Yesterday a popular video filled my Facebook news feed, shared exclusively by my female friends. This video, produced by Hollaback, a non-profit organization fighting street harassment with education started a conversation which I feel is very one-sided. A conversation I'd like to explore further.
In the video a woman walks the streets of NYC for 10 hours and documented 100+ incidents of "street harassment." I put that term in quotes this time because I'm not 100% in agreement that what was documented fits the definition. Harassment is defined as: the act or an instance of harassing, or disturbing, pestering, or troubling repeatedly; persecution. (dictionary.com.) The word "harassment" implies something sinister or lascivious.
There is no doubt that this video documents the fact that on the street people make comments about you: your body- "God bless you Mami. DAMN!"your face- "Smile!" everything else- "I just saw a thousand dollars!" And I'm not defending that. However, those comments are much less prevalent than the many incidents of "how are you today?" that repeatedly get tossed her way and ignored.
I do not consider asking a person how they are or greeting them with a "good morning" or "good evening" harassment. I think this video is painting men a very unfavorable shade by claiming that they are "harassing" this woman when most of them are greeting her and then going about their day. "Harassment" by definition requires repetition and most of these men say something and then walk away.
I am not afraid of men who speak to me. I am afraid of men who follow me, as one does to her, I am afraid of men who openly masturbate at me, as has been done twice to me on the NYC subway and I am afraid of men who shout at me. These are scary things. But I refuse to be made afraid of a man wishing me "good morning."
When I first moved to NYC in 2002 I felt terribly alone. I met the eyes of nearly everyone I passed on the street and I smiled or said "good morning." Not everyone said it back, maybe they were afraid of me. That's a terrible thought. I'm not scary.
I remember complaining about this to my Dad; telling him how no one smiled at me like they did in my small home town. I can only imagine my dad in NYC, remembering those conversations with me and greeting young women on the street. Young women, who like his daughter may have been feeling very alone. The very idea that he could have been filmed in that video and now defined as a "street harasser" makes me feel sick and sad. We have to stop searching for reasons to be afraid of men.
I comment on women's appearances all the time. Right or wrong, that's our culture and we feel like we are invested in, and can judge others' physicality. Think I'm wrong? Look how many copies of US Weekly and Heat are sold each week. We love it. I have most definitely been known to say "wow!" out loud if I see a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man. If they were walking past me with two microphones in their hands you would have heard me. My comments are never meant to intimidate anyone. But regardless of intent, I'd now be labeled a "street harasser."
I was raised that if something is lovely, you say it. Someone might be having the worst day of their life and if you tell them you like their shirt or that they look beautiful, you might improve their day just a little bit. Is it only OK for me to do that if I'm a woman? Or is it not OK at all and we should just stop fucking talking to each other?
Street harassment is a very real thing and it is really, really scary. Please don't misunderstand me. But by this video's definition I am a street harasser. A wink, a smile, a friendly greeting should not cause us to be afraid. Nevertheless I worry this video will cause men to be afraid. To shut up and stop talking to us just in case they inadvertently provoke the opposite response they expected or wanted.
I refuse to victimize myself as a woman and I refuse to vilify you as a man. Please keep wishing me "good morning." I will continue to answer back.
Thursday, 30 October 2014
Monday, 20 October 2014
The question continues...
I went to a feminist book club last week. For those of you who read this, you will either be totally repulsed by that idea or totally jealous. You should be the latter, it was awesome.
I met about fifteen other women who wanted to talk about stuff I wanted to talk about and who were interested in the same kinds of conversations I wanted to have about said stuff. None of this 'I'm right, you're wrong' bullshit, but more 'I hear you and am interested, tell me more.' I felt that I had the opportunity to consider a lot of ideas I hadn't thought about before and at the same time that I had met a group of like-minded women I am psyched to meet again. We didn't all agree with each other, in fact, we challenged more than we acquiesced and something someone said has lingered with me this whole week.
The subject of rape came up again, as it is likely to do when discussing sexual politics and inequalities between genders. Also I was shamelessly plugging my blog, which unfortunately recently has been about the same subject. Anyway, one of the women in the group said that she found it unfair that if a woman is too drunk to give consent, than surely a man can be too drunk to control himself. Whuuuuh? To be honest, this was a totally new idea to me, so I didn't want to dismiss it, I wanted to think about it. So I have.
Drunk, incapacitated women are so often the victims of sexual assault, that to then excuse this assault by saying that a man simply loses control of his faculties and has to forceably put his penis or other object into someone else's body is pretty fucked up. But here we are again (dum dum duuuuum)Is it rape? Is this a crazy double standard we've been peddling all this time? A way to avoid regret by calling rape? I say 'nay.'
In my experience, if you can get it up, you have an idea about what you are doing. All my male mates have the same response to too much alcohol as I do: they pass the fuck out. They don't grow massive hard-on and seek place to bury it. If you are putting your penis into someone who is too drunk to know what's going on or passed out, then you are a rapist. If you can't get it up and then still try and put things into someone else's body while they are incapacitated...well you, my friend are a whole new level of fucked, but you are also a rapist. And this shit is not exclusive to college like Katy Perry's brand of lesbianism. If you raped someone in college, you are a rapist. It's not a cute phase you went through.
Is it totally fucking crazy that I've been considering this for a week? No, and I'm glad I did. Far too often women are painted as victims and men as predators, but sometimes it's because that's just how it is sometimes. Sometimes, not all the time. I love men. Really, really love them and so therefore I refuse to believe that all me have the capacity to rape; that when a man gets too drunk his default identity is Rapey McRaper. I have intelligent, sexy, impressive men in my life. Men who drink and have drank a shitload of alcohol and none have raped.
Sadly I also have huge numbers of beautiful, smart, hilarious female friends who drink and at one time in their life have drank a shitload of alcohol and have woken up with dicks and other objects inside them and have been raped. It's just the truth. So I'm not saying in any way that women can lose control and men can't. I'm just saying that we both lose control in a similar way and it is a predator, not some poor, hapless drunk who rapes.
Hopefully the next time I'm here it will be with cheerier topics, but I do feel that this is important that we are thinking about it and talking about it. A lot of people have stories to share, but are silent because of the shame and the blame surrounding these incidents. Let's start to have the difficult conversations and start to get on the same side.
And if you need help:
You can call Rapecrisis freephone helpline in the UK 0808 802 9999
And in the USA you can call 08006564673
I met about fifteen other women who wanted to talk about stuff I wanted to talk about and who were interested in the same kinds of conversations I wanted to have about said stuff. None of this 'I'm right, you're wrong' bullshit, but more 'I hear you and am interested, tell me more.' I felt that I had the opportunity to consider a lot of ideas I hadn't thought about before and at the same time that I had met a group of like-minded women I am psyched to meet again. We didn't all agree with each other, in fact, we challenged more than we acquiesced and something someone said has lingered with me this whole week.
The subject of rape came up again, as it is likely to do when discussing sexual politics and inequalities between genders. Also I was shamelessly plugging my blog, which unfortunately recently has been about the same subject. Anyway, one of the women in the group said that she found it unfair that if a woman is too drunk to give consent, than surely a man can be too drunk to control himself. Whuuuuh? To be honest, this was a totally new idea to me, so I didn't want to dismiss it, I wanted to think about it. So I have.
Drunk, incapacitated women are so often the victims of sexual assault, that to then excuse this assault by saying that a man simply loses control of his faculties and has to forceably put his penis or other object into someone else's body is pretty fucked up. But here we are again (dum dum duuuuum)Is it rape? Is this a crazy double standard we've been peddling all this time? A way to avoid regret by calling rape? I say 'nay.'
In my experience, if you can get it up, you have an idea about what you are doing. All my male mates have the same response to too much alcohol as I do: they pass the fuck out. They don't grow massive hard-on and seek place to bury it. If you are putting your penis into someone who is too drunk to know what's going on or passed out, then you are a rapist. If you can't get it up and then still try and put things into someone else's body while they are incapacitated...well you, my friend are a whole new level of fucked, but you are also a rapist. And this shit is not exclusive to college like Katy Perry's brand of lesbianism. If you raped someone in college, you are a rapist. It's not a cute phase you went through.
Is it totally fucking crazy that I've been considering this for a week? No, and I'm glad I did. Far too often women are painted as victims and men as predators, but sometimes it's because that's just how it is sometimes. Sometimes, not all the time. I love men. Really, really love them and so therefore I refuse to believe that all me have the capacity to rape; that when a man gets too drunk his default identity is Rapey McRaper. I have intelligent, sexy, impressive men in my life. Men who drink and have drank a shitload of alcohol and none have raped.
Sadly I also have huge numbers of beautiful, smart, hilarious female friends who drink and at one time in their life have drank a shitload of alcohol and have woken up with dicks and other objects inside them and have been raped. It's just the truth. So I'm not saying in any way that women can lose control and men can't. I'm just saying that we both lose control in a similar way and it is a predator, not some poor, hapless drunk who rapes.
Hopefully the next time I'm here it will be with cheerier topics, but I do feel that this is important that we are thinking about it and talking about it. A lot of people have stories to share, but are silent because of the shame and the blame surrounding these incidents. Let's start to have the difficult conversations and start to get on the same side.
And if you need help:
You can call Rapecrisis freephone helpline in the UK 0808 802 9999
And in the USA you can call 08006564673
Tuesday, 14 October 2014
But is it rape?
Everyone knows how much I love Kesha (formerly Ke$ha), right? If you don't then you don't know me.
I love her enough to go see her twice, to pay money for her albums (I know all the words to both) and I even watched her really shit show, My Crazy Beautiful Life long after she drank her own pee and everyone else switched off. I. Love. Her.
Today it was reported that she is suing her producer Dr. Luke for sexual assault. She alleges that he, on numerous occasions got her drunk or drugged her and sexually molested her. As if this wasn't sad and infuriating enough, overwhelmingly the public's response is that she deserved it. Because she writes songs about 'brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack' she should expect to be assaulted. Because she sings 'Pull over, sucker! Now spread 'em, Let me see what you're packin', Inside that denim,' she's earned a good non-consensual pounding.
When the fuck are we going to stop blaming victims for being victims? I don't give a half a shit if she was chugging whiskey, booty-butt nekked on this dude's pool table with her ass in the air. There is no excuse for someone to touch your body without your permission. And what is all this bullshit about 'is it rape?' All this qualifying shit? 'She was drunk so...was it rape?' 'She's continued working with him for so long so...was it rape?' 'She can't remember what happened to her so...was it rape?' Let me clear this up for everyone. If you are sexually assaulted when you are drunk, drugged or even if you are in a long term relationship, it counts.
Weighing in on a crime like it's Tracey Emin's unmade fucking bed. Is it art? Is trivializing a horrific crime that happens to a woman every fucking 45 seconds in the USA.
We need to get rid of this archaic idea that 'real' rape only happens in a dark alley with a weapon wielding stranger. Not everyone runs straight to the police or to the shower and sits in it for hours like the showed us on Lifetime TV, and just because they don't, it makes them no less of a victim.
I read the most rage-inducing story recently of a woman who was raped whilst she was drunk on holiday in a foreign country. She didn't run after it happened, she stayed the night at the party where the crime occurred, too afraid to head out in the strange, dark country alone. She went to the police the following day, but was met with disbelief and slight amusement when she reported that the attack had happened over 18 hours ago and that she had been intoxicated. It wasn't rape, they said, it was regret.
Fewer and fewer women are reporting rape and we wonder why? Nine out of ten women raped on college campus don't report it. Why would they when we sit and judge and mock and shame. I know too many people who have a story like Kesha's and there is always a reason they only talk about it in hushed circles; 'I dated him', 'I was drunk', 'I was flirting', 'It wasn't real rape' 'You can't rape a man.' When are we going to start supporting each other instead, so we don't have to feel so fucking alone? When are we going to start listening and stop all the judgement? Who is it helping?
I am supporting Kesha, not just because I love and respect her as an artist, but because I respect her as a person. The conversation surrounding her revelation is all wrong. We need to stop talking about how many of her songs were about partying and start focusing on how to support people who are brave enough to seek the justice they deserve.
I love her enough to go see her twice, to pay money for her albums (I know all the words to both) and I even watched her really shit show, My Crazy Beautiful Life long after she drank her own pee and everyone else switched off. I. Love. Her.
Today it was reported that she is suing her producer Dr. Luke for sexual assault. She alleges that he, on numerous occasions got her drunk or drugged her and sexually molested her. As if this wasn't sad and infuriating enough, overwhelmingly the public's response is that she deserved it. Because she writes songs about 'brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack' she should expect to be assaulted. Because she sings 'Pull over, sucker! Now spread 'em, Let me see what you're packin', Inside that denim,' she's earned a good non-consensual pounding.
When the fuck are we going to stop blaming victims for being victims? I don't give a half a shit if she was chugging whiskey, booty-butt nekked on this dude's pool table with her ass in the air. There is no excuse for someone to touch your body without your permission. And what is all this bullshit about 'is it rape?' All this qualifying shit? 'She was drunk so...was it rape?' 'She's continued working with him for so long so...was it rape?' 'She can't remember what happened to her so...was it rape?' Let me clear this up for everyone. If you are sexually assaulted when you are drunk, drugged or even if you are in a long term relationship, it counts.
Weighing in on a crime like it's Tracey Emin's unmade fucking bed. Is it art? Is trivializing a horrific crime that happens to a woman every fucking 45 seconds in the USA.
We need to get rid of this archaic idea that 'real' rape only happens in a dark alley with a weapon wielding stranger. Not everyone runs straight to the police or to the shower and sits in it for hours like the showed us on Lifetime TV, and just because they don't, it makes them no less of a victim.
I read the most rage-inducing story recently of a woman who was raped whilst she was drunk on holiday in a foreign country. She didn't run after it happened, she stayed the night at the party where the crime occurred, too afraid to head out in the strange, dark country alone. She went to the police the following day, but was met with disbelief and slight amusement when she reported that the attack had happened over 18 hours ago and that she had been intoxicated. It wasn't rape, they said, it was regret.
Fewer and fewer women are reporting rape and we wonder why? Nine out of ten women raped on college campus don't report it. Why would they when we sit and judge and mock and shame. I know too many people who have a story like Kesha's and there is always a reason they only talk about it in hushed circles; 'I dated him', 'I was drunk', 'I was flirting', 'It wasn't real rape' 'You can't rape a man.' When are we going to start supporting each other instead, so we don't have to feel so fucking alone? When are we going to start listening and stop all the judgement? Who is it helping?
I am supporting Kesha, not just because I love and respect her as an artist, but because I respect her as a person. The conversation surrounding her revelation is all wrong. We need to stop talking about how many of her songs were about partying and start focusing on how to support people who are brave enough to seek the justice they deserve.
Sunday, 5 October 2014
Am I Right? Yes you are!
On Thursday evening I made my monthly pilgrimage to The Soho Theatre. I decided awhile ago that I was not taking full advantage of all the wonderful opportunities that London affords to see live performance. So as a solution I vowed to go and see something each month that I had never heard of. This was how I discovered Lady Rizo and saw shows like The Children's Hour, so far I'd had pretty amazing luck.
Whilst in the queue for Lady Rizo last month I saw a poster of what looked like quite a bolshy young woman holding her jacket open to reveal a studded bra.The look on her face said 'You like this? Of course you do.' I'd like to think it's a similar face to what I would make if I was opening my jacket and exposing my bra to you. So I booked tickets to this lady's performance knowing nothing about her, but that she was probably American and that she had awesome hair. The title of the show was 'Am I Right, Ladies?' So I was looking forward to seeing if she was.
I make it a practice to not Google my monthly performances (not a euphemism.) I like to be surprised and to always see live acts with an unprejudiced eye. I'll spare you the details of how we (myself and my gorgeous companion Hannah) arrived super early (see post about Lady Rizo) and queued up for ages and then ran downstairs like two squealing children only to be told that the show was, in fact two floors up and had already started. Face palm.
Once we found the right theatre and were told off for trying to bring glass in, we were shown to our seats which were on the right side of the balcony. A woman was on stage, who I have to say looked little like the promotional poster. She was blonde, not dark haired and looked younger, thinner and slightly less glamorous. I suppose replacing a fur coat and a studded bra with a PVC skirt and plimsoles will do that to a girl.
To the soundtrack of Beyonce she was shuffling/dancing around the stage, clearly waiting for idiots like us to take our seats. Once we had, she introduced herself and then demanded we demonstrate some of our dance moves. I loved her already. From rapid shoulder-raises to a miniature cabbage patch we were all moving in unison and giving Luisa our 'sex face.' It is at this stage that I realized she was not American, but British. No American has an accent, or a sex face like hers.
Once she had suitably warmed us up, she began by telling us that she had already had one very successful show a few years ago and that this was her sequel. She got standing ovations every night, but alas her life was still full of one night stands and bus rides home. From the first few statements out of Luisa's mouth, 'And when I say bitches, I mean the men too. Equality.' It was apparent that she was a feminist who was doing an incredibly inclusive show, but speaking from her very personal experience. This was going to be something really exciting.
Luisa managed to celebrate her body, comparing her little pot-belly to a Prada bag, without putting anyone else down. There was no mention of 'skinny bitches.' There were no comparisons. She was telling her story with passion, power, total hilarity and managed to keep every single woman and man in that theatre on her side. It was such a finely crafted show that none of us wanted to move when she stepped off stage, but at the same time we all wanted to bum-rush her and congratulate her on doing such a fantastic job.
It would be a cliche to describe her show as 'brave' but it really was. From recounting loveless sexual encounters to the heartbreak of being cheated on and the incredibly accurate statements she makes about gender equality and mental illness, she's fucking brave and I wish that we were seeing more of her and seeing more comedians like her emerging.
In today's society where even my beloved Lee Evans has started to make domestic violence jokes in a bid to appear relevant, comics like Luisa are doing it totally effortlessly and without being abrasive or offensive. You leave the show wanting to be her friend and wanting to thank her for saying a million things you've always been thinking. She is the representation of what it means to be young, broke and single in London. I don't want to spoil things for you, but there are many splendid surprises peppered throughout the show and each one is expertly timed. She breaks your heart, makes you rise to your feet in solidarity and cheer until your throat is raw for this wonderful show and this incredible woman.
'Am I Right Ladies?' has finished its short run at The Soho Theatre, but its predecessor 'What Would Beyonce Do?' Is running at The Leciester Square Theatre. You can get tickets here: http://www.seetickets.com/event/luisa-omielan-what-would-beyonce-do/leicester-square-theatre/792809
Come with me! And you can find out more about Luisa here: http://www.iloveluisa.com/
Whilst in the queue for Lady Rizo last month I saw a poster of what looked like quite a bolshy young woman holding her jacket open to reveal a studded bra.The look on her face said 'You like this? Of course you do.' I'd like to think it's a similar face to what I would make if I was opening my jacket and exposing my bra to you. So I booked tickets to this lady's performance knowing nothing about her, but that she was probably American and that she had awesome hair. The title of the show was 'Am I Right, Ladies?' So I was looking forward to seeing if she was.
I make it a practice to not Google my monthly performances (not a euphemism.) I like to be surprised and to always see live acts with an unprejudiced eye. I'll spare you the details of how we (myself and my gorgeous companion Hannah) arrived super early (see post about Lady Rizo) and queued up for ages and then ran downstairs like two squealing children only to be told that the show was, in fact two floors up and had already started. Face palm.
Once we found the right theatre and were told off for trying to bring glass in, we were shown to our seats which were on the right side of the balcony. A woman was on stage, who I have to say looked little like the promotional poster. She was blonde, not dark haired and looked younger, thinner and slightly less glamorous. I suppose replacing a fur coat and a studded bra with a PVC skirt and plimsoles will do that to a girl.
To the soundtrack of Beyonce she was shuffling/dancing around the stage, clearly waiting for idiots like us to take our seats. Once we had, she introduced herself and then demanded we demonstrate some of our dance moves. I loved her already. From rapid shoulder-raises to a miniature cabbage patch we were all moving in unison and giving Luisa our 'sex face.' It is at this stage that I realized she was not American, but British. No American has an accent, or a sex face like hers.
Once she had suitably warmed us up, she began by telling us that she had already had one very successful show a few years ago and that this was her sequel. She got standing ovations every night, but alas her life was still full of one night stands and bus rides home. From the first few statements out of Luisa's mouth, 'And when I say bitches, I mean the men too. Equality.' It was apparent that she was a feminist who was doing an incredibly inclusive show, but speaking from her very personal experience. This was going to be something really exciting.
Luisa managed to celebrate her body, comparing her little pot-belly to a Prada bag, without putting anyone else down. There was no mention of 'skinny bitches.' There were no comparisons. She was telling her story with passion, power, total hilarity and managed to keep every single woman and man in that theatre on her side. It was such a finely crafted show that none of us wanted to move when she stepped off stage, but at the same time we all wanted to bum-rush her and congratulate her on doing such a fantastic job.
It would be a cliche to describe her show as 'brave' but it really was. From recounting loveless sexual encounters to the heartbreak of being cheated on and the incredibly accurate statements she makes about gender equality and mental illness, she's fucking brave and I wish that we were seeing more of her and seeing more comedians like her emerging.
In today's society where even my beloved Lee Evans has started to make domestic violence jokes in a bid to appear relevant, comics like Luisa are doing it totally effortlessly and without being abrasive or offensive. You leave the show wanting to be her friend and wanting to thank her for saying a million things you've always been thinking. She is the representation of what it means to be young, broke and single in London. I don't want to spoil things for you, but there are many splendid surprises peppered throughout the show and each one is expertly timed. She breaks your heart, makes you rise to your feet in solidarity and cheer until your throat is raw for this wonderful show and this incredible woman.
'Am I Right Ladies?' has finished its short run at The Soho Theatre, but its predecessor 'What Would Beyonce Do?' Is running at The Leciester Square Theatre. You can get tickets here: http://www.seetickets.com/event/luisa-omielan-what-would-beyonce-do/leicester-square-theatre/792809
Come with me! And you can find out more about Luisa here: http://www.iloveluisa.com/
Sunday, 28 September 2014
20 years since my first hug from Jesus
The legs of my chair scraped against the floor and seemed to protest on my behalf. I pulled viciously at my tartan skirt and contorted my spine to escape from behind my desk which was clearly built for a toddler. As I shuffled towards the front of the class and approached Dr. Miller tentatively I noticed, really for the first time how small he was. We locked eyes for a second; I dared myself not to look away. All at once his head was on my shoulder and his arms were around me, squeezing. I heard him let out a little sigh; so I bit my lip and examined the ceiling. Cracks, holes, gum…? There we stood, pressed together making the world’s most awkward, empty sandwich.
In my teenage brain an eternity passed, though I know it must have only been a matter of seconds before he whispered into my ear with a smile in his voice ‘that was a hug from Jesus.’ I pulled away and held him at arm’s length. Through tightly closed lips I grinned and inhaled deeply through my nose. I nodded my head slowly as our eyes met again. ‘Yes it was.’ I whispered back before I turned on my heel and made my way back to my tiny desk, each whisper and giggle making contact like a slap as I manoeuvred myself back into position just in time for the bell to ring.
I was fourteen-years old when I got my first ever “hug from Jesus,” though much to my chagrin it was not my last. Hell, it wasn’t even my last that day. This bodily gift from Christ was delivered to me by my Religion teacher, Dr. Miller. He was also my homeroom teacher, so I was lucky enough to see him first thing in the morning and also just before I went home each day. He was a very special teacher to me. He was kind, funny and incredibly smart. He taught me the Hail Mary and never once made me feel different for being the only Jewish girl in a Catholic school. A very sharp contrast to Mr Neim, my Sophomore Religion teacher who after much fierce debate about the fate of homosexuals after death declared me a “dirty Jew” in front of the whole class and followed that slur with the statement that he hoped ‘me and those fags would be having a disco party in hell.’ What a cliche! Everyone knows that disco is dead and that it would be a Madonna party we'd be having. I'd be 80's Madonna. Material Girl, not Lucky Star. Anyway, that cheerful exchange forced Mr. Neim into early retirement, but I hear Dr. Miller is still teaching, and I’m extremely happy about that.
It was shortly after morning prayers that the first sacred cuddle took place. It was customary at St. Mary’s Catholic high school to say prayers in the morning for those who had passed away in the days before. This particular day was the day that my Mother’s death was announced over the loudspeaker and the day that to most of my classmates, I became very different.
Mom was sick. I knew, though she never said; well not until it was too late. She was in and out of hospital since I was 11 or 12. My brother and I watched as she came back each time transformed. He skin stretched, her hair thinned and one day she came back with tubes running through her chest and in her arms. I still don’t know what those were for, but they certainly didn’t make her any better.
I was only two weeks into my high school experience when she died. The rabbi had come for me four times before. “It’s time” became our mantra in those final days. I felt like an expectant father without any of the joy or excitement. I paced halls, I cracked knuckles. That last time he fetched me I had grown tired of the routine. I knew once we arrived home there would be countless people there. Some I recognized, some I did not; fretting, crying, running around the place pushing me into the wall, shooing me from her bedside. I was ready for it to be over. I thought I was ready for it to be over.
Her death, though thoroughly expected, was somehow still a wretched surprise. It was nothing like the countless deaths I’d observed on cinema and television screens. I genuinely thought people just closed their eyes and gracefully expired. She didn’t. I counted the seconds since her last breath; 50, 60, 70, Christ, 80 seconds! Then she breathed again. The sound of it, violent and quick like she was trying to hold on to something earthly. She wanted to stay, but in that moment, I just wanted her to go. In that second I stopped breathing too. I squinted my eyes so hard that my cheeks ached and thought a prayer that must have gone something like this: ‘fuck. God. Cut this shit out.’ At fourteen, I was sure it was some kind punishment for one of us watching, and that she might suffer like that forever, until suddenly I was holding the hand of a corpse. I wanted to scream. To drop the thing and run away, but I couldn’t, even though it was seriously freaking me out and probably doing long-term psychological damage.
I held onto her limp hand and exhaled. My lungs burned. Then just as I was about to excuse myself, this wet, gurgling sound came shimmying and shaking up her throat. I thought for an instant it was her soul until the black liquid erupted like a fountain of tar out of her mouth. There was no end to it. I have seen that moment in my nightmares ever since. I’d never wanted to disappear so badly as I did then, but when you’re fourteen you have nowhere to go.
To this day people ask me how I could have gone to school the day after she died. The only answer I can give is: ‘what the hell else was I going to do?’ I was desperate for distraction, for normality; desperate to get out of a house that smelled of death, which was bursting at the seams with too many people that walked through me and brought casseroles. I could see their disappointment. I overheard their hushed conversations about my lack of emotion. How I should be ashamed for not crying, for always making things difficult by not joining in with their “circle of sobbing” as I liked to call it. They thought I was cold. They probably still do, but they would be wrong.
These people could be upset. They knew her. Really knew her. They were married to her or were related to her or she was their best friend. She was someone so special to them that they never understood that she didn’t trust me, so I resented her. To me it felt like she was just an ever-fading presence in my house that deserted me before ever telling me anything important, she was the person who thought I was too young to handle the truth about her diagnosis.
Before Mom’s death there were no makeup lessons; there were no big talks about boys and about sex. The following year I would be in a hotel toilet in Kansas City trying desperately to figure out how to insert a tampon before a dance competition while my Dad, with his ear pressed against the other side of the door shouted ‘any luck?’ ‘Didya get it in?’ My Mom died at the precipice of my womanhood without leaving me so much as a Lady Bic, and I found rationalizing my abandonment difficult. Rationalizing her death was impossible.
At school I assumed my anonymity would act as a shield, so I wouldn’t have to talk about it. I figured that it was only my second week there, so no one would even know my last name. I didn’t anticipate Dr. Miller dragging me up in front of the class to be publicly squeezed. But I managed to make it through the rest of that first day without too much embarrassment. Occasionally I would meet the gaze of another student in the hall and they would look at me, all big, wet eyes. I quickly realized that avoidance may not be as easy as I had hoped. A few people approached me open-armed and embraced me. Others offered condolences or shook their heads and whispered things like “shiiiiit” in my ear. It all felt very strange, but at least I wasn’t at home.
Dr. Miller greeted me cheerfully at the door for last period and handed me 6 sealed envelopes.
I took them from his hand and met his eyes with mine, ‘Hey Dr. Miller. What’s in these?’
With a mischievous wink he replied ‘warm fuzzies.’
I raised a curious eyebrow, but before I could ask for an explanation he had wrapped his arm around my waist to keep me in place and requested that the rest of the class take their seats. He turned to face me and declared that because I was having such a rough time he’d asked all of his other classes to write me some messages of support or “warm fuzzies” as he called them. The dread began to pool in my stomach when I realized that he expected me to share them with the class. I winced at the idea, but he looked so proud of himself I couldn’t refuse. I cleared my throat in an over-the-top comic way to try to lighten the mood, but my fellow classmates were looking at me so earnestly it broke my heart.
I pulled out a bright green slip of paper that had written in lovely script ‘Sorry about your Mom. You have pretty hair.’ Everyone clapped and nodded and assured me that yes! I did have very pretty hair. I pressed the paper scrap to my chest, turned to Dr. Miller and made a face that I thought read ‘I’m done.’ Apparently not, as he just nodded at me, beaming.' ‘One more!’ he begged with his hands clasped in prayer position. I sighed. This time it was a bright orange scrap that read ‘Dear Lee, I don’t know you, but it sucks your Mom died’ another chorus of agreement. Yes! It did suck! This oracle of wisdom had united us all with a common thought and something in my chest bloomed.
I fingered all those lovely little bright scraps of paper as a fist formed in my throat. In the sea of grief that I could not navigate and could not master, I struggled onto the driftwood of stranger's sentiment. In those silly, well-meant words, I found the comfort I couldn't find anywhere else and was so grateful to Dr. Miller for his incredibly kind exercise. I looked out at my classmates and tried to smile. Instead I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes, and just before my vision was obscured completely, I heard the familiar scrape of the too-small chair on the floor and one by one everyone in the class get up and give me a “hug from Jesus” before the last bell rang.
Sunday, 21 September 2014
Bully for you!
When I was a child, well let me be more specific. When I was between the ages of eight and eleven I was a real douche. I still have the ability to be douchey, but I will never be able to outdo the doucheness that I was back then. This morning while I was lying in bed, very much awake next to a snoring Steve I found myself reflecting on this part of my life and feeling a guilt more powerful than the guilt I reserve for being childless in my 30's.
Back in 1988 I had a bowl haircut and an overbite. I could put a pencil between my front two teeth and my mother dressed me like a toddler well into adolescence. I was the perfect target for bullying, yet I can't recall a time at school where I ever felt truly persecuted. Not like some of the stories you read about today. I thank the clouds regularly that I was spared the prepubescent cruelty that plagues Bebo and Facebook and has caused awkward kids like me to cut and to kill themselves.
Back before computers, the only way to bully someone was in the flesh. I was called names like 'meatloaf' (a clever play on my surname) and was teased for being a boy on the daily, but then I was also the little androgynous madame who wold slap the glasses clean off your face for doing so. I was never afraid to get physical. I would grab you by your arms and spin you round and round until you were having fun and then I'd let you go and watch you fly across the playground and land in the dirt. 'Call me a boy one more time' I'd think to myself as I displayed my bottom lip to my victim in mock sadness.
Assaulting those who pick on you is definitely the wrong answer. I know that now. And if you are reading this and you are Shaun or Stan, I'm sorry. But the thing that I will never understand about child-me is that in addition to slapping and throwing people across the playground. I used to punch my friends. Well actually just one friend, really. Why? Who the hell knows, but I did it.
Poor Sadie, wherever you are, you are probably traumatized by our friendship the way that I am haunted by it. I really, really loved Sadie. We were best friends and the other girls at school were mean to her because they once saw her pick her nose and eat it. Who cares? Not me. Like I said, I loved Sadie and I couldn't ever figure out how to show her, so sometimes I would become so full of love and admiration for her that I'd punch her in the arm. Hard. Why? Fuck knows, but I used to do it from time to time and I think about it now and feel very bad about it and wonder just what the actual hell was wrong with me. What couldn't I just hug her?
Many years after Sadie and I were friends, I saw her again when I was waiting tables at Cheddar's. She came in with her whole family and she looked so beautiful. We chatted as I brought and cleared plates and refills of fizzy drinks and when she left she hugged me. She didn't flinch as she came towards me, so that's a good sign! But still I would have liked to apologize and I never did.
I am not longer friends with Sadie, and though I've tried to find her on Facebook, I've been unsuccessful. I hope this is because she's married somewhere with everything she wants and is insanely happy. I hope she doesn't think about me and my little hands punching her very often and I hope that wherever she is, no one is hurting her.
Luckily I outgrew this mean streak and by the time I hit middle school I basically pooped rainbows and was friends with everyone and never hit anyone ever again (except the time all those girls beat me up, but I don't think my fist actually connected with anything that whole time), but I did shove a piece of cake in someone's face a la The Three Stooges, and for that I will always feel remorse.
It was a girl I was kind-of friends with as well. A girl who wasn't having an easy time and was a very easy target. I was given, as a dare, the grizzly assignment of smashing a piece of cake in this poor girl's face. In front of the whole school. And I did it. This is the time when my friends list on Facebook drops dramatically and I totally accept that.
What a terrible thing to do to someone. Looking back I should have said 'fuck your dare!' And possibly smashed some cake in their face, but I didn't. I relented to what my father calls 'peer pressure' *cringe* and did something terrible to another human being. and for this I am terribly ashamed. I do still know her and I have apologized, but when I did I could tell that memory, though 13 years old at the time, was very fresh for her. It was like she'd dressed a bullet wound with tissue paper and I'd just stuffed my finger in it. I did a very bad thing.
I suppose I'm writing this as a kind of catharsis. I used to be a dick and I've seen some kids be dicks to each other recently and I look on with my judgmental, knowing eye as their parents shrug and say things like 'they're just kids.' That is most definitely true, but what they do as kids will stay with them and affect them as they grow. Look at me! Stewing on a Sunday morning about deeds I committed before even hitting double digits!
Mean shouldn't be tolerated or even encouraged just because it's being employed by the young. That's when it should be spoken about and discouraged. Kids often can't control themselves, but by insisting that they don't need to, and excusing bad behavior, we are potentially making their lives and their Sunday mornings harder later on.
Back in 1988 I had a bowl haircut and an overbite. I could put a pencil between my front two teeth and my mother dressed me like a toddler well into adolescence. I was the perfect target for bullying, yet I can't recall a time at school where I ever felt truly persecuted. Not like some of the stories you read about today. I thank the clouds regularly that I was spared the prepubescent cruelty that plagues Bebo and Facebook and has caused awkward kids like me to cut and to kill themselves.
Back before computers, the only way to bully someone was in the flesh. I was called names like 'meatloaf' (a clever play on my surname) and was teased for being a boy on the daily, but then I was also the little androgynous madame who wold slap the glasses clean off your face for doing so. I was never afraid to get physical. I would grab you by your arms and spin you round and round until you were having fun and then I'd let you go and watch you fly across the playground and land in the dirt. 'Call me a boy one more time' I'd think to myself as I displayed my bottom lip to my victim in mock sadness.
Assaulting those who pick on you is definitely the wrong answer. I know that now. And if you are reading this and you are Shaun or Stan, I'm sorry. But the thing that I will never understand about child-me is that in addition to slapping and throwing people across the playground. I used to punch my friends. Well actually just one friend, really. Why? Who the hell knows, but I did it.
Poor Sadie, wherever you are, you are probably traumatized by our friendship the way that I am haunted by it. I really, really loved Sadie. We were best friends and the other girls at school were mean to her because they once saw her pick her nose and eat it. Who cares? Not me. Like I said, I loved Sadie and I couldn't ever figure out how to show her, so sometimes I would become so full of love and admiration for her that I'd punch her in the arm. Hard. Why? Fuck knows, but I used to do it from time to time and I think about it now and feel very bad about it and wonder just what the actual hell was wrong with me. What couldn't I just hug her?
Many years after Sadie and I were friends, I saw her again when I was waiting tables at Cheddar's. She came in with her whole family and she looked so beautiful. We chatted as I brought and cleared plates and refills of fizzy drinks and when she left she hugged me. She didn't flinch as she came towards me, so that's a good sign! But still I would have liked to apologize and I never did.
I am not longer friends with Sadie, and though I've tried to find her on Facebook, I've been unsuccessful. I hope this is because she's married somewhere with everything she wants and is insanely happy. I hope she doesn't think about me and my little hands punching her very often and I hope that wherever she is, no one is hurting her.
Luckily I outgrew this mean streak and by the time I hit middle school I basically pooped rainbows and was friends with everyone and never hit anyone ever again (except the time all those girls beat me up, but I don't think my fist actually connected with anything that whole time), but I did shove a piece of cake in someone's face a la The Three Stooges, and for that I will always feel remorse.
It was a girl I was kind-of friends with as well. A girl who wasn't having an easy time and was a very easy target. I was given, as a dare, the grizzly assignment of smashing a piece of cake in this poor girl's face. In front of the whole school. And I did it. This is the time when my friends list on Facebook drops dramatically and I totally accept that.
What a terrible thing to do to someone. Looking back I should have said 'fuck your dare!' And possibly smashed some cake in their face, but I didn't. I relented to what my father calls 'peer pressure' *cringe* and did something terrible to another human being. and for this I am terribly ashamed. I do still know her and I have apologized, but when I did I could tell that memory, though 13 years old at the time, was very fresh for her. It was like she'd dressed a bullet wound with tissue paper and I'd just stuffed my finger in it. I did a very bad thing.
I suppose I'm writing this as a kind of catharsis. I used to be a dick and I've seen some kids be dicks to each other recently and I look on with my judgmental, knowing eye as their parents shrug and say things like 'they're just kids.' That is most definitely true, but what they do as kids will stay with them and affect them as they grow. Look at me! Stewing on a Sunday morning about deeds I committed before even hitting double digits!
Mean shouldn't be tolerated or even encouraged just because it's being employed by the young. That's when it should be spoken about and discouraged. Kids often can't control themselves, but by insisting that they don't need to, and excusing bad behavior, we are potentially making their lives and their Sunday mornings harder later on.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
The Lady is a Marvel
Poised at the front of the queue I waited as the usher shifted her weight from her left to right foot and eyed me up and down for the fifteenth time. She knew I meant business. As more and more people filtered in through the door, the adrenaline started to rush into my veins and caused my face to get hot. None of these people would cut in front of me. No. Fucking. Way.
A pregnant woman teetered on her toes next to me, looking over my shoulder. I wrestled with my morality for a moment. No fetus was going to beat me down the stairs. It hadn't even bought a ticket, the cheeky fucker. The woman let out a frustrated breath and wrapped herself around her belly as if it were a parcel she were carrying and not a belly full of fluid with a person suspended in it. I rolled my eyes and created a tiny pocket in front of me and motioned for her to fill it. Of course I let the pregnant lady wait ahead of me. I'm not a monster.
Just then the usher unhooked the rope, and at last we were off. Everyone had to make the same decision, to run or to possibly spill our drinks. We all looked like adult egg-and-spoon contestants trying to contain the liquid in our glasses whilst we maintained a brisk pace down the stairs. Steve and I settled in some equally cold and uncomfortable seats at the front of the stage. I always get a seat at the front of the stage. That's why I show up early.
I had seen lady Rizo two times before. Once on a whim before I had ever heard of her, and then the last time for her Violet album launch. It's a fantastic album. You can listen here: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/artist/lady-rizo/id319457979 Last night I was unsure of what to expect. The first two shows were drastically different and this time she'd just finished her run at the Edinburgh festival and had recently completed a tour of Australia and New Zealand. Through my Twitter feed I followed her; inexplicably proud, as if I'd discovered her. And I had, as thousands of people are now discovering her. I wanted her to be as good as she was the first time I saw her. When I was totally absorbed in the glamor and the fun. For her to not have watered down her show too much, for it to be worth me nearly cutting off a pregnant woman and it was. It really, really was.
To say Lady Rizo is a delight would be like saying a perfectly chilled glass of vintage Dom Perignon was 'nice' and not 'utterly delicious.' She is a force majure of raw, visceral vocal skill, pure sexuality and unapologetic humour. Last night she added a denuded vulnerability I'd not seen before, and at times felt I shouldn't have been seeing, but I never even attempted to look away. It would be impossible. She is a bejeweled, disco princess of desire. She is somehow both vintage and current and you can't take your eyes off of her.
In the three times I've seen Lady Rizo, she has had varying musical accompaniment. From a full band, to just a guitar and a drum kit. The musicians she works with are impeccable. Their timing and their cohesion never falters. Last night she performed with just her cellist come guitarist, Yaine. He is her beautiful co-writer who at times appears to know what Lady Rizo is about to do before she does. His cello wept and rejoiced under Rizo's sensually dark, dripping vocals. At times, while watching them together I caught myself fantasizing that they were lovers. The intimacy between them feels more than musical and is insanely beautiful.
Last night's performance centered around her genesis as Lady Rizo. An angel and a devil were selected from the audience with much hilarity, and as her tale of romance and betrayal unfurled, mash ups of DeAngelo and the Carpenters surprised and thrilled us. The whole night she had us eating out of the palm of her hand, and occasionally her beautifully displayed cleavage.
The evolution of Lady Rizo's gowns continue to reveal her success. No longer the head-to-toe sequins, which upon closer inspection were damaged and patched multiple times. Last night's gowns looked as though they stepped right out of the Charles James exhibit in New York. The feather eyelashes were retired and it was an altogether very sophisticated Lady Rizo that stood before us. Her costume changes were as theatrical as they were inclusive and are all part of the fun. We in the audience were as invested in a boa made of ribbon as we were her melancholy and slightly manic rendition of Amanda Palmer's 'I Google you.'
Once the show was over she sat in the back happily signing autographs with the enthusiasm of someone who still maybe can't believe people want them. I told her giddily that 'I really appreciate what you do.' To which she responded with a very sweet 'thank you for standing in line to tell me that' and then signed the tank top I bought at her last performance, her hooded eyes printed across my breasts. I hope people tell Lady Rizo that they appreciate what she does every night, but if they don't, the crowds she is drawing certainly convey that very important message.
If you live in London. please do yourself a massive favour and go and see her in this tiny, stuffy, incredibly intimate venue before she starts filling stadiums. The rest of the world, please look here to find her performing somewhere local to you. http://www.ladyrizo.com/calendar/
A pregnant woman teetered on her toes next to me, looking over my shoulder. I wrestled with my morality for a moment. No fetus was going to beat me down the stairs. It hadn't even bought a ticket, the cheeky fucker. The woman let out a frustrated breath and wrapped herself around her belly as if it were a parcel she were carrying and not a belly full of fluid with a person suspended in it. I rolled my eyes and created a tiny pocket in front of me and motioned for her to fill it. Of course I let the pregnant lady wait ahead of me. I'm not a monster.
Just then the usher unhooked the rope, and at last we were off. Everyone had to make the same decision, to run or to possibly spill our drinks. We all looked like adult egg-and-spoon contestants trying to contain the liquid in our glasses whilst we maintained a brisk pace down the stairs. Steve and I settled in some equally cold and uncomfortable seats at the front of the stage. I always get a seat at the front of the stage. That's why I show up early.
I had seen lady Rizo two times before. Once on a whim before I had ever heard of her, and then the last time for her Violet album launch. It's a fantastic album. You can listen here: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/artist/lady-rizo/id319457979 Last night I was unsure of what to expect. The first two shows were drastically different and this time she'd just finished her run at the Edinburgh festival and had recently completed a tour of Australia and New Zealand. Through my Twitter feed I followed her; inexplicably proud, as if I'd discovered her. And I had, as thousands of people are now discovering her. I wanted her to be as good as she was the first time I saw her. When I was totally absorbed in the glamor and the fun. For her to not have watered down her show too much, for it to be worth me nearly cutting off a pregnant woman and it was. It really, really was.
To say Lady Rizo is a delight would be like saying a perfectly chilled glass of vintage Dom Perignon was 'nice' and not 'utterly delicious.' She is a force majure of raw, visceral vocal skill, pure sexuality and unapologetic humour. Last night she added a denuded vulnerability I'd not seen before, and at times felt I shouldn't have been seeing, but I never even attempted to look away. It would be impossible. She is a bejeweled, disco princess of desire. She is somehow both vintage and current and you can't take your eyes off of her.
In the three times I've seen Lady Rizo, she has had varying musical accompaniment. From a full band, to just a guitar and a drum kit. The musicians she works with are impeccable. Their timing and their cohesion never falters. Last night she performed with just her cellist come guitarist, Yaine. He is her beautiful co-writer who at times appears to know what Lady Rizo is about to do before she does. His cello wept and rejoiced under Rizo's sensually dark, dripping vocals. At times, while watching them together I caught myself fantasizing that they were lovers. The intimacy between them feels more than musical and is insanely beautiful.
Last night's performance centered around her genesis as Lady Rizo. An angel and a devil were selected from the audience with much hilarity, and as her tale of romance and betrayal unfurled, mash ups of DeAngelo and the Carpenters surprised and thrilled us. The whole night she had us eating out of the palm of her hand, and occasionally her beautifully displayed cleavage.
The evolution of Lady Rizo's gowns continue to reveal her success. No longer the head-to-toe sequins, which upon closer inspection were damaged and patched multiple times. Last night's gowns looked as though they stepped right out of the Charles James exhibit in New York. The feather eyelashes were retired and it was an altogether very sophisticated Lady Rizo that stood before us. Her costume changes were as theatrical as they were inclusive and are all part of the fun. We in the audience were as invested in a boa made of ribbon as we were her melancholy and slightly manic rendition of Amanda Palmer's 'I Google you.'
Once the show was over she sat in the back happily signing autographs with the enthusiasm of someone who still maybe can't believe people want them. I told her giddily that 'I really appreciate what you do.' To which she responded with a very sweet 'thank you for standing in line to tell me that' and then signed the tank top I bought at her last performance, her hooded eyes printed across my breasts. I hope people tell Lady Rizo that they appreciate what she does every night, but if they don't, the crowds she is drawing certainly convey that very important message.
If you live in London. please do yourself a massive favour and go and see her in this tiny, stuffy, incredibly intimate venue before she starts filling stadiums. The rest of the world, please look here to find her performing somewhere local to you. http://www.ladyrizo.com/calendar/
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