out how to keep us on our feet for the time being. Because I can't even really think about bills or jobs or income without crying.

I did start dabbling on Craigslist. I sent some emails for some writing gigs, nothing really promising yet. One of them is for a website project that sounds fun, but it will "take a while to monetize" meaning I'd be writing for free indefinitely. I figured I'm writing for free here, and I'd rather work on someone else's project with prompts and direction so I don't have to promote my own material (I'm not egotistical enough to be any good at self-publishing). Today I found an ad for a CPS case coordinator, listed today, which is right up my alley. I have the page open in my tabs, but I don't know if I'm ready to open that can of worms. I would have to update my resume, and I have embarrassingly little to show for this last year. I can't even convince myself that being a stay-at-home parent is good experience, would certainly have a hard time convincing an employer. It also requires 3 years of experience, which again, is infuriating. Every job that requires a degree also requires experience in the field, which I WOULD have had if some idiot at the Sheriff's Department hadn't messed up my juvenile record and caused me to lose that internship for no good reason. I had a hard time after that even looking for another similar position, because I was so nervous about the same thing happening, even though I'd had the error corrected. And then at a job interview, I would have to tell them why I wasn't working for Family Resources anymore, which is... I can't even think about it without tearing up. I don't even know how to talk about it.

When they let me go, they told me they'd be happy to recommend me wherever I might apply, but I haven't had any interviews since then. I put in applications for a time, trying to fulfill the requirements for unemployment, but when the red tape got to be too much, I just gave up. (It's not like they ever sent me the fucking unemployment checks anyway.) It was bad enough, halfheartedly sending my resume out into the void every week, getting an inbox full of rejection emails. Part of me was glad I didn't have to deal with an interview, the other part of me felt dejected about all the copy-paste rejections. I felt so disposable. So useless. Like there wasn't really any place in the world for me, I was not valuable to anyone.

At least while I worked at Family Resources, I felt valuable to them. I devoured all the training information, jumped at any opportunity to improve my skills, and they were willing to invest in me. Most other jobs I've had, it's like pulling teeth to get them to set aside time to train you. You're just a breathing body that can take commands, that's all that matters to them. But there, I was a real resource, and it was refreshing to be valued like that.

I don't even know how to explain to myself how I lost the job. No matter what I wrap the story in, it's still devastating. In watching the recent news on Jill Abramson and her firing, I found her reaction to it heartening, when she talked about resilience in the face of setbacks. She talked about how it was more important to her father to see his kids handling setbacks and bouncing back than to see them basking in success. "Show what you are made of," she said, quoting him.

If this past year is me showing what I'm made of, I must be made of soggy noodles and slush.

I was told, when I lost the job, to tell a future employer that I "needed more time for family" or that I left for "personal reasons." This was something I found really offensive. I don't lie. Not even if it's in my "best interest." In order to make any convincing lie, I'd have to lie to myself first, and I just can't do that. There's a moral barricade, and it is completely impossible for me to do. If I were to do it, I would feel ashamed, I would feel like they thought something worse had happened. I would feel like a phony. I would feel like I didn't deserve a job, even if I got it.

Telling the truth is never pretty. But if I did tell the truth, what would I have to say that was true, but would also still win me the job?

"I see here you worked for Family Resources as a Youth Care Worker, but it says here you only worked there for a few months. What happened?"

*deep breath* "I was told, when they let me go, to tell employers I left 'for personal reasons.' The reason it's taken me so long to apply for any jobs was because I couldn't say that and still pride myself for my honesty. If I had to lie to get a job, I didn't want one. The truth is, a lot of things went wrong. Some of those things were out of my control, some of them I only saw clearly in retrospect. I understand it's not the explanation an employer wants to hear, it's not pretty and it doesn't fit in a neat little package, but that's the truth of it."

Assuming they don't shake my hand at that point and say, disingenuously, that it's been "a pleasure" and "we'll give you a call," I will continue:

"I was eager to work for a company I loved in any capacity, so when the job opened up, I dove in head-first. I was given the choice between a weekday afternoon/evening shift or an overnight shift. This was my first mistake. I chose the afternoon/evening shift because I wanted the shift with more time to interact with the kids, so that I would have more opportunities to develop my skills and interact with them. I was naive about how difficult the job might be for me, and bit off more than I could chew. Had I chosen the other shift, the learning curve would not have been so steep, and I could have taken on more responsibilities as my skills developed.

"Next, my work partner was not an ideal match. Though he had two years experience on this job, his previous partner had ten years. He was knowledgeable about the job, but lacked the skills to manage the large groups of children the way his partner did. This was a skill I also lacked, and I had difficulty learning quickly without a strong model to emulate. As a team, we failed to manage larger groups when they became difficult. We were not able to communicate effectively enough to make up the difference. I often looked to him to lead when I wasn't sure what to do, and many times he failed to rise to that, at times when I felt unprepared to take control.

"I was very good with smaller groups. I connected very well with children on an individual level. Unfortunately, individual children behaved differently in groups. Even if I had a strong rapport with several children individually, if the group became large enough they would be hard for me to control. Four of five kids was manageable, but the shelter's population was often between eight and twelve residents. After a few incidents of groups becoming too unruly, management was forced to let me go.

"I made every effort to improve my skills as rapidly as possible through training opportunities and watching how my coworkers handled misbehavior, but unfortunately the learning curve was a little too steep. I lacked the experience, and didn't have a strong leader to learn from, so despite my best efforts, and the management's best efforts, we had to accept that I just wasn't the best fit for the job."

I don't know how much of that an employer would actually listen to, or if it even sounds good... but it sounds a lot better to me than saying "for personal reasons."

Drag

I think I'll be going back to my usual drag of talking about myself, but because... I don't know. I guess I feel like my brain is slowing down. Like my thoughts are trying to run through molasses and it's hard to even think of words. That active internal monologue that's been running so fluidly since I started writing seems to have gone silent. I started feeling worse last night. I hadn't had any particularly negative interactions online or at home. No fights, no hostilities. I just started to feel dragged down. It didn't help that I hardly did anything yesterday; didn't paint, didn't write, didn't do any of the chores that desperately needed to be done. For a moment I had some self-destructive thoughts that I deflected pretty easily, but the negative thinking manifested itself in other ways, like feeling like everyone else is an idiot, and that sense of hopelessness I'm starting to feel about the state of some of the chores, and even a little about the state of the world (but only a little).

My sleep is good, and in fact I'm getting tired and going to bed before midnight, and today I woke up in the morning hours before the baby. My appetite is fine, but because of the state of the kitchen, and because the cabinets are a little bare right now, I haven't been eating as well or as regularly as I need to be. Yesterday in particular I felt like I couldn't do anything at all because I had so little energy to commit to anything. Even though I ate this morning, it hasn't been enough to take the weight off that's dragging me down. I don't feel like I can deal with anything, and eventually just want to sleep. It's a less aggressive form of not wanting to exist or wanting to kill myself, sleeping through the rest of the day. It's not that I'm tired, it's the appeal of unconsciousness. Although, at the moment, I am legitimately tired, the appeal of unconsciousness is still especially powerful.

I think it would be fair to say this is the onset of a depressive episode. However, it does not seem to be coming on as strongly as usual.

Feminist or MRA: You're Either Both or You're Neither

*sigh*

Part of me hesitated to write my previous blog posts on empathy and the anecdote relating to the folly of victim-blaming because it would invite an audience. But, discussing actual ideas and happenings outside of myself is much more satisfying in terms of writing, so I couldn't help myself. So I guess I can only blame myself for this.

I am always open to critique of my ideas, but this at first glance just seemed like an incoherent tirade. I had to read it six or seven times and then put it in the context of the entire website to parse out what exactly the thesis was. Most of the critiques were just a result of reading my writing with blinders on. Any legitimate arguments he may have had weren't couched in any citations to outside sources, though they may have been worth discussing if we were on the same page.

But we're obviously not on the same page.

I think the primary meltdown in communication happened when he assumed A.) I am a feminist and B.) that I am against men's rights. But if A is true, then B cannot be true. If B is true, then A cannot be true.

Let me begin by clarifying what feminism is: it is about the push for equal rights for women. Not, as it is often misinterpreted, the domination of women over men, but rather, their equality to each other. This fundamental misunderstanding that causes many people to be unwilling to call themselves "The F-Word" even though many of their beliefs and values may be in line with what feminism teaches.

Another thing a lot of people don't understand about feminism is that it's not a static ideology, but rather an ongoing discussion. There are a lot of things even educated, passionate feminists disagree on. One of my favorite things about my first women's studies professor was that when I voiced disagreement with the concept she was teaching (which I did a lot), she often said, "Yes, it's super problematic." She was always willing to address the fact that there were these ongoing disagreements about the best ways to achieve gender equality. (Example: Feminists have a hard time agreeing on whether to be pro- or anti-porn.) Even though I was not satisfied with certain theories and beliefs, there was always room within the movement for me to disagree, and therefore help to shape the movement. That said, it's important to remember, when talking about feminism, that not all feminists believe the same thing.

Now, that said, I don't usually call myself a feminist. Not because I think it's a "bad word," but because I don't think the word accurately reflects my ideals. Third-wave feminism tries to make the argument that feminism should also be about fighting racism, classism, and all sorts of other -isms. While the goal is noble, I think feminism's reach has exceeded its grasp in this respect. I believe that feminism can really only address gender issues. Trying to do much else with it just leads to undue confusion. I've seen a lot of people even within #YesAllWomen who have used the word "equalist" to describe themselves, and I think it'd be more accurate to say I fall in that camp.

As I alluded to before, I have my fair share of scruples with feminists, especially with the misandrists I've seen on #YesAllWomen masquerading as feminist crusaders. Of course, the moment I challenge these so-called feminists, the assumption they make is that I am a misogynist or otherwise anti-feminist. Which of course is not the case. I just think that feminists who are also misandrists should not be calling themselves feminists at all, as they tend to have a very skewed perception of what "equality" means.

I even had a debate with an older feminist who argued that "Misandry is like reverse racism: It doesn't exist. The oppressed cannot oppress the master." Her argument was that since misandry is not systemic the way it is for misogyny and racism, it does not exist. But I beg to differ: misandry can still exist and is still a relevant problem on an individual level, and in certain aspects of society, it does exist systemically. Just because it is not oppressive to the degree that misogyny is, does not mean that we should dismiss it as a non-issue. If we want to create true equality, we must make sure we don't create inequality in the process.

Now, let's talk about Men's Rights Activists (MRA). They have been getting a LOT of bad PR since the UCSB rampage, but even still I have always sympathized with the movement. I suppose you could call me a MRA apologist.

The problem seems to be two-fold. First, feminists (especially radical feminists misandrists) are unwilling to acknowledge men's legitimate grievances. Second, MRAs fail to recognize that feminism does in fact have their interests in mind already.

So first, let's look at what I mean by men's legitimate grievances:
"The list of grievances for MRAs is long. It includes the elevated rate of suicide for men, educational discrimination against boys, economic and workplace conditions for men, violence against men, false rape reporting, fathers’ rights in custody battles, rates of male imprisonment and prison conditions, and the horrors of war." - JACLYN FRIEDMAN

A feminist who is unwilling to acknowledge that men can experience injustices and oppression can hardly call him/herself a champion of equality. Though feminists have fought for women to be able to serve in the military alongside men, you can hardly call this equality when men can be forced into the service at any time. And though women have fought hard to be included in educational institutions, you can hardly call this equality when more and more boys are being diagnosed with ADHD and sedated in school, and their graduation rates are stagnant when compares with girls. Personally, I find it unsettling how more and more popular media is inclined toward portraying male protagonists as utter buffoons. All these issues merit intellectual discussion and investigation.

But let's move on to the next part of the above-mentioned quote:
"Many of these issues deserve a thoughtful response and the force of an organized movement for address them. It’s too bad that’s not what men’s rights activists are offering." - JACLYN FRIEDMAN

You know where I learned about a lot of those men's issues? It wasn't from MRA groups. It was from Women's Studies classes in college, specifically Masculine Studies. Though much of the theories are couched in feminist jargon, it is a field of study that does bring up a lot of these issues. The feminists who discuss these issues don't just talk about them, but are true activists for change, in the better interest of women and men. For instance, feminist activists influenced the change in the FBI's definition of rape to include instances of rape that affected men and boys. Feminist analysis also enables a balanced examination of father's rights and offers solutions that are not hinged on blaming men or women for systemic problems. For MRAs to ignore the merits of feminism is to deny a powerful ally.

Despite the nauseating amount of misogyny and misandry from both sides of the aisle amidst the whole #YesAllWomen trend, feminism and the men's rights movement have the same end goal: gender equality. It is the responsibility of feminists and MRAs to keep the bigotry within their camp in check, as it only serves to hurt the cause. Anyone who identifies solely as feminist, or solely as a MRA, is someone I hold in deep suspicion. If you're incapable of seeing the overlap in the goals and importance of each movement's views, you're doing your preferred movement a disservice.

Personally, I would rather be called an equalist than either a feminist or MRA. But if you must call me a feminist, you must also call me a MRA, because both are equally true.

Unloading Shit

I didn't write yesterday because I posted my writing so late the night before, I thought it superfluous. But I had a hard time sleeping because I spent all night being an information vortex, I stayed up until past 5 AM and then couldn't even readily get to sleep. I had too many thoughts racing through my head.

The things I really want to think about and write about are starting to get pushed out by all the things I don't want to think about and are too shallow to want to write about, so I think I'm just going to unload the pressures in one stream-of-consciousness turd.

Electric bill is overdue. Appliance rental guys came by yesterday to ask when we'd pay, because that's overdue too. Car insurance is due, not to mention we're still sharing the car with my mom, who's truck broke down and she doesn't have to money to either fix or replace it. Food stamps are out for the month, no milk in our fridge for days now. Down to our last $50 and not sure which bill to put it toward. Afraid to use the money I have put away for conventions on bills because I need that money to make more money later. But I'll probably have to use it all for rent. Papa's still in rehab after surgery for his hip, won't be coming back. Dishes are my job. Cleaning the house is my job. Dogs I don't want shit everywhere. Been hungry for two days, even though I've eaten. Laundry needs to be done. Can barely dress myself. Need to work on customs for conventions, but also need to write. One will bring money in later, one will maintain my sanity. The sinking realization that I will kill myself if I don't write. I will go completely and utterly insane if I don't write. Wanting to write too many things. Too many ideas. Not enough time to write them all. But at least I'm writing some, and that's all I can tell myself. We need to pay bills, pay bills now, and writing is too long term an investment. Afraid to keep writing, but afraid to stop. Desperately wish to be in school again. Desperately wish to be doing something that mattered. Have to trust family to deal with everything because I can't. Feeling like a failure for not contributing, feeling like a failure because I can't keep it together, feeling like a failure because I know they need my help. Crying because I feel completely trapped. Because this is how I know the depression takes hold. It seems completely hopeless yet somehow I have to keep moving forward. Bigger world problems seem easier than this poverty. At least they make sense. At least they're solvable. Every day I'm in a Catch-22. But there is only one of me. I can't spread myself any thinner than I am. I will snap. My brain will just break.

I think I'm just going to try to find something to eat and paint all day. I feel a little better just getting that out. At least if I go crazy, people will know why. #poverty.

Not *That* Kind of Woman

"I don't understand how so many girls get raped," my friend said, as we were discussing the finer points of feminism. I was in college taking my first women's studies class. Though even I was dubious of feminism's merits going in, I found I agreed with a lot of the principles I was introduced to. "How do they even have so many stories to tell. It seems to me like a lot of them lie. Like, how do you even end up in those situations? You're a girl, you don't have any stories like that to tell."

I could see how he thought that assumption was reasonable, in retrospect. For a time, even I bought into the idea that only a certain kind of woman got sexually assaulted or raped. I was not that kind of woman.

***

I don't know where I got this idea, but from a very early age, I believed that to be girly was to be weak. And I was not weak. I was not timid. I was not frail. I was tough. I was bold. As my step-grandfather later recalled, after calling 5-year-old me a nice little girl, I replied: "I'm not nice; that's my sister. I'm Heidi. I'm mean!"

I rejected girliness with the full force of my being. As soon as I was old enough to pick my own clothes, my wardrobe reflected as much. I did not wear dresses or skirts; it was all jeans and t-shirts. What feminine clothes I did inherit from my sister went largely unworn. The dressy clothes my parents did buy were worn only on select occasions, when my parents made me wear them. I climbed trees and played in the mud. I loved catching snakes and frogs in the yard. I asked for G.I. Joe and Legos for Christmas, but never got them. It confounded me to see my brother getting Legos, though he'd long since stopped asking for them.  He even complained that he didn't want them. I got a Barbie the one time I asked for it (which my parents were surely relieved to see on the list when it appeared), but I was disappointed by it anyway, and gave it to my sister.  I never stopped asking for boy things, til I stopped believing.

When I was in school, I fit in pretty well, up to a certain point. If my intelligence ever would have isolated me, I always had the peers in my gifted classes. I did make an effort to take an interest in the things the other girls liked, though most of their talk bored me. I tried to dance with them along with the Spice Girls music, but I was not as practiced as they were. I was quietly left out, passively discouraged from participating. Which was fine by me. I was tired of being the catcher on my softball team anyway, just because the other girls were too cowardly to do it. My hero was Ash Ketchum, not Brittany Spears. I decided I didn't really like other girls anyway; they were shallow and sly, not deep and honest, like me.

In fifth grade I joined the baseball team (my parents looked at each other, shrugged: "Okay honey.") There were try-outs, and I could tell I wasn't as good as some of the boys I was playing with. But I still wanted to play. I loved the game. But they loved winning more. So I warmed the bench. A lot. I knew what was happening. I knew I was being left out again. And I cried about it, shamelessly.

But I wasn't a boy, so no one told me not to.

I went to practice, I worked hard, because I loved to play, but I didn't get good enough. When we got our trophies at the end of the year, they went out of their way to get one for me with a girl on it. But when the coach talked about our progress over the course of the season, I realized they didn't want to go too far out of their way for me. Other boys were getting training between seasons. No one offered any to me. I wanted to become the first professional female baseball player, but after that season, I gave that up.

My breasts developed sooner than the other girls. I went with my mother, red-faced, to the store for my first bra. I skipped the training bra and jumped straight to a B cup. I wore all my shirts baggy after that. I didn't care when people told me it made me look fat. It took a lot of goading by other girls before I was finally shaving my legs and armpits. I could only get told I looked like a gorilla so many times before I started wearing my 4-H jacket every single day, even though I lived in Florida. And it wasn't enough that I shaved my gorilla legs; now they were pasty. So I wore only pants. They didn't have much to say after that; most of my body was hidden. At least I felt sure that the few friends I had liked me for who I was.

I hated my name. "Oh, like Shirley Temple?" "Oh, like the super model?" Sweet little girls. Hot, sexy super models. It was not the impression I wanted. In middle school I got people to start calling me H.R., my initials.

Though I worked so hard to keep my body to myself, it didn't stop me from going a little crazy for boys once in a while. I fell hard once at the end of middle school, and two month later had my heart torn to shreds. By high school, I fell again, this time a relationship that had such high highs and low lows I felt insane, and we eventually parted ways. Both were good boys, who loved me for my confidence and intelligence. I never felt violated, because they never took more than I was ready to give.

My closest friends in high school were almost exclusively boys. We were outcasts, mostly, even the other girls. But I still hated girls. The girls in our clique said the same thing. We did not paint each other's nails. We did not have slumber parties. We did not go to the bathroom together. We ate pizza, drank Mountain Dew, and played video games with the boys. We were as content in each others company as discontented teenagers could be.

I joined the swim team, and realized it was a great excuse to shave my gorilla arms. By that time I had been wearing that jacket constantly for about five years. I was happy to retire it. I found I could enjoy sports again, because if I didn't win races, I could still compete against myself. Compared to what I normally wore, my swimsuit was liberating. From then on I never even tried to wear a bikini; the one-piece competition swimsuit was fine by me. Bikinis didn't hold me in very well, anyway.

I also joined the wrestling team. I had always been pretty rough-and-tumble, and I found I really enjoyed this sport, too, though I didn't expect to win. I practiced with the daughter of a wrestling coach and some of the smaller boys. In competition I was matched with boys, though 128 pounds for a boy means something different for a girl. They were tall, lanky, and had long reaches. I was short and stubby, with significantly more body fat than them. When I bested an opponent, I knew it was my practiced skill, not raw strength, that won the match. I loved to play all the same, but this was when I learned how fantastic it felt to win.

Sports left me confident in my physicality. I knew I was no super model, and I was fine with that. I never tried to be. But I was never afraid. Then again, I didn't know what I was supposed to be afraid of.

I grew up on dirt roads. Walking home from the bus stop, I got in folks cars when they were going my way, and waved when they honked if they passed the other way. I knew everyone in my neighborhood, and applied a naive trust to them all. And why wouldn't I? They all came out to help each other when someone's car got stuck in the mud, they came together to petition the county to fix the roads. My mom put banana bread in their mailboxes for Christmas and we played barefoot in everyone's yards. It was a borrow-a-cup-of-sugar sort of place.

So I didn't understand what the big deal was when I told my mom I'd just walk to our family friend's house after school. What's the big deal? I asked. We've driven there enough times, I'm not going to get lost or anything. Grudgingly, my mom allowed it. But of course I got lost. And as I backtracked and tried different routes through the ghetto, I felt like a small child lost in a grocery store, until I finally borrowed a phone at a greasy-looking tire place. The men stopped their work and were happy to oblige. I was picked up just before the sun went down. It felt stupid for getting so turned around (I wasn't far, I'd just missed a turn), so I nodded passively when my mom told me to walk with someone next time.

She was our family friend's daughter, who I affectionately called my cousin. We didn't get along all the time, but it was easy enough to consider her family. The first day walking with her, a passing driver honked at us, and I instinctively waved.

"What are you doing?!" my cousin yelped, aghast.

"They honked at us. I figured they probably know us or something."

She shook her head, looking at me like I was crazy. "That's not why they're honking."

"Oh."

Oh.

It wasn't the last time we were honked at or whistled at. I followed my cousin's lead, kept my head down, avoided any eye contact, and ignored it, even though it enraged me. Why would you honk at us? You don't know us. My friendly rural default settings were slowly being adjusted.

Though the catcalls were annoying, I was still fearless. I did not shy away from walking down the street or even taking shortcuts. One day, after wrestling practice, I got impatient waiting for my ride outside the gym, so I walked down the side alley by the school to the main road to wait there. Even before I headed out, there was a warning voice inside my head: "It's very late and there's hardly anyone on campus right now. Maybe you don't want to walk down such an isolated path." I scoffed at myself. I was sweaty and gross from wrestling practice, in a damp, over-sized t-shirt and high school gym shorts. Who's dumb enough to attack a wrestler?

I had made my way halfway down the alley when a strange man came alongside me. The sirens went off in my head. I began sizing him up. He might have been in my weight class, but barely. And he was kind of scrawny. I could take him, I thought to myself.

But I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was a homeless guy who wanted to ask for money. Maybe he legitimately just wanted to talk. I continued walking. Even still, I was replaying in my head the moves I had just been practicing.

"Hey, how you doin'?" he asked, innocuously enough.

"Fine, just getting out of wrestling practice," I replied, hoping my tone came off warning enough. Even then, I was thinking of how I would pin him and scream if he tried anything at all. My pulse was quickening.

"Cool, cool," he said. After a brief pause, he continued, "So you wanna guess how big this is?"

I glanced over, and he was gesturing at his groin. I rolled my eyes and turned on my heel after a quick calculation: the main road is closer than the gym, but I don't know if anyone is there. But I know my teammates are still waiting for their ride by the gym, so it's a longer walk but they'll see me or hear me. I could hardly believe this was happening to me. It was difficult to run with a bulky backpack, but I walked as fast as I could manage.

He followed me back up the alley. I cut across past the dumpsters to get to where my teammates would be able to see me sooner, and the man made one last attempt. "Oh, c'mon baby," he said, and grasped my shoulder. The sirens in my head shrieked, and so did I. "GET AWAY FROM ME!" I slapped his arm away, dropped my bag and bolted toward the back road.

I could see my teammates in the distance, looking in my direction, still sitting where I'd left them. That's when I stopped, and looked behind me. The man was slinking back through the opening in the fence, walking fast but trying not to move too fast as to look suspicious. And then, he disappeared into the foliage.

I went back to grab my bag, and headed back toward the safety of numbers. I had barely gotten halfway back there when my mom finally drove up, and I hopped in the car.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

I was trembling, trying my hardest not to cry. "Nothing. Let's go home."

***

My friend stared at me as I told the story. When I finished, he just said, "Oh."

Oh.

***

In the aftermath of the event, I struggled with what to do about the incident. I knew it was important for me to report it, and I told myself I needed to report to the school deputy's office first thing in the morning to let them know.

But the guy is long gone, they'll never catch him.

Still, I needed to report it. The school personnel needed to know that area was dangerous, and that there was a predator prowling the area.

You don't remember what his face looked like.

It didn't matter. If I didn't give them a chance to do something about it, some other girl would get hurt.

But I shouldn't have been walking there in the first place.

In the morning, I didn't report it. My conscience berated me again and again to go in and say something. I felt ashamed that I wasn't doing what was right, but I felt even more ashamed for being assaulted in the first place. You can tell them tomorrow, I told myself. Then the next day. Then the next. Finally, I felt like the time had passed, I would just be shamed for not going in sooner, if I wasn't shamed outright for going there in the first place.

I was now part of an under-reported statistic.

That moment haunted me for years before I took a women's studies class in college. Only then was I able to process it and work through my shame. But even now I still feel guilty.

A few weeks after the incident, they announced over the intercom at the start of the day that the afternoon before, one of the cafeteria staff was assaulted and robbed on her way to her car, in the exact same spot I had made my escape.

I could have helped, I should have, but I didn't.