Ways Not To Talk To Women
In the same vein as this post on how not to strike up conversations with women, I would like to say:
Dear Creepy Asian-Fetishist Limo Driver,
YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET A WOMAN INTO YOUR CAR BY SAYING, “I’LL GIVE YOU A RIDE FOR FREE BECAUSE YOU’RE A PRETTY ASIAN, LADY.”
Do you want to know what response your come-on actually produces? This mental chain:
- Ew, what a creep.
- Ew, way to reduce me to my ethnic phenotype and Western fantasies about exotic Asian sex kittens.
- Ew, way to comment on my body and looks and make me feel extremely uncomfortable, whereas previously I had felt confident in my body and gorgeous and happy to be dressed up for my own pleasure.
- Ew, no way am I getting into a car with you, with no guarantee that you’ll keep your hands off and drop me off where I ask, rather than locking the doors and assaulting me, or stalking me around my apartment building once you know where that is.
This limo driver has harassed me twice now, with the result that I no longer try to catch a cab home after the symphony or the opera, because I know that he’s there and that if he sees me without C, he’ll harass me and he won’t take “no” or “leave me alone” for an answer. He’s the reason that I leave out the front door of the opera house and hurry across the street to the bus stand, rather than going out the side exit that passes by the cab queue.
Dear Men,
Street harassment is not acceptable. If it hurts your feelings that you make me feel unsafe, consider that my feelings of fear, anger, and upset are probably way more intense than your temporary feeling of being miffed that you’re not entitled to the smiling attention of every woman in the world.
Sincerely,
PD
Your Body, Your Perspective
The body you inhabit affects your life experiences. This is a very basic, “duh”-level truth, one that goes a long way toward explaining why people have difficulty understanding different kinds of oppression, because the experiences they have are fundamentally different. When I walk down the street by myself, men yell at me, stare at me, and try to get in my way. When my male friends walk down the street by themselves, they … walk down the street. Voila. Amazing! So, when I talk about how infuriating it was to walk two blocks to BART twice a day on the way to and from work, and how I’m hyperaware of the men on the street, they have to think to understand it, because it’s not something that they’ve experienced. They don’t intuitively understand that this is part of my everyday life, that I’m not exaggerating or making things up. They doesn’t understand that as they might allocate two units of mental energy to digging our their keys, I have to allocate two units of mental energy to putting my shields up and power walking past the men hanging out in the plaza, pretending that if I pass them fast enough, I won’t hear them commenting on my body.
I knew this, and yet, I was shocked when C and I had this conversation about white and male privilege:
C: [talking about how it was depressing to realize that he has, and has benefited from, white and male privilege] Sorry, you’re probably thinking, “Ugh, what does he have to complain about?”
PD: No, I know it’s hard to deal with the realization that you have privilege, especially having grown up in a culture that argues that VAWA is sexist against men, or that affirmative action is racist against white people–
C: I really don’t think that’s the culture I grew up in.
PD: Really? You’ve never had a white man claim that he’s oppressed by anti-discrimination? At school, during orientation, there were those minority peer counseling groups–you never had a white boy come in claiming that white is a race, too, and that he’s oppressed by racism?
C: No, and if he had, he’d have been laughed out.
PD: *stunned silent*
I was shocked, because that happened during the first week of college: hip, “I’m so liberal and enlightened that I recognize that white is a race, unlike you racist, backward POC,” white boys coming into minority peer counseling groups saying that white was a race and so they should be allowed to attend these groups, too (and turn what were supposed to be safe spaces for POC into fora that privileged the voices of white boys). It really happened. And people have argued to my face that “VAWA discriminates against men!” and “women’s shelters discriminate against men!” and “affirmative action discriminates against whites!” I’ve experienced this so many times that C’s assertion that he’d never encountered this and that if he had, the perpetrators would have been laughed out of the room, dumbfounded me. He wasn’t saying that these things didn’t happen, just that he’d never seen them, and it was such a drastically different experience of race, gender, and bystander support from mine that I was shocked.
And then I realized, he’s white and he’s male. Of course he’s not going to experience idiot white boys trying to take over POC spaces, because firstly, he wouldn’t have been at the minority peer counseling group to begin with, and secondly, those idiots would have assumed that he agreed with them on account of their shared whiteness, and wouldn’t have brought up their distorted conceptions of race-based discrimination.
C is wonderful and I adore him. It remains shocking that our life experiences have been so drastically different, and not in the sense that individual lives are different, but that they’ve been so fundamentally influenced in broad strokes by our race and gender identities.
1
Starting anew with the things that made me happy today.
Things that made me happy today:
- I spent last night with the +1 at his apartment, then came back to the city today. He was out the door earlier than I was this morning, and so, before I left, I knotted up our ropes in a neat daisy chain and draped it over his pillow with a short note: A domani.
Coping Strategies
When engaged in annoying discussions related to privilege or systemic oppression of any kind, step back, take a deep breath, and cease to engage. Sometimes, it’s just not worth it, because there are some people who refuse to get it and are not arguing in good faith.
Caption:
off-screen person: “Are you coming to bed?”
person typing at computer: “I can’t. This is important.”
off-screen person: “What?”
person typing at computer: “Someone is wrong on the internet.”
That’s my new sign for “Quitting discussion because engagement is futile.”
Other coping strategies when filled with anger at the sheer awfulness of systemic oppression: think happy thoughts. Remember that there are people who are good, people who care. Remember that any, “I. Fucking. Hate. Men.” statement would be sufficiently riddled with exceptions as to remind oneself that one does not, in fact, hate men as a group, just the ones actively wielding their privilege (including the privilege of being ignorant and demanding spoon-feeding education).
Ways Not To Strike Up A Conversation With A Woman
Dear Men-Who-Want-To-Talk-To-Women-But-Don’t-Know-How,
You’re interested in having a conversation with a woman, or at least that’s the impression I get from the way you yell and holler at me. (For the sake of this post, let’s pretend that I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt; let’s pretend that you’re not just catcalling and hollering as an act of aggression intended to establish your dominance over the women you’re harassing.) If you are in fact interested in having a conversation with a heretofore unknown woman without making her feel like a sex object rather than a human being with hopes, dreams, and aspirations, here are some tips on what not to do.
DO NOT:
Come up to a woman and say, “I’ll give you a ride for free, because you’re Asian.” [Man in question is a limo driver] When she says, “No, thanks, I’ll take the bus,” and walks away, follow her down the street and harass her with supposedly flattering comments about her hair, her dress, her ethnicity and repeated requests to get into your vehicle.
WHY NOT: It makes you annoying, because you didn’t leave her alone when she expressed disinterest. It makes you a disgusting, racist fetishist, because you’ve explicitly said that you’re interested on account of her race, and presumably whatever assumptions you’re making about it. It makes you creepy, because you won’t leave her alone and physically followed her. It makes you even creepier and potentially dangerous, because you won’t leave her alone and are intent on getting her into a vehicle that you are in control of.
Open with comments on the woman’s race or appearance, such as, “Hi, are you Chinese?” or, “Hi, gorgeous.”
WHY NOT: It implies that you are a creepy, racist Asian fetishist. It implies that all you see about her is her race. It reduces her down to her race, and there’s a probability of 1 that she’s heard the question before and is tired of complete strangers playing 20 Questions with her race and identity. Furthermore, even flattering comments about her appearance are problematic, because they’re nearly always implicitly sexist and support the assumptions that women are supposed to be decorative and attractive, and that they’re doing it for the observers, not for themselves. Their appearance is not for your evaluation.
Mutter, “Hey, sweetheart!” under your breath as you’re walking past a woman on the sidewalk.
WHY NOT: If you actually want to talk to her, muttering at her while you walk past and away is a bad strategy. It says, “I’m not really interested in talking to you, I just feel entitled to comment on you/your body in passing, as if you were an animal at the 4-H fair.” It also says, “I’m commenting on you–not to you, but on you–with no prior interaction, so the only thing I have to consider is your appearance, and I’m judging it, as if your appearance is for my sake, not yours.”
Call, “Hi,” at a woman in front of you as she’s walking through a subway station. Call, “Hi,” again after she ignores you. Call, “Can you hear me?” after she ignores you again.
WHY NOT: Calling at random people in the crowd is not a winning technique. Would you stop in the middle of your commute for some random person yelling at you, whom you’d never met before, who couldn’t be arsed to say, “Excuse me,” or come up to you or even enter your field of vision? Expecting her to stop, turn around, locate you, and engage in conversation with you after you’ve tried to call her to heel like an off-leash dog is sheer entitlement: a feeling of entitlement to her time and to her attention. It’s flat out rude, as well as stupid.
If you do want to have a conversation with a female stranger–I said, “have a conversation,” mind, not, “chat her up and hit on her”–and don’t want to come off as a sexist creep, here are some suggestions:
DO make sure you’re not bothering her. If she’s using her phone; listening to music; reading a book; looking at the bus map; or otherwise engaged, don’t interrupt her. Would you want to be interrupted by a complete stranger? No, not everyone minds it, but it’s better to err on the side of not being an ass. Bear in mind that some of these things are defensive techniques that some women have adopted specifically to keep asses away–”If I look busy/have headphones in/am buried in a book, maybe he’ll leave me the fuck alone.”
DO pay attention to her reactions. If she answers with monosyllabic words, keeps her attention focused on her book, doesn’t try to carry any of the conversation, or pointedly tells you that she’s married and waiting for her spouse (whether or not she’s got a ring on), politely end with something like, “It was nice to meet you,” or, “have a nice day,” and leave off.
DO introduce yourself or say, “Excuse me,” or find something relevant to say. For example, I was once holding a sack of pears at the farmers’ market, and a man asked if I’d tried the apples at his stand, and we had a conversation about stall fees at the various markets in SF. It was an interesting topic, and although I’d initially gotten weird vibes from him, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he wanted to have an actual conversation.
Of course, then he ruined it by saying, “Actually, I only wanted to talk to you because you look so pretty.” In other words, he wasn’t actually interested in having a conversation with me about farmers’ markets–he was interested in getting my attention because he thought I had a hot bod, and for some reason, he thought I’d like to know that. Way to make me feel reduced to a sex object.
Actually, that’s been my experience multiple times in the past. For the guys who whine that they can’t have an innocent conversation with women because women will assume that they have ulterior motives, all I have to say is this: stop having ulterior motives. No guy who’s actually been interested in having an innocuous conversation with me has given me the creep vibes. We’ve had innocuous conversations that passed the time on the bus or in a coffee line. The only guys I get the annoying creep vibes from are the ones who inevitably indicate, whether by verbal or physical gesture, that it’s not a friendly conversation they’re after.
Sincerely,
PD
Where Are the Men?
Another annoying NYT article, this time in the Health section, “From Birth, Engage Your Child With Talk,” chastises Brooklyn “mothers and nannies … tuned in to their cellphones, BlackBerrys and iPods, not their young children.” While the article’s basic premise (talk to your kid!), the article is off-putting in two respects:
1. Things were better in the old days! We had no high-tech devices then, so everyone was a great parent!
2. Damned mothers and nannies! Too selfishly absorbed in their conversations, emails, texts, and music to devote every waking minute and iota of attention to their babies or charges!
The first is the kind of knee-jerk, anecdotes-are-data, regressive, technology-warps-our-minds thinking that I don’t have much of a counter for, because it’s so patently ridiculous. Does a parent have to give every bit of her or his attention to their child? What if the kid’s asleep? Or tired? Or cranky? Or if you have a business call? Is it ever permissible to check your text messages in the presence of a toddler, or is it always a diversion of attention you ought to be paying to the kid? Actually, if you’re a parent, are you allowed to have a life independent of dancing around your child?
The second just grates. I want to know, where are the fathers in this picture? Why aren’t they out taking their kids for strolls and talking to them? Why isn’t any of the responsibility on them? At least the mothers and nannies are having conversations in the presence of the kids, so the kids are picking up some words; the fathers aren’t even around! They’re neglecting their kids’ verbal development entirely! OH MY GOD NO!
The assumptions behind the comment about “mothers and nannies” are that (1) women are always 100% responsible for child-rearing; dad isn’t even in the picture; (2) since they’re the ones responsible for child-rearing, women have to devote 100% of their attention to their kids. That latter point makes it difficult for women to have a life outside their kids…which I guess is the point. Gotta love the patriarchy.
Who’s stupider?
David Brooks, or the NYT for hiring him? At worst, his columns reek of a complacent, self-satisfied, privileged understanding of the world that has no connection to the experiences of anyone not rich, able-bodied, white, male, heterosexual, and cisgendered. At best, his columns are idiotic maundering about how he’d rather be a rugged mountain man than a beach lounger, but alas, he’s chosen to be a beach lounger. Wah, wah–seriously, cry me a fucking river. His most recent column, “The Next Culture War,” falls into the latter category. It’s classic David Brooks: sweeping statements that paint a picture of the good old days in America, when everyone was affluent but frugal, materialistic but moral. And then came the last 30 years, when society as we knew descended into depravity! Crass consumerism! Greed! Never before had such things happened in America, especially not among the ranks of the wealthy!
“Human nature, in no form of it, could ever bear prosperity,” John Adams wrote in a letter to Thomas Jefferson, warning against the coming corruption of his country.
Yet despite its amazing wealth, the United States has generally remained immune to this cycle. American living standards surpassed European living standards as early as 1740. But in the U.S., affluence did not lead to indulgence and decline.
That’s because despite the country’s notorious materialism, there has always been a countervailing stream of sound economic values. The early settlers believed in Calvinist restraint. The pioneers volunteered for brutal hardship during their treks out west. Waves of immigrant parents worked hard and practiced self-denial so their children could succeed. Government was limited and did not protect people from the consequences of their actions, thus enforcing discipline and restraint.
Whenever I read one of these columns, I wonder how one gets to be an op-ed writer for the NYT. The excerpted paragraphs are full of broad assertions with nary a shred of supporting evidence.
The old WASPs were notoriously cheap, sent their children to Spartan boarding schools, and insisted on financial sobriety.
That sentence falls into the “disconnected from anyone outside his economic stratum” category. “Notoriously cheap” means sending your kids to “Spartan boarding schools?” Right. I’m sure Choate and Andover and whatever other New England bastions of private schooling Brooks is referring to are the height of spartan anti-luxury and frugality.
This sentence falls into both the disconnected and the “sweeping, inaccurate generalizations” category:
Our current cultural politics are organized by the obsolete culture war, which has put secular liberals on one side and religious conservatives on the other.
I suppose that if you’re rich, white, able-bodied, straight, cis, and male, then silly things such as women’s rights to control their own bodies, along with access to reproductive health care, or the right of GLBTQI people to live, work, marry, and love without harassment are part of the “obsolete culture war.” Going off my experience escorting at Planned Parenthood last week, the “culture war” is by no means obsolete. The fervent anti-reproductive rights effort to ban all funding for abortion from health insurance reform also indicates that the “culture war” is ongoing and relevant to contemporary politics. Additionally, the divide is not nearly as clear cut as “secular liberals” and “religious conservatives.” There are many people of faith who are liberals (such as the Christian church with a booth at Folsom St. Fair) and many conservatives who are atheists.
And, of course, any column on the decline of modern American civilization would be incomplete without the obligatory poke at fat people:
Chain restaurants went into supersize mode, offering gigantic portions that would have been considered socially unacceptable to an earlier generation.
What I want to know is, why do my high school teachers have higher standards for argumentation, writing, and intellectual rigor than the editors of the NYT op-ed section?
P.S. Quit it with the “society was great for hundreds of years, and then it declined.” Things were never better in the age of the maiores, David, and that song and dance were worn out way before Sallust and Livy got to it.
I Wish
…that movies would stop making jokes about getting people drunk in order to “have sex” with them. Deliberately feeding someone alcohol in order to get them drunk so that they’ll “have sex” “with” you is rape. Interestingly, it assumes that your victim would not willingly choose to do so when in her or his right mind, which ought to make it even clearer that plying her or him with drink is an explicit attempt to get her or him to the point where her or his judgment is seriously compromised and she or he is incapable of consenting to sex. Having sex “with” someone without their consent is rape. Getting someone to a point where they’re not capable of giving consent means that they are by default in a state of not consenting.
Rape is not just forging ahead and having sex when your partner says, “No.” Rape is having sex when you’ve made it so that your partner is incapable of saying, “No,” or is too drunk to know what the hell yes and no mean, or what they’re saying yes or no to.
The latest offender in this regard is Play the Game, an indie romantic comedy where a young, able-bodied white man tries to teach his old, white grandfather how to pick up “chicks.” One thing he mentions is that when you’re sharing a bottle of wine with a woman and she pours more wine into your glass than hers, it’s a sign that she’s interested in you. As an illustration of this idea, the young man has a bottle of wine with a woman at the bar and then tells her that he needs to go home to his girlfriend. Immediately, the woman asks him to stay for just one more drink and tops off their glasses. Cue a shot of the wine glasses, which look like this:
Hardy har har, indeed–except I must have been the only person in the theater not roaring with laughter. The wine pour becomes a running gag in the film, reoccurring again when the grandfather’s girlfriend slips powdered Viagra into his wine goblet and pours it completely full. Drugging someone without their knowledge! Getting Grandpa drunk and aroused when he’s already expressed an unwillingness to have sex with her! Specifically putting Grandpa in a position of physically wanting to have sex while mentally compromising him in order to overcome his intellectual desire to not have sex! HARDY HAR HAR! Later, the main character pulls the wine trick with the woman he’s been pursuing for the entire film, who has handily resisted him and expressed interest in other men the entire time–HARDY HAR HAR! Pouring people wine to overcome their stated resistance to having sex with you–HARDY HAR HAR!
Getting someone drunk in order to compromise their judgment so that you can have sex with them is rape. Yet, Play the Game treated it as a joke, presenting it as something that’s acceptable for young people to do at bars and as something that’s laughable for old people to do in retirement homes. It’s not a bloody joke, it’s a crime, but the movie normalized it as harmless fun, common behavior, and worst of all, as a sign that your rapist is romantically interested in you. Gee, I guess rape victims should feel flattered, eh?
On the one hand, women are frequently blamed when rapists rape them, and the victim-blaming is even more intense if the women have had so much as a drop of alcohol. The UK government even ran PSAs suggesting that being raped was the consequence of women drinking. On the other hand, pop culture serves up entertainment that treats getting people drunk in order to rape them as harmless fun. Rape is such a joke–if you’re the one pouring the wine.
“You’re Easy”
I’ve been thinking a lot about random things lately and consequently may end up making lots of short posts.
Sarahtales has a fabulous post about how readers read male and female characters in fiction: “Ladies, Please (Carry On Being Awesome).” In the comments, Serafina_zane says, “There are so many depressing double standards (call a girl a whore? she’s useless forever! manwhore? lol funny joke!”
Her comment reminded me of this incident in my life:
On her first night in A City Abroad, PD has lots of sex with a stranger. The next day, Stranger asks her to come by his shop that night. Owing to Stranger’s English being crap, PD occasionally having hearing problems (sometimes people speak to me and my brain hears gibberish. It is weird.), and PD not expecting Stranger to want to repeat the one night stand, PD does not show up that night.
The next day, PD and Stranger run into each other and Stranger asks PD to go out again that night. PD says sorry, she’s got plans with someone else. Stranger becomes irate and demands to know if the someone else is a man and who he is, and eventually yells, “You’re easy!” He adds something about how he thought PD was special and obviously he was wrong, and storms off.
PD is completely befuddled, thinking,
- I like having sex. What of it?
- You call me “easy” as if it were a bad thing, which is hypocritical considering if I weren’t, I wouldn’t have slept with you the other night.
- Double standard, much? If I’m easy, what does that make you?
- Dude, I slept with you, a complete stranger, on my first night in this city. What did you think, that you were a special, unique snowflake and that I would only ever sleep with you? We had sex; that does not mean that you own me and it doesn’t negate my ability to choose to have sex with other people.
- Grow the fuck up.
I still don’t understand it. Furthermore, I don’t understand why “easy” is supposed to be insulting. It’s a logicfail kind of thing — intellectually, I know why (sexism, virgin/whore dichotomy, fetishization of virginity in women, woman-as-property, construction of man-as-virile-taker-of-sex and woman-as-reluctant-giver-of-sex, etc.), but I fundamentally don’t understand it. It’s like this kind of logicfail, where my brain says, “Does not compute!” Being “easy” is not a bad thing. Being “easy” is not a good thing. It shouldn’t carry any moral connotations, because what matters about sex is not how often or with how many people you have it, but that it is always your choice, with consent freely given and freely accepted.
Escorting at Clinics: 40 Days for “Life”
Via Bitch Ph.D.: Operation Rescue will be protesting women’s health clinics across the country from September 23 to November 1 for their self-proclaimed 40 Days for “Life.” What are the 40 Days for “Life”? Their website claims,
40 Days for Life is a community-based campaign that draws attention to the evil of abortion through the use of a three-point program:
* Prayer and fasting
* Constant vigil
* Community outreach40 Days for Life takes a determined, peaceful approach to showing local communities the consequences of abortion in their own neighborhoods, for their own friends and families. It puts into action a desire to cooperate with God in the carrying out of His plan for the end of abortion in America.
I am a clinic escort at Planned Parenthood and on top of the usual protesters that show up every Monday and Saturday, my clinic was already targeted for the 40 Days for “Life” earlier this year. I can tell you that the 40 Days for “Life” are less about peaceful Christian fellowship than about harassing, intimidating, and shaming girls and women for going to Planned Parenthood, whether it’s for their annual check up or for an abortion. The protesters at my clinic carry giant signs with pictures of what they claim are aborted fetuses (said pictures look like dismembered plastic dolls covered in kung pao chicken sauce, but that’s just my non-medical expert opinion), which are meant to horrify and scare women and girls. They yell at the top of their lungs that anyone who goes into Planned Parenthood will go to Hell. They hand out pamphlets proclaiming the lie that abortion causes breast cancer. They shout, “Adoption is a better option.” With the pictures, pamphlets, and physical intimidation, the protesters try to prevent girls and women from entering the clinic, so that they won’t receive the medical care that they have chosen and need. Additionally, after Scott Roeder murdered Dr. Tiller, when any person with a sense of compassion or two brain cells to rub together would have realized that clinic patients, workers and escorts would be feeling rattled and scared for their safety, the local protesters stepped up their harassment. In an email shortly after the murder, my clinic’s escort coordinator wrote,
Since the appalling murder of Dr. Tiller, our protesters decided to show up the Tuesday before last … And one staff member told us that because there were no escorts present they were fairly aggressive. We had escorts at this clinic this Tuesday and although one of our regular protesters drove by, he didn’t stop because we were there.
and in a later email,
I’m truly amazed at the right wing response to Dr. Tiller’s death – how outrageous can they be? I thought that our protesters would be kinder/gentler and its simply unbelievable that they’re getting more aggressive. I (mistakenly) thought that our protesters would behave.
In retrospect, I believe that the protesters stepped up their harassment because they knew that people would be frightened by the murder, and they wanted to capitalize on that. Hardly a Christian attitude.
ACTION ITEM: The 40 Days for “Life” are targeting clinics across the country. Their website has a list of the locations. Check to see if they’re protesting in your area, and if they are, contact the clinic to see if they could use your help. Search for volunteer opportunities at Planned Parenthood here.
The “peaceful” approach of the anti-choice protesters includes:
- Approaching girls and women and yelling, “You’re killing your baby! Murderer!”
- Approaching girls and women and attempting to step between them and the clinic entrance, while shoving pamphlets about adoption and lies about abortion at them.
- Approaching girls and women and yelling, “Do you know what they do in there? They kill babies! If you kill your baby, you will go to Hell!”
- Approaching girls and women and yelling, “Adoption is a better option!”
- Setting up a sidewalk altar near the clinic entrance with statues of Mary and Jesus. Kneeling in front of the altar and praying loudly.
- Standing near the clinic entrance in groups of three or more and loudly saying the rosary.
- Standing near the clinic entrance in groups of as many as six or more and yelling at the clinic escorts: “You will burn in the flames of hell! And when you have a baby, God will kill him because of your evil!”
- Setting up chairs and a stereo on the opposite side of the street and blasting anti-choice Christian music.
- Holding large signs with graphic images that purport to depict aborted fetuses.
- Repeatedly violating San Francisco’s bubble ordinance by approaching patients as they exit and enter the clinic.
Far from depiction of the small, lone teenager that protests the abortion clinic in Juno, the protesters at my local clinic range in number from three to more than fifteen, often arrive in shifts, range in age from teenage to elderly, are male and female, are vocal, are loud, are physically intimidating, and often gang up on clinic patients so that patients must physically shove through them to get to the clinic. Yes, they are ridiculous, but their intent is to intimidate any girl or woman who so much as passes by a Planned Parenthood.
If you can, please consider finding the time to help out your local clinic by volunteering as a clinic escort or in another capacity. Escorts present a welcoming face to patients and employees as they go in and out of the clinic; deter the protesters from escalating their intimidation and aggressiveness; and help patients avoid the protesters, inasmuch as it’s possible.
More reading: Think Progress on Operation Rescue and Roeder
Shakesville: Breaking the Silence: On Living Pro-Lifers’ Choice for Women – a guest post about giving a child up for adoption.
I Like You, Too
He said:
I like that you speak your mind.
I like that you’re passionate.
It’s easy to keep my shields up and say, “You’d better, because that’s not going to change,” but that would cheapen his comments and what they mean to me. How many times have my nearest and dearest told me that I care too much, that I’m too strident, that I’m too serious and humorless, that I’m too political, that I read too much into things, that I shouldn’t speak up or speak out so much, that I should let homophobia or sexism or transphobia or racism or classism pass unchecked in order to keep the social peace? How many times have my nearest and dearest muttered, “It was just a joke,” or repeated themselves and said, “but it’s true! Black people are thieves/Muslims are lazy/Transpeople are freaks/Midwesterners are ignorant, gun-toting, Bible-thumping crazies!”* after my jaw dropped and I said, “That’s not true?”
Ask me why family-and-friends get-togethers make me anxious. Ask me why I dislike seeing specific family friends. My worries are always thus: What sexist thing will Uncle X say this time? Will Church Friends talk about Prop. 8 and the “sanctity of marriage?” Will Family Friend A rant about “crazy men who want to be women?” And will I speak up, knowing that my mother will yell at me for being too strident, too political, too rude (too feminist, too queer, too anti-transphobia)? Or will I silently hunker down, sink into my seat, and feel sick and a failure besides?
How many people have said, “I’m sorry for saying a sexist thing, please keep calling me on it and please help me, because I don’t know any better?”
Twice. And that’s good. It’s better than being dismissed or berated, but it’s tiring, too, and sometimes, I wish that those two folks would just know better, or at least remember that we’ve already had that exact same conversation about calling women hags or calling things lame and retarded.
How many people have said, “I like that you’re passionate,” after I ranted about Clinton and sexist double standards in the media?
How many people have said, “I like that you speak your mind,” after I politely called out a friend’s characterization of things as “white trash?”
One. When I chose not to smile and ignore classist and sexist comments at a dinner with friends, the +1 didn’t cringe, didn’t shut me down, and didn’t make excuses for my “poor” behavior (e.g. “oh, she’s a feminist/too PC/etc., you know, don’t mind her!”). That already put him a step ahead of my parents and some longtime friends.
And then, he said that he liked me for speaking my mind. No one’s ever said that before. I’m not an embarrassment to him–he doesn’t like me despite my feminist baggage. He sees that the baggage is inescapably a part of me–and he likes that. I didn’t think I’d ever find someone like that, let alone someone whom I liked who liked me in return. And we met at random. And he’s lovely.
I am so lucky.
I like you, too.
*All real conversations at family-and-friends get-togethers.
Feminism: Concrete Policy Suggestions
[Trigger warnings for the post, especially for the links about the Congo and rape.]
Ben and I recently had a conversation about feminism:
Ben: if i were to levy one criticism
Ben: at the feminist movement
Ben: its that i dont hear very many
Ben: concrete policy suggestions
PD: …
Ben: (not that its their responsibility)
PD: sriously?
Before anyone hops over to his blog to bite his head off, (1) Ben is not a troll; (2) he was commenting in good faith; (3) I think this speaks to our society’s general lack of understanding of the political work of feminism. BitchPhD recently posted on the many ways in which she and her family benefits from the works of the government; many of those benefits are invisible in that they’re taken for granted and assumed to be the Way Things Are, as if they’d magically, effortlessly sprung into existence years ago. The political work of feminists (who are by no means a monolithic movement) similarly blends into the landscape, if you’re not actively looking for it and considering, “Gee, why is it that my girlfriend can get birth control every month?” Another factor is that for as much as feminists do, a good portion of their political activism is necessarily about working to prevent sexist laws and policies. When they succeed, few people take notice, because in such cases, success means that the status quo remains the same.
So, here are some ways that I see the effects of feminists’ concrete, political work in my everyday life.
When I wake up in the morning, I wake up in my own apartment. That’s because I’m allowed to sign the lease in my own name, even though I’m a woman. In fact, if I had the money and the desire, I could even have a house with the deed in my own name, because women are allowed to own property these days. I pay for the apartment with rent checks that I write myself from my own bank account, because women can have bank accounts that aren’t in the names of their fathers or husbands. I pay for the rent with a high-paying job that I got because I went to a good university. I was able to go to that good university because it went co-ed in 1969, not without a determined effort on the part of feminists to open up higher education to women.
After I wake up, the +1 and I have sex. If the condom were to break, I could go to the nearest pharmacy and get emergency contraception over the counter, because the FDA approved over-the-counter use of emergency contraception in 2006, not without a determined effort on the part of feminists, both everyday people and political officials:
“We urge the FDA to revisit placing age restrictions on the sale of Plan B,” said Sens. Hillary Rodham Clinton (D-N.Y.) and Patty Murray (D-Wash.). But because the decision represents “real progress” and an “important step in restoring the American people’s faith in the FDA,” the senators said, they were lifting a hold they had imposed on von Eschenbach’s confirmation as FDA commissioner.
In California, I can walk into any pharmacy for that Plan B because California doesn’t allow pharmacists to refuse to provide medications that go against their religious beliefs. The lack of a so-called “conscience clause” at the state level (although the HHS rule change threatens this) is due to the political work of NOW, Planned Parenthood, and the hundreds of everyday feminists who staff, donate to, and volunteer for those organizations, as well as the everyday feminists who contacted their public officials on these matters and asked them to support a woman’s right to decide her reproductive future.
If I were a minor and the +1 and I had accidentally created a fetus, I would be able to go to a Planned Parenthood and get an abortion without needing to get my parents’ permission, because feminists campaigned against Prop. 4 in last year’s election. The campaign involved websites, online ads, TV ads, mailers, op-eds, and thousands of person-hours’ worth of phone banking, building coalitions with local political groups, knocking on doors, canvassing for volunteers, and talking to people. The preservation of a teenage girl’s ability to get an abortion required the investment of millions of dollars and thousands of hours of work–but from this side of the election, it’s concrete policy work that’s invisible, because it was about maintaining the status quo rather than enacting a new policy. It was necessary nonetheless, because misogynistic, anti-choice activists are constantly campaigning to repeal all the progress that feminists and their allies have made. Prop. 4 was the third time in four years that anti-choicers tried to pass a referendum requiring parental notification/consent.
If the +1 and I were married and accidentally created a fetus and Plan B didn’t work, I could get an abortion without his permission, because in 1992, Planned Parenthood v. Casey ruled husband notification laws unconstitutional. However, in the unlikely circumstance that I wanted the pregnancy, but ended up needing a late-term abortion, the Partial-Birth Abortion Ban Act, Gonzales v. Carhart and the lack of abortion providers (due in no small part to the active harassment of such doctors) would make it difficult to obtain. Incidentally, part of Justice Kennedy’s reasoning in Gonzales boiled down to an argument that women are not sufficiently mentally competent to make decisions for themselves about partial-birth abortions, and so in order to protect them from the regret they may feel after the fact, the state ought to ban partial-birth abortions. This was in 2007; the idea that women intelligent human beings fully capable of making decisions and living with the consequences has by no means permeated the three branches of our government.
After the +1 and I get out of bed, I dress for work. Usually, I wear pants, even though I work in a conservative field. This is because if my company’s dress code explicitly required women to wear hose, heels, skirts, and makeup, there are laws that would allow me to sue them for imposing rules that unfairly place a material burden on women (hose, heels, skirts, and makeup have a cost in time, money, and physical health) based solely on gender stereotypes rather than the requirements of the job. These laws didn’t spring up out of nowhere, either. Then, I go to the office.
At work, I hold a job other than that of administrative assistant. All of our administrative assistants are women, but there are also women who are principals and managing directors and analysts. This is because Title VII of the Civil Rights Act prohibits discrimination based on a number of protected traits, including sex. In other words, my employer can’t hire women solely for the lower-paying jobs. Speaking of pay, the male analysts and I made the same starting salary, doing the same work with the same qualifications. This is because of the Equal Pay Act of 1963. However, if I were to find out that the male analysts made more than I did for doing the same work, I could bring an equal pay lawsuit. I could sue the company even if I found out about the pay discrimination more than 180 days after it had begun, because the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act of 2009 amended the statute of limitations in Title VII. Incidentally, feminists are still working on the equal pay issue, and then-Sen. Hillary Clinton and Rep. Rosa DeLauro introduced the Paycheck Fairness Act in the House and Senate this past January. That’s awfully recent, and you can’t get much more concrete than a proposed law.
When I check my email, there’s an action alert from Planned Parenthood, who want me to call the governor’s office and my state senator and representative, asking them to repeal the budget cuts for family planning services, which “provides essential health care to millions of women including breast and cervical cancer screenings, contraception and preventive care.” Planned Parenthood also organizes trips to the state capitol on lobbying days so that they can speak with public officials and ask them to support policies for women’s health care and reproductive rights.
Change.org has an email asking me to support Senator Barbara Boxer’s Afghan Women Empowerment Act, which “would provide critical resources for Afghan women for literacy education, technical and vocational training and health care services that would reduce maternal and infant mortality. The bill will also fund programs to protect women and girls against sexual and physical abuse, abduction, trafficking, exploitation, and includes emergency shelters for women and girls who face danger from violence.”
Speaking of feminists and foreign policy, feminists have consistently been advocating both offline and online to raise awareness of the brutal rape epidemic against women in the Congo and urging people to take political and economic action. Clinton pledged to address the rape epidemic as part of U.S. foreign policy in her confirmation hearings and recently pledged $17M to fight sexual violence in the Congo.
Other action alert-type emails in my inbox pertain to the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA), which would make it illegal to fire, refuse to hire, or refuse to promote employees simply based on sexual orientation or gender identity; overturning the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA); and overturning Don’t Ask Don’t Tell (DADT). All of these are feminist issues; they affect women and are based on confining everyone to patriarchal, heteronormative gender roles.
I work late and end up walking home after nightfall. I know the rape statistics: strangers are less likely to assault me than men I’m already acquainted with. However, when I hear footsteps behind me that match my pace, even when I speed up, I can’t help but think about how as a woman of color, if a man raped me, I couldn’t necessarily trust the police to help me. Even if they did, I might have trouble getting a rape kit. The hospital might bill my insurance provider, opening up a whole new bucket of worms, or they might require me to file a police report within a certain period, or they might require the police to verify that they’re investigating the case (which doesn’t always happen). Assuming that everything went smoothly at the hospital, that’s still no guarantee that the rape kit would ever be processed before the statute of limitations passed. These problems–rape, police brutality, indifferent or rape apologist prosecutors, rape kit billing problems–are all issues that feminists are addressing.
On the way home, a man asks if I’m Chinese, gorgeous. Another man blocks the sidewalk so that I can’t move around him, shoves his face so close that he’s breathing on me, leers, and says, “Mmm.” This is street harassment. Feminists are working to combat street harassment at the grassroots level; police officers aren’t always reliable.
Eventually, I make it home. If it isn’t clear by now, the political impacts and political issues of feminists are woven inextricably into the fabric of our daily lives.
Google Search Queries
I was looking at my blog view stats today, and on the list of search queries, found this gem:
how feminism ruined my sex life
I have to say, if feminism is ruining your sex life, then you’re doing sex wrong.
In a piece of Google WIN, that particular search query pulls up this post, “Dating As A Feminist: Consent & Sex”, which is all about how being a feminist was good for my sex life. I wonder how much the searcher read before thinking, “These are not the droids you’re looking for!”
Harassment Log #1
Trigger warning: street harassment.
Following the advice of Atul Gawande, I am going to count something. Specifically, the number of times someone harasses me. Why? Because it interests me. After a while, the hollering, the objectification, and the slurs blend into a cloud of background noise, and I don’t like that. I want to know exactly how many times it happens, so I can know exactly what the price is for wanting to go about my life while female.
May 2009: (1 Mission) Too long ago to remember; the one that stands out most vividly for the creepiness and the fear I felt is one incident on a Saturday night, when I was walking to meet some friends at a club and a man walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction passed me, turned around, and followed me for half the block until I reached a busier street.
May 24, 2009: 2 Homophobic & racist slurs. (2 Mission)
July 17, 2009: 4 (2 Mission, 1 Embarcadero, 1 cab)
- 1 “Hey gorgeous” comment yelled at me on the way to BART. (Mission)
- 1 “Hey young lady” comment yelled at me on the way to BART. (Mission)
- 1 “You look nice” comment muttered in my face as the man brushed past me on the way to BART. (Embarcadero)
- Hit on by creepy taxi driver at 1 A.M., who missed the turns for my street, which freaked me out (see here for why. Trigger warning for the link.). After that, I had him drop me off at a bar rather than my apartment building.
I am not going to get into why “Hey, gorgeous!” is not a flattering compliment and is still, in fact, harassment. I am not going to argue with you about how the men yelling, “Hey, young ladies!” at my friends and me are innocently saying hi. Honestly, I don’t have the patience to put up with that bullshit, so if you need those 101 lessons:
(1) Read this.
(2) Read this.
(3) Ask yourself how many times those comments are yelled at women and girls vs. how many times they’re yelled at men and boys. The disparity suggests that there are certain bodies that are considered available for public consumption, judging, and commenting, and certain bodies that are not.
For more on my experiences with street harassment: tag.
Stop Street Harassment’s blog.
Street Harassment
Some good links lately: Walking As Rebellion, by Kate (via Shakesville)
Catcalling is for Creepers, by blogofchampions.
Any discussion of street harassment usually derails into one of these threads:
- What About Teh Menz!: Some man will pipe up and say, “But I like giving women compliments, and it’s totally innocent! I just want to tell her she looks nice! Does that make me a bad guy?”
No, it doesn’t make you a bad guy, but it does make you fucking obnoxious. It is indeed obnoxious to barge into a discussion where women talk about being cursed at, objectified, and harassed, and change the topic to your precious feelings and your right to engage in behaviors that, regardless of their intention, are perceived as harassment. If you ever have the urge to ask this question in a discussion of street harassment, I suggest you shut your mouth, listen to actual victims of street harassment, and let them say their piece about the real anger, intimidation, and threats they’ve been subjected to before trying to change the focus of the conversation to yourself and what you want. I also suggest that you listen to the message that these women do not like being sexually objectified or having their bodies commented on, and shut up. You will not suffer agonizing pain because you didn’t tell that hot Chinese-looking chick that she looks soooo pretty. She, on the other hand, will appreciate not being subjected to, “So, I only wanted to talk to you because you’re really pretty,” “Hey, gorgeous, are you Chinese?” “I like your hair, it looks really…exotic,” for the nth time.
Also, nine times out of ten, the comment that you perceive as innocent and flattering? It probably isn’t. If you really think that you just have an aesthetic appreciating for my skirt, it’ll be a lot more believable if you say something about the cut or color or construction or something about the skirt. That’ll make me inclined to believe that you’re actually interested in the skirt qua skirt and not trying to chat me up. It’ll be a lot less convincing if you say a generic, “I like your skirt,” while staring at my legs, ass, or chest.
- Women Are Soooo Fickle, Oh, And, They Lie: Someone, usually claiming to be a woman (and hey, there are enough sexist women out there that I’m inclined to believe them) will say that women are fickle, shrill, whining, shrewish bitches who just can’t be satisfied. Either they get yelled at on the street and they complain about that, or they don’t get yelled at and they complain about that.
The “logic” behind this “argument” is that deep down, women secretly enjoy street harassment. They all feel that their self-esteem and body image depend on how many times a man follows them down the street at night; how many times a man leers and says, “Suck my cock, bitch”; or how many times a man stares at them while they walk down the street and says, “Mmm, gorgeous,” like he’s commenting on a steer at auction. Do I need to explicate why this “argument” is ridiculous, particularly when it’s made in response to a post about how street harassment is damaging, infuriating, and not in the least bit enjoyable?
Usually, these commenters reveal themselves to be (a) projecting like mad. They start with high-faluting comments about how they never get street harassed, but if they did, they wouldn’t mind, they’d appreciate a good, old-fashioned “suck my cock, bitch!” like the honest, unthreatening compliment that it is. See, they’re not like those other women who complain about not being catcalled enough, they … just aren’t catcalled but would totally enjoy it if they were! Right, then. They also reveal themselves to be (b) sexists who think that while they are Special Snowflakes, every other woman in the world is a bitch. These folks usually think that if only they cooperate with the patriarchy enough, they’ll come out on top. This whole line of thought that women actually like street harassment is dangerous in that it relies on the notion that women need, depend on, and should be grateful for any form of male attention that they can get. It’s reminiscent of the idea that ugly rape victims should be grateful that someone raped them, because hey, at least they got to “have sex,” and god only knows no one would touch them otherwise. In other words, it tries to legitimate street harassment after the fact by saying that the victims must have secretly wanted it.
- If You Just Ignore It, They’ll Stop, Or, Don’t Respond, You’re Just Giving Them The Attention They Want: Someone will always chime in saying that the best response to street harassment is to do nothing. That way, you’re not feeding into their desire to provoke a reaction. That way, they’ll see that you’re not bothered by them and so they’ll leave you alone.
Anyone else having flashbacks to elementary school playgrounds? Yeah, when was the last time that you ignored a playground bully and it made them leave you alone? If I recall correctly, ignoring them made them escalate their tactics, because they knew that they could do so without facing any consequences. Their victims weren’t going to stand up to them and so the teachers probably weren’t going to do anything, either, since the victim hadn’t called on them to intervene.
Street harassment works similarly. Sure, the harasser might be aiming to provoke a reaction, but giving them the cold shoulder isn’t going to work, either. Cat callers revel in what they perceive as their power to publicly harass women without suffering any consequences, and the only solution that I can see to that is to disabuse them of the notion that they can get away with it scot-free. Sure, they might want a reaction, particularly if they’re trying to look masculine in front of their male peers, but being called on their bullshit is not the reaction they want or expect. Bullies like power. They like taunting their victims. They thrive off humiliating people they perceive to be weaker than they are, and rejection or confrontation will often stop them in their tracks.
A few years ago, I was walking out of a store, and noticed a man about half a block away. I was headed in the opposite direction, and from behind me, I heard, “Hey, gorgeous.” I ignored it. He then yelled, “Hey, gorgeous,” again. He then yelled, “Hey, bitch, I gave you a compliment.” I ignored that, too. Getting louder and louder, he then yelled, “Bitch, you think you’re too good for me? Ain’t you gonna thank me?” I ignored that, too. Finally, he screamed, “Fuck you, bitch!”
That is typical of my experiences with ignoring cat callers. They don’t stop if you ignore them. They just up the ante and barrage you with more and more harassment.
It’s one thing for victims to not want to confront street harassers: women are taught to avoid confrontation and to endure abuse, and oftentimes it feels unsafe to confront the person harassing you. It’s another thing, however, for people to tell victims that street harassment will stop if they just ignore it. It has the curious quality of (a) being wrong; (b) perpetuating a system where men can continue to harass women to their hearts’ content. Convenient, isn’t it?
Gender and Chef-ing
The Astor Center recently held a panel discussion on the topic of “Gender Confusion: Unraveling the Myths of Gender in the Restaurant Kitchen.” The premise was this: two men and two women from the foodie world did a blind tasting of menus prepared by female and male chefs and mixologists and had to decide if the dishes were prepared by a woman or a man, with the goal of identifying whether or not men and women cook differently. In other words, is cooking style rooted in one’s gender? Y’all can probably guess what my answer is.
I wonder, does anyone ask if cooking style is biologically rooted in one’s ethnicity? On the one hand, insofar as ethnicity correlates to exposure to a specific culture and its culinary profile, the ethnicity that you’re born into is likely influence how you cook. It’s likely to affect what spices, flavors, and techniques you’re exposed to. The level of influence depends on many factors, though: where are you living? Are you an immigrant? What generation? Are you adopted by parents of a different ethnicity? Etc. That influence, however, is also affected by where and with whom you do your training. Take Marco Pierre White for example. Half-English, half-Italian, he was born, raised, and trained in England, and became one of the best French chefs of the ’90s. Julia Child was born and raised in the U.S., grew up eating “traditional New England food” (Wikipedia), took classes at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, and along with Simone Beck and Louise Bertholle, did much to popularize French cuisine in the U.S. I think that most people would conclude that if there is a connection between cooking style and ethnicity, it’s one of influence rather than biological determinism, and it’s a potential connection rather than one set in stone.
Now, leaving aside the larger issues of sexism in the glorification and elevation of TV/restaurant/celebrity cooking; in restaurant kitchens; in society at large and how that shapes notions of what is considered feminine or masculine, I found the idea of gender determining cooking style amusing and interesting on a personal level. Personally, my cooking style is a mishmash, all over the map in terms of ethnic influences and stereotypically masculine or feminine techniques, colors, and flavors. I know very little of the Korean food I grew up with; don’t care much for American cuisine; and found my home in Roman and Cal-French cooking. My particular style stretches across the spectrum from lackadaisical and simple to complicated and perfectionist. I’ve been vegetarian and omnivorous, can cook both ways, and like the challenge of cooking to accommodate dietary restrictions. Some of my cooking preferences line up according to gender stereotypes and some don’t, but those are due to my idiosyncrasies rather than my gender. E.g., I don’t like cooking with beef. Dislike of red meat: stereotypically feminine. However, my taste probably stems from eating too much overcooked beef as a child, and were it not for that experience, perhaps I would love cooking beef. After all, my current favorite dish to cook and eat is boeuf bordelaise, with mushroom duxelles and pommes Anna. Complicated, showy, technique-driven, and perfectionist: stereotypically masculine. The reason for liking The French Laundry Cookbook’s boeuf bordelaise preparation, however, is because the complexity of it suits my neurotic nature.
Ed Levine was one of the tasters in the panel and wrote up his thoughts on it here. He shares some of the panel’s preconceptions about gender:
- Women chefs use spices more subtly than men
- Male chefs love to make use of lots of toys in their cooking (look out, Grant Achatz)
- Female chefs cook to nurture and feed people’s souls, while male chefs cook to compete and impress
- Women chefs are more likely to cook soulful “grandmere-style” food than their male counterparts, who are much more likely to be into dazzling, technique-driven cooking
- Male chefs like to cook red meat; women chefs are much more likely to cook pink food and use edible flowers
- Women chefs are more precise. They follow instructions more carefully than men do
- Women chefs’ food is more subtle and sophisticated, while their male counterparts cook gutsier, deep-flavored, testosterone-driven food
- Women chefs cook with their hearts and souls, while male chefs cook with their head and their private parts
As I was reading the list of preconceptions, my thoughts were mostly incoherent sputtering and “But what about Celebrity Chef X? Or Celebrity Chef Y? There are so many bloody counterexamples!” So, here are my thoughts on those preconceptions:
- Women chefs use spices more subtly than men
Really? I seem to recall my mom making a stir fry that was so heavy on garlic and chili pepper that my dad started coughing when he stuck his head in the kitchen and got a whiff of the air. - Male chefs love to make use of lots of toys in their cooking (look out, Grant Achatz)
Well, I’ll cop to disliking toys in my kitchen, but that’s due to disliking kitchen clutter. As far as molecular gastronomy, which is what the ‘toys’ and ‘Grant Achatz’ comments are referring to, goes, it seems likely to me that there are fewer female than male molecular gastronomists because molecular gastronomy is esoteric to begin with, and so female chefs have even fewer opportunities to be exposed to molecular gastronomy than to non-molecular gastronomy cooking. Furthermore, it also goes back to the restaurant industry being largely male-dominated and sexist. Achatz was exposed to molecular gastronomy when Keller, chef-proprietor of The French Laundry, arranged a trip to El Bulli, famed center for molecular gastronomy, for his then-sous chef. How many female sous chefs were there in TFL’s kitchen at the time (or now) to have a chance at that kind of opportunity? - Female chefs cook to nurture and feed people’s souls, while male chefs cook to compete and impress
After hearing Zuni Cafe’s Judy Rodgers give a talk, I’m fairly certain that most female chefs, like most male chefs, cook to meet the bottom line and keep the doors open at their restaurants. And what of celebrity TV chefs such as Cat Cora, who go into flashy, competition-style TV cooking where the cooking is to compete with other chefs and to impress judges, rather than to nurture restaurant goers? It’s worth noting that unlike the other, male American Iron Chefs, Cora did not have a restaurant prior to being on the show. I.e., the lone woman on the American Iron Chef went straight from the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) to a competitive TV cooking show where only a panel of judges tastes her food, and tastes it for critique, without stopping by a restaurant to “nurture and feed people’s souls” on the way. - Women chefs are more likely to cook soulful “grandmere-style” food than their male counterparts, who are much more likely to be into dazzling, technique-driven cooking
You know, it’s hard to evaluate this claim and think of professional counterexamples, because there are comparatively female restaurant chefs, and of the ones in the Bay Area, most of them operate restaurants that are beyond my budget. I’d suggest that the disparity in numbers between male and female restaurant chefs is the result of pervasive sexism and with so few samples, it’s hard to weigh these claims.Oh, wait, thought of one! Elizabeth Falkner at Citizen Cake makes desserts that definitely fall into the “dazzling, technique-driven” category. Her plated desserts look like modern art (and although delicious, are about as filling), and in Demolition Desserts, she lays out the step by step process of thinking, deconstructing, and experimenting that takes her from a chocolate chip cookie to this chocolate dessert (from the Kara’s Cupcakes post), which, given the Citizen Cake style, is likely some kind of meta dessert that playfully deconstructs the essence of chocolate and childhood nostalgia.
- Male chefs like to cook red meat; women chefs are much more likely to cook pink food and use edible flowers
Uh, yeah, tell that to Masa, who rarely serves red meat (does Masa serve any land animals?), and to Cindy Pawlcyn of Mustards Grill. Cafe Gratitude, which serves raw food (no meat there!), is run by a male and female couple. As far as edible flowers go, the only times I’ve had them have been at Oishii, a sushi restaurant in Boston, where the male sushi chefs put flowers on the nigiri. - Women chefs are more precise. They follow instructions more carefully than men do
Tell that to molecular gastronomists, who are mostly male and whose craft depends on subtlety, precision and carefully following instructions. See, also, Thomas Keller and The French Laundry Cookbook, which is all about the pursuit of perfection and carefully following the exacting instructions laid out in the book. See, also, CIA Certified Master Chef exam (described in detail in Michael Ruhlman’s Soul of a Chef), which has been passed almost entirely by men and which is judged by the participants’ ability to meet exacting criteria in their menu composition, cooking technique, plating, and presentation. Brian Polcyn of Five Lakes Grill was marked down by the male examiners during his CMC exam because when he sliced his duck terrine for plating, the slices were ever so slightly uneven. - Women chefs’ food is more subtle and sophisticated, while their male counterparts cook gutsier, deep-flavored, testosterone-driven food
See immediately above. - Women chefs cook with their hearts and souls, while male chefs cook with their head and their private parts
Is this question different from the “soulful grandmere vs. dazzling technique” question? Not substantially.
Gwen Hyman, who was also on the tasting panel at the Astor Center event, writes (emphases mine)
3. I do not think that women are inherently more “precise” cooks, or “better” cooks, or more “careful” cooks–as some folks said the other night. I think, in fact, that women who are more “precise” etc in the kitchen are probably just–you know–doing that thing women do? where they work three times harder than men? just to hold onto their place on the line? because of all those people who think women aren’t naturally suited to the kitchen?
4. I think that kitchens are still, by and large (though not always), tradition-bound, chest-pounding places that, like high school football teams, are veeeeeeery slow to accept women–and the reasons that there are so few prominent female chefs have very little to do with estrogen and arm muscles, and a whole lot to do with tradition, mentorship, access to funding, differences in education and attitude towards girls–in other words, culture.
… Women still face pretty serious barriers to making it in the kitchen, for lots of reasons–the lingering perception that women are somehow too weak for the kitchen; the paucity of female mentors and role models (this is changing, slowly); inequities and differences in how girls and boys are educated about their choices and interests; differences in access to funding for restaurants; that thing (perhaps you’ve heard of this?) where women are expected not only to do all the work of bearing children but also to do most of the work of raising them, (otherwise they are “bad mothers”)…I could go on. …
As I said the other night, even if you *do* believe in essential differences between men’s cooking and women’s cooking, you can’t actually measure it yet. Until half the important restaurants in the country are run by women–until half the chefs who mentor others, half the culinary instructors, half the professionals are women–until the term “woman chef” seems, in other words, as unnecessary and self-evident and silly as “man chef”–how can anyone judge?
“Gay!”
I accidentally tapped a girl in the head with my book today while I was on the bus. As is typical of the 14, the bus was jam packed, standing room was at a premium, and people were falling over in the aisle and grabbing at hand rails while the bus lurched down Mission and the driver yelled, “Move to the back! Move to the back!” In the midst of it all, a querulous voice said, “You hit me in the head.”
I looked over and saw a black pre-teen, saw that my paperback was slipping ever so slightly from the hand that I was using to clutch a hand rail, and said, “I’m sorry.” And that’s the end of it. One of your run of the mill encounters on public transit, where the seething masses of humanity bump into each other, apologize, and move on.
As it turned out, the girl, another girl, her father, and I were all getting off at the same stop. As Girl #1 and her father stepped out, Girl #2 paused in the step well, looked at me, said, “Gay,” and stepped out.
I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly in the midst of all the noise–”Move to the back! Move to the back!”–and got off the bus and started walking to a coffee shop, in the opposite direction from Girl #1, Girl #2, and their adult. Not more than two steps away, I heard it again.
“GAY!”
Oh, hell no. I turned around, saw Girl #2 staring at me, walked up to her, and said, “Excuse me, what did you say?”
Girl #2 looked at me, looked away, and said, “I didn’t say nothing.”
PD: No, I heard you call me “gay.” Using that as a homophobic insult is unacceptable.
Girl #2: I told you, I didn’t say nothing!
At this point, Girl #1’s father, who is a good half a foot taller than me and probably 75 lbs. heavier than me, comes over, plants himself right in my face, and says, “Get out of her face! She’s my niece! You don’t talk to my niece like that!”
I figure he’s obviously hoping to intimidate me with his size and masculinity, and react accordingly.
PD: Excuse me, your niece called me gay. It’s completely inappropriate for her to throw around homophobic insults.
Father: DON’T YOU GET IN MY NIECE’S FACE! SHE’S MY NIECE! WHAT’D SHE DO TO YOU?
PD: I understand that she’s your niece, and her behavior is unacceptable.
Father: I DON’T CARE, YOU DON’T TALK TO HER LIKE THAT, YOU DON’T GET IN HER FACE!
PD: I wasn’t in her face, I asked her what she said, and I would appreciate it if–
Father: SHE’S JUST A LITTLE GIRL, GET OUT OF HER FACE!
PD: –you would get out of my face.
Girl #1 dances around her father and shouts, “She wasn’t talking about you!” Girl #2 smirks, making Girl #1’s claim dubious.
PD: I want your niece to apologize.
Father: GET OUT OF MY DAUGHTER’S FACE!
PD: I wasn’t talking to your daughter, I was talking to you.
Father: GET OUT OF MY DAUGHTER’S FACE, I DON’T CARE, SHE’S JUST A LITTLE GIRL.
PD: I don’t care how old your niece is, it’s completely inappropriate for her to go around calling people gay as if it’s an insult.
Father: HOW OLD ARE YOU? HOW OLD ARE YOU? SHE’S JUST A GIRL, YOU DON’T GO NEAR HER!
PD: I wasn’t near your daughter–
Father: YOU WERE IN HER FACE!
PD: How can I get in her face if she dodges around you to yell in my face while I’m talking with you?
Father: I DON’T CARE, YOU WERE IN HER FACE, I DON’T CARE I DON’T CARE.
At this point, I’m almost losing it because the scene is so surreal: two preteens who are by no means little girls, dancing around their father/uncle and smirking; a man visibly trying to intimidate me with his size and volume and utterly failing, even as he leans in closer and closer, trying to loom; the repeated cries of “DON’T YOU GET IN HER FACE!” while he’s most definitely in my face. All I can think is, “Do as I say, not as I do!” while trying not to break out in laughter.
Father: HOW OLD ARE YOU? HOW OLD ARE YOU? MY NIECE IS JUST A LITTLE GIRL.
PD: How old are you? I don’t care how old she is, trying to insult someone by calling them gay is homophobic and inappropriate at any age and your niece needs to learn that.
Father: I DON’T CARE. I THINK YOU SHOULD LEAVE.
PD: I think your niece should apologize and I think you should get out of my face.
The father leans in closer so that I’m practically looking straight up at him, and leans and leans and leans. It’s ridiculous. There’s a pregnant silence, where he looms, I refuse to step back or back down, and he tries to loom some more. The moment drags on and on because there’s nowhere for this tension to go: he and his niece aren’t going to apologize and I’m not going to run away crying. As we stare at each other, we both fail at our prescribed gender roles: he’s failed to intimidate me and I’ve failed to be intimidated. The father says, “Whatever,” and walks away, Girl #1 and Girl #2 in tow. As I turn and walk away, he calls out over his shoulder, “Go back to China!”
Oh, dear. At that point, my temper explodes and I turn around and yell at him, “RACIST BASTARD!” Then I rifle through my mental file of insults, thinking that using bastard as an insult is inappropriate, because there’s nothing wrong with bastardy. A couple minutes later, the ridiculousness of the whole scene strikes me:
- It’s bizarre to call someone gay as an insult, because, well, so what? It has never made any sense to me as an insult because sexual orientation has no moral value or lack thereof. I’m queer and if pointing it out is supposed to make me feel ashamed of it, that is illogical and stupid. When used as an insult, gay is a catch all phrase for everything from “doesn’t adhere to stereotypical gender roles” to “gross” and the conflation just doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t understand the homophobic mindset.
- In a heterosexist society, everyone is assumed to be straight, except when it comes to insults. So does this mean that Girl #2 and other homophobes think that the people they yell at are actually gay, in which case the insult is even more nonsensical (“Yeah, I’m gay. And the sky is blue. Is that an insult to the sky?”), or do they think that the people they yell at are straight and will feel insulted at being called gay? The latter also relies on the assumption that being gay is bad and so a straight person would feel bad at being called gay, which takes us straight back to point #1.
- There is something distinctly ludicrous about being called gay while feeling too sore to walk due to some acrobatic sex with my boyfriend last night. I’m queer but currently in a relationship with a straight man–how does this fit into a homophobic paradigm? Am I supposed to feel insulted at being called gay? I DON’T KNOW!!!!!!!
- The spectacle of the father standing with his face not half a foot away from mine, screaming at the top of his lungs not to get in his niece’s or daughter’s face while his daughter dodges around him to yell at me: oh, the irony. As I texted to a friend, “Easy to see where the kids got their manners.”
“Go back to China.” It’s not a new insult to me, but it’s frustrating nonetheless. It’s racist because it assumes that I don’t belong here by virtue of my ethnicity; it incorrectly assumes what ethnicity I am; and it tries to reduce me to that erroneous assumption. Couldn’t he think of a less tired insult?
-sigh- I texted my sibling afterward, saying, “while on the way to coffee, was called gay&told to go back to china. As far as insult accuracy goes i guess 1 out of 2’s not bad? Its a failing grade@school Lol” That about sums it all up.
A Shard of Happiness
Something to hold onto and look at during the bad times.
I’m still excited to see P#1 and to get to know him better, and I still get the butterflies in my stomach that come from worrying that he’s going to come to his senses and run away screaming. It’s different, however, from the bursts of happiness that I felt in the first few weeks, when the uncertainty and nervousness were much more intense, and thus, also, the happiness and thrilled excitement. The happiness that I feel now might be of a different variety, or it might be that I’m becoming used to being happy, which is thrilling in its own right. Happiness doesn’t come naturally to me and isn’t my default state; I had to learn to be happy and learn to relax and learn to enjoy myself. It’s been years since I first learned that it was okay to be happy and laugh and enjoy life, and it’s still a work in progress. One thing I’ve learned is that it takes effort. Another thing I’ve learned is that there are triggers for happiness as much as there are triggers for unhappiness. There are things that will put me in a frame of mind where it’s easier and and I’ll be likelier to be happy, such as sleeping regularly and sufficiently and working out. There are things that will directly make me happy, such as Di Stefano and Callas singing “Non sono in vena,” or Alagna singing “Una Furtiva Lagrima,” or making and tasting Bordelaise sauce.
Memories of people have their own category in things that make me happy. Shared jokes, time spent laughing and singing, thoughtful moments, wild dreams, etc. My happy memories tend to fade along with all the other memories, even if I want to hold onto them forever as talismans against unhappiness. So, here’s one set down to remember. Wherever this thing with P#1 goes, however it ends, I hope I can keep this in my head for the joy and uncomplicated happiness I felt.
Apr. 16, 2009: met P#1 briefly for drinks – first encounter since hooking up.
PD: lalalalalala
S: :-D
PD: i’m happy. not just like not-unhappy, but happy in an uncomplicated sort of way
S: yepyep :-)
PD: it’s the same kind of happy i felt about the french laundry. excited and good and nice [I was so thrilled by dinner at the French Laundry…I’d forgotten that, until now.]
S: :-)
S: im listening to stray italian greyhound now
S: lol now it reminds me of you
S: hmm its so funny to think u were bored
S: ive always considered ur life to be relatively dramatic
PD: my life? i am plain like vanilla
S: well for a good portion of last year was all the drama about L
PD: oh true, but that’s regular drama. i mean, ppl have drama and crap…it’s not extraordinary
S: all drama is drama. it makes for not a boring life
PD: hmm you’re right. i was about to say, that drama wasn’t monumental and earthshaking
S: umm sure in retrospect
PD: but then again, going for drinks with a cute boy a few days after hooking up and finding out that i don’t regret it–that’s not monumental and earthshaking, either, but suddenly i’m not bored
PD: so maybe it’s about happiness?
S: :-)
PD: -twirls-
S: lol
PD: i’m so happy. i like this feeling
S: ur so funny
PD: :P :)
S: emotionally exuberant
PD: yup i’m just…happy!
S: yes, i know
PD: it feels sorta novel?
This conversation came to mind because P#1 and I are talking music, and he also likes “Stray Italian Greyhound.” I haven’t ever done the talking music tastes and listening to music with people or exchanging mixes thing aside from classical with Laurence and Bob and, for a brief while, indie/experimental with A-squared. I read a book last weekend that repeatedly said that music is particularly important as a means of defining personal identity and that it tends to be more so among young people. I’ve always been more hung up on books than on music in that regard, but a large part of that might be due to not having any music in common with most of the people I meet. This experience of discussing musical tastes is intriguing.
Zapata Family Statement
[Trigger warnings: anti-trans violence]
Allen Andrade was convicted of first-degree murder and hate crimes charges (CO Independent):
A man convicted Wednesday of using a fire extinguisher to crush the skull of a transgender Greeley woman was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole just over an hour after a jury returned guilty verdicts on all four counts charged, including first-degree murder and hate-crime charges. Weld District Judge Marcelo Kopcow imposed the mandatory life sentence on Allen Andrade, 32, for murdering Angie Zapata, 18, last summer in Greeley.
“Mr. Andrade, I hope as you’re spending the remaining part of your natural life in the Department of Corrections that everyday you think of the violence and brutality that you caused on this fellow human being and the pain you have caused, not only on your family but the family of Angie Zapata,” Kopcow told Andrade, who re-entered the courtroom an hour after the jury verdict shackled and wearing a bright orange prison jumpsuit.
Andrade faces additional sentencing next month on the bias-motivated, or hate-crime charge and on felony automobile and identity theft charges. Prosecutors plan to pursue habitual offender charges against Andrade, court officials said.
Via Sarah in Chicago, the Zapata family’s statement, as read by Angie’s brother Gonzalo:
Transcript:
[Introduction]: This is the immediate family. We have sisters Monica, Ashley, Stephanie, Natasha,niece, and mother Monica–Maria, excuse me, and Gonzalo.
[Gonzalo]: Angie was my sister.
She was a member of our family. We loved her very much, and we will miss her every day. Every day and every night my mom has to deal with the great pain that she saw one of her babies being buried, an experience no parent should have to witness. Every day our siblings and I reach for the phone and realize we’ll never hear her voice. There are times we call and try to get her advice and realize there’s no answer anymore.
A part of our family is missing, stolen from us. Angie was 18, her life was just beginning. Angie was brave, she had guts, she had courage, and was beautiful, was fun, and loving. She was our little sister.
Throughout the past week and a half, we have watched as our sister Angie was lied about in this court. We watched angrily as defense presented an image of my sister that wasn’t true. Their strategy, and make no mistake about it, it was bullying, tearing down my sister to make a monster look a bit better, it will not work.
We want to make things clear: Angie was our sister, an aunt, and a daughter. Life was sometimes difficult for her, we learned along with her to understand that she was born a girl with a body that was wrong for her.
We know Angie was one thing above all else, she was honest. It took such courage to be who she was. Life wasn’t always easy, but she was so strong, and there was no reason to believe my sister was anything but strong and honest with everyone.
This week, we are deeply saddened and angry as we witnessed graphic details about the last few minutes of my sister’s life. A big brother is supposed to protect his–[sobs]–I got it. A big brother’s supposed to protect his little sister. It breaks my heart to think there was nothing I could do. [sobs] To protect my little sister.
My sisters, Monica and Ashley, when they saw what this monster had done, they wanted to hold her, to comfort her and to make her feel better. It was hard to realize that there was nothing they could have done.
He stole something so precious from us. Only a monster can look at a beautiful 18-year-old and beat her to death. This monster not only hit my sister, but continued to beat her head in over and over and over, and over again, until her head was crushed in. Then, he left her there to die.
He’ll never understand how angry we are at him and how much he has hurt us. This past week and a half, we’ve seen attorneys working their hardest to seek justice for my sister. Our family wants to thank Robb Miller, Brandi Nieto, Detective Thorpe, Kelly Winters, Kelly Costello, Crystal Middlestadt of CAVP, Mindy Barton, and the GLBT Community Center of Colorado, Fred Sainz of the Gill Foundation, and Adam Bass of GLAAD, along with the entire Weld County District Attorney’s Office, Ken Buck, for their support of our family and standing with us, and standing with Angie.
We are grateful Colorado has tough laws that make it clear that attacking people because of anti-gender bias will be taken seriously. Targeting someone because she is transgender will be prosecuted aggressively in Weld County. This means a lot to our family. We are grateful that the laws are in place that make hate crimes wrong.
In memory of Angie, we call on Colorado’s leaders to pass a federal hate crime law to protect everyone.
Justice was achieved for my sister today. A message was sent loud and clear that crimes targeting LGBT people will not be tolerated in Colorado, and specifically, Weld County.
We would ask everyone to remember my sister. Remember her like we do, as a beautiful, wonderful, precious teenager. She would want us to remember the happy times in her life. And together, and in Angie’s memory, make the world a better place.
We will always love you, Angie, and we will always miss you, mija.
Thank you.
Dating As A Feminist: Consent & Sex
Warning: brief mention of sexual assault and lots of mention of my sex life. If the latter is TMI, please stop reading here.
I recently had the pleasure of hooking up with a person that I met at a party. As usual, I didn’t see it coming*: we were chatting, wandered apart, wound up chatting some more, he suggested that we go for coffee sometime and asked for my number, we danced a bit, and then he leaned in slowly, clearly telegraphing his intentions–asking, not demanding–and we kissed. There was some PG-13 necking in the kitchen, which was sweet and nice, and then, since I figured that even I knew where this was going, I felt that I should do a couple things:
1. Establish consent rather than taking it for granted.
2. Inform him that I have an STD.
I didn’t want to fumble our way through assuming consent and him finding out later that I was drunk out of my mind or me finding out later that he was drunk out of his mind and that one of us wasn’t really into the other or didn’t really want to have sex. On a more personal level, I hate taking things for granted and relying on assumptions in these kinds of interpersonal situations, so I’d rather be the person who pulls back, looks the other person in the eye, and bluntly says, “Okay, question – are you drunk?”
In retrospect, there were much better ways to phrase that, such as, “Just to be clear, do you want to have sex?” Now that I’m looking at the words, although what I meant was, “Are you drunk? Because I want to establish that you’re capable of giving meaningful consent,” it could also have come off like a creepy, “Are you drunk? Because I like to rape people too drunk to give consent.” *wince* I think he got the drift, though, and I’ll get better at articulating myself with practice. Open mouth, insert foot–that’s me.
He said that no, he wasn’t drunk, and I said, “Okay, second thing–I have HPV.”
He said, “That’s okay, I wasn’t planning on having sex,” and asked, “are you drunk?”
I said, “No,” then thought about it for a second and said, “Well, yes, a little, but not much–I like this,” and wound my arms around his neck and kissed him.**
Cue slow, comfortable making out.
Until someone wandered into the kitchen looking for a drink, and flipped the lights on.
Oops.
We adjourned to his bedroom, had a good time, and went to sleep. I should note that although I badly wanted to have sex, I didn’t pressure him for it. I didn’t whine, I didn’t plead, I didn’t beg, I didn’t “forget” and grab his penis and sit on it (also known as rape, CA Penal Code 261 (a) (2), 263). He’d expressed his desire in that regard and I respected it. Doing anything other than respecting his wishes didn’t even occur to me until now, weeks later.
Not. That. Hard.
Fast forward to this week, when we met up, hung out, and he came over to my place. In the middle of rolling around in bed, while I was trying to figure out a smooth way to ask him to please fuck me now, he paused and asked, “Is it ok if we just go to sleep?”
I said, “Yes,” got out the extra pillow for him, and we fell asleep curled around each other. Again, not. That. Hard.
I keep thinking about these hook ups over and over again, and for a while I thought it was just that I was starved for sex and floating along in a delirious “I hooked up with someone! Who is smart and makes me smile and is cute! And we’re seeing each other again! Yay!” haze. After thinking about it some more, though, I’ve realized that it’s not just the physical acts that are wonderful and surprising to me, it’s their mutuality and our consent to them. They weren’t just about his pleasure or just about my pleasure, but about enjoying ourselves together and respecting each other’s desires and boundaries. It’s been a long time since I had a hook up like that, so long that these recent encounters stand out to me.
The last time I had penetrative sex with a man, I made it clear that I would not have sex without a condom. The first round, he wore a condom. The second round, when he was penetrating me from behind and I couldn’t see, he “forgot” and put his penis in me without a condom. I kicked him out of my apartment for that. The last time I let Reis try anal sex, it hurt badly and I told him, “No, stop, it hurts.” He insisted that it would feel better and kept going until I crawled away. They weren’t concerned with my desires or my pleasure, only their own, and they felt entitled to use my body to achieve it, regardless of what I said or wanted.
Now that I’ve been on the opposite side of the situation, namely, being the person that wants to do more and finding that my partner isn’t ready, is tired, doesn’t want to, etc., I would like to reiterate my disgust with the “common knowledge,” patriarchal, and rape-enabling assumption that it’s completely unreasonable to expect straight and bi men to listen to their female partners when they say, “No.” I’ve heard it said so many times that it’s impossible for men to control themselves, that it’s unrealistic and borderline inhuman to expect them to stop in the middle of a hook up or, god forbid, stop and pull out during penetrative sex when their partner asks them to.
It’s not.
Being a decent human being that believes that I have the right to do as I like with my own body but not anyone else’s, I already thought that it was a crock of shit to say that once a man’s stuck his penis into an orifice, he’s helpless to pull it out until he’s had an orgasm. He just can’t help himself. Blue balls. It’s unreasonable to ask him to stop. If she’s already said yes at any point to anything else, she can’t expect him to stop just because it hurts or she changes her mind.
Bullshit. The experience of respecting my partner’s desires when he said, “No, not now,” just reinforces my previously held belief, because, guess what! I really, really, really wanted to have sex. And yet, lust didn’t turn me into a mindless rapist. My clitoris didn’t shrivel up and expire. My night was not ruined. I didn’t think that just because he’d worn a shirt that set off his fabulously blue eyes (she was asking for it, wearing a skirt that short), had a drink with me (what’d she expect, drinking at a bar with a stranger?), kissed me (she danced with him, she led him on and that’s like consenting to anything and everything), and come home with me (she went somewhere with a stranger, what did she think would happen?), I had the right to rape him and ignore his request to stop fooling around. Fascinating.
Respecting your sex partner is not difficult. Checking for and obtaining enthusiastic consent, rather than operating on an assumption of consent-until-proven-otherwise is not difficult. All that’s necessary is thinking of your partner as a human being with the right to decide what to do with their body, not a life-size, breathing, living blow up doll for your pleasure.
Asking for consent was not awkward (aside from my terrible phrasing) and didn’t ruin the moment. It didn’t break the mood. What it did was establish that we were both interested in each other and also establish that there was a limit, i.e. he didn’t want to have sex right then. That was actually helpful for me, because it let me know that I shouldn’t expect it. In short, asking for consent was not the terrible experience that some people make it out to be (ZOMG! We’ll have to carry around contracts! It’ll kill the romance!). It was positive, helpful, and made me feel more comfortable and helped me figure out what my partner did and did not want to do. It clarified the situation and let me focus on having a mutually good time rather than worrying about whether or not I was reading him correctly about his boundaries. Amazing.
Just to reiterate: asking for consent is easy. And it’s good and necessary.
[Disclaimer: I'm sure some people will think that I just don't understand, because I'm a woman and women don't have sexual urges and so they can't understand that sometimes, men just have to rape because they can't control themselves when they're aroused, they desperately need sex . To them, I say, wrong and wrong. I quite demonstrably have sexual desires and men are capable of controlling theirs, despite a patriarchal, rape-enabling culture that insists that men lose their self-control and turn into ravening rapists when a woman walks by. "I couldn't help it!" is actually, "I felt entitled to raping my partner!" or "I didn't want to help it!"]
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* Seriously, I am the master of not seeing it coming: I fall for straight women and gay men and think that people are making casual conversation when they are actually saying, “Shall we go back to the hotel and screw like bunnies?” My attractiondar, it is broken.
** My response makes me a little uncomfortable, because it’s my general rule to not sleep with anyone who’s drunk. On the other hand, I think it’s very obvious and easy to tell if the person you’re with is willing, interested, and capable of making decisions, and I was all three of those. I might write on this more later.

