release.

you’ll find nothing but sodden footprints

coming from the river.
the egrets like goddesses stand in the
stiff marsh grasses before the sun has warmed
the sky, and much could drown in such shallow water
while the shadows remain long.
unless i became something else,
my sealcoat hidden under skin.

i cannot find gracefulness on land, and i’m not sure
what luck i am.
if i step into a net
will i still have been caught, and
would you still want me, water
beading on my lips.
a flick, a glint in the light. you'd see.

then tales they tell of the restless seas
come to trawl me back.
what would remain grounded after the waves crashed
down on us, the ocean came to reclaim its kind?
i could not ask you to fight the undertow beside me. sand
is not solid enough ground.
a quick swallow of water, a tiny asphyxiation, and with lungs filled i may swim away.
but without you, i would have drowned.

the sea is never satiated. you’ll hear me in the susurrus,
calling you toward the rocks.

Help. With the bed. Again.

As mentioned before, sheet changing day is a day of powerful fun for the critters here.  I almost like doing laundry for this reason.

First, there is the magnetic pull of the mattress once it is stripped.  The mattress is apparently WAY more fun to sleep on uncovered.  I do not know why this is.  Here, we have my beasties, and the stuffed beastie I sleep with (YES, I sleep with a stuffed elephant, SHUT UP), exhibiting the sweet, sleepy love of the mattress:

And then: Azrou really likes the sheets.

Pillows are also fun.

Finally, there is the begging to do it again.

YAY SHEETS.

"Nine." DAMN STRAIGHT.

There are no words for how much I love this woman.

I love her so, so, so hard.

Gayle's random email of the day.

I get strange emails, y'all.  And I usually don't publish them!  But this one was not a proposal for marriage!  FOR ONCE:

from Taylor ******** to     unnatural.forces@gmx.com date Wed, Oct 27, 2010 at 9:04 AM subject Drones Paper

Hi, I'm a high school debater, and I'm trying to make a pack of evidence against the use of drones. I saw your blog about drones and the paper you wrote for your professor. If it's cool with you, I'd LOVE if you could email me your paper and I'll make sure to cite it correctly as a law student and not as if you had official knowledge or anything that could get you denied admission to the bar. Thanks so much!

-Taylor *********

Sent from my iPhone

 Here are a couple reasons why Taylor is not getting my drone paper:

1. Taylor, since when do fucking high schools have debates about drones under international law?  I call shenanigans. 
2. You are going to cite me?  Taylor, if you are indeed real and a high school debater, you make me worried for the state of your education.  You cannot use some random lady blogger's paper as authoritative.  You don't know anything about me or my agenda; and I doubt you have a Westlaw account in your high school library to check my sources.  Law people are full of shit ALL THE TIME, ESPECIALLY when it comes down to an issue that is so novel and highly charged at the moment.  Have you heard of John Yoo?  How about Jay Bybee?  Now, I happen to think my paper is a slam dunk, but how would you know that to be true?  You wouldn't.  You would have no way to verify this.  
3. How the fuck are you going to cite me?  As "Gayle Force"?  That's like citing Wikipedia.  You were going to cite to Wikipedia, weren't you, Taylor?  DON'T CITE TO WIKIPEDIA.
4. I am not going to give you my real name, either, or where I go to school, and it's inappropriate for you to expect I would, unless you really were going to cite me as "Gayle Force," which, oh dear, see above.  There is no reason from your definitely uncompelling email for me to trust you with my personal information.  Haven't they taught you anything about internet safety in high school, Taylor?  Jesus, do they teach kids anything these days? 
5. As a former teacher, I can tell you, learning how to do research is an important skill.  DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH, TAYLOR.  Emailing a strange internet lady does not count.  I would bring shame upon my former profession if I emailed this paper to you, Taylor.  I wouldn't be able to sleep at night.  This is a learning opportunity for you, and god forbid I rob you of that.

So, Taylor is sadly out of luck today, Readers!   Sadface.

A way out

"I know no other way out of what is both the maze of the eternal present and the prison of the self except with a string of words."

  

- Lewis Lapham 

I always know when I am not going to do well.  It starts with the same mental traipse every time.  I spent all last night fantasizing/having a nightmare about my rapist dying, getting a phone call out of the blue, some old friend from high school informing me, slightly breathless and appropriately crestfallen, as if it were far more simple news than I could ever take it.   I am never sure whether I am happy or sad or confused or angry or numb at the phone call, the telling of my friends who know, the funeral.  I try on a single emotion, and let the movie reel go.  I test it, create new situations, like a choose-your-own-adventure book, try to determine if that is the feeling I'd wear to his funeral.  Does my acting feel forced?  Does the scene feel too contrived?  None of the emotions ever fit, although sometimes I cry, in real life, just imagining it.  So I rewind the tape, put on another emotion, and then play the movie in my head again from the beginning.

The process takes hours and hours while I lay in bed, the night receding.  It was both the harbinger and the cause of why I am teetering today.

It wasn't going to take very much to throw me off this morning.  I opened this month's Harper's, which I'd not yet gotten to, at the dining room table, coffee in one hand, and read Lewis Lapham's final Notebook.  The Notebook has been the opening essay to the magazine for as long as I've known it.  Which is a long time.  I discovered David Foster Wallace in its pages as a teenager.  It was the first thing I did as an adult once I knew the address of my soon-to-be apartment right after college - I got a Harper's subscription.  There are two things that especially remind me I am a grown-up - re-subscribing to Harper's and getting it delivered every month, and buying a shower curtain.  I have no explanation for the shower curtain.

*           *           *

When I am as busy and stressed and pressed as I am, I am very good at managing.  And I manage by concentrating on all the little joys I accumulate during the day.  Going for a run always assures I will have enough tiny ecstasies to keep me going - the shockingly white egret, looking like a deity in bird form, walking through the marshes, the cardinal that belts out song just as I run by, the big fat toads sunning on logs beside the trail.  And then the other little things - a kind word by someone, some particularly fantastic tights a girl is wearing, the way the light from the setting sun hits the trees, being grateful that the train is coming just as I get to the platform or the rain holds off until just after I have slipped into the building.

It's a wonderful coping mechanism, this.  The big things come, and I just roll with them.  I take them in stride.  And I can do this while I collect all my little bits of happiness.  But it does mean the little things can throw me.  Throw something giant at me, I can dodge it, but put a grain of salt in my path and I may trip.

*           *           *

I needed the Notebook, and Lapham, in 2003.  And 2004.  And 2005.  When it was especially hard to be a good American citizen.  When you were either with them or against them, and if you were against them, the whole country was telling you you were a traitor, a bad American, a crazy person, when you were really fucking sure you were not the one who had gone insane.   I cried when we invaded Afghanistan; I marched in the protests where 100,000 people managed to show the world how to become invisible en masse and I wept again when we invaded Iraq.  There were few ways to stay moored in the sea of that rabid, dogmatic, murderous patriotism.  I was pushed online, where I discovered blogs; and I gripped onto my Harper's, where Lapham managed to take my rage and confusion and outraged feelings of impotency and fashion them into lethally sharp essays, spearing the idiocy and ignorance I saw all around me right through the heart.  There were few voices that spoke Truth, and they weren't loud, nor did they hold much sway.  But they were a lifeline. 

I remember some of my favorite Notebooks.  One, about privacy, came the month I stopped attending to my Facebook account, and I was so pleased to see someone put into words all my annoyances with the performative aspects of living exposed.  Another I happened to read on the train right before taking a law final over which I was having the worst anxiety.  It was by Lapham, and it was about what we can learn about living from the dying.  I can assure you, perspective was had on that train ride, and I walked into my final, and everything after for a long time, as cool as a breeze.  One of Barbara Ehrenreich's Notebooks, which boiled down to essentially, "Fuck hope," made me cheer aloud, especially as a former friend the very night before had spent ages telling me why we "need" god.

Still, it was the political ones from Lapaham every month through the first 8 years of the aughts that I drank down like water after being marooned in the desert for days.  I do not remember them individually, I merely remember the simultaneous relief and righteous anger I always felt in reading them.  They were, in short, a haven.

*           *           *

So today was off.  I was struggling.  Walking back from the train this evening I contemplated my coping options of which, honestly, cutting myself was on the table.   I spent some time wondering in Whole Foods while getting yogurt for tomorrow how it is that I am still not done and over being raped three and a half years ago, sexually harassed and assaulted a bit over a year ago, and throttled last month.  Then I took the chance to berate myself for being overly precious and pathetic. 

After dinner, I decided to re-read the essay that had so moved me this morning, even though the essay was the trigger for my sadness.  The essay was not to be blamed, after all; the overwhelming despair that came from losing a monthly touchstone for so long was still disproportionate, the true source of the anguish bleeding out of my brain all kinds of wounds not yet healed.  Lapham's words have always been a balm, and still they were tonight.  For he ends his final Notebook saying, "I know no other way out of what is both the maze of the eternal present and the prison of the self except with a string of words."

Of course.  I knew before I had even put the magazine back down on the table: I can write my way out of my melancholy (that is, after all, why this blog even exists, why I keep at it, writing even when I have no idea what I am saying or where I am going, because I know, eventually, through sentences and under paragraphs I will escape from whatever demons are hounding me).  I can find my way out of this sadness tonight if I could just begin to get down the words.

And so here we are.

Porn and the patriarchy

I am supposed to be doing other work (as, you know, always), but my head, it is in a funky place.

I am working on the unending, starting-to-be-a-little-soulsucking porn presentation that my friend R. and I are giving in Feminist Legal Theory class this week.  And, here's the thing: I am not ok with porn.

DON'T START COMPARING ME TO ANDREA DWORKIN.  I have no plans to team up with Rightwingers to go on a censorship crusade.  I just don't think porn can ever really be progressive, or transgressive, or feminist.  As I just explained to someone on email:

Do I think anyone can create transgressive, feminist porn?  No!  Actually!  I don't!  For a couple of reasons, some very heavily rooted in theory but mostly: 1) Nothing can be transgressive without continually referencing whatever "line" it has crossed to be so.  Thus, all transgressive porn actually reifies what is "normal"  and polices the line between "acceptable" and not; 2) Women are made into a sex class in this culture, and all sex is about dominance and submission.  We cannot conceive of sex outside these bounds.  Thus, we are always playing out the same oppressive narratives. See more here and here; 3) Because we have not grown up in a vacuum, our desires are always dominated by the heteronormative, hegemonic white male gaze.  My concept of "sexy" is never my own - it's been fed to me.  I have no idea what I think sexy would look like if I grew up isolated in a nunnery or some shit, but I doubt it would include things like really uncomfortable 4 inch heels that mangle the feet and back, or being tied up and dominated (and I know I like the latter because I am sexualizing my very real and actualized fear of rape and assault upon my body.  Would I find those things sexy without having been a victim/victimized?  I wonder).  I know people like to play, "But that's just my thing-ism" when it comes to sex, but no one gets a pass, and everyone's desires are fair game for deconstruction, and when it comes down to it, why are our desires always not liberatory? 

That being said, if anyone asked me whether porn or Vogue Magazine was more damaging for women, I would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer.  For part of our presentation, R. put together this kickass slideshow of pictures, and everyone has to try and guess whether it is from a porn or a fashion shoot.  Or a Michael Bay movie.  It is pretty impossible to tell the difference.  It all looks the same.  And it's all fucking violent against women.

Anyway, we dug up some really good articles on porn, one being on porn and race, the other being on how banning porn isn't really fixing the problem.*  Because, of course, the problem with porn isn't porn, the problem with porn is that people don't look at porn and think, "Wow, that is some really heinous and degrading and inhumane stuff.  That's not sexy AT ALL.  Turn that shit off."   But SADLY, people do not do this, and so I have been looking at porn and Vogue photoshoots and and a documentary on porn that includes a porn with a rape scene that is pretty fucking triggering for two days, and now I am all disassociated and having a crap night. 

Especially because: I have reached the point where I can't even look at arty black-and-white slightly grainy hipster-y pictures of sex anymore. 

Let's tell a story.  About a month ago, some dude came to visit me.  Some of you know may know this dude from the internets!  The internets are an AMAZINGLY small place, actually; perhaps you have realized this too.  Anyway, this dude got a little obsessed with me because of the words I write here (I did not know this bit until after).  He decided, not the first dude to have done so, that he wanted to "conquer" Gayle.  You also have possibly met those dudes who like to conquer and control ladies.  Especially ladies who are a force of nature.  It's like they get a big manly gold star for putting those ladies in their place.

So, this dude flew across the country to satisfy his obsession.  He harangued me to sleep with him from the very moment he got here.  "No," to him, only meant he should keep asking.  I should point out here that this dude read this blog.  He knew my issues with sex.  He was fully aware I'd been raped.  When I finally agreed to fuck him, it was because I was exhuasted and drunk and had had one of those weeks where I was stretched so thin I had no energy to keep defending myself.  However, there was no way I was doing anything I wasn't comfortable with, no matter the fact my clothes were now off.  This made him mad.  So he decided to throttle me during sex - literally, he put his hand on my throat and squeezed, with no warning or discussion - to punish me for demanding my consent mattered.  Then he told me, after I freaked out, it was my fault.  Because I kept being "difficult."  For "changing my mind" about what I was ok with doing with him.  For saying no.  For keeping myself safe and demanding my boundaries be respected. 

After the whole thing was over and he flew home, he told me by text it was STILL all my fault, but now it was because I had hurt him.  When I asked how I hurt him, he said it was because I had asked a painful question about his childhood.  And I had "made him answer."   And this is when I realized I was dealing with a sick person.  I cut all ties, and ties to anyone who may also know this person and continue to be friendly with him.  And then I spent two weeks petrified that he would retaliate against me, fly back here because he had my address, hurt me in some way.  Because that is some genuinely sociopathic shit right there.

But the point of this story is: why do so many of these arty black-and-white photos of sex involve a man with his hand around the throat of a woman?  I cannot look at these pictures anymore.  Because that isn't sexy now.  I know the control and domination a little too well, that goes with that.  And it's upsetting, when I think about it, that I ever found men throttling women sexy at all.  Fucking patriarchy, man.  It sucks.

Anyway, that's what I am grappling with at the moment.  Porn: not the most fun topic to research, it turns out!  Whenever I get my head back on straight, I will add to my list of saving-the-world topics the goal of making porn obsolete.  We here at Unnatural Forces only take on the most achievable goals!


* These articles are:

- Gail Dines, The White Man's Burden: Gonzo Pornography and the Construction of Black Masculinity, in the Yale Journal of Law and Feminism, 18 Yale J.L. & Feminism 283 (2006).

- Carlin Meyer, Sex, Sin, and Women's Liberation: Against Porn-Suppression, in the Texas Law Review, 72 Tex. L. Rev. 1097 (1994).

Why I run.

So, in case you had not noticed for some reason around here, I run.

The thing is, I have never NOT run.  I have been doing team sports since I was 5.  Soccer, track, field hockey, lacrosse, running down to the boathouse at 5 am for crew practice, I have always been running.  When I graduated from college and ended my stint on teams and thus wasn't really compelled to go running, I felt a little lost for a month before I realized I needed to start again on my own.  I missed the time outside, I missed the feeling of my legs beneath me, and, you know, I missed SLEEPING.  It is pretty much a fact of my life that I cannot sleep unless I exercise.  My body has no recollection of how to function without exercise; continuing to exercise means I feel better, sleep better, digest better, get sick less.  My body knows how to work hard.  It excels at it.  No matter how long I have gone since the last time I've run, when I start again, my body is thrilled.  My muscles, they know what to do.  They fall into a groove.  Everything in my body fits back together better, settles into itself, gets comfortable and happy again.  Running is actually my resting state.

And then nothing is more comfortable for me to put on and wear than a sports bra, a t-shirt, and some running shorts.  Stripping out of even jeans at the end of the day feels pleasurable when I switch to spandex, cotton, and whatever the fuck material it is that wicks.

There are periods of time where I haven't run.  Like when I've been abroad - I swam my way through Morocco in a gym pool, while I spent all of India being sick, so there was no exercise then.  And domestically I've gotten really depressed before, or really busy, or the sky has dropped a fuckload of snow on wherever I am, and so the running has been curtailed for a period.  I always pick it up again, after I fight through the dark times in my head or the fucking snow drifts out my front door (last winter in D.C.?  Jesus.  We couldn't get out our back door until mid-March).  And running keeps the depression and anxiety at bay.

But as someone who suffers from body dysmorphic disorder, and disassociative disorder after being raped, and struggles with self-harm, there's another reason I run.  And it's because it's the only way I can make peace with my body.

There is something about thinking about my body as a machine that allows me to take care of it.  If I think of it as functional, we get along just fine.  Running helps me do this.  It helps me relate to my body in a way that is not (culturally) loaded.  I am present in my body throughout the day in a way I can't be otherwise - are my muscles tight?  How's the damaged nerve line in my foot?  How are my knees feeling?  I have very practical interactions with my body, about what it needs, what it wants, what would make it feel best.  I beat myself up less about the food I put in my mouth, because of course I need to feed a machine to keep it working.  I see eating and food as a means towards an end, instead of a way to punish myself.  There is no morality in eating anymore, just purpose.

I stop hating my body, because I need it to do things.  And I am always so pleased with what it can do.  It's hard to hate your body after a glorious long run.  And when I have a terrible run, I actually know it's not my body, because running is something my body knows like breathing, so I turn to my diet, the amount of sleep I am getting; I go over the ways I may not be taking the best care of myself in my head, and look for ways I can give myself what I need.  Besides, I have done sports long enough to know: sometimes you just have a bad run.  And it doesn't mean anything.  Those days are ok.  I am already looking forward to my next run, because I know it will be better.   

I learned how to run and work hard and push myself before I had any of the language of body hatred or disgust or trauma.  I learned the language of strength and sore muscles and aching joints and hard breathing and going just a little bit longer and a little bit faster before I ever heard the words of the patriarchal beauty standard, performative femininity, or rape.  I have the hardest time making the messages of those damaging later demons shut up when I am not running.  Because I can't replace them with anything.  But once I am outside, once the ground is flying past beneath me, I never remember how fat I think I am or how I loathe to look in a mirror.  I am just a girl, running.  I am fluent in that.

I know that I am very lucky.  I am able-bodied.   And I can tell you, truly, I am thankful every single time I finish a run.  I check in with my body and everything is fine and I give thanks.  It is a privilege I can run like I do.   And it is a privilege that I can find a connection with my body like this.  The half-marathon was great, but it wasn't really about the race, and it wasn't really about breaking two hours, although that was the little wish I'd had for myself in the back of my head.  It was all about feeling proud of what I'd done, proud of my body, glad to be in it.  It was so new and novel to feel that way, I was tripping and shiny off it for the rest of the weekend.

We all have our demons, but running helps me quiet mine.  It replaces their haranguing with the language I learned to speak first with myself, of effort, purpose, function, and care.  It's the truce I can call on the war against myself.  Tomorrow morning is my first run again since the race, and I can't wait.  It doesn't matter whether it's a good run, or a long run, or a fast run, it doesn't matter how sore I am still or how creaky I feel after the race.  It'll just be me in my body being present and settled, and so I know it will be wonderful.

Cat blogging: Pink nose edition

I know, the cute, it slays me, too.

Mad Men Season 4, Episode 13: I am disappinted, y'all

Pretty much, there was one scene I liked in the season finale of Mad Men, and it's what I think many ladies and men who read here have been waiting for - the women to join forces.  We finally saw Peggy and Joan complaining together about what it's like to be a woman and under appreciated in the workplace.  We finally saw some sisterhood.  So, YAY TO THAT.  It was respite from the painful divisions the show has been creating between women so far.

Everything else seemed a lot of unpleasantness.  Betty is a tragedy, lying down on Sally's bed because she is, in fact, like a child, being horrible to Carla, and then desperately waiting around in the house, perfecting her make-up before Don stopped by.  She is pathetic, but no longer dynamic.  It was sad watching her, but that was all, just sad.  I am wondering where the show will go with her from here, because I take no prurient delight in kicking things that are already on the ground.

And then: Don just marrying Megan.  Was anyone really surprised?  Because I wasn't.  After four seasons, it's like Don has gotten nowhere.  He is lonely without a lady.  He wants the perfect happy family, and Megan is not yet hysterical and angry and she treats a spilled milkshake like merely a spilled milkshake.  He is still in love with that old fashioned idea of having this perfect wife take care of his children perfectly while being a perfect compliment to him.  Which is . . . . where we started.  SO WHY HAVE I BEEN WATCHING FOR FOUR SEASONS?

The thing I have loved so much about Mad Men have been the surprises.  And there have been genuine surprises - Peggy's pregnancy, someone's foot getting run over by a lawnmower, SCDP forming.  But Don getting sentimental and moony over shit and then being an impulsive ass is NOT actually a surprise.  It's just a disappointment.  Because it's predictable.  He's just being his "type" - hell, Faye called it at the beginning of this season - she said Don would be married in a year.  Compared to Peggy's storyline, which is wonderful and dynamic and believable, it feels like the show got stuck.  They had painted Don into a corner.  If Don redeemed himself, it would feel fake and corny and contrived.  If he pulled a dick move, it would be boring.  Well, now that Don's in a rut here with his character, maybe we can have Peggy became the protagonist, because I am not interested in watching him be Don anymore.  We got Don.  We have apparently seen all the way to the four corners of Don, and there ain't much there.  Whatever.  Moving on.

I think the hit that feminism takes in this show, where no matter the ladies' gains they just can't win against the boys' club, was a brutal blow, too.  There's how Joan gets a higher title in the company but still pushes the mailcart and gets no more money.  Don tells Peggy what he likes about Megan is how much she's like Peggy - which means Peggy worked really hard, but may now end up working alongside "a pretty face," no farther ahead for all her hard work (and we watch Peggy be really brilliant at her job, too, with Topaz).  What Betty said to Carla was just brutal (and AWFULLY privileged and racist).  Betty is jealous of her daughter over a 13 year old's attention.  Don falls in love with a woman as she tends his children, giving up a partner who was competent and accomplished and ambitious but didn't adequately perform her gender role.  And then of course we have the bitter scene between Joan and Peggy being frustrated (although, we can all hope that turns into something more revolutionary).

But frankly, Mad Men, I am disappointed.  Don reverted back to his old, and old-fashioned, ways of thinking.  There is no hope for the new.  There is nothing to look forward to.  I am even not interested in watching Don's being saved through a new lady and a new marriage.  Ladies saving the dudes from themselves, YAWN. 

Anyone else as disappointed as I?  Or do you think I am totally wrong?

Really, SHUT UP.

Shorter Shannon Kelley: It's ok to call someone a whore!  That's not sexist!  There are real problems we need to deal with in this election.  Like people being "pottymouths."

And the money quote: 

Even putting that aside, claiming offense in this instance cheapens what people go through when they are the victims of truly hateful language.

Right.  Because being called a whore?  Not hateful, totally victimless, and not that bad.  Also, the "N" word and the word "whore" are totally mutual exclusive, and are never be used together.

A Gayle update update!

13.1 miles, 1:59:33, and it felt great.

A Gayle update!

So, Readers, EXCITING: Gayle has her first road race ever this Saturday!  She is going to ROCK the half marathon. 

The race is in Baltimore, so E. and I are driving up tomorrow morning and staying in a hotel.  And thus, I have been trying to be super-productive, getting as much (UNENDING) work done as possible before the weekend is a wash, doing laundry, buying some fucking health insurance (seriously, I just forgot to at the beginning of the semester, which says a lot about how lucky I am in regards to my health), finding a gluten-free pasta bar we can carb-load at the night before in baltimore (found one!), scheduling massages for sunday, etc.

Thus, this week is light on the posting.  And it might continue to be a little light on the posting until I get, like, four giant projects out of the way this month.  I think in November there may be a little breathing room.  At least, until, something else comes up.  You know how this goes!  The world ain't going to save itself.

Sending love!

G

Teaching While Gay

When I was 20 and 21 and lived in India for a year, I wrote a thesis about the burgeoning LGBTQI movement there while enrolled in a college in Delhi.  The movie Fire, a lesbian flick, had recently come out (HA!  Accidental slip, I swear) and forced the issue of homosexuality, an issue that previously had been rarely discussed and decorously constructed as invisible in polite society.  Theaters had been burned in protest, riots had been staged, and everyone was very touchy about the queers.  Also, there was this holdover law from the British empire in the Indian Penal Code that made sodomy illegal, and this sanctioned a great deal of police brutality against and extortion from the queer and especially trans community (there was a growing movement to repeal this statute when I was there - it was only finally taken off the books in 2009).

But, like I said, I was writing this thesis, and I traveled all over India with my girlfriend and talked to folks and went to conferences and got threats against my and my girlfriend's bodily integrity taped to the handlebars of her motorcycle and generally acted the radical activist that I was (and am).  Which made it all the more shocking to me that it was a professor, a lady professor, and a gay lady professor at my Delhi college who challenged my thesis as "illegitimate."

She hated my thesis.  She would ask about it in class and then deride it.  She would lodge protests to the principal.  She took every opportunity she could to tell me all that I was researching and writing was completely invalid.  Homosexuality was NOT, according to her, a legitimate academic topic.  And I was confused, I was bewildered, because here was this gay lady, and she was telling me to SHUT UP and GO AWAY about agitating for equal rights.  FOR HER.  And I was like, uhhhhhh, what the fuck is with desperately trying to get me and you and everyone else all back in the closet?  The queers, we cannot pretend we do not exist anymore.  We are no longer invisible.  There are discussions being had.  We're out of the closet.  You can't undo this, the dialogue, the movie, or yourself, so why try?

But recently, it has dawned on me how much safety there is in being in the closet, in being a secret.  If you're invisible, at least they aren't attacking you.

And it's felt like being under attack of late.  I have not managed to go a day reading even just the lightest smattering of news without encountering some heinous, hateful shit about me and my fellow homos.

Specifically, there's been a lot of the queer-while-teaching homophobia.  God forbid I get near kids, y'all, because: right?  The horrors.  Garland Grey wrote a beautiful post about hatred and his experience teaching, and I kinda wanted to weigh in, because I did, after all, Teach While Gay.  But I also was lucky, Teaching While Gay, because: 1) I can pass; and 2) I had some really fucking stellar kids.

The thing is, with the passing, I could have gotten away with never saying a thing.  But that didn't seem to be an acceptable option, being invisible.  Not even if I was being attacked.  So I told (and when I was directly questioned, I wouldn't lie; I'd just look at the kid and ask, "Now why would that matter to you?").  The thing is, by the time I was telling kids and we were close enough to have those conversations, we had already established that I loved them and respected them very much.  And they loved and respected me back.  Basically, I got to be invisible until I was pretty sure I didn't have to be anymore.  Still, it was always taking a chance.  If I am being honest, I would have to tell you: I am amazed I was never fired for the (revolutionary) shit that was said in my classrooms. I am dumbfounded that I never got complaints, never was rebuked or investigated, and my kids' parents pretty much adored me.  I can't really explain that.  Like I said: lucky.

But, ok, I never told all the kids.  I told, maybe, 90% of them.  There were a couple kids that you learned you couldn't tell - the kids who told their parents everything, the kids who tattled, the kids who enjoyed making other people feel small, the really homophobic kids who came from evangelical and usually pentecostal churches (actually, although all my kids in Morocco are Muslim, a religion which (racist) people in this country tend to associate with intolerance, I think every single one of them knows now I am a queer lady.  It was in the U.S. I've had to watch my mouth more).  But I could take the time to learn the kids, know the kids, build mutual trust; and I wasn't a substitute teacher, I was THEIR teacher, and they were MY babies, and by the time I told, we had already decided to become family; we already belonged to each other.

And also: THERE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN GAY KIDS IN MY CLASSES.  I didn't even have to indoctrinate them, guys.  They were just there, needing direction and a mentor and someone to listen to them and not judge them and be there for them just like they were any other kid.  And essentially what these no-more-queer-teachers advocates are saying is they want more queer teen suicides.  They want queer kids to feel more ostracized and alone and freakish and like the only way out is death.  It's not enough for the gay kids to just remain in the closet, invisible, anymore; no, homophobes are on the offensive.  Going back in the closet for us queer folks isn't even an option.  Which is why suicide might look like your lone escape.

I get the impulse of the "It Gets Better" movement, but I am super wary of it, having worked with little people.  First, that still puts responsibility on the abused kids to buck up, sack up, and try to be patient while they feel like their souls are being stomped on.  I'd rather see a campaign called "Make It Better," where we hold school officials and parents and other kids accountable and responsible for their abuse or enabling of it.  Second, I have had some kids with mental illnesses.  Fuck, I have a mental illness, and I had my first depressive episode at 14.  Telling me it gets better?  NOT HELPFUL, LIKE AT ALL.  Depression is when you have ceased to see the light at the end of the tunnel, and no one telling you no, really, it's there just trust me, is gonna make you see it.  Any policy that revolves around victims' self-help is just not enough.

But finally (ok, there are more reasons that I am wary of this campaign than these three, but I would like to not completely tangent here - more reasons are here) I think this campaign ignores the fact that there may already be gay adults in a position to help these kids.  Chances are, this kid had or has a queer teacher!  Like me!  There is someone in this kid's life who can help!  Like, today!  Fuck it gets better eventually, there are people in positions to help these kids NOW.  Except, they can't, if they are afraid of losing their jobs.  Or have been made silent, or invisible, lest they be attacked by the community.  There are gay folks amongst us, even in those small towns Dan Savage like to disparage.  How can we help them be mentors?  How can we help them be safe?  Essentially, how can we enable them to help immediately?

I kinda feel like a bunch of youtube videos will not do it.  That won't make the Carl Paladino's and the bigoted parents shut up or go away.  We need more.

And hey, I don't know how to do this.  I don't know the answers.  I do know what is not the solution, though.  Those gay teachers, they are out there, they are teaching, and they have the chance to save kids' lives.  We are not helping kids OR those queer educators by making those gay adults invisible.  They're already closest to the kids we need to reach.  Now let's start brainstorming about how to make it safe for them, and maybe the queer kids won't have to wait for it to get better.  Better should be now.

Mad Men Season 4, Episode 12: I am kinda at a loss for words

So.  Um.  I think we only have one episode of Mad Men left?  This episode brought up an awful lot of questions.  There were two threads I'd like to follow a bit - one is what happens now to SCDP, and what happened with Sally and Betty.

As to what Don did - I have to imagine that Midge was a big part of why he went on the offensive against big tobacco and took out that ad.  Midge is so clearly desperate as a heroin addict, living from fix to fix, and Don doesn't want his firm to be the same way.  Desperation is obvious, and it endears you to no one.  And in business, no one gives you whatever money they have on them out of pity.  So the only option that SCDP has is to become no longer desperate.  And that is exactly what Don's ad did.  I was shocked all the partners were mad at him - it seemed like a masterful stroke to me.  And while the other ad men mocked him, there is a market for morality - I mean, have you seen oil companies try to market like they're green?  I see these ridiculous Big Oil ads every day about conserving energy and going green on the metro all the time (or, in Chevron's case, they want us to maybe think about unplugging shit more to help the world?  Shut the fuck up, Chevron, and stop greenwashing.  Your human rights record is fucking appalling).

But mostly, Don changed the conversation.  He stopped looking desperate.  He may have brought in new accounts with his ad.  I don't really know what will happen to SCDP, but I am excited to see how his strategy pans out.  And as Peggy has always been the one with a conscience in the agency, it's nice to see that moment between her and Don, when she points out that she is kinda fucking right about things.

So while I am excited about that storyline, I am really worried for Sally.  As a (former)(sort of - I am still to many of my kids) teacher, if there is anything I hate, it's not believing kids, and not believing in kids.   Sally has this interesting friendship with Glenn, in that she listens to him, but I don't think she believes him, and I don't think she believes that everything he says is right.  She listens to a certain degree, but Sally is discerning - she seems to figure out the good and the bad.  And her therapist seems really good.  Like, I don't worry at all about Sally taking care of herself - the problem is Betty.  And if Betty is terrible at anything, it is Sally - and herself.  Betty is essentially going to Sally's therapist to get help, but still unable to see anything clearly about herself, her motivations, or her daughter. 

Now that Betty is finally willing to move out of the house, I wonder if this will signal a change for everyone - including Don, with the house gone and whatever was left of that life sold or trashed.  Whatever Don's intent in that ad, it signals that there is room and it is time for a change.  With one episode left, what are your thoughts?

I have no idea what's appropriate anymore; so here, let me tell you all about my period

You guys.  Is it too much information if I complain about my period on my blog?  How about to other people?  What about dude people?  What about dude people I don't even really know that well?

And if it makes them uncomfortable, should I care?

As I am getting older, I am increasingly unable to tell what is appropriate for conversation anymore.  I blame some of this on being a middle school teacher.  As a middle school teacher, your job, in being a good role model for your kids as well as a good sex-ed teacher, is to be very matter-of-factual about everything.  I mean, ok, whenever I would begin any conversation about sex at the start of the year, I would say to my class, "Alright folks, everyone say, 'Penis.'"  And they would say it and laugh uproariously.  And then I would say, yeah, ok, say it again.  Say it again.  Say it again.  And I'd have them keep saying "penis" until it had become not funny anymore.  And then I would say, "GREAT!  Now everyone say vagina!"  And we'd repeat this.  And then when everyone was done with the giggles, we could begin.

I can also tell you, as a teacher, there is NO STORY, no matter how embarrassing, shameful, gross, or unflattering you will NOT TELL to make a teaching point.  I have told my students pretty much fucking EVERYTHING if they had important questions and I thought it would help the discussion.  For instance: "Yeah, ok, once I had a condom break on me, and I didn't handle it well and freaked out.  That was not helpful!  This could happen to you!  But these are what your options are after you have stopped freaking out."  As a teacher, everything becomes just . . . part of being a human being.  You stop remembering sexual things are supposed to be loaded.  Because there are a bunch of little people in front of you and they really need to know about their own bodies and sexual health and the emotional stuff too, all of it, not just how to get a condom on a banana (which we also practiced).  I wanted them to be safe.  I wanted them to trust themselves, and to listen, and to understand and prize consent.  Talking about sex was about their very mental and physical integrity, it was about life or death, and as such I treated it with solemnity and seriousness.

And also: you get a bunch of kids really blase about body stuff, and hilarity will ensue.  One afternoon when I was teaching seventh grade we had some free time, and one of my boys puts his hand up and says, "Miss, ok, can I ask?  Periods.  You just bleed every month?  Like, what the hell."  And so, you know, I explained, complete with a diagram on the board, and the ladies weighed in on the shittiness of cramps and started rooting through their bags and pulling out pads and tampons, showing the boys what they were like.  And the boys, for whatever reason, freaked.  Here is a pad, in a wrapper, and these giant badass teenage boys were screeching and lunging from their chairs shrieking, "OH MY GOD DON'T TOUCH ME WITH A PAD."  And the girls, of course, laughed at them, and were all, "YOU IDIOTS, calm down.  What is WRONG with you?  It's just plastic, JESUS."

Eventually the boys attempted to regain some shreds of their dignity and with deep trepidation handle these terrifying, foreign objects of plastic and cotton (Me: "Guys, don't you live with women?"  One of my boys: "Yeah, but I stay FAAAAAAR away from that stuff.").  If there was anything my kids were always good at, though, it was getting their shit together and handling things with grace.  Or SOMETHING like grace, because by the end of the period, half my boys had pads open and stuck to their bodies in various places.  AS YOU DO.

So, you know, that can kinda fuck with your ideas about what is appropriate for polite conversation, I feel.

I think living in India made me get over a lot, because when you and your roommates are wary of tummy bugs, and often get tummy bugs, there are a lot of conversations over the breakfast table about poo.   And finally, well, when it comes down to it: I just don't give a shit about polite conversation.  I've no interest in being polite.  Bleeding makes men uncomfortable?  Let me call them a waaaambulance!  No one wants to be reminded of my sexuality?  Get the fuck over yourselves!  Bodies and their functions make people squidgy?  HOW???  And what is really the difference between me complaining of cramps and me complaining of a headache?  I can't think of an answer to that.

It's not just me complaining about cramps.  Sometimes I will just tell folks about my sex life.  I talk loudly about sex with other people, both academically and about the sex I am personally having, A LOT.  E. and I once had a conversation about genital warts, a conversation that could not at all be characterized as quiet or private, at a bar, and it never occurred to us that maybe laughing hysterically about HPV (ok: probably not funny when you have it) was perhaps not helping anyone enjoy their drinks.  I will also occasionally announce to folks I have to poo.  I just . . . you know?  Like, why not?  Every reason I can think of for why not is stupid.  Or indefensible.  Our discomfort with our bodies and other people's bodies and the shit we do as biological, living creatures is just not something I want to indulge.

So, you know what, folks?  I have horrid cramps right now.  And my cramps can get ten times worse when I use a tampon, so I am in that place right now where every time I stand up, I feel like I am losing an organ between my legs (Ladies: YOU ALSO HATE THIS FEELING, I KNOW).*  I have an auto-immune disease that makes my period especially bad, so I'll probably have to take a narcotic to dull the cramp pain enough to sleep tonight.  And I have the busiest day ever tomorrow.  BOOO, to being a lady.

If anyone else would like to complain about anything, here's your chance.  I respect and appreciate you and your body, so anything you want to talk about it doing is totally fine by me.   We always hear from New-Agey-type people that your body is your temple and blah blah blah, but sometimes your body does gross things and it hurts and it's a pain in the ass.  So feel free to whinge!  And with that, I have to end this post, because I really have to pee.



*Note: I know that there are some lady-identified folks and cisgender lady folks who do not get their periods - I realized the language I'd used was incorrect after I wrote the post.  I do not wish to make you feel excluded.  I realize it should read "Some ladies;" I didn't correct it in the original and am merely doing so down here because I didn't want to erase my complicity in cis-privileged narratives. I apologize.

A blow to the angels

I wish I didn't have to write this post.

In the past few weeks, the ability to hold corporations accountable for gross human rights violations has been severely restricted.  Corporate impunity is winning.  And for those of us fighting for human rights, well, we are weighing our options, looking at the battlefield, and trying to plan our next attack.  But right now, we're in retreat. 

In 1789, yes, the year (history!), a one sentence statute that is now referred to as the Alien Tort Claims Act or the Alien Tort Statute, the ATS, became law.  The ATS was passed originally because a French diplomat in Philadelphia was pushed and fell into the mud and he wanted to be able to sue the dude who shoved him for damage to his outfit, or his dignity, or whatever (insert a French joke here, I know)(make it a nice one, I am fond of the French).  The United States, a fledgling nation, was embarassed that it could not address the needs of diplomats sent here from other countries, and in the Judiciary Act of 1789,  the First Congress passed the ATS, 28 U.S.C. § 1350, to prove that we, too, could sit at the big kid's table:

"The district courts shall have original jurisdiction of any civil action by an alien for a tort only, committed in violation of the law of nations or a treaty of the United States."

It's a teeny thing, that law, right?  I mean, what is it really saying?  Not much.  That a non-U.S. citizen can sue, well, ANYONE (the statute doesn't limits the defendants) for a violation of the law of nations, which is a fancy schmancy way of saying international law.  And the alien can sue for a tort, meaning they can claim monetary damages for a harm done.  The end.  That's it.  The ATS has no peer in any statute of any other country - the U.S. alone has such a chimerical law.  And I say chimerical, because for two hundred years, it was a squatter in the U.S. Code.  The statute sat around idly, taking up space, until it was revived as a tool to address violations of international human rights law in 1980, in Filartiga v. Pena-Irala.

Filartiga was a watershed moment for international human rights lawyering in the United States.  A father and his daughter, Paraguayan nationals who had moved to the United States, sued the former Inspector General of Police, who was also in the United States at the time, for the torture and execution of their son and brother, Joelito Filartiga, while all involved were still living in Paraguay.  The Second Circuit said, essentially, look: torture is a violation of the law of nations.  All nations abhor it - and torturers are the enemies of all humankind.  There is a violation of the law of nations here, and these folks are aliens.  Done.  And at trial, where the Filartiga family could finally confront Pena-Irala, justice was done - they were awarded $10 million dollars by the jury under the ATS.

After this, a tidal wave of cases brought under the ATS began to be filed in U.S. courts for all manner of gross human rights violations that occurred around the globe (I'll let Dolly Filartiga tell you more).  The Supreme Court itself tackled the ATS in Sosa v. Alvarez-Machain; it endorsed the Filartiga line of cases, holding that the ATS conveys jurisdiction on the courts to take the case, but the subject matter of the tort, the violation, had to come from customary international law.  The violation under international law must be one that is endorsed by the civilized world and defined with the specificity of those crimes that were considered violations of international law at the time the ATS was passed (meaning: slavery, safe conduct, and protection of ambassadors).

Now, international law doesn't happen overnight.  There is no moment when an international law is passed.  A court must look to treaties, the widespread practice of nations out of a sense of legal obligation, the writings of jurists, the resolutions of intergovernmental bodies (like the UN) - all of these pieces of evidence have to be accumulated, and then the norm appears.  The Supreme Court made it clear that international law evolves - after all, torture was not a violation of international law a the time the ATS was passed.  I mean, hey - remember the French Revolution?  But now, the world recognizes under international law those most horrid of crimes: torture, obviously, but also genocide, extrajudicial killing, war crimes, apartheid, nonconsensual human experimentation, mass rape as a weapon during armed conflict.  At first, ATS cases were filed against individuals who had violated international human rights norms, but lawyers began bringing cases against corporations who had made murder or genocide of innocent people a part of their business plan, all to turn a profit.  There was (and is - some of these are still ongoing) Unocal, Rio Tinto, Pfizer, Coca-Cola, Dutch Shell, Adhikari, Khulumani.  Many more are in various stages of litigation or appeal.

The ATS is a last ditch effort for most of these plaintiffs who have suffered abuses by corporations.  No other country holds corporations civilly liable for, specifically, a violation of the laws of nations, or will hold a corporation liable for what occurs outside its national borders (however, ALL nations hold corporations liable for their torts, even if those human rights claims are brought under other claims and other names).  The plaintiffs usually cannot bring suit in their own countries because the corporation is working with the government, or it means they will put themselves in danger, or the court system is corrupt or ineffective (some of these cases come from Burma, Nigeria, Sudan, or Somalia).  Corporations are almost impossible to hold criminally liable, because, I mean: you need intent to be found guilty of a criminal act.  How can a legal fiction have an intent?  And then how can you throw it in jail?   And so the ATS is the last chance for those who have been among the most oppressed and abused on the planet to seek justice and reparation.  That one sentence statute was all that was standing in the way of corporate impunity.

And it looks like it may not even be able to do that anymore.

The first blow was the Kiobel decision out of the Second Circuit, holding that corporations can NEVER be held liable for their human rights violations.  This decision means a couple of super scary things: 1. If you want to commit human rights violations, just incorporate!  Total immunity!  Now go off and commit genocide!  2. Corporations now have greater immunity than nations against lawsuits;  3. We can try to go after the individuals who ordered the human rights violation, like CEO's, but that's extremely hard evidence to get a hold of with the specificity of detail required to keep the court from dismissing it, and anyway: the corporation that makes violating human rights norms a business plan gets to keep the profits of its illegal actions;  4. In the current world we live in, where corporations have more and more rights and are taking on more and more activities that used to be reserved for states, this is a scary proposition.  I mean, FUCK, after Citizens United, corporations have free speech rights in this country, but they cannot be held liable for KILLING OFF AN ENTIRE VILLAGE OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLE so they can build a pipeline and make more money.

THIS IS THE WORLD WE LIVE IN.

The second blow was the Supreme Court refusing to hear the Talisman case, which ALSO came out of the Second Circuit and, strangely, was argued the same day as Kiobel but came out totally differently (Second Circuit, WHAT).  Talisman held that in order for a corporation to be held liable, plaitiffs have to prove the corporation had the intent to commit the human rights violations.  Now, wait a minute, you might be saying.  Isn't that why we don't hold corporations criminally liable?  Because we can't prove they had the intent to commit the crime?  And you would be savvy if you thought that, and you would be SMARTER THAN THE SECOND CIRCUIT.  Again, how the hell to you prove a fiction had the purpose to commit a crime?  You can't.  And so Talisman was appealed, because essentially, if that's the standard plaintiffs have to meet to file a civil claim against a corporation, you might as well not bother.  It's impossible.  Many of us hoped that Talisman would be accepted by the Supreme Court so we could hear once and for all corporations could be held liable (we think we had the justices for this), and maybe get a better standard of liability, one that is not impossible to meet.*

If you are wondering where I come in, I am no impartial observer.  I am currently part of a team litigating a human trafficking with an ATS claim in it.  I worked on the briefs for the cert. petition asking the Supreme Court to take Talisman this summer.  I am currently working on the briefs petitioning for a rehearing of Kiobel in the Second Circuit; if Kiobel stands, not only does that mean NO corporate ATS cases can be brought in the Second Circuit anymore, but the belief that corporations should never be held liable will spread like a virus to the other circuits, and then corporate impunity will be complete.**  I don't want to be a lawyer in that world, because I've always wanted to litigate international human rights, and corporations are the biggest offenders; but I just also don't want to be a person in that world.   I don't want to imagine a future with complete corporate impunity.

That's where we stand.  The Second Circuit rarely rehears cases, but Kiobel, having split the circuit, might (MIGHT) have a chance for an en banc hearing - and that's where the fight will move if it's accepted (although we can't fix the shitty precedent in Talisman).  And if it's not, well . . . we can try to keep corporate impunity from spreading.  Right now, only the Eleventh Circuit has ruled decisively that corporations can be held (although, of course, that could change).  Rio Tinto was just heard en banc in the Ninth Circuit, and the question about corporate liability was raised at oral argument - we'll see how that one comes down.  Or we can look for other places to move the fight.  We're going to have to move the fight.  There's already discussion about how to do this.  But no one's quite sure which way to go next.

The angels are down, guys.  We are.  But we're still going to fight.  We're just regrouping right now.  And fuck, we have justice on our side; you'd always hope that would be enough.  Maybe someday it will be.



* Folks thought it extremely likely SCOTUS would take Talisman, but here's the wrinkle no one expected - Sotomayor recused herself from deciding on cert.  No one is sure why - perhaps because the case came out of the Second Circuit, where she used to be on the bench?  Anyway, if the liberals weren't sure they could win that one with only 8 justices on the bench, they may have voted against taking Talisman, as it could have split the court, or created some very bad precedent.

** There has been a concerted push recently by corporations to get these cases thrown out, and it seems like they're starting to see the money they're throwing at "experts" to argue for them is paying off - a district court in California has now also held that corporations can never be held liable for violations of human rights norms.

Mad Men Season 4, Episode 11: I write letters

Dear Faye,

You are awesome.  Go find someone better than Don Draper.  His storyline of desperately needing women to babysit him, save him, and/or fix him is getting really old.  Pull a Joan.

Sincerely,
Gayle

Let's hear it for the girls! Part II

(Part I is here)

You know what never ceases to amaze me?  The fact that dudes who act an asshole think women don't speak to each other.

Let Gayle tell you a little story about high school, and about one of those awesome lady friends that I went to high school with.  When we were, I don't know, I think sophomores, we were both friends with this dude who was a senior.  One night he came over to my house to hang out, and we ended up making out.  So I called my lady friend, and I said, "Lady, you won't BELIEVE what I just did!"  And she said, "Really?  Because you won't believe who I made out with this afternoon!"  And I squealed, "Oh my god,  I made out with someone, too!  Who'd you hook up with???"  And she said, "This Dude!"  And I was silent for a bit.  And then I said, "THAT'S FUNNY.  Because that's who I JUST MADE OUT WITH."  And there was another moment of silence.  And into that void she asked, "WAIT.  Does that mean we are both now connected to each other on the hook-up chain FROM BOTH DIRECTIONS?  YAY!"  And then we dissolved into peals of laughter.

And after we were done giggling and determining that yes, indeed, we were now connected from both directions (ok, I have no idea what this means now, you guys, don't ask), we were like, uhhhhhh, WHAT.  Because we were best friends.  There was no way on this big green earth we would not talk to each other about smooching this dude.  How did he think he'd get away with it?

The next time I saw this dude, I invited him over to my house.  And he walked in to see my friend standing there, waiting for him, too.  She said, "So."  And that was as far as she got before he turned around and practically ran out the door.

Seriously, dudes, what the fuck?   Does the old hypothetical question, "If a lady speaks and there isn't a dude around to hear her, does she make a sound?" baffle you?  A wonderful lady and I became good friends last year, only to realize that two years before, my boyfriend at that time had cheated on me with her.  We both immediately cut him off completely (the gmail, IT NEVER FORGETS).  Lately, it's happened AGAIN, with some guy trying to manipulate two of us, and losing both of us.  Dudes, HOW DO YOU THINK YOU'LL GET AWAY WITH THIS SHIT?

It reminds me of how little kids think of teachers - teachers cease to exist once the kids go home and school is over.  Children cannot conceptualize their teachers as people, with lives and agency and existences beyond the one devoted to the little people.  And I think maybe the dudes are similarly egocentric - they cannot imagine the ladies doing anything except revolving around them.  The ladies cease to exist when they are not in the picture.  And perhaps this is why EVERY DAMN MOVIE PRACTICALLY fails the Bechdel test.  Ladies talking to each other?  About their lives?  And incidentally, the dudes in their lives, who, oh wait, they don't revolve around?  WHAT?  I know.

I am aware there are those women who think other women are at fault if the dude they are with cheats.  This is the patriarchy speaking, having set up a system where women are seen as competition for other women, since the only way to achieve value is by having landed a man and his affections.  But this has never been true of my friends, the women I choose to love and surround myself with.  All of us, especially as we've gotten older and wiser, have gotten REALLY CLEAR on who our enemies are - and it's not other women.  A friend maintains that feminism is one of those things one gets more radical about as one gets older, and I think he's right. 

When I was teaching middle school, the girls would fight.  And I would get all the girls in my classes together for "girl talks" (or whatever I would call it, the girls would laugh because I'd always insist on changing the name of every meeting to something like "lady liaison" or "chick chat" or "femme fest" because WHY NOT) and we would have really honest conversations.  And listen to one another.  And I'd say, "Ok, I want you to identify the biggest problems in your lives."  And they'd speak, and I'd be like, hey, gosh, I see patterns, now who are those problems coming from?  Who makes it hardest for you?  And let me tell you after that revelation, god help the boy who said anything that hinted of sexual harassment to one of the girls, because then he had to face a collective female wrath.  It was AWESOME.

So, gentleman, I know you think you're the bees' knees and nearly literally the sun in the sky, but we don't revolve around you.  And we speak.  To each other.  And we care deeply for each other.  And we know who the enemy is.  Next time you try to lie and deceive and manipulate some women, maybe you should think twice.  We will actually find out!  And then, there is the collective female wrath thing.  And let me tell you, it is indeed AWESOME.

Mad Men Season 4, Episode 10: We all know a Don Draper

Ok, I think next week (INSH'ALLAH) I will be back to actually getting these things posted on Monday.

There was a lot that went on in the last episode of Mad Men, but one thing particularly struck me, and it was personal, and it was this: Oh god, I think I know a LOT of people like Don Draper.

And by that I mean, self-sabotagers.

So, here's Don.  He is FINALLY having a seemingly adult relationship!  It is nice!  And instead of hiding everything, he tells this lady things!  And allows himself to be vulnerable with her!  And treats her with respect!  It's been a pleasure to watch, because mostly it is uncomfortable watching rampant misogyny and assrocket behavior all the time from the main character who is really hard not to cheer for.

So, all is going well, and then there is that final scene where he is eye-balling his lovely temporary secretary, and we think: well, here we go again.

I have met a shocking number of adults who seem to be making smart, healthy choices until they need to fuck everything up.  And I think that has to do with both comfort with themselves and their ability to be vulnerable.  Ever had a really intense interaction with someone where xe really opened up, but then afterwards had to take a step back and put up some walls because xe felt too exposed and freaked out?  I wonder if Don will do the same thing - he's never stayed with women he's been honest and open with.  It's hard for him to be vulnerable.  And though he can do it for short periods, he usually steps back and then self-sabotages to get a comfortable distance between himself and anyone who really knows him.  I wondered, when he told his secret to Faye, if that would be the beginning of the end of their relationship.  We'll see, but for too many people I know, they would immediately be looking for ways out of such exposure to another person.  And his secretary may be the perfect way to sabotage a wonderfully grown-up relationship.

Other thoughts:

- I missed Peggy, the end.
- Did Joan really go through with the abortion?  We never saw it.  I wasn't sure.
- WHOA with Lane's dad beating him.  I also was really uncomfortable watching Lane with his black, much younger girlfriend - uhhhh, creepy, and it seemed like his way of saying "fuck you" to his former life.
- SCDP is facing disaster.  There is a sense of impending doom for the agency.  What explosive things do you think the writers will throw at us, with 3 episodes left?
- Pete's not wrong, necessarily, about things, but I really want someone to punch him in the face.  He's such an egocentric DICK about everything all the time, although for all his whinging, he's still incredibly loyal to Don.
- I've been holding my breath, waiting for Roger to have another heart attack.  Now he's gobbling heart pills.  Seems I can't exhale anytime soon.

I get the last word.

To answer the question, yes - the city wants you gone
and that's the only thing connecting us, but the connection is so strong
So how dare you assume that I'll sleep when you're dead
This is well outside the boundaries of acceptable behavior
I will not give you the go ahead and you will not be remembered fondly
I'm throwing down the gauntlet, fuck you this isn't your decision
and for all the holy fuck I give, your little spectacle is ended
But don't think for just one second you've honored your obligations to me
I'm serious look in my eyes, I don't find this funny
or whatever you imagine poetry and justice feels like when you combine them
I am not going to allow this on my watch buddy, nobody's impressed
with your imagined sacrifice device or insurmountable regret
You are not uniquely pained and if you go we won't be sorry
and who the hell are you to put me through the banality of watching this*
Cause many better men have gone for clearly better reasons and I
starkly must remind you that you have not even been trying
And that's the only thing remarkable about you, stop me if I'm lying . . .  

* Update: The post was taken down.  Here's the cached version - without an update at the bottom that was later added and that stated that "threatening" is beyond the pale.  The day that it becomes a threat for songs to remind us of people, we're all off to jail, my friends [Update again! Cached version with that update]. 

I said this was "the last word."  WALK ON, dude.