Feminism or the Egg?

Lately I’ve been asking myself this question over and over: what came first, the feminism or the problem?

Clearly, I don’t mean that feminism is creating problems rather than addressing or tackling them. Clearly, as a woman, I am well acquainted with the problems my gender encounters and has encountered for as long as women have existed. Feminism arose out of the need to educate ourselves, empower one another and fight for our rights as human beings after centuries of unfair treatment.

What I mean is, does feminism teach me to see problems where previously I saw none? Am I smarter because of feminism, or am I just more defensive? What am I truly learning the more I read about feminist issues and concerns?

I recently read a post that addressed the problems concerning men complimenting women on their looks. This post led me down a rabbit hole of similar posts that tackled various aspects of the same problem. It couldn’t have come at a more poignant time in my life. A couple of weeks ago I was walking down the street in downtown Austin when a man began to walk beside me. He proceeded to compliment me– “You look great,” he said– and insisted on establishing an exchange between us. When I refused to acknowledge him or make eye contact he said to me “I’m not going to abuse you.” My response was to finally make eye contact with him (because I was perplexed and couldn’t look away any longer) and give him a weak smile. That encounter still bugs me and my reaction disgusts me. But it was an awkward situation and I felt pressured to react. Hence, discussing the problems surrounding men– strangers, specifically– complimenting women is particularly relevant to me at this time.

Sure enough, another example of this problem surfaced last week. A co-worker of mine was telling me and one of our male co-workers how a stranger approached her to talk about her shoes. She has a habit of wearing extravagant high-heels, and this man decided not only to address her choice of shoe, but to tell her that she was good-looking no matter what kind of shoes she chose to wear. She related this story to us with a tone of amusement. My male co-worker responded by telling her that her shoes are the first thing people notice about her. My response was to shake my head in disapproval.

Where exactly does my disapproval come from? Inherently, I do not like encounters with strange men. Additionally, I do not want attention from strange men, even if it comes in the form of a “compliment.” I do not want to know what a strange man thinks of how I look, and I do not care for an exchange in which it is clear he has judged me and he is informing me of the verdict. That is something I feel no matter what article I have or have not read. However, posts like the one I mentioned go way beyond your inherent reaction. They add so much more to it, they put it in such a large context with such wit and fervor that what starts as a natural dislike turns into vehement disgust. Now I absolutely hate and am absolutely against the concept of unsolicited compliments from strange men in all cases instead of simply finding it off-putting in most cases. I now find it violating instead of just eye-roll worthy. My co-worker clearly hasn’t read the same things I have, and now I feel like letting her know that she should never be amused by such an encounter. She should hate it and react like a viper next time it happens.

Is that true, though? Is that kind of thing absolutely unacceptable, hands down? And where do we draw the line? My current workplace offers a plethora of situations that trigger the Fem Police in me more often than other places where I have worked. But is that because I am better educated than I was before? Or am I just more defensive and cynical? Compliments for females in my workplace abound. My female co-workers are constantly complimented on their looks and disposition. “Sweet” and “beautiful” are words that are constantly thrown around– in the direction of one co-worker specifically, but then to the rest of us by association. The more it happens, the more I wish it would stop happening. But should I get that stick out of my ass and just enjoy it or should I continue to hold my lonely post as apparently the most cynical and joyless person at the company? What am I gaining (and sacrificing) by insisting on holding up the banner of feminism and propriety when everyone else fails to see the problem?

This morning a mechanic came to my workplace to replace the windshield on my car. When I came out to the car, he evidently was not expecting a not-so-shabby young woman in a hip young outfit (if I must say so myself) to come to greet him. He stammered, smiled at me, shook my hand and told me I had a beautiful name. From then on out, he would switch his demeanor between professional and slightly playful when addressing my questions and concerns. He smiled at me a little too much. Of course, if I had been a man, he would’ve remained professional and I seriously doubt he would’ve attempted to use “cute” humor. So what am I expected to feel in that situation? In order to uphold feminist ideals, should I always be disgusted and offended? I mean– I was a little grossed out and wanted it to be over with as soon as possible. I definitely found the encounter to be eye-roll worthy. But is that enough?

I am weary of any stance or philosophy that can be summed up by the bumper-sticker rationale of “if you’re not outraged, you haven’t been paying attention.” That is the goal post that guides me when examining any ideology– not just feminism. I don’t want to be outraged all the time. I don’t want to to be so indignant that I forget that we are all just dumb human beings. I don’t want to be so disgusted that I forget to have empathy for people and start blaming individuals for problems they inherited from society at large. However, I don’t want to be so lenient that I contribute to social ignorance and perpetuate habits that damage and marginalize others. I want to be educated but I would also like to continue wearing my “Ignorance is Bliss” t-shirt (I don’t have any such t-shirt). I want to learn more about feminist issues and be a proactive member of society but not at the expense of my mental peace and ability to relate to my fellow humans– men and women alike.

The Power of the Beautiful

A couple of years ago I bought a book titled The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing by Evan Marshall. I’ve attempted to use it several times since I purchased it, but I’ve never been able to get past the first chapter. All of the guidelines it mentions are very practical– it makes sense to me the way a recipe makes sense when you’re attempting to cook something. Marshall’s ingredients for book writing are straightforward and laid out very plainly. However, I don’t want to write a book that is just as easy to make as chocolate chip cookies. I don’t want to write something that is that easily palatable or that agreeable.

With or without the help of books like The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing, my problem remains the same. I just can’t think of any narrative or story that has a middle or an end. I can think of a million beginnings. I have written a million beginnings. But then I run out of things to say. My characters begin out of breath, on the verge of some great scheme, their lives about to explode into a million pieces. I can see their faces and I can sense their anxiety. Pretty soon, however, we all become impatient. Where is this going? My characters turn to look at me with faces full of criticism. That’s it? And I shrug. Yeah, that’s it.

During my latest attempt to learn something from Marshall’s book, I encountered my problem all over again. I took some notes, tried to follow the rules, but ended up closing the book after the first chapter just like countless times before. I just don’t have anything to say, I thought to myself. That’s not true, however. Marshall’s book talks about finding a genre that feels right. As it turns out, I have plenty to say, and since starting this blog I’ve realized that I can’t shut up. Writing in the form of personal narrative gives me license to speak in a tone that is comfortable to me. So maybe that is my genre.

Away from the eyes of my critical characters, I’ve found that I can write about whatever I want. And the more I think about this, the more one topic keeps churning and turning in my head like clothes in a washing machine.

The power of the beautiful.

I want to make something of that. I would like to write a narrative in which I analyze and discuss the power of devastating beauty and the effects it has on the beautiful themselves and the people who surround them. I would like to sit down with the beautiful people I know and pick their brains. I would like to write about the things I’ve seen and heard from the rest of us who surround amazingly beautiful people. It’s a topic that has always fascinated me. Devastatingly beautiful people live in a world of their own, and I want to write all about it.

It’s a starting point. I’m just happy to have an idea that fascinates me. Especially one that liberates me from having to make something up that promises to captivate everyone. I don’t want to captivate anyone– I just want to satisfy my own curiosity and test the numerous theories I’ve been storing in my head.

Like a Pro

My mom used to tell me that the problem with me having studied literature in college was that I became a critic instead of a writer.

She’s right. As an English major my job was to read a million books in order to analyze, criticize and deconstruct everything. My job was to read the greatest writers to ever walk the earth and digest the way in which they perfected their craft. I was to drown in other people’s genius. That can be the kiss of death for an aspiring writer. I went from having poems published in a newspaper in Nicaragua to winning second place in a poetry contest at the University of Texas at Austin to never writing again. I just couldn’t do it anymore– I couldn’t offend the art of writing with my shoddy attempts at genius. I couldn’t possibly join the ranks of Hemingway and Gogol and Dostoyevsky and Steinbeck so I just… stopped.

But anyways. I now see this as a trend in my life. Most recently, it has happened to me as a comedian. The more comedy I participate in and the more professional comedians I get to know, the more I am becoming a comedy critic. Furthermore, because I consider comedy to be an exalted form of communicating, I am becoming a critic of communication in general.

Take sketch comedy, for example. When we get together to read and vote on scripts, we are looking for the key factors that make an excellent sketch. We look for jokes that hit hard and fast, we look for smart language and innovative twists. We demand that ideas be presented in a concise manner and have no qualms in trimming the fat wherever we find it. We don’t want to present sketches that rely on too much exposition or jokes that are too in love with themselves. We want to get in, make people laugh, and get out.

Comedians are the most unforgiving critics because they spend their life mining language for true gems that they can craft into jokes. They hack and hack and hack away at an idea until it is just a morsel of hilarious truth. In a 10-minute stand-up set, there’s no time for meandering ideas and half-chewed cud. In a 5-minute sketch, there’s no time for rambling dialogues.

I have taken these principles of communication and become a pretty ruthless critic in all areas of my life. At work, I get impatient when ideas and tasks are presented in a way that I consider lazy or amateurish. When a co-worker is talking to me I analyze the way they communicate and think to myself is that really the best way to get your point across? When I get an email I sit there and think of 10 ways I could have written the same email but better. I want everyone to get in, get the job done, and get out.

While it’s great to strive for perfect communication skills, perfection as a concept itself is problematic. First of all, perfection is impossible. Second, you’ve got to lighten up. There is nothing wrong with a little wandering. If there is more than one way to skin a cat, there is more than one way to tell a story. There is more than one way to get to the point. And sometimes, there is no point, and that is ok, too.

What I tend to forget is that sometimes it’s not about the message, but the messenger. It’s frequently been the case that I meet someone new and I immediately feel like I can’t stand them because of the way they communicate. They’ll do things like finish your sentence for you or forget to listen or talk ad-nauseum about this or that. They’ll focus too much on being nice instead of saying what they really want to say. They’ll pussy foot around their point and never get to it. They don’t know how to ask for what they want. They’ll rely on too many emoticons while chatting online. All of these things drive me crazy. But it’s also been the case that after a while I get used to the way they communicate and I am able to look past that and enjoy the person for who they are.

The bigger of a critic I become, the more I have to learn to chill out and lighten up, as my mom would say. I have to remember to not lose sight of the person forrest because I’m too busy criticizing their communication trees. Besides, I’m no expert. I’m the person who stopped writing altogether because the criticism became too much to bear. I can’t also just stop communicating altogether, and become a social pariah while I’m at it, just because I’m on the quest for flawless communication.

Here is No Why

Last week I watched a movie in which one of the protagonists was wearing the iconic “Zero” t-shirt by the Smashing Pumpkins. It was a movie about kids currently in high school– right now, in the 00’s, or whatever it is that this era is called (I still don’t know). For these kids, presumably born in the mid 90’s,  wearing a Smashing Pumpkins shirt in high school now would be similar to me wearing a The Cure shirt back when I was in high school. These kids would be wearing it more for cred, fake nostalgia and recognition than anything else. Surely not because they are truly fans of the band, especially considering how disappointing they are now.

Well, when I saw this, I felt several things. My first reaction was a big mental scoff. Pshhh, like you could even name one of their songs. I felt indignant that these idiot kids, in this really bad movie, were wearing something they didn’t deserve to wear. Then I felt a sense of pride. If I wore that shirt, I wouldn’t be doing it for cred, fake nostalgia or recognition. I would be doing it because I was a conscious human being when Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness hit stores, I was there when the singles came out, I watched the videos when they aired on MTV, I heard the songs on the radio when they were top hits, I discussed the band with my friends, I waited patiently for someone to buy the album for me during their next trip to the U.S. I owned that shit on a cassette tape. I unfurled the album art from its packaging and lovingly learned all of the lyrics. I wrote poetry consumed by all the feelings the album inspired. When I finally got the album on a CD I played it so often and so loudly that my mother would knock on the door and tell me to turn it down.

I deserve to wear that shirt, I thought to myself. It was the first time I felt that something that is considered a nostalgic relic of the past truly belonged to me. That feeling seemed like a rite of passage. It must be what people who lived in both a pre-Pink Floyd and a post-Pink Floyd world must feel when they see kids nowadays wearing the iconic Dark Side of the Moon gear. They were conscious of a time before that band changed them, and then the first contact with that band changed them forever. Now, kids who couldn’t possibly know what it is like to go through that transformation wear emblems of other people’s pride for fun. Not that I am comparing Pink Floyd to the Smashing Pumpkins. I am comparing the experience. It is something that eventually happens to all of us, and it finally happened to me.

Not that I mind younger generations discovering old music. Where would I be if I hadn’t indulged in my step-dad’s immense CD collection? I wouldn’t wear a Dark Side of the Moon shirt because I would feel like a poser if I did. Or I would be embarrassed to be seen by someone who truly deserved to wear that shirt. I do feel like you need to earn the privilege, and I don’t think I have. However, I do  know that truly great music will always find a way to transform others, no matter how far removed they are from its origins. I don’t begrudge kids these days the opportunity to encounter that kind of enlightenment.

Soon after watching that movie, I went online and ordered myself a Smashing Pumpkins “Zero” t-shirt and I’m wearing it today. It makes me so, so happy. I used to own this shirt, but I lost it somehow. I don’t mind, however. It seems fitting that I would seek it out and make it my own once again.

Coolest Girl Alive

It’s always interesting perusing social media and stumbling upon what seems like the coolest girl alive.

The latest version is literally a rocker chick in her late 20’s. She has impeccable style– the model in every Urban Outfitters catalog. Carefree, exuberant youth drips from her every pore. She’s the girl we all dreamed we’d turn out to be but never had the balls, or the talent, to become.

I’m sure she doesn’t have it all. I’m sure there is something annoying about her, or perhaps the reason why she looks so carefree is because she’s actually careless. Maybe she’s super irresponsible and exhausting to be around. Maybe she has awful, awful family secrets and leaves a pile of dead boyfriend bodies everywhere she goes.

But who cares. There she is, totally young, totally hot, totally in your face. It’s hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’ve hit your 30’s and you’ve finally realized the hard truth of what you are and what you will never become. If I once thought I might be in a band one day, I know now that I never will. I may have considered moving to New York on a whim some day, but now I know for sure that I won’t. Not on a whim, of course. I’d have to do the sensible thing like find a good job that offers to move me there first. I’m an adult now.

So maybe that’s what it is with these girls now. They’re shining crystal balls of promise. The longing I feel when I look at them is not so much because they’re beautiful, it’s because they’ve captured some sort of magic. Well, part of it is because they’re beautiful. It’s hard to ignore your own body image problems when confronted with fairy-like feminine ideals on a Facebook page. But more than anything else it’s the idea that someone in fact became the person you dreamed you’d somehow end up being. There can only be one Coolest Girl Alive, and it’s not you.

At least that’s how it feels, picture after picture. After a while it gets tiring looking at some stranger’s photos. You begin to feel like a creeper. What am I doing checking her out like this anyways? Who gives a shit who this girl is. She may as well not exist. And just like that, with a click of a mouse button, you close the door on the coolest girl alive and break the spell. It’s of no consequence what life she leads, out there, on subway trains and seedy bars. It doesn’t matter how young she is and how old I feel. One day she’ll be my age and she’ll come across her own version of the coolest girl alive and the cycle will stretch on like that, forever, across a million wistful strangers.

Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Moody Chickens

Not only is this one of the images that popped up when I searched for “moody chicken” on Google images, it also happens to come from the Austin Chronicle. Makes sense.

I will not deny that I am moody. When I am in the mood to be silly, I am silly. And when I am in the mood to be quiet, I am quiet. When I feel like the correct mood is serious, I will be serious. When I feel free and happy, I am ready to party and you will know it. Sometimes, however, my brain becomes concerned with some topic or thought and I indulge to the point where all of my body betrays that I am deep in some sort of mental trench. This is when the world likes to call me moody.

I have taken offense to this term when it is applied to me– either directly or indirectly– for many reasons. The label “moody” has a negative connotation with which I am all too familiar. More often than not, the label is accompanied with a misunderstanding of my character and a misunderstanding of how I function.

This misunderstanding of my character and how I function is currently affecting me at work. I have been compared to two co-workers recently in what felt like a Goofus and Gallant page in Highlights Magazine. Gallant is reliable and predictable, always even-keeled. Goofus is smiley and ridiculous one minute, quiet and cold the next. Gallant wears his heart on his sleeve and is an open book for all to read. Goofus often broods at his desk and at times seems unapproachable. I am so tired of being Goofus.

It’s tricky. I know that in a professional setting, in a place where you have to work with others and get your job done no matter how you’re feeling, it is wise to always have a smile on your face and try hard to always seem approachable. When getting this kind of feedback from my co-workers, I try to read between the lines of what they are saying to me. In comparing me in such a way, they are saying, perhaps, that they don’t always feel like they can talk to me. Or that they aren’t always comfortable with me because they don’t know what they’re going to get when I walk through the door.

Fair enough. I can see how you would prefer Gallant’s singular setting to Goofus’ wild card nature.

However, I get the sense that I am being told to change. That people are trying to change an integral part of me so that they are more comfortable. I am being shown a more acceptable way of being and asked to consider switching. Moreover, I get the sense that these people, who spend more time with me than any other people in my life, don’t really get me at all. And that feels like bullshit.

Typically, when people call me moody they are really calling me temperamental. The problem is that the key factor in being temperamental is having unreasonable changes in mood. I take offense at the assumption that I am unreasonable. I am a rational person. I am sensitive to the reasons behind everything and I always try to have a sensible reason for everything I do. People who get me should know this about me.

Of course, just because I have a reason for being serious and grumpy doesn’t mean I am beyond reproach. It doesn’t mean that people can’t continue to prefer other people who are never grumpy and serious. I can see how dealing with someone who is reliably transparent and saccharine can take the guesswork out of friendships and relationships. But being the way I am– if you want to call it moody– doesn’t make me flawed. Believe me– there are plenty of other flaws we can talk about if we really want to get into that topic. It will always disappoint me that having a multi-faceted personality will remain the reason I get cast as Goofus instead of Gallant.

Get on the Squirrel

This picture is one of the results I got when entering “Am I a Bad Person?” into Google Images. I’ve decided I’m going to do that for every blog post– enter the theme into Google Images and see what I get. This can’t fail.

Imagine this scenario:
Due to mounting frustration, you vent about one of your co-workers to two other co-workers you’re somewhat close to. Against better judgment– because you know how tricky office politics are– you allow yourself to let them in on just how frustrated you are with that particular person. Pretty soon, the three of you start really getting into the different reasons why working with them is annoying. Then, one of your co-workers says “I just don’t think he’s a good person.”

“I just don’t think he’s a good person.”

The conversation has taken quite a different turn at that point. Beyond discussing annoying behavior and airing frustrations, stating that someone is not a good person is laying down quite a verdict about someone’s character. It makes me very uncomfortable. Especially being the person who started the whole thing– it makes me feel guilty. Immediately, of course, in that scenario, I had to switch gears from criticizing to defending. It made me uncomfortable to do that, but it would have made me feel worse to remain silent and allow such a judgement to remain.

I brought up the reasons why…the defendant, let’s call him…WAS indeed a good person. All the regular things you say at that point– that they have a good heart, that their intentions are good, that their only real offense is not really being aware of how their actions are interpreted.

And then I just felt like an ass. If I know these things are true about them, why do I start saying crap at all? Why even bother airing frustrations? Especially to fellow coworkers? I know better than that…I’ve known better than that for a long time.

The thing about someone not being a good person really stuck in my craw. If you asked me to name people I considered “not good people” a couple of faces do indeed come to mind. But I just wouldn’t be able to name their names out loud. I wouldn’t be able to commit to making that judgment. To me, saying that someone is not a good person means that you’ve decided that every single action that person takes has a bad intention attached to it. That they are, across the board, selfish. You negate their personal struggles and refuse to be empathetic towards them. As far as you’re concerned, they would steal candy from a baby, poison it, and then feed it to a dog just for kicks. They lurk behind doorways (real and figurative ones) waiting for an opportunity to inflict some sort of harm.

I don’t think I know ANYONE like that. Even the few people I truly dislike aren’t BAD people.

So I start to wonder about the coworker who made that judgment call. Maybe their requirements for what it takes to be a bad person aren’t as severe as mine. Maybe they spoke from a place of resentment and would easily change their minds. Maybe they saw our co-worker steal candy from a baby, poison it, and feed it to a dog just for kicks.

In any case, it makes me sad to think that I contributed in any way to any kind of character assassination, especially in the workplace where relationships are so fragile.