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About kb

free spirit, lover of red wine, bacon, sushi, the ocean, and adventure. I work in the legal field, do freelance writing, and take care of children.

On Occupying Places and the Weekend

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I love my friends.

I have friends who like knitting, libraries, philosophy, drinking, sports, adventure, techno music, rap music, nature…My friends don’t always like everything about each other. They don’t always like everything they like at one time.
But the one thing my friends have in common in their passion. They are all incredibly passionate about something. E is passionate about law. M is passionate about books, literature, and libraries. J is passionate about music and film. I am passionate about the human experience and how our sexuality plays a part in that.

I love having the kind of friends that you can really argue with. Not petty fights, but full-on actual factual arguments. There is a line between asshole intellectual and spirited debater that we all walk really well. I don’t ever feel as though anyone is being disrespected or talked down to, and that’s why I think our debates always end well.

M and I, even though we’re a thousand miles away from each other, spend a lot of our time doing that. She’s the logical side of the team, I’m the emotions. So when I’m hoping, she’s laying out figures. When she’s she’s following the facts, I try to sway her with feelings and gut reactions.

In that way, we are a really good team. Surprisingly enough, we travel really well together. She does maps, I do motivation. The two of us always find ourselves in wonderful, life-affirmingly insane situations.

Today, we’re chatting about the Occupy Wall Street movement.

We’ve talked Tea Party comparisons, the aim of both movements, the rise of the 53% as a reaction to the 99%. We differ on our opinions of the effectiveness of Occupy Wall Street.

I think that even though the movement has no official structure and that even though it supports a wide variety of interests, it has the potential to foster positive dialog about the political system in this country. A lot of people don’t know the specifics about corporate tax law (I certainly don’t know much), and a lot of people choose to ignore things they don’t understand.

My hope for the Occupy Wall Street movement is that it will raise the voting rates, particularly among the youth. I hope that these protests foster a sense of hope rather than the prevailing despair. Think  “peaceful progress” rather than “might as well keep slogging on.”

I am so pro-protesting. I may not agree with everything (and they’ve been very clear to say that no one has to agree – everyone is autonomous within this movement), but I agree that things need to change. As they chant, “corporate greed has got to go!” I feel proud of my peers, of my fellow citizens. Peacefully, they’ve mobilized a nationwide movement (granted, its origins are rather interesting) that aims to shed light on the current financial situation.

There are no quick fixes. There are no concrete solutions. But there is positive discussion, the spreading of information, the ability to feel as though your voice has been heard. And “this is what democracy looks like.”

There are Tumblr accounts that I’d like to highlight:

http://the53.tumblr.com/ and http://wearethe99percent.tumblr.com/

Both show people holding up signs talking about their statuses in the world. We are the 99 Percent talks about the struggle and The 53 is a reaction to the perceived “whines” of the 99 Percent.
I get that.

The We are the 99 Percent Tumblr is a constant downer. But it’s what really made me realize how difficult things are for people. I mean, I complain a lot, but I’m educated, employed, not drowning in debt, and stable. I’m happy. I’m not looking to drive a sick Aston Martin (or am I?) but I’d also like to really start buckling down on starting my IRA (2012, baby).
They talk about forgiving student loan debt. That’s impossible. You knew you’d have to pay those loans back someday, and you signed for them. Sorry, it’s true.
They talk about corporate bailouts. They’re completely correct.

The 53 talks about, as M put it, lying down and taking it. They talk about not being a part of the 99 percent. They talk about how Wall Street has no part in their lives.
They talk about how they have jobs and no tattoos. About how they’re sick of paying for the 99 percent.

But I argue that the 53 percent are conceding that the system is a mess, even if they don’t realize it.

I argue that the 53 percent don’t understand the impact that the financial sector has on their lives. We are all tied together; there is no way that any single person is removed from the actions of their government. We are collectively responsible for the decisions that are being made, even if it appears that we have no say. As an American abroad, you will be subjected to questions about your president, your bills, your wars, your legislation. Don’t you think you’ll want to be able to explain it?

I attended a private college and graduated with no student loans. I have worked since I was 16. I got scholarships, grants, and am very blessed to have a family that adores me. I currently work full-time in a job I don’t want to do forever, but it pays my bills. I am constantly learning new things. I love the people I work with. I am respected. I babysit on the side because I don’t make enough to cover everything. I have no savings. I am fully responsible for every single one of my bills, except for healthcare, because my mom is awesome. I am financially independent. I belong to a credit union and maintain zero balance on my credit card.
I am not bitching or complaining (today) but I worry about my future. I want to be able to retire and to send my kids to college.

I want to live in a peaceful world. I want to be satisfied that my government has my best interests at heart. I want to believe that my representatives are competent. I want to have faith in our humanitarian efforts. I want to feel as though I am a productive member of society. I want to leave the world a better place than it was when I entered it. I don’t think that corporations should get to make the laws, or pay the people who make the laws. I don’t think that CEOs should receive multi-million dollar severance packages.

That’s why I am a part of the 99%. I believe in hope.

(Cue the Angels in the Outfield kid. That’s really what the world needs…)

This weekend is a Mom and Katie Away weekend. We’re headed up to Winter Park to use a Groupon I foolishly purchased in the summer. (Never buy Groupons that are for anything but food! The Tommy’s Thai Groupon: best purchase of my life. Weekend in Winter Park? Undecided.)

I am excited for hiking, for swimming, for sleep, and mostly, not to have to deal with anything for a couple of days.

I got my new phone today, so I’ll be testing out the camera on it. Be excited to finally have a blog with pictures on it again! (I know I certainly am!)

On Competitive Edge

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I play a lot of trivia.

It must have started with Knowledge Bowl in high school. Mullen did horribly at every meet we went to. We were never in the running for any trophy, but we did have a lot of fun. At that point in my life, I thought Knowledge Bowl was the greatest thing in the world. I still think that, actually.

I don’t necessarily think I know a lot of stuff (although, shameless self-promotion: officially in the 90th percentile for MAT scores, so I must know some stuff. Or be really good at guessing).

I suck at sports questions. I suck at science questions. I suck at 80s hair metal and geography.

I rock at weird stuff.
Once, the question was something along the lines of “What does Kim Jong Il have the world’s largest collection of?” And I knew it. Without even batting an eye I threw down the answer.

We played in Chicago at Hamilton’s. That’s where we met the first set of Irish. That’s where we drank, and lost, and drank some more. The Battle of Hastings. 1066.

We played at O’Donovon’s. Maddie and I were always Team We Put the “Rad” in Colorado. I still think it’s cute, but you’re welcome to disagree. Whenever I eat a miniature corn dog, I am immediately transported back to that bar. Miller Lite and corn dogs and mustard = my college heaven.

We played in Boston. “Frank Sinatra is not Daniel Craig.” That was a great night. That’s the night I learned never to yell anything about the Patriots coach. That’s the night we put Mickey Avalon on for the entire bar to hear. That’s the night we wandered around in the rain forever with no cab in sight.

We play weekly here.

I always save the answers I don’t know for S, and then he tells me the answers immediately. (They’re usually sports questions. Or questions about Australia or Chicago or history.) It’s our Thursday night thing.

We usually do well. I think a lot of it is a result of the team spreading the age gap between 21 and 60 (give or take a few years on either end). A lot of it is that some people are history majors, others communications, others do computer programming, massage therapy, medical work. All of us have different life goals and are passionate about a wide array of different things. But that works to our advantage. And that’s how we win.

On things that make me laugh

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Ha, I read this today and thought it was cute. Sometimes hanging out with your boyfriend’s exes can be really fun, and sometimes it can be really awkward. 80% of the time it’s really awkward. And sometimes you end up being great friends. My rule is to never bring up the man in the middle. From there, you can bond over most anything else. 
In college, the most recent ex (they’d been together 2 years) came up to me at a party and asked me if H still snored. I was like, “um….”  She proceeded to use the word “tummy” (which gives me the heebie-jeebies even in polite conversation) and then provided feasible solutions to the problem. It definitely makes the list of most awkward moments of my life.

I’m still friends with all of my exes (except one). I feel that if you put them in a room together, you might not have the most cohesive group of people, you’d at least have entertaining conversation and a few funny stories. I’d also like to see each and every one of them eat a crust-less-sandwich while wearing a floppy hat. They’d all complain about the same things: messy car, messy room, squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom, my lack of subtlety, blah blah blah. It’d be cute. 

Introducing The Ex-Girlfriends Club
OCT. 10, 2011 
There are so many beautiful stages to falling in love. There is the meet cute; there is the crazy infatuation; there is the first time you see each other naked and love all the little lumps and bumps they hate; there is the time you think “They might be the one;” and then there is the time you start hating the living hell of their ex-girlfriend, sight unseen.
And there are so many beautiful stages to that, too. There is the masochistically asking questions about her, because you don’t want to know but you really kind of do; there is the stalking her Facebook/ Googling her and ridiculing everything you see; there is the sharing pictures of her with your friends and being like, “Am I right!?” And then, if you’re really lucky, there’s the moment where you actually encounter her in real life and have to let out the most utterly false, “Heyyy, how are you?” of your life.
It happens to all of us. As we troll the pictures and the Facebook wall of this girl that has done so much to wrong us without even realizing it, we take umbrage with and utterly detest such strange, innocuous things: “Marine Biology? What the hell kind of major is that? I like Shark Week, too, but I’m not about to dedicate my academic career to it.” We become obsessed with what she is doing now, what stake she had in our boyfriend’s life, and why she wears her hair in that awful updo. (I think she was going for Amy Winehouse, but she ended up with Snooki.)
But why do we hate her so? Is it just because she once had sex with him, once kissed him, once rested her head on his chest the way we do? That can’t be it. Is it because she gave once him hickies all over his neck like some kind of white trash suckerfish? Is it because she forced him to wear that sweater that made him look like a pretentious, hipster Mr. Rogers? Maybe, but that still isn’t all of it. No, if we are really being honest, it’s because he loved her. At one point, those incredible things he’s feeling about you and can’t wait to tell you as you lie in bed, staring into each others’ eyes, were things he told her — and meant just as much. And we feel, on some primitive level, that there’s only so much love to go around. Somehow, having experienced it with her makes us less special. And we can’t hate him — he’s wooonderful — so we hate her instead.
But think back to one of your ex-boyfriends, one you may very well have loved at some point, one who now conjures in you this vague feeling of “Yikes, dodged that bullet.” You know, when you see him out and get that brief, nauseated feeling in the pit of your stomach as you think, “That was inside me at one point.” Shudder. But that feeling, and the true happiness for him that you feel when he finds someone else who is a billion times better for him — the ex you hate so much probably feels that way, too. There was a reason they didn’t work out, and she’s probably happy to see him with someone who can stand the way he bites his nails or leaves his dirty dishes to “soak” for days on end.
There is no reason to hate her, no reason to take this absurd “Me vs. Her” stance on something so benign. So I propose, for the mental health of girlfriends everywhere, the Ex-Girlfriends Club.
We would meet once every three months, have tea and crustless sandwiches (hell, you can even wear those big, floppy, Easter egg-colored hats if you want), and talk about that man who is no longer with us. And current girlfriends will be invited, too — it is important, in fact, that they come. We can trade tips, share stories, and complain about that awful way he rolls himself like a taquito in the sheets until you’re left shivering in the corner of the bed with a handkercheif-sized piece of blanket over you. And, most importantly, we can reallize that we’re all just human beings. We all may have shared sentiments and fluids with the same guy, but that doesn’t mean we’re in competition with each other — on the contrary, it should give us something to laugh over. We can all revel in how hapy we are to be rid of that douchebag — except current girlfriend, for whom we are sooooooo happy, she is perfect for him.
So put down the laptop, stop asking the evil questions, and let the gossip go. There’s no reason to fear the ex-girlfriend, just come to the Ex Club and get to know her as a person. We’re all good, intelligent, strong women and there’s no reason to get catty over a man who likely couldn’t care less about the stupid rivalry.
That is, of course, unless she’s trying to get him behind your back now that he’s all shiny and desirable again. Then that hot mess is not invited to any club, and her butt isn’t even that cute anyway.

On the 30 – 50% Rule and the date.

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“People only listen to 50% of what you say,” I tell J.

We think about that for awhile. Half of what you say, you’re saying solely for yourself. That’s alright, because 50% of what you say isn’t being processed by your audience.

It’s the 30-50% rule.
And it’s awesome.
You never have to worry about what you say in front of people, because it doesn’t matter. Chances are, they weren’t paying attention in the first place.

***

“You’re not at all like I expected you to be,” he says. 

“How so?” I ask.
“You wear a lot of black…You’re not conventional at all. You look like you would be. You don’t even have any tattoos.”  
Inwardly, I groan. I hear the “not conventional” bit so often that I’m not sure it’s even a compliment any more. 
Outwardly, I laugh. “I have two,” I tell him. 
He’s got me pegged: “Such a strong personality coming from such a petite girl,” he says. “People don’t expect that. I bet you don’t get along with girls.” He’s not wrong. I don’t. They scare me. 
As last night wore on and the bar got slowly more and more crowded, I found my eyes wandering. I love to look at people, to watch them shift uncomfortably, embrace happily, stand still sipping drinks. I watched the businessmen come in, all shiny shoes and Oxford shirts. I made eye contact, then shyly looked away.
He was telling me stuff about his passions, his dreams, his art, and I was listening, sort of.  Conversation was good, time passed easily. I got tired – it’s the vicenarian curse. Adolescence slips away and all we’re left with is the hope of eventual maturity. I’m doomed to be tired from now until the day I die.

It wasn’t as horrible as I’d predicted. In fact, it wasn’t horrible at all. He would like to see me again. I will. But I’m not sure I’m feeling any sort of promise, any sort of legitimate future frisson. As we said goodnight, I wondered what it’d be like to kiss him. Then I realized I didn’t want to.

It got me started thinking about sparks. Instantaneous sparks. There are great moments in life when something beautiful begins. It begins with a look across a dark bar, a chance comment at a party, the fortuitous arrangement of time and place. Sometimes it begins with an internet email. A first date gone well.

I’ve never forgotten those beginnings. That couch on Carmen St. That New Years’ Eve. That party in the snow in Chicago. That night we walked around the city. The night in Cape Town at the pool hall. The road trip where we stayed up most of the night. The first date that never ended. The first time you feel the frisson, the slow curling inside your stomach, the safe knowledge of feelings. I’ve not known those for some time now. Am I doomed to stir up those memories in the hopes of never losing that feeling?

That feeling is what I crave. And what I’m determined to wait for. Patiently. Or at least until I’m 25 and I get on match.com, whichever comes first.

***

Today’s song:

West Coast by Coconut Records
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlYGEaeoBWw

On Dating. Sigh.

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The story goes like this:

I meet K, M, and J at a club one night.  A DJ dude who I’d been introduced to earlier walks over, proceeds to start talking to me (yelling at me, same difference), and then spills my drink on me. Nothing says I’d like to date you like gin on my skirt. So I give him my phone number. Mistake One.

I mean, he’s nice, educated, employed, but not really my type. Lately, my type is business-y men. You know, slacks and a tie to the office. Yum.

He calls me. We schedule date. After the breast cancer stress hell that was last week, I reschedule date.

You know when you push something off into the future because at that point, you can’t imagine anything except that exact moment in time and you think “next week” will never come? Yeah, it was like that.
Well, next week is tonight. It’ll be nice to get out, but I’m not looking to start anything until everything else sort of resolves itself.

Last week, B met up with us for “one drink, Katie, then we’re going home.” Of course, we run into the DJ dude who, coincidentally, has the same name. So I panic, hard. Dude I’m dating and dude I’m going a date with. Looking at each other. Naturally, I introduced them.

B1 met B2 and thought B2 was gay. Problem solved. No awkward explanations necessary.

Anyway, after I posted that blog about B(1) last week, I did some thinking. I took it down, because I thought, “Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s me. I’m not giving this 100%.” I realized that since I don’t know where I stand with him, I’ve sort of put him aside as something I don’t want to get too attached to. So I decided to be more attentive, more open, less cynical.

We’ll see. I’m still standing by my original thought, but I’m trying to try. I’ve been trying to be cute. Learning to bat eyelashes and whatnot. (Kidding.)

On Getting Re-Tweeted by the Denver Police.

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Occupy Wall Street: #OccupyDenver Gains Momentum In Large Weekend Rally, Endorses American Indian Movement Proposal (PHOTOS)

http://c.brightcove.com/services/viewer/federated_f9?isVid=1
First Posted: 10/10/11 10:45 AM ET Updated: 10/10/11 11:27 AM ET

AmazingInspiringFunnyScaryHotCrazyImportantWeird
The Occupy Denver movement is gaining momentum. Even as the weather turned cold and rainy this weekend, a diverse group of approximately 1000 protesters gathered at the state Capitol Building and marched peacefully to the Federal Reserve at the 16th Street Mall on Saturday — the largest group gathered since the first rally more than two weeks ago.
The Denver Police Department were there on Saturday, but there were no arrests, Fox31 reports. The DPD were so accommodating to Occupy Denver that protesters even tweeted thanks to the police:
@ KatieMaryBarry : @DenverPolice have been amazingly accommodating. So much gratitude for their help today at #OccupyDenver. Thanks guys!
Proud of the peaceful marches, DPD tweeted their own pat on the back:
@ DenverPolice : THE RIGHT STUFF: “Occupy Wall St” marchers praise DPD. “They did a fantastic job of keeping people safe – they were clearly there to help”
The momentum began Friday night when hip-hop artist Lupe Fiasco stopped by the Occupy Denver camp donating tents, tarps, propane and other winter supplies, according to the Occupy Denver Facebook page. Fiasco was passing through Denver, playing a show at the Fillmore Auditorium, just a half mile from Occupy Denver’s campsite at the state Capitol.
Donations of food and other supplies kept the campsite growing all weekend. 9News reports that Occupy Denver has a large working kitchen now feeding those involved for free. Patrick Mardsen, a professional cook, said to 9News that a steady supply of food and supplies are being brought in by local restaurants, but mostly from individuals in support of the protesters.
Sunday night also brought a big development for Occupy Denver as they joined forces with the Colorado branch of the American Indian Movement (AIM) — according to the Occupy Denver Facebook page, the occupiers unanimously endorsed ten AIM demands, which can be read in full here.
The protesters have yet to make any official public demands, but it’s not that they don’t have any, rather they are simply weighing all ideas brought forth by those involved in the movement. Brett Starr, a Denver organizer said this to HuffPost about the work-in-progress demands:

There has not been a specific demand(s) laid out yet. The media would like to squeeze one out of us, but we are not going to give them one until we come to a final massive democratic decisions on what that demand(s) should be.

Starr also said that any organizer can go to Coup Media Group’s website and vote on the proposed demands being laid out.
Occupy Denver is not alone in Colorado either, other occupations have broken out all over the state over the last two weeks. There are now protesters organizing in Boulder, Pueblo, Greeley, Colorado Springs and Fort Collins.

On [has] been

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He is not my forever mate.

I think I figured that out some time between our second date and now. The first two dates were really great. But then again, drunk me likes most things.

I’m realizing that there is a lot of stuff he hates. (I don’t like hate. I think we shouldn’t hate so much. I really only hate a few things. Toe-walkers and mouth-breathers, mostly.)

Fat people, for instance. One of the things he likes about me is that I’m skinny. Great. Flash forward seven years, to the birth of our first child and subsequent divorce based on the baby-weight that I haven’t had a chance to lose.

He also hates wiggling. R once told me that me and his six-year old self would have gotten along famously because he once told his mom that “if you aren’t moving, it doesn’t count.” I wonder what kind of strange six-year old snuggler he was.  I wiggle while we’re snuggling, or before we fall asleep.I’ll be adjusting, slowly shifting myself into sleep, and he’ll say, “Just sleep!” as though I’m that obedient. The other night he said that and I kept wiggling long after I was comfortable just to annoy him.

When we’re watching tv, if I say something – anything – he’ll grab the remote, pause it, then go “shh!” at me and rewind to before I talked. If you want to hang out alone, do that. If you want to hang out with me, you’re going to have to deal with side commentary. Especially when you’ve seen the episode at least once before.

He makes his bed every morning. Not usually a red flag, but if you know me, you know that this might present problems. Although, for the last week, I’ve been trying to at least return my bed to some semblance of order and have been successful. Worse than the making of the bed is the sheet tucking. He tucks it into the bottom like you’re in a hotel. We switched spots one night for television-screen viewing purposes and I went to pull the sheets out and he screamed. Actually yelled “NO!”

But to be honest, it’s not any of those things that proved to be the deal breaker. Minus the remote aggression and the fat-people-hating, there are compromises that exist. I’m a very adaptive person. I’ll mimic your habits, tune in to your needs, find myself a niche in your life and fill it pleasantly.

It really ended for me when he moved my toothbrush.

I don’t like the way he talks to me. I find his patronizing attitude frustrating. We argued about how your credit score is calculated and I found myself backing down because I wasn’t 100% sure. I should have held my ground. I wasn’t wrong.

So when he told me that he moved my toothbrush under his cabinet because he didn’t want it to get dusty, I got mad. That’s not even a smooth lie. I hope by “dusty” he meant “noticed by the other girl I’m bringing home” because that’s how I translated it.

I woke up at his place at 5:57 that morning. I wandered around in the pre-dawn, unable to close my eyes again. I stood in the kitchen and watched the sun rise on another wonderful day. It was a moment of utter calm.

Nobody puts my toothbrush under the sink…

(…unless it’s to prevent it from being literally contaminated by strange things. I personally don’t like exposed toothbrushes, but that is beside the point.)

We went out together, rode the elevator in silence, and I kissed him goodbye.

Also, sidenote: Band of Horses is awesome. So awesome.

"Shame on all of you."

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Yesterday’s post got me thinking.

Racism blows. We can reiterate that until we’re blue in the face.

And qualifying my perspective as being that of a white person isn’t nearly enough.
I need to qualify myself as educated, white, woman, and liberal.
That changes things.

I compared it to being gay. (Why? I don’t know – it was the easiest [not the best] way to make my point during our lunch discussion.) I spend so much time around my gay friends that I don’t see them as gay. It’s normalized for me. It’s not a thing. There’s no need to draw a line, to point out the distinctions, to separate.

I want my kids to be so exposed to people that they stop seeing lines and start seeing people.

It’s the same as being _____. [Insert “other” there.]

The more we talk about “other,” the more we emphasize it. The more we dwell.

Then I started thinking about the real world. (Sighing as I type this. Oh, real world.) There’s not as much integration, not as much teamwork, community building, respect, tolerance….my list could go on…. as there could be. Certain solutions to “other”-ism or “other”-phobia aren’t going to work for people with different mindsets – I forget that. The solution remains elusive.

But I would like to point out that even as we evolve to tolerate and eventually accept one “other,” we replace it with another “other.”

Division based on class differences, social differences, education differences: we’re all guilty of it. I think part of being human is forming bonds with people who share similarities to you and then ostracizing people who don’t have those interests, features, or characteristics. It’s up to us to transcend that.

It’s hard, though. I judge stupid people for doing stupid things. I’m sure people judge me for doing stupid shit all the time. I judge girls who wear Ugg boots, yet I get judged for my “if you can’t wear it with black flats, why are you wearing it at all?” mentality (I do consider that judgement entirely deserved, for the record. I’ve grown out of Birkenstock mode…at least until I find my other black clog). I really try to promote a sense of solidarity among women, yet I know a few women I’d like to punch in the face. So here I am, being just as much of a hypocrite as the rest of us. At least I’m thinking about it, though.

Granted, we all aren’t going to get along. It’s not possible. But we should at least strive to respect and understand. Also, not possible.  But ideal. And beautiful.

I was going to post last week about the suicide of a gay teen on the East Coast. I didn’t. I was too disgusted (not by him, by his tormentors). After his death, the people who taunted him continued to do so. They said they were glad he was dead. That the world was a better place. For him, it didn’t get better. That’s one reason we need to stop spreading hate.

That night I was watching the Big Bang Theory at home. And this clip really put it all into perspective for me. Please watch it.

A girl brings home a rather unintelligent date, and her neighbors (all science geeks) make fun of him mercilessly.

Zach (date): “Oh, I see. You guys are inferring that I’m stupid.”

Sheldon (one of the neighbors): “That’s not correct. We were implying it. You then inferred it.”

…

Penny (girl): “You know, for a group of guys who claim they spent most of their lives being bullied, you can be real jerks. Shame on all of you.”

Truth.

On Sluts. And the Racism/Feminism divide.

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I’ve written about SlutWalks before, but a quick history: they stem from comments made by a police officer giving a speech. In it, he implied that women could avoid being raped by not wearing provocative clothing. The comments prompted so-called SlutWalks in major cities across the world. Women (and men) have marched (and are still marching) in protest.

To be clear, I really hate the word “slut.” It’s not a word I feel any inclination to reclaim. I don’t want to be called “slut.” I don’t want to call myself “slut.” It sends shivers up my spine. But I really like how moved people were to try and do something about it.

We live in a culture that is not supportive of women, of their clothing, or of their victimization. Rape victims are often reprimanded. Rather than addressing the rapists, we address the victims with criticism, complaints, judgement. New Jersey just passed a law to ensure that victims don’t have to pay for their own rape kit processing. As of August 15, it hadn’t been signed.

We were driving out of Chicago last summer and passed a scantily clothed woman on the South Side. “She’s just asking for it,” said my passenger. I nearly slammed on the brakes and made him walk. I turned to him and, while agreeing that her clothing was inappropriate for 4pm on a weekday, asked him how he’d feel if it was me who was being judged. Or how he’d feel if I got raped. “Would it be my fault?” I asked him. I often wonder what would happen, since I’m so outspoken about sexuality and sexual issues. Were I to be raped, would anyone believe me? Would I lose the respect of my peers?

Granted, there are things you can do to help mitigate the potential for rape, but often, nothing can be done. Rape is not the fault of the victim, no matter the circumstance.

The article below, published on the Ms. magazine website October 5, 2011, addresses the issues of racism within the feminist movement.

A few months ago, I purchased Girl Drive, a  look at everyday women across America. What struck me was the disconnect that people reported feeling between feminism and their cultures. They spoke about feminism being for white girls. I actually fit the definition of their idea of what a feminist was: it’s the academic, middle-class, white girl (basically college me). They spoke about being black rather than being a feminist. Or about being black before being a feminist. It’s as though the idea of being a black feminist was impossible. Culture comes first. And sometimes, there’s not enough room for both.

On the surface, it seems simple to bridge the gap between race and feminism. But it’s not. Peace and love is way harder than you’d think.

Another article, mentioned in the article below, discusses other issues associated with black feminism. It argues that white women have benefited from the “racialized virgin/whore dichotomy,” by fostering distrust of white women and blinding the white women to “what a SlutWalk would look like in solidarity with black women, with low-income women” etc. I don’t entirely agree with that. I don’t think that any women have benefited from the dichotomy, and that separation of women (by race, by income level, by immigration status, etc) only hinders our progress as we must fight among ourselves before we can fight for something else.

[Some] White women embrace feminism and that shouldn’t be a reason that anyone else can’t embrace feminism as well. People do. There are feminists of all colors. There are poor feminists and rich feminists.  Feminists who are double-jointed and feminists who aren’t. Feminists who have longer second toes. Feminists who have wonky ears and who have no taste in music.

I am finding that more and more of racial tension (in specific situations and circumstances, not across the board) stems from our attempts to address and acknowledge differences because regardless of our own color, we’re so hypersensitive to it. (It exists. We all see it. I absolutely accept that I have “white privilege” but disagree that it blinds me entirely.)

I realize that racism is still alive and well. Racism happens every day in institutions, from schools to prisons, in the media, in government. By acknowledging race before we acknowledge any other characteristic, we’re limiting the scope of our focus. We can’t see any further. Therefore, we make no progress.

I think that to move past it, we must put it aside. As educated individuals, we must simply step over it rather than letting it be a line that both sides draw. It has to start somewhere. It will trickle out around us. It will grow in the minds of our children. Progress.

As women, we can be that beginning. We can work together as women united by a stronger cause. We can embrace our differences, learn from each other, and begin to create a strong network of support. Regardless of color, women must realize that other women are not the enemy. Neither are men.

The enemy is the idea of inequality, of implied consent. The enemy lies in assumptions.

It is possible to be many things at once. Our connections, our histories, all of those things could lead us to create powerful webs of community. Instead, we let them divide us. We must stop seeing everyone as fractured statistics and start seeing them as whole people before we make any progress on this.

I agree with the author (of the second article – linked here) when she closes by saying:

There’s a reason why many rape survivors don’t come forward with their experiences. They do not want to be subject to such words by a larger society that still blames victims. At least the SlutWalk boldly takes on that word, and in doing so, invites us to empty it of its power and its racist, classist, hetero/sexist meanings.  Whether that’s possible is another debate, but for now, it’s useful to remember what Emi Koyama once wrote: “Everyone is safe when sluts are safe.”

What NYC SlutWalk Was, and What It Wasn’t

October 5, 2011 by  · Leave a Comment 
Union Square was packed when I arrived at this weekend’s inaugural New York SlutWalk. The crowd was mostly women, mostly young and mostly white. Clothing styles ranged from topless to scanty to normal street garb to formal. One woman wore a business suit. A common thread was “slut” in red and black markers across foreheads, arms, backs and chests. The red-and-black writing was striking: People silently write “slut” across a girl’s chest everyday, but here it was, literalized.
I wandered through the 3,000-person crowd amid signs such as “Women are Souls, Not Holes” and “If I was asking for it, I would ask for it.” “This is what I was wearing when I was raped” read one sign held by a woman in pajamas. Another held pictures of her battered body from a sexual assault a few weeks prior. As I talked with her and other NYC SlutWalkers, they all kept using the same word: empowerment. For many of them, it was the first time they had ever participated in a march about women’s rights, and it was the first time they felt surrounded by other people who “got it.”
When I finally found my way to the SlutWalk organizers, I was feeling pretty slutty and powerful myself. I’d even found a “Slut Pride” pin and attached it to my shirt. But as I reviewed my prepared questions, I remembered the serious qualms I and other feminists had with SlutWalk, such as the recent criticisms from women of color. When I asked Holly Meyer, one of the organizers, about these critiques, she had a simple response:
We have always been inclusive. We’ve always said anyone is welcome to come to our meetings, we’ve never excluded any group. It’s unfortunate that some people have that perspective and don’t feel welcome, but our message is to end sexual violence.
Plain and simple. The point of SlutWalk isn’t complicated. Or, at least, the NYC SlutWalk organizers don’t seem to think so.
Holly was proud to say that many of rally’s official performances were by women of color. From what I witnessed, those performers focused on calling for solidarity and inclusiveness, but did not get into the unique experiences that black and other marginalized women have had with sexual violence and words like “slut.” For example, Amber Stewart of Radical Women said during her performance:
We have to work to tear down racism, because there is no place in this movement for an Us versus Them mentality. We need all voices, all concerns brought to the table.
Holly told me some other great things about the NYC SlutWalk, like its pressure on the NYPD to have sensitivity trainings or its calls to the FBI asking for a change in the FBI’s definition of rape.
Despite all this, it’s easy to criticize the NYC SlutWalk as a rally for privileged white feminists, especially when women of color at the rally were few and far between. I also couldn’t help but wince when I saw a group of men staring, mouths open, at the woman in lingerie pole-dancing on the back of bike during the march. If I talked to those men today, I doubt they could tell me what the march was about.
Overall, however, I left the NYC SlutWalk feeling like it was a work in progress. Yes, it should focus more squarely on women of color issues. But it brought out thousands of New Yorkers against sexual violence at a time when Brooklyn NYPD are telling women not to wear skirts to avoid being raped. It allowed 3,000 New Yorkers to feel like they were in power for a few hours on a Saturday. We should ask SlutWalks to graduate to a higher level of feminist thinking that addresses race and deeper issues within rape culture, but I think we should also recognize them for the work in their freshman year.
Photo of SlutWalk NYC sign holder from Flickr user David Shankbone under Creative Commons 2.0.

On Breast Cancer

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“I wanted you to hear it from me,” she said. “I have breast cancer.”
My birth mother’s voice was steady. 
In the past two weeks, both my stepmother and my birth mother have been diagnosed with breast cancer. Neither case seems serious; both were caught early on. Treatment plans have yet to be finalized, although my stepmom’s is further along in the process. Neither will lose their breasts. Both will lose lumps and endure radiation, possibly chemotherapy. 
My hands reached up to feel my own. 
“Damn it, Mom,” I said later last night, “I worked so hard to grow these things. I can’t lose them now!” 
She laughed. I’m serious. I have stressed about them since before they showed any promise of ever becoming real boobs. I’ve been known to declare “They’re growing!” when they most certainly are not. I have obsessed since I was 13 and got made fun of on the playground for being underdeveloped. As the years progressed, I grew to love them. I’d like to think it’s mutual respect. 
I’ve always assumed that I’ll end up getting breast cancer some day. My birth mom’s mom died of it. And now she has it. I’ll be the third in a long line of cancer. I have tiny boobs – it’s not like I’ll miss a lump. On the plus side, after they have to take them, I can get a sweet new set. 
I guess I need to go get the genetic test done to see if I have the gene mutation indicative of breast and ovarian cancer. I’m scared to get it though. Not because I’m afraid to have breast or ovarian cancer, but because I’m worried that it’ll preclude me from getting insurance coverage based on “pre-existing condition” bullshit. I guess it’d be nice to know about ovarian cancer before it happens, so that maybe after I have kids, I can  be proactive about minimizing my risk. 
I was getting my hair cut yesterday and my stylist was telling me about the breast cancer walk. (I was going to walk with Dad and J, but didn’t because her daughters were going to be there – we have consciously avoided meeting and I didn’t want to make an important day weird – so I declined.) She teared up as she was telling me about her boyfriend’s mother and sister, who both died of it. And I found myself tearing up a little too. 
I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday to discuss all of this. I’ll be interested to see what they recommend, and I’m curious to see how my insurance will handle coverage for the test based on the fact that I’m adopted – will they still count my biological mother and grandmother, as well as various aunts, as close family incidences of breast cancer? I mean, they should. (Medical history-wise, being adopted sucks. I always write question marks on family history forms.)
I don’t want to lose two out of my three moms. Not to breast cancer. I don’t want to lose me, either. 
Let this all serve as a reminder to feel your boobs, people! Have someone else feel your boobs. Whatever it takes. Those monthly shower examinations could save your life.