Hot dogs and love

It has come to my attention that some white people out there insist on referring to the Black Lives Matter movement as a “terrorist organization.” Because of the explosion of blatant police brutality toward people of color that’s being caught on video because of the proliferation of smart phones, I became curious about the BLM movement and decided to check it out myself.

Recently, our local chapter of BLM held an open meeting at a public park. I went with a friend who is also a white lady like myself. Because her place is just a couple of blocks away from the park, I met her there and we walked over to the park, carrying lawn chairs with us.

A black lady driving an SUV slowed down when she saw us. “Are you going to the Black Lives Matter meeting?” she asked.

We affirmed that we were.

“Would you like a ride?” she asked.

We let her know that we were fine walking — at that point we were only maybe a hundred yards from the meeting spot in the park — so we waved and smiled and thanked her. She smiled and waved back and drove on.

When we arrived at the meeting, I took note of the makeup of the crowd, which was extremely diverse. People of all ages were there, from little kids running around the park to older people. The group was a reflection of our community: black folks, white folks and Native Americans, though our community is predominantly white.

The meeting featured a scheduled line-up of speakers. Most of the speakers were young people, of various races. First, they handed out pitchforks and torches and told us to attack the strongholds of whitey. HAHAHA! I’m totes joking. What actually happened was that most of the speakers thanked the crowd for caring enough to show up. They thanked us for simply being there and acknowledging that there are real racial problems in this country that need to be addressed. They demonized no one in particular and did not tell their own personal stories of discrimination, though that would’ve been okay with me had they done so.

One of the speakers made it clear that as a BLM member, everyone was expected to be respectful of everyone else, regardless of race, sexual orientation, gender identity or disability. He also emphasized that anyone who needed help getting to meetings for any reason only needed to ask and arrangements would be made to get that person to meetings. Then we were informed that there were hot dogs for sale for a small price to help raise some funds for the group. (I asked my friend later if she could remember if vegan hot dogs were offered. She could not. She did, however, want me to note that she ended up with several oak mite bites.)

At the end of the night, as the meeting broke up, it was announced that there were unsold hot dogs left, so anyone who was hungry was welcome to have one for free.

So that’s my big report on Black Lives Matter. To sum up: Zero calls for terror or crime against whitey. Lots of hot dogs and love.

Nothing

warning: sexual trauma triggers

Oh my gawd, you guys! I was so kind of happy that Donald Trump's pussy grabbing started a national conversation about the sexual harassment and rape of women, but as it turns out, I was mistaken! We don't need to have a conversation about the safety of our daughters AT ALL. Dudebros on the internet have explained to me again and again that the prevalence of sexual harassment and rape is really not happening as much as I think it is, and that when it does happen, it is really not all that bad after all.

Whew!

That eleven year old boy who pinched my ass when I was also eleven? The beginning in a string of incidents in which my bodily space was invaded without my permission? Events that would turn me into the hardened bitch I am now?

Never happened.

That guy who pulled up in his skanky Datsun to ask me directions when I was twelve years old walking home from grade school? The one who was totally wanking it when I leaned in to hear his soft voice because I wanted to be polite? That never happened either! My mother apparently did not call the police who took my statement while I was afraid and mortified, only to never be heard from again. 

And then, later that evening, I did NOT experience a creepy feeling of dissociation as though I was remembering the incident as a movie that happened to someone else, a feeling which my mother had to explain to me was totally natural.

That known tough kid who followed me off the junior high bus when we were thirteen, grabbed my arms and forced his tongue in my face in my front yard because I was afraid he might hurt me if I didn’t? That didn’t happen either. And if it did? I can see now that it was totally funny and not the least bit terrifying for a latch key kid with no adult at home.

All those other things that happened to me? Times when guys overpowered me so they could put their hands or other parts where they damn well pleased? Well, those incidents apparently didn’t happen either, or somehow I "misinterpreted" them, so I won’t keep going on about those.

Some of my very best lady sister friends really weren’t raped. When I was fifteen, one of my best female friends who was also fifteen at the time did not call me to tell me that she was no longer a virgin because she’d been raped in the parking lot after a concert. My other friends whose first sexual experiences were rape? Must’ve been mistaken. And my one friend? She was never raped at gunpoint in her car in front of her apartment. All my other friends who've been raped over the years? Turns out they were overreacting.

Thank goodness!

I love that men and women aren’t living parallel lives in which too many of half the population is in denial about what’s really happening to the other half.

Such a relief. And such a relief to know that I don't need to bother to teach my daughter to protect herself from the same fucking bullshit women have put up with for literally fucking ever. What was I worrying my little woman head over, again?

Oh that’s right. Nothing.

Working sanity

Growing up there was a notion my father drilled into my head: “Don’t ever quit a job before you get another one.” It was one rare nugget of practical advice that either of my parents had ever handed me to prepare me for the world. Perhaps because it stood out so much, I took it to heart.

Just as I can be an excellent student in school, I can be an excellent employee, because I crave approval. It's almost embarrassing how much I desire it. I’m not an ass kisser. Don’t get me wrong. But I like to be acknowledged for my strengths in a way that’s nearly as desperate a child seeking parental approval.

That’s why, when my mind began to consume itself with a static I didn’t recognize, I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do my job much longer, and the shame was sickening. But I couldn’t think clearly enough to work. This wasn’t one of the usual bouts of depression and anxiety I was used to living with. It was a dark caul rapidly engulfing my brain, shutting down reason and higher function leaving me with only base, aching emotion with which to navigate the days. The din in my head was deafening. Somehow, I could still sleep at night, but only because I had to sleep to keep from losing it completely.

Contributing to the din was my father’s voice in my head: DON’T QUIT YOUR JOB. DON’T QUIT YOUR JOB. YOU’LL BE A LOSER. A LOSER. IF YOU DON’T PULL YOURSELF UP BY YOUR BOOTSTRAPS YOU’LL BE A MOOCHING LOSER PART OF THE UNWASHED MASSES OF TAKERS AND BUMS.

Oddly, it was his addition to the din that probably pushed me over the edge. It was yet one more reminder that I would never be good enough, never be good enough, never be good enough. No matter how much work or effort. With no sense of foundation and self, I simply crumbled from the inside, the pressure from the world imploding me into dysfunction. That’s how I think of myself now: In some sort of “function.” I’m either dysfunctional or functional, each day somewhere else on the spectrum. Exceptionally functional days are sweet like sunshine in my heart. Low function days are crushing. Mostly because I don’t get much done. Literally dysfunctional. Like a broken appliance, sitting on the kitchen counter, wanting to be of service, but unable to work.

So I quit. After three and a half years, I quit without another job lined up, and without any real plan. It was terrifying and dehumanizing. Still is.  

And I’m lucky. So lucky. I know that. When I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do, I headed straight for our local mental health center, and we had the funds to pay for that. But I saw people there who clearly couldn’t afford it. I saw a woman in obvious distress come in seeking help, who’d never been there before, telling the people behind the desk that she’d been told she could be seen immediately. The people behind the desk told her that simply wasn’t true, and my heart broke for her, but I didn’t allow myself to feel it. I blocked it out. But I knew it was a scenario playing out daily, in Every Town, U.S.A. People go to mental health facilities all the time needing immediate help, but immediate help simply isn’t forthcoming, unless one goes to the ER. How did a nation that claims to be a leader in the world get to this place? I wonder.

I don’t have to work right now. The loss of my salary to our household is inconvenient, but not impossible. It hurts so much to think about the alternative, that I might be a single mom forced to try to function and work and be the only parent to a child, that I simply can’t imagine it. I can’t go there. I don’t have to, so I won’t. Because it hurts to think about. And right now, my goal is to not hurt. So I try to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay. I have that luxury.

The election has been excruciating. I do read about it extensively, but I cannot tolerate watching any of it on television. Something about seeing and hearing the words come out of the faces is beyond overwhelming.

Every day I get up and I try to do something. I try to create. I try to write. I try to schedule interviews for my freelance writing work. If I can’t do those things, I cook. I clean. I try to be useful and make myself worth something. Yeah, I still think I have to work at being “worth something.” I may never let that go. After all, even if your ass was living out in the woods, you could sit there and try being “worth something,” but unless you actually move your butt and gather some firewood and berries, you’ll die. So I may always link being worth something to doing something useful. I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.

Thankfully, the din is gone. It took about a month of truly resting for the first time in years. The static quieted a little more each day, and now my head is mostly my own again, clearer than it’s been in a long time. I’ve since figured out that the din was part of a particularly nasty manic episode (mania doesn’t always feel good), and the other symptoms of bipolar 2 have finally explained my rapid cycles of depression and feeling so fidgety and irritated that I want to peel my own skin off and be someone else. Or worse, punch someone in the face. To achieve the quiet, I had to let almost everything go. I’m not trying to please my parents (whom I’ll never please) or a boss or even my sweet husband who never asked me to prove myself, but somehow I’d convinced myself that I needed to. I’m just selfishly taking care of me and reconnecting with my kiddo, because in the din, I had pushed her away. I pushed her away because I was afraid of hurting her. Turns out I hurt her anyway.

I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but for now, I’m learning to build a person from the ground up. It’s a lot of work.

Locker Room Talk (NSFW, sexual assault trigger warning)

Okay, kids. Let’s do this. Trump is a total racist, misogynistic douche who deserves to be flushed down a toilet. Hopefully, most people understand that. For anyone still dismissing what he said in the audio recording with Billy Bush as “just locker room talk,” we need to discuss what really does constitute locker room talk and what does not, because a huge percentage of the male population seems to not understand what “locker room talk” actually is. So let’s get down and dirty. (I can already hear some of you not wanting to let a woman tell you what locker room talk should be, but fuck you, since you don’t seem to get it.)

1) It is PERFECTLY okay to talk about how beautiful a woman is. It is okay for you to talk about how she’s so beautiful, or hot, or smokin’ or even fuckable! that you want to fuck her for hours and hours (yeah, right) with your amazing penis until she is converted to another religion and changes her political views. Perfectly okay.

2) It is FINE for you to talk about boobs and pussies and legs and feet and whatever else it is about women that makes you so horny you can’t even think straight! Talk away! Have fun!

3 ) It is acceptable to talk about the woman you fucked the night before and describe it all in detail to your bros. Women talk about that kind of thing, too, believe it or not, with our friends. Woo hoo!

4) It would be LOVELY if you would also discuss the mind of the woman you fucked the night before. Not the stupid fucking bitch you nailed, but the hot smokin’ woman with the quirky laugh who was kind enough to let you enter her body so that you could experience sexual relief. It would be really cool if you talked about women in that way, because not only do we deserve it, but it raises the level of our worth in society. It’s not required, but if you give a flying fuck about your daughters, it absolutely should be.

Here is what is categorically NOT okay, even in “locker room talk”:

“I’m automatically attracted to beautiful women — I just start kissing them, it’s like a magnet,” Donald Trump told Billy Bush while taping an interview for Access Hollywood. “I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.”

“Grab ’em by the pussy,” he added. “You can do any of that.”

When you hear “locker room talk” of that nature, you have just heard and witnessed a PERSON reduced to a PIECE OF ASS. You have also just heard a man discuss a potential crime. A crime that is worse than disgustingly worse than any theft, because it is a complete disregard of a woman’s bodily autonomy.

Follow? When another man in your presence talks about women in that way, he has turned a human being with rights and thoughts into an object. We all know you’ve heard it. Maybe from that acquaintance of yours … Let’s call him Don. Maybe you’re thinking, “Yeah, Don is a disgusting pig, but oh well, that’s just how Don is and what can I do about it?” But every time you give Don a pass on his behavior, every time you write his words off as “just a joke” or “no big deal,” you are complicit in empowering the Dons of the world a little bit more. They’re reinforced in their belief that women aren’t equal to men. That we aren’t really people. That we’re just objects to be done with as they please and discarded after they’ve ejaculated.

When that kind “locker room talk” happens in places when women aren’t around, we need you to call it out and correct it. When it happens in locker rooms, and on basketball courts, and when you’re playing HALO, and behind closed doors in office buildings. Because every time you let Don, or Harry or Bob slide on that behavior, you are complicit in putting women in danger. Your mother, your sister, your daughters, your cousins, your female friends.

Let me break it down further: When Don or Harry or Bob thinks that it’s okay to talk about women like that, that’s it’s okay to think about women as though we’re just jackoff machines covered in flesh, and that it’s okay to treat women as such, then your mother, your sister YOUR DAUGHTER become potential victims to the Dons and the Harrys and the Bobs of the world.

And that shit needs to stop.