I write letters.

Dear Mr. Assange,

If I can ever be of service to Wikileaks in any way, legal or otherwise, I'm there.  I would lawyer my ass off for Wikileaks if I could.  Just saying.  Offer is always open.

Thank you so very much,
Gayle

p.s. For the rest of you - this and this are required reading.

Damn book.

I have been rather quiet of late, Readers!  I know.  I was doing Thanksgivingy stuff, and then baking cookies with Silvana and getting totally drunk by like 5:30 p.m. and then eating Thai food BUT NOT REMEMBERING IT LATER stuff, and then I was doing note editing stuff (did I finally send that fucker into Harvard Law Review?  Maybe.  And then I'll send it into other journals who may actually publish it), and then I was doing unending clinic stuff, and then I was supposed to be working on my vibrator paper (yes, I write about vibrators in law school) but THEN Wikileaks did their document dump and it was all over.  And I just got back from going out drinking and getting kinda tipsy with all my fellow clinic participants and WHINGING LIKE WHOA.

So I've been busy!  And I haven't been writing blog posts.

But the busy isn't really the problem.  The problem is this: I DESPERATELY NEED to finish the book I am reading right now, and I cannot get on with my life until I do.  This often happens with really good books - you know those books.  Those books that you will stay up all night and read, because you will not be able to sleep without knowing the end anyway?  Those books that have simply frozen your entire life and anything that you love or care about has just got to wait until you get to that last page?
This is not those books.  No, Gayle has an awful illness, you guys, and it is this: she cannot stop reading really shitty books.

I CAN'T.  I just can't do it.  I know it is stupid, and I know I could just put the damn book down or throw it in the recycle bin or put it out on the stoop and hopefully someone will take it, but I just compulsively CAN'T.  The TWO BOOKS that I have managed to start and never finish are The DaVinci Code, which caused me to curse at it in the first sentence ("'Symbology'?  Are you fucking kidding me?") and Possession, which I know many Readers here love, but I read the first three pages and thought, "JESUS this book is pretentious" and was able to put it down.

Short of those two instances, I feel like I am in the thrall of some evil spell once I begin a shitty book, and I have to see the book through to the end before the magic is broken.  It is super annoying.  But, it is a compulsion, what can I do?  So I am spending all my spare time reading this book so I can just get it over with already.

And if you wanted to know, the shitty book is Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, which is a terrible shame, because I love Calvino's beautiful writing and light narrative tone.  But the book is overly precious and entirely too contrived, and it also features a Nice Guy(tm), a lot of possessive dudes, assault on a woman like no big thing, and stalking as romance, so.  Hopefully I can just speed through this, and it will all be over soon.  PLUS, I have Toni Morrison's A Mercy and the biography of I.F. Stone waiting for me, so I will be delivered into the light in, uhhh, checking . . . . exactly 50 pages.  Off I go!

Thanks giving

The fucking holidays, they are upon us.  And!  Are you feeling festive?  I am trying to feel festive!

I do not go home for the holidays, because home is where my mother is, and spending time with my mother is not the path down which sanity lies.   The past two years in law school I spent Thanksgiving with someone to whom I can no longer speak.  This year, some very kind, wonderful friends of mine are hosting a big dinner, and it is a potluck, and I am making zucchini latkes, and collard greens, and I know there are a lot of other dishes planned but I am completely fixated on the fact that we are having gluten-free pumpkin cream cheese whoopie pies, I am not shitting you.  No, I don't know, either.

I wasn't sure I was going to go to this dinner.  I'd been feeling kinda lonely lately, and its been a hard semester, and I was tempted to be all Fuck It and instead spend the entire holiday holed up in my house with my loneliness.

That would have been a terrible call.

I mean, hey: sometimes alone time is wonderful time.  And I have been pretty solitary of late, but I've been working through a lot of shit, and it's been really productive.  Like, hey, my rapist decided to text me!  But I was ok with that!  (Holidays make everyone a little crazy and desperate.  Hence the text from him, I am thinking.)  So, you know, I've been making good, productive use of my time to myself.  I'm feeling pretty fucking grounded.

Yet I knew that if I spent the holiday by myself, and gave into the voice that was urging me to lock myself away from everyone, I would have been listening to the (very convincing and seductive) voice of depression.  No, to that.  And so I am going to dinner, and I am very, very excited (truly I am: once I had committed to dinner and depression had officially lost that battle, I did indeed get into the holiday spirit)(again: pumpkin cream cheese whoopie pies).  But here's why I am also super excited: the person for whom I have been most grateful over the past few months is coming to dinner with me.

Hey, remember when I talked about how much I hate clinic?  I hate clinic.  Clinic has been the suck.  It has been the bane of my existence since September.  And I didn't realize how oppressive it had become until my last big clinic assignment was turned in on Monday, and all of a sudden, my whole life felt AWESOME.  Like great burdens the size of several elephants had lifted from my shoulders, etc. and so forth, you get it.  The fun twist to this is I got two new clinic assignments today, because AHAHAHAHA.

BUT WHATEVER.  You know the one thing that did not suck about clinic?  My partner.  My partner, whom we are going to refer to as A., is the best.  She is a wonderful, funny, smart lady who is so easy to work with it is astounding.  We were always on the same page, always there to validate each other, help each other when we needed it, decompress with each other after something particularly appalling had occurred.  Also, A. possesses the world's most endearing quality: the more stressful and nutty and difficult things get, the more she laughs.  She just laughs.  Things go horribly wrong, and she cracks up.  You need a partner like this.  For like everything, you guys, seriously, except maaaybe changing a lightbulb, and even then, it's nice.  You never know what could go wrong, and it's always good to have someone on hand to laugh in case of emergencies.

A. has truly been my greatest source of sanity for the past several months.  Like last Friday, we were in the clinic building working the entire damn day, from 9.30 in the morning until I think 8.  At some point our supervisor needed to complete something, so we wandered off to amuse ourselves for 20 minutes.  We went into the supply room, and found a box of rubber bands.  And let me tell you, it was ALL OVER.  We shot rubber bands all over the place.  We had a contest to see who could shoot them the farthest.  We acted like 12 year olds, and I laughed so hard I had tears.

People who know how to play are the most precious people of all.

So this Thanksgiving, the person for whom I am most thankful is going to be sitting next to me at Thanksgiving dinner.  And I actually have to be thankful to the clinic for this, too - I am friends with my clinic partner now.  And if the price for her friendship was all the bullshit I had to put up with in clinic, it was all so very worth it.

I hope everyone has a happy, healthy, warm, and yummy Thanksgiving if you celebrate.  And if you don't celebrate, I hope to release enough goodwill into the world that it will reach you, and you will feel it, wherever you are.  Also, I will eat a whoopie pie for you.   

Now, Readers, if you would be so kind to share: what are you thankful for? 

Things I am not a giant fan of:

1. Getting a text message (accidentally sent, and not meant for me) from the abusive former friend last Wednesday.
2. Getting a text message from the abusive former friend last Wednesday whose number I had blocked.
3. Checking online and seeing that the numbers I had blocked had been erased.  MEANING: I knew that if my rapist texted or called, it would come through, because I didn't know what the number was anymore to block it.
4. Calling Verizon and being told that they only block numbers for 90 day periods, then reset your security controls.  Asking what the fuck, and being told I would need to pay if I wanted to be able to permanently block a number.  Getting pissed and saying no, because that is a shitty policy. 
5. NOT FIVE FUCKING DAYS LATER, getting a text message from my rapist.
6. Giving the fuck up.  Realizing there is no 100% guarantee on my safety and security, and letting it just fucking go.  

Gayle explains some shit

This feels like so self-explanatory I shouldn't have to write it, but here we go:

Reading my blog does not mean you know me.

Yes, you guys, it is true!  Shockingly, reading in this space does not mean you understand me!  You cannot guess my motivations!  My feelings!  You do not really have a handle on who I am!  You have not seen the contours of my soul!  Actually!  JESUS.

There have been some folk come round these parts recently who assume they know all about me.  Sometimes, these folks are a little smitten, which means they are seeing me even less clearly.  There's a lot of talk at me about my patterns of behavior and my needs and my personality.  There've been bucketloads of assumptions.  And it's been difficult for me to deal with these people, because they see me as this person Gayle, who I am not all the time.

Like, for instance?  I do not spend all day pondering over the state of my rapebrain.  It is true!  Sometimes I listen to Son House and do work!  I almost always listen to the blues to do work!  Sometimes I talk on the phone with friends!  Yes!  I also laugh easily and a lot, did you know this, Readers?  I read fairytales in bed before I go to sleep and I go to classes and raise my hand a lot.  I love going dancing.  I always forget to pay my wireless bill on time, I don't know, it is a thing.  I go to SHITLOADS of litigation meetings.  I like drinking tea with lemon at night.  My life is, and I am, a giant tapestry; but blog posts, they are only about one thread.  I can only show people one strand of the picture at a time.  And so maybe the longer you've been reading, maybe the better picture you have, but you've still only been seeing one tiny piece per post.  It's like a fucking Chuck Close painting.  I look a lot different when you put it all together and step back.

I do try to make each blog post as true as possible - I read it and re-read it to make sure my words are expressing as closely as possible what is actually going on in my head, my life.  And 99% of the people I know in life as a non-internet entity think I am just like my blog, albeit less concentrated and edited and focused in person (obviously - I am not a single subject proofread creation).

But also: this blog was created to serve a purpose.  It provides a space for me to heal, to ponder, to think things through, to rage about whatever.  And so that's what I do here.  That's what you see.  There's a lot else to me: I am a lot more and less messy in person, a lot more and less interesting, a lot more and less smart.  I am probably shorter than you think.  I am blond.  Yes, that's me in the picture - I don't think I had brushed my hair, or even washed my face, that day.  But then I almost never brush my hair.  I walk around my house in sparkly Care Bears pajama pants and babouches.  I spend a lot of time with ladyfriends poking around on etsy and making long lists of the things we covet but will never buy because we are broke (I so want this fucking hat). 

I also don't understand how anyone could think they know anyone through a blog.  Who the hell do you think you are?  Why would you ever be so arrogant as to think you have a handle on me, based on the little you see here?   Or, maybe you are not arrogant - maybe you have awfully rosy glasses.  Maybe you want to believe in me as a person because you agree with my writings and my opinions and you like this space.  But let's face it: I am a far less good person than this blog conveys.  I am way more awesome than the person revealed by this blog, too - I am not insulting myself.  But I am saying - there is an awful lot of depth there.  You could spend days, months, years by my side, trying to know me.  And I could do the same with you.  But I am quite sure neither of us are simple, and even after years, we will never be able to turn to each other and say, sure, "I know you."  Yet somehow, reading a few blog posts convinces some they have a firm grasp on what kind of creature I am.  

Also, I am putting my face to this blog, because I feel I also need to expressly say this:  I am a human being.  I have feelings.  I get hurt.  I cry.  I bleed, if you cut me.  Just because I have a blog and an internet identity doesn't mean you can be careless with me.  There is a person under here, and she has kinda been through a lot lately.  Have some humanity, and give her a fucking break.

This is truly not directed to most of the community here.  I love my commenters.  I love the people who come and make this a wonderful place.  But there have been some people (who are, NOT SURPRISINGLY, dudes) who have decided they wanted more of me.  More than this blog could give them.  And that is where everything went (ALSO NOT SURPRISINGLY) wrong.

So!  I am not attempting to scare everyone away.  I have not been lying to you all along and I do not in reality sacrifice small children or go to Tea Party rallies or try to trip old people as they walk down the street.  This blog, this is pretty much me.  But it's still a tiny piece of me, and there is this immensely more complicated real-life lady person behind all of it.  And that goes for everyone who writes a blog.  And also for the commenters.  So let's put away the paper dolls and two-dimensional cut-outs, shall we?  We're all a lot more interesting than that.



 

My fucking week, as recounted by the Privilege Denying Dude

Sigh.

Sometimes you just need to have a post with nothing in it but a pretty, sad song

The shape and color of a relationship

I walked past my abusive former friend several times last night, inexplicably while I was talking about him to a another friend.  It was a weird convergence, because I almost never see him, and I almost never speak of him (unless E. is telling me AGAIN how she could never understand why we were friends, which, dude, I KNOW).

I have the same reaction every time I see him.  It is never emotional at all.  I do not miss him.  I am not sad.  If anything, I tend to smirk to myself, because I am like, oh right - it's that asshole (I often forget he exists in the universe, honestly).  But I have this overwhelming physical response to seeing him, a response that has barely lessened over time: a warm gush of what feels like liquid panic flows from my gut and then travels down my legs, making my muscles feel like they cannot work and my legs cannot hold me and I am going to collapse.  Then my whole body begins to shake, and I have to go sit alone, and take a deep breath, and work on calming myself until it passes.  It takes a while.  It takes forever.

Seeing him, that is not unnerving.  My fear response, that is unnerving.  As my brain has begun scrubbing away everything that is painful, I have to work hard to recall how every time I saw him last semester, I was coiled tight with anxiety that the encounter would turn horrible.  By the end, in every interaction we had, I was primed for self-defense.  I expected him to be mean or vicious; I expected to bleed.  I know my physical reaction is a holdover from that, a coping mechanism developed to warn me, keep me safe, force me to get to away from something dangerous.

But even more unnerving is that the response hasn't gone away.  Granted, I've only seen him a handful of times.  But still: I am in a much healthier, safer space now.  Why do I continue to react so?

I am puzzling through that, but today I started thinking about all the men in my life.  Because, let's face it: I have been hurt by men.  And I have been hurt by men that I had trusted, that I had loved, that I had respected and I had thought would never, ever hurt me.  Now I am going through the men in my life, one by one, and I am trying to get a hold on those relationships.

And sorry to single you out, gentlemen, well no, ok, I'm not sorry, I lied, but anyway: I don't really like what I see much.

I don't see myself getting an awful lot out of many of those relationships.  I am put in the role of educator, often.  I am the impetus and then tool for someone else to improve some aspect of his life.  I am something to lean on, something to keep someone else steady, a comfort and a reassurance.  I am a habit.  I am something interesting, something fun, something entertaining.  But rarely do I feel a whole human being. 

Basically, I am utterly aware of the gender dynamics at play, and they suck.

This isn't true for all men.  For some of the men in my life, I am their friend.  They are my friend.  It is wonderful and sweet.  We discuss a new puppy!  We debate politics!  We laugh at the all stupid things!  We care very much for each other.  We enjoy each other.  It is swell.  But there are so many relationships with men in my life that give me reason to pause.  I am trying to determine the shape and color of them.  Because there is something off about them, some imbalance, some element to them that doesn't feel quite grounded in reality, some dynamic that makes me uncomfortable, some way I don't feel whole with them.  And so I am taking a step back, and reassessing the role that some of these relationships play in my life.  Whatever makes that liquid dread rush through my body whenever I see that former friend, it is has also become a loud voice in my head that is counseling me to stop, and think, and take stock of the state of things.  Is there a reason to be wary of any of these relationships?  Are there warning signs?  Could this become another abusive and scary situation?  Or is it yet another relationship where I am giving far more than I am receiving (the patriarchy raised me well - I am stellar at these type of relationships)?

I genuinely wonder what these men would say if we sat down together and told the other what we thought we brought to the table.  I am pretty solid on what I am bringing to the table.  I am wondering what they would say.  Or if they would know.  Or if they would think it was an equal exchange.  Or if what they thought I was getting from them matched what I thought I was receiving.  I haven't a clue.  I suspect that the color and shape of my relationships are renderings that exist only in my head, that the dude in question, he is maybe looking at a Maxfield Parish, while I am thinking of a Robert Frank photograph.  I think perhaps we couldn't even get the tangible productions of our relationship into the same fucking gallery. 

But like I said, I don't know.  And I am fully aware that I have been pretty stressed lately, and I have been feeling kinda sad and lonely, and so I may be looking at my life with whatever the opposite of rose-colored glasses are.  I am concurrently reminding myself that I need to take what I am seeing here with a grain of salt.  But I don't think it is wrong to do a feminism check, a safety check, look for patterns of bad behavior, make sure I am safe and protected.  I've never felt the need to stop and assess - I've always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl.  But I guess that has changed. 

So here's me, taking stock.  We'll see what comes of it.

I have adopted the word, "sevidical."

And is it not a lovely word?  Does it not run off the tongue?

Even BETTER, it means: speaking cruel and harsh words.  To wit:

You better watch out for my sevidical tongue, motherfuckers; I know how to wield my words like weapons.

The Oxford English Dictionary is on a quest to keep thousands of words alive before people stop using them altogether.  I love words, and I CANNOT! STOP PLAYING! ON THIS SITE!  Go adopt your own word, and please share in comments! 

Supervision: the good, the bad, and the totally incomprehensible

So, for weeks now, I have been trying to figure out a post on how important it is to have a good boss/supervisor/advisor.  This post, it is not cohering in my head, and this is probably because I am in the middle of an awful lot of supervising.  And what's been so striking this semester is: the difference between having a really wonderful supervisor, which means also having a wonderful teacher and mentor, and having a really shitty supervisor, which is just, THE WORST.  I keep trying to get a comprehensive post together on this, and it keeps not happening.  So mostly, I am going to laud some folks, and whine about others, and we can all attempt to maybe draw some conclusions.  Or maybe there can be more lauding and whining in comments, if you like!  Whatever.

I have had some of the most stellar supervisors since I have come to law school.  My first two were in South Africa, W. and A.  They were the salt of the earth.  These are people with whom I could discuss art, literature, poetry, movies, and politics for HOURS.  We watched funny video clips together.  We told stupid pet stories.  We argued about the law.  They were just GOOD FOLK.

When I went to Cape Town, I had only had one year of law school, and had taken all the basic, required classes - contracts, civil procedure, property, criminal law, torts.  I didn't know fucking ANYTHING. I mean, law school does not teach you how to be a lawyer by any stretch, but after one year of law school, I knew absolutely fuckall.  And then I went to South Africa, with all different laws and cases, and by the second week there, I was taking clients.  By myself.  I had a lot of support and help and people to go to, but it was a being thrown into the deep end of the pool and hoping you can swim kind of thing.

So here's what they my supervisors did that was amazing: they made me feel capable, and valuable, and necessary, and smart.  They made me feel like I was important.  I would sit down with A. to do some litigation strategy and she would say, "Ok, what do you think?  How should we do this?  We need a plan."  And I wanted to look at her, eyes wide, and ask, "Why ever are you asking me?  I HAVE NO IDEA.  Don't listen to me."  But I didn't do that - I sat there, and discussed litigation strategy with her.  We figured out how to bring a case.  Then we divided what needed to be done, and I went off to do my part.

We won with that litigation strategy, by the way, after I left.

Now A. had absolutely no good reason to listen to me, or ask my opinion; that is no knock on my intelligence, but like I said - I really didn't know fuckall.  But she made me feel like a partner in crime - we were doing this together.  She made me feel like I had things to say, important things.  She made me feel capable.  And she would listen, and respond, and praise my ideas when she thought they were good.  She looked at my work product and told me what worked and what didn't, and then explained how to make it better in really clear, easy to follow ways.  She literally cheered when I did something great.  It was astounding.  It was encouraging.  I worked my ass off for her.

W. was the same way.  We had to submit a reply affidavit to the Supreme Court of Appeals of South Africa.  This is the highest court in South Africa for non-constitutional issues.  And W. said to me - this is your job.  Go write the affidavit.  I believe I responded articulately, "Uhhhhhhh . . . ?"   He smiled, and his eyes twinkled, and he said firmly, "You got this.  Close your mouth.  Just go do it."  I asked around to the other young, newly practicing attorneys who were South African natives, and they looked at me blankly - none of them had even done a reply affidavit to the Supreme Court of Appeals before.  So, armed with binders and binders of background material and a single sample, I went and wrote that fucker.  And it was great.

And it was about 80 times better because W. believed I could do it.  He was my unfailing cheerleader through the whole thing, while leaving me to do it solely on my own (and note - the version I finally gave him had jokes in it.  I got to listen to his loud guffaws while he read the damn thing.  Good supervisors - they let (nay, encourage) you to curse at and rag on your opponents in serious court documents, as long as you bold it so you can remember to take it out later).  Not only did W. believe I could do it; he emailed me over a year later to tell me that when we won that case based on a legal tactic that I had staunchly advocated for, but that he had argued didn't apply.  He wanted me to know that I was right.  He wanted me to know not only that I could, but that I DID.

There is something about being believed in that makes all the difference.  I found that in teaching - I had high expectations, I believed in my kids, and they almost never let me down.  But that needing to be believed in - it's not just for kids, and it hasn't lessened as I've gotten older.  It still is what inspires me to do my best work.  This year, what with all the ATS cases, my professor and I have sat down a number of times to argue how to argue, argue how to word things, gone back and forth parsing language from the Supreme Court - and again, there was no good reason for him to be asking me questions, or soliciting ideas, or considering what I thought.  He is, like, THE DUDE, when it comes to the ATS.  But here, again, I had this incredible mentor, and teacher, this person whom I want to grow up to be, making me feel important and necessary and capable.  And, while it kind of was totally befuddling that I was being asked to contribute in any way, it made me believe I could.  If he believed in me, well, it rubbed off.  We sat there and hammered shit out.  We did it.  I learned a tremendous amount, but also, it gave me the confidence of knowing that if I was pushed, if I was asked to stretch just above what I thought I could grasp, I could do that.  I could get there.  I was more capable than I thought.

But then, THEN, there is clinic.  ARRRRRGGGGGHHHH.  The supervising and teaching in clinic, it is is SO! MOTHERFUCKING! FRUSTRATING!  The supervising is some special combination of not giving me any direction, then telling me I have done it all wrong, changing expectations about what was wanted several times, TRYING to frustrate all the students until they want to give up, nitpicking, being completely un-student-centered, being totally control freaky over everything, and treating us like quite the incapable underlings.  It is the WORST.

Of the class itself, the clinic professor makes it very clear there is one correct way, and it is his way, and we had better learn that, or we have done it all wrong.  Also!  He likes to play games where we have to guess his way!  That's always fun, because we always lose!  There is a lot of hiding the ball, and then treating you like you are an idiot when you can't then describe the ball, give its measurements, and rate its bounciness.

Or in the trafficking case, which is also part of clinic, where my supervisor asked us to write a gigantic memo about this really expansive topic.  So my partner and I attempted, it took forever, it was really hard, and it kinda just went on and on and on and doing it sucked royally.  And then when we handed it to our supervisor, she said, yeah, ok, this wasn't what I wanted.  I wanted maybe 10% of this, and done differently!  Oh well, go write it again.

Which made me want to either stab myself or her or both of us in the eyeball.

There is also a lot of Incomprehensible English from both my clinic professor and supervisor.  You have undoubtedly encountered Incomprehensible English before.  It doesn't really have to be English - this applies to any language both you and your supervisor speak.   You go in and speak to your supervisor - well, ok, using me, I go in and speak to my clinic supervisor (or clinic professor, you get it).  My supervisor speaks to me at length.  In English.  We both are native speakers of English.  I stand up to leave, and upon walking out, even though my supervisor and I have been speaking to each other in our native tongue, and she has used proper sentences structure and grammar, and all of her words should have made sense together, I have no idea what she has just said to me.  She could have been speaking to me in Chechen.  And it's not just me, a disease I alone have come down with - I have walked out of offices of supervisors completely baffled with others, and we have turned to each other and said, "I have no idea what just went on there."  How does this happen, guys?  How do some people speak my language, by all appearances correctly and fluently, but yet completely cryptically?  And why do so many supervisors have this same affliction?

Of course, the addendum to the shitty supervisor is: you will do shitty work for your shitty supervisor.  It is inevitable.  This is either because your shitty supervisor cannot clearly direct you, explain hir expectations, or give you any idea what xe wants, OR because you KINDA HATE HIR now and don't want to work for hir.  Everything you do for hir now is tainted and a drag, because you know how matter how hard you work, it won't matter.  Xe will change what xe wants.  Xe will make you feel stupid.  It will all just blow.

So, that's where I am, at present.  You, dear Reader, have undoubtedly been here before, as well (comments - you know you want to leave some).  I have a ton of clinic work all coming up, and I am loathe to do it, and I resent it, in possibly a vaguely childish and petulant way, but after being treated like a rather dense child at the whim of some inexplicable authority figures, I begin to act one, I suppose.  It's a shame, because if anything, I am a Worker, but right now, I am all, ehhhhhhh, LET'S GO READ EVERYTHING ON THE INTERNET INSTEAD.  It'll all get done eventually, because it will have to, but I will not be pleasant and cheery through it.  And if there are suddenly a lot of blogposts or none at all, it is either because the clinic malaise has started infecting everything else I do, or I am in Full Avoidance Mode.  It really could go either way.

See?

 And people wonder why I don't teach anymore.

Sticks and stones

Hey, so it seems I struck a chord in that last post!  A couple people commented on how they, also, are feeling kinda lonely and starved for rich, smart conversation.  And, you know, I am in law school, where supposedly argumentative, debatey-type people go, but seriously - no one here knows how to have a discussion.  At least, not without being a douchebag.

I am being unfair to the kids in law school.  A LOT OF PEOPLE don't know how to have a discussion without being a douchebag.  Have you noticed this?  It afflicts mostly men.  We can all guess why.  But today, I was thinking through why I have been so frustrated with so many interactions lately.  And this post will (ATTEMPT) to really nail that down.

First, a distinction: I am not talking about arguments.  Arguments fall into two categories in my head: they are either the kind where loud voices are used, both sides really want to maintain some higher moral ground, feelings end up being hurt, and everyone is miserable at the end; OR they are the kind where there is a single correct answer.  The former you can only have with people with whom you are intimate; the latter are the reasons IMDB and fucking Google exist.  Before people had internet on their phones (remember those days?  I actually still don't have internet on my phone, but it seems everyone else does) you'd have to argue for like HOURS before you could get to a computer about whether Mandy Patinkin's character's name in The Princess Bride was "Inigo" or "Indigo" (I won that one!).  And before Google, I remember as kids we'd argue, but then we'd be faced with going to the library and looking it up in an encyclopedia, so we'd both be like FUCK IT, I DON'T REALLY CARE THAT MUCH.  No one won petty battles as much when I was a kid.

ANYWAY.  Discussions are different.  There is no right answer, and if done correctly, both people should end up in a better, more thoughtful position than when they started.  Discussions are about being challenged, working out your arguments, seeing if they still stick, figuring out what you really think, getting some perspective, listening, getting new ideas, enriching your knowledge, or maybe changing your mind.  Unfortunately, an awful lot of people do not like to meet you, in discussions.  They don't want to step up and be present and invested and do this thing with you.  They don't wish to grow or listen or learn.  No, what they want to do is either poke you with a stick, or throw a rock at you.  Here's what I mean:

Stick poking

I have a friend who used to bait me, for fun.  He would say shit just to try to get a rise out of me.  Shit he didn't even believe in, he just thought it would be "cute," or it would be "funny," to get me mad.  For no fucking good reason other than his own amusement.  So he would say really misogynistic things to me, things he in no way believed, to see if he could prod me into a reaction.

If you do this, you are, officially, A Jerk.  There is no away around that.  You saying to a person who is a member of any oppressed group really heinous shit that they have to deal with for real like ALL! THE! TIME! for fun means that 1) your privilege, you have not ever really grappled with it; and 2) you are a total asshole, and you just need to shut the fuck up.

But the most prevalent stick poking often involves my least favorite phrase EVAH: "To play devil's advocate . . . "  GAAAAHHHHHHH.  I hate that fucking phrase.  Corollaries are phrases like, "Have you thought about . . . " or "You know, if you understood X, then . . . "  or "Maybe you should think about . . . "  Why do all those phrases suck?  Because it means someone is not meeting you.  They are not stepping up.  They are not going to discuss this with you.  No, they are merely going to poke you with a stick.

And this is annoying, especially if you are a lady, and ladies get this A LOT, because the underlying assumption here is, "You probably have not thought about this idea/angle/belief.  Let me tell it to you, and point out weaknesses in your argument for you."  FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER, is all I want to say at that point, because you know what?  If I am arguing a point strongly, IT MIGHT BE because I know what I am talking about.  IT MIGHT BE that I have thought all this shit through.  IT MIGHT BE that I know way more than your sorry ass which can't even be brave enough to get personally involved in this discussion.  No, you're not going to own anything in this discussion, you're not going to invest, you're not going to bring your (subjective) beliefs and experiences to the table, you just want to poke me with a stick.

See, and then when I get mad and start to yell, you're going to act like I am I am in the wrong and being UNCIVIL.  And then I might have to kill you.

This is really a form of mansplaining, which is why most of my lady readers were probably in the previous paragraphs nodding their heads furiously about how much they ALSO hate that.  Now, I can imagine the defenses.  Like,  "But I really just wanted clarification!"  Yeah, ok, no you didn't; if you wanted clarification, you would have asked for that.  Or, "I was just wondering about the person's take on this!"  Again, you're a liar, because then you would have asked that directly.  If I want to know what someone's take is on whether white should be worn after Labor Day (for the record: Who cares?), I don't begin with, "You know, have you ever really considered the rule about wearing white after Labor Day?" as if the person were to stupid to ever ponder it.  

Playing devil's advocate to someone is an especially asshat move when that someone is of an oppressed group and is trying to explain to you WHAT THEIR EXPERIENCE IS LIKE.  If you ever do this, I hope the gods strike you down.  But also, playing devil's advocate to someone who is trying to explain a passionate, very personally held position is flat out being unkind.  You are acting like this can be an academic exercise - and for you playing devil's advocate, it probably is.  But if you are doing this to me, you are not acknowledging that some of these arguments are about my very life, my equal rights, my ability to be recognized as a person in the world, my bodily autonomy.  These are integral to my experience as a woman, or a queer chick, or a jew, or WHATEVER, moving through the world.  And it makes it really clear, when you play this game, that you are not on my side.  You are not my ally.  Because you are poking me with a stick.  Maybe that's fun for you?  But it's not for me.  It's reminding me that you are just one more person who can use that stick to beat me down.

Stone throwing

This happens in blog comments a lot.  It is also done by people who like to argue tone over content.  Stone throwing is where someone doesn't even bother to engage substantively with an argument but tries to take down the argument, anyway.

So, ok, someone writes a blog post.  They have taken time out of their busy day to put together this string of words for everyone.  And someone comes by and says, "YOU HAVE USED A WORD I DON'T LIKE.  Everything you have ever written in this post or since the beginning of time is invalid, the end."  This is like someone coming up to your house, throwing a stone through one of the windows, and acting like the entire house has now been destroyed.  They are usually ridiculously triumphant or indignant, about this.  They do not consider that the person writing the post had maybe used that word thoughtfully.  They don't think about how the person using that word might be one of the very people who are supposedly oppressed by the use of that word.  They don't want to believe this could have been mindful or in good faith, they just enjoy the throwing of the stone.  They enjoy the destruction of the house.

These people suck.

Seriously, well, ok, first, no one is perfect.  We are all fighting this great big hegemonic paradigm, and we are all in different places, and frankly, there are only so many fights we can take up at any one time.  So don't be a self-righteous prick, we're all doing the best we can.  Also, there are no points in throwing rocks through the windows of the really big, respected houses.  Stop picking especially on the ladies who are out at the forefront.  They are getting it from all sides.  There are no I Have Found an Oppression! tokens you can cash in for prizes.

Now, if you REALLY wanted to call out someone for their privilege, there are ALL KINDS OF WAYS you can do that without stone throwing.  You could even put in your two cents about how you personally don't like that word, explain why without attributing ANYTHING to the blogger, whom you know NOTHING ABOUT, and then engage with the rest of that post.  That way, you aren't attacking anyone, just to be reactionary!  And you aren't ignoring that the blogger had other things to say!  Douchebaggery avoided.

Stone throwing is also done by those people who say things like, "Even though I have just advocated for the use of torture against human beings, you have said the word, "fuck," and thus I have won!"  I've already written about my issues with tone over content assertions.  A well-known law professor had to get banned from this blog after that.  I am not going there again.

And finally, I would just remind everyone: look, you need to keep in mind where you are coming from, and who you are, and where the person you are attempting to have a discussion with is coming from.  Like, if you are a dude, and we are talking about lady stuff, you need to keep in mind that you have privilege, and you should probably try and check it.  And then that it will come out anyway, so you need to be willing to be called on it.  And you should maybe recall that you and the lady are not standing on even ground here, even if it's just the two of you over coffee.  There are no patriarchy-free spaces.  Just like there are no racism-free spaces, or heteronormativity-free spaces.  Remember that.  And if you are the person who is of the privileged group, you need to engage in a discussion in a way where you are present, you are bringing things to the table, and you are being a good ally.  When I am engaging with people of color, I don't expect to get the benefit of the doubt; I recognize that I am part of the problem, and folks of color have ever right and reason to be wary of discussing race with me.  Also, a person of color does not need to be teaching me anything - unless there is an opportunity for us both to grow from this discussion, a conversation that is solely for the benefit of schooling my white ass does not need to happen. 

So, yeah, I am really tired of being poked with sticks here, you guys.  And hit by stones.  I am tired of not having a community here of people who can really, properly, have discussions.  So, you know, if anyone wants to come to D.C. for a couple of days and talk books, or feminism, or politics until we are both exhuasted but in a clearer, stronger, more thoughtful place, let's do this shit.  I'll cook for you, too.

Out from under the rock

Hi there, folks!  Do I have any Readers left?  Perhaps not!  It feels like ages since I've written a post.  I feel very out of practice, like I don't know how to write a blog post anymore.  And mostly, because I've been so busy, I haven't really had any time to think through a blog post, or even come up with a blog topic.  Like, hey, there was an election!  And a rally which I decided not to go to!  All sorts of things happened!  And: I got no reaction for you.  After working like 80 hours a week for a couple weeks, I was so focused, there was just no energy left to pore over anything else.

So, like, there are things I would like to say, and there are emotions flowing beneath my skin that I would love to release, but  . . . I don't quite know how to do that yet.  Or write this blog post, SORRY.  So this is just going to be a random collection of thoughts or feelings or things, to try to get back into the swing of this blogging thing.

1. I got horribly lonely this morning.  It just hit me, like upside the head, out of nowhere.  Didn't see it coming.  I think it's the result of being in Work Mode, and then all of sudden: not.  And then I am wondering where all the people are in my life.  You know, the people that I have not had time to deal with and who I've pushed to the margins, because I was in Work Mode.  Also, I am probably affection-starved.  And while Azrou keeps pawing at me from the desk because he thinks it is full body cuddle time, which it is NOT, because I am TYPING, this is not the same as being able to curl up into someone.
2. The person I most want to curl up into is very far away.
3. I am really frustrated by my lack of peers.  Like, yeah, ok, there are people around-ish my age, but not really: most folks are younger.  My closest friends have always, for the most part, been older - a decade older, often.  Of course, people who can challenge you (and not just challenge you in the poke-you-with-a-stick way, but the go-with-you-together way, where we both emerge into the light at the end), it isn't really about age.  But there are very few people who are close with whom I can speak fluently (and intelligently and informedly)(not a word, you know what I mean) about politics, literature, feminist and race theory, art, travel, music, and also about nothing - shooting the shit is an ART, and it is only done well, that shallowness, when there is real depth underneath.   I am finding myself too often cast in the role of teacher, or mentor.  Here's the thing: I don't want to raise a bunch of fucking 20-somethings.  I used to teach, and I loved that, but I also got a SALARY and HEALTH BENEFITS with that.  I don't want to be the sage person in the room.  That's boring.  I am bored.
4. Guess what was at Whole Foods today?  WINTER ROOT VEGETABLES!  Yes.  There are some good things about it getting chillier.  Dinner was onion and lots of garlic and chili peppers and sweet potato and and celery root and parsnips and carrots and tofu and dino kale and kidney beans.  Soon there will be Jerusalem artichokes.  This makes me very happy.
5. I have been trying to learn the words to Sufjan Stevens' "I Walked" today.  The whole album is really beautiful and stirring.  This isn't exactly helping me to feel less lonely, though.
6. Feminist blogs (not this one!) have horrid comment spaces now.  Have you noticed this?  I won't even bother to go into them.  I remember a time when comment spaces didn't suck.  If the comments here ever start to suck on a similarly consistent level, I am just turning the comments off, because fuck that.  The level of ownership people think they have over blogs as readers is truly stunning.  Like they are entitled to the blog.  Also, there is a lot of epic flouncing.  In the I! AM NEVER! READING HERE! AGAIN!  In one of my all-time favorite epic flounces, a lady flounced off of Feministe because she would NEVER! BE SAFE THERE! AGAIN! but then the next week had a comment with all the blog posts she had written for the Shameless Self-Promotion thread that Feministe has every Sunday, so she could get some readers.  Which: yeah.  I know computers can be dehumanizing, but jesus, people.
7. Why is running gear so expensive?  I need a windproof jacket - I am getting SLAMMED by icy cold gusts running by the river in the morning.  I hate being cold.  I maintain that after an especially hot  Delhi summer with heat waves that made highs top out at 140 F, my blood has thinned.  I don't know if that's actually true.  Anyway, I am shopping about right now.  If anyone has any suggestions for good running gear, let me know.
8. Speaking of running gear, I would like to know why Azrou has felt the need to wrestle my thermal vest off the shelf and is now attacking it on the floor as I type this.  The vest didn't do anything to him.
9. People can argue about Twitter being revolutionary or useful or inane or whatever, but I can tell you: as soon as I got busy, Twitter was the first thing I cut out.  Twitter is still pretty cut out right now - instead, I started a book!  Like a real one!  Not a legal text!  It is called The City & The City, and it makes you work, but it is super enjoyable so far.  The author really likes the word "grosstopically," though - he used it twice in like 4 pages.  We'll see if he whips it out again.  It's kinda a cool word, in the fact that he made it up and that's nice, but other than that, it's a pretty shitty word, because all I see is "gross" in it and I get distracted from whatever it is supposed to mean.  Essentially, I think the definition is, "geographically close." 
10. I don't really have a tenth one, ten is just a nice round number to end on.  I am going to go learn the word to "Vesuvius" now.  I'd sing you to sleep tonight, if I could.  That would definitely make me less sad right now.

Litigation: not amenable to my schedule

I am responding to a 12(b)(6) motion to dismiss in the trafficking case, Readers!

I'll be back, uh, eventually!

In the meantime, have the video of the song in my head.  It pretty much illustrates my feelings about life right now.  Also, it is violent.  And badass.  So, you know.

Treat me like your mother — The Dead Weather from Banya Concept on Vimeo.