I am attempting to work my way through thoughts that have been percolating for a few days now. I had what I thought was a breakthrough in the shower, but now I'm not so sure. It's the old men and women problem again. Specifically, the whys and wheretofores of feminism and the patriarchy.
My hang up is this: men don't need to rediscover a community of men because everything, being geared as it is towards masculinity and the perpetuation of masculinity, is already geared towards the community of men. There is no large social silencing of men going on. However, men as individuals are under pressure to conform to societal ideals of masculinity the same as women are under pressure to conform to societal ideals of femininity. To some degree, recently, the objectification of men has grown exponentially. This means that why men aren't as abused and silenced as women as a whole, men as individuals still suffer from the objectification and pressures placed on them that many individual women do.
There isn't a "men's studies" department alongside women's studies for good reason--just about everything is men's studies. But men are people too. I'm not saying that to sound patronizing (haha) but because I'm caught between the disconnect of understanding women and minorities and what is/has happening/happened to them and not forgetting the humanity of the straight white male while we're at it. Obviously the answer is not to do away with multi-cultural studies any more than it is to place an obscene amount of guilt on young straight, white, males, but how do we account for the individual pressures withstood, even as we acknowledge a larger lack of societal pressures or bigotry?
At the risk of sounding existentialist I want to say something hippish like "we all just need to know ourselves" but that doesn't do anyone any good. Men are denied their emotions, pressured to change their bodies, and marked by their gender for particular activities. Forgetting for a minute how much these things happen to women I'm more concerned with how much the damage that is done to men is forgotten in an effort to discuss women. Of course, the solution might very well be found in women's studies--in the best classes I've taken it isn't about a male versus female situation but looking at how the patriarchy affects all genders indiscriminately. Which leads me to another thought.
Is this evaluation of women to the exclusion of men a reality or the spin placed on women's studies to devalue it and make it appear like feminists exist in an either/or reality? There can be little argument that feminist is a dirty word; in my classes many of my freshman girls, sweet church-going freshman girls, would rather be called sluts than feminists. What does that tell us? I wonder if real women's studies, the kind I have been exposed to honestly, doesn't look more at both genders and the effects of society on both genders more honestly and realistically than any portrayal outside the classroom offers. We only see on tv and in movies the angry man-hating dyke feminists. Chasing Amy presents a really fantastic representation of that.
So maybe this discomfort I'm dealing with isn't about the silencing of men in order to empower women at all, but some unvocalized awareness of further silencing of women and men, through the accusation that men are being silenced. After all, in order to really look at men the way women's studies have begun to look at women we would need new theory and new language. That theory and language isn't going to come from the traditional classes, but may very well be available in feminist theory.
Is it possible then that men are continuously silencing themselves in order to attack feminists? Isn't there an old cliché somewhere about cutting off your own arm to spite your enemy or something? It wouldn't surprise me at all if that were what was going on because society, patriarchal as it is, doesn't look at its members as individuals and so causing men to suffer would be as inconsequential as the suffering of anyone else. Perpetuating in-fighting between the members would, however, ensure that our demands for individual recognition continue to go unheard.
Obviously this isn't something that's going to be figured out in a few thousand words written by an armchair philosopher, but it's interesting and, I think, worth considering. How often do we suffer what we think we suffer, and how often is our suffering created specifically to manipulate us into ignoring what is actually causing the pain?
Friday, May 30, 2008
Benadryl is legalized crack. Is everyone aware of this? I took two capsules the other day and spent the afternoon in a haze previously felt only while engaging in activities that will not be admitted to. I took one tonight and am still alternately giggling and yawning. I have to sign my life away for a bottle of Robitussin but I can buy all the Benadryl I want. I honestly feel this is further proof of our government's hard fought success with the war on drugs. Well done Washington, well done.
Now, obviously I'm not going to discuss Atlas Shrugged while living in my Benadryl high even though it is done, but I did want to take a minute to ask an important question: when did I become that old spinster that sits in her parents' house and watches t.v. with them? I mean, I know the answer is tonight, but what I'm trying to ask is actually how did this happen. Two weeks ago I was living in Las Vegas, living the really unexciting life of homework and grading, but on occasion I did things like drink beer and go to male strip shows. How I'm in the middle of a corn field somewhere watching hours of t.v. on dvd with my parents getting high on Benadryl. Someone explain to me where all the cool in my life has gone.
Now, my parents are very cool people, I love them a lot, but they're a little bit like Abbot and Costello. Take, for example, a conversation they had my first night home:
Scene: Mom and Dad sit in the living room watching an old musical from the 50's. The actress dances across the screen and Dad wonders about her identity. They television is loud enough to make conversation difficult and Mom and Dad are seated just far enough apart that they can't hear each other clearly.
Dad: Is she in Showboat?
Mom: She was in Showboat.
Dad: I don't know if she was in Showboat.
Mom: She was in Showboat.
Dad (a little harshly) : I don't know if she was in Showboat.
Mom (patiently, but louder): She was in Showboat.
Dad (obviously irritated): I don't know if she was in Showboat!:
Mom (screaming back now): She was in Showboat!
(offstage in the other room I am heard laughing loudly)
This is what I come home to people.
I wouldn't have it any other way, of course. The sort of entertainment my parents provide would sell an arena full of tickets in Vegas, but tonight as we finished up our fourth or fifth episode of The Closer I looked at the time, just past midnight, and thought to myself "Self, you used to be cool."
And that notion has me wondering. Am I no longer cool because I don't go out and play broken, addicted child movie star every night or am I no longer cool because I don't want to go out and play? Even when I try and find my inner trollop she only lasts about an hour before she has to dive back inside and recuperate. Am I just getting old or is it perfectly acceptable to slip away into spinsterdom as long as you are happy doing it and still go see Thunder Down Under on occasion? These are important things to figure out because I need to know if I can live with myself before I commit to being myself.
Oh, yes, I left out one important detail. In between episodes of The Closer we took a break to pop popcorn, take Benadryl, and (wait for it) Prilosec. Not only do I wile away my evening watching tv on dvd with my parents, but we take heartburn medication together too. That's right, you didn't think this story could get better until you got to that part did you.
This is why I don't fear the Children of the Corn. I've lived here all my life (until recently). The worst thing they can do to me is throw a deer in front of my car and consign me to a life of heartburn and hanging out with my parents. Of course, were I forced to spend the rest of my life with my parents I would also have to play dvd goalie with my dad every night. He has a list of five to ten dvd's, you understand, that he cycles through. Despite his collection that extends across multiple shelves he only wants to watch the same five to ten dvds every night. And the worst part is, if you turn your back, even for a second, even to save a baby from the middle of the intersection, he will slip one in. And once the dvd is playing it's too late; there is no changing the movie once it's playing. Should the cornfields seize my soul I'm not sure I could exist playing dvd goalie for eternity.
Obviously I need to sleep off this Benadryl and see about securing my passage back to the desert. It is kind of fun watching them with each other. Hollywood might paint true love with an orchestral score and sweeping landscape cinematography, but I'm going with something closer to Abbot and Costello for sure.
Now, obviously I'm not going to discuss Atlas Shrugged while living in my Benadryl high even though it is done, but I did want to take a minute to ask an important question: when did I become that old spinster that sits in her parents' house and watches t.v. with them? I mean, I know the answer is tonight, but what I'm trying to ask is actually how did this happen. Two weeks ago I was living in Las Vegas, living the really unexciting life of homework and grading, but on occasion I did things like drink beer and go to male strip shows. How I'm in the middle of a corn field somewhere watching hours of t.v. on dvd with my parents getting high on Benadryl. Someone explain to me where all the cool in my life has gone.
Now, my parents are very cool people, I love them a lot, but they're a little bit like Abbot and Costello. Take, for example, a conversation they had my first night home:
Scene: Mom and Dad sit in the living room watching an old musical from the 50's. The actress dances across the screen and Dad wonders about her identity. They television is loud enough to make conversation difficult and Mom and Dad are seated just far enough apart that they can't hear each other clearly.
Dad: Is she in Showboat?
Mom: She was in Showboat.
Dad: I don't know if she was in Showboat.
Mom: She was in Showboat.
Dad (a little harshly) : I don't know if she was in Showboat.
Mom (patiently, but louder): She was in Showboat.
Dad (obviously irritated): I don't know if she was in Showboat!:
Mom (screaming back now): She was in Showboat!
(offstage in the other room I am heard laughing loudly)
This is what I come home to people.
I wouldn't have it any other way, of course. The sort of entertainment my parents provide would sell an arena full of tickets in Vegas, but tonight as we finished up our fourth or fifth episode of The Closer I looked at the time, just past midnight, and thought to myself "Self, you used to be cool."
And that notion has me wondering. Am I no longer cool because I don't go out and play broken, addicted child movie star every night or am I no longer cool because I don't want to go out and play? Even when I try and find my inner trollop she only lasts about an hour before she has to dive back inside and recuperate. Am I just getting old or is it perfectly acceptable to slip away into spinsterdom as long as you are happy doing it and still go see Thunder Down Under on occasion? These are important things to figure out because I need to know if I can live with myself before I commit to being myself.
Oh, yes, I left out one important detail. In between episodes of The Closer we took a break to pop popcorn, take Benadryl, and (wait for it) Prilosec. Not only do I wile away my evening watching tv on dvd with my parents, but we take heartburn medication together too. That's right, you didn't think this story could get better until you got to that part did you.
This is why I don't fear the Children of the Corn. I've lived here all my life (until recently). The worst thing they can do to me is throw a deer in front of my car and consign me to a life of heartburn and hanging out with my parents. Of course, were I forced to spend the rest of my life with my parents I would also have to play dvd goalie with my dad every night. He has a list of five to ten dvd's, you understand, that he cycles through. Despite his collection that extends across multiple shelves he only wants to watch the same five to ten dvds every night. And the worst part is, if you turn your back, even for a second, even to save a baby from the middle of the intersection, he will slip one in. And once the dvd is playing it's too late; there is no changing the movie once it's playing. Should the cornfields seize my soul I'm not sure I could exist playing dvd goalie for eternity.
Obviously I need to sleep off this Benadryl and see about securing my passage back to the desert. It is kind of fun watching them with each other. Hollywood might paint true love with an orchestral score and sweeping landscape cinematography, but I'm going with something closer to Abbot and Costello for sure.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Let's have a conversation about words. Words can have enormous or negligible effect depending on the speaker and the listener. Ignoring the instances when they have no effect, how do you deal with the situations where they have enormous effect? Imagine this: you're sitting in a car with a boy and you two discuss a wedding where you were a bridesmaid and hung out with him most of the night. Then he says "girl A was beautiful at the wedding. Oh, were you there?" Now, you know full well this wasn't said with the intention of being mean and you also know, realistically, that your presence hasn't been completely forgettable. But the words have been said and they indicate a lack of awareness of you that you hadn't conceived possible up to that point. My question, having to do specifically with thoughtless words, is how do we move past them?
People make throw away comments every day to family and friends that stick with us our entire lives. Sometimes we say things with absolutely no awareness of their power or intention to harm, but they do nonetheless. How does one, as a friend, forgive another friend? Often we just brush it off and while we never forget it was said, we move past it. But can you forgive someone for a thoughtless comment or is the only closure found in verbalizing how it hurt you and hashing it out?
This particular trip home for me has sort of been the motherload of thoughtless comments and this is on my mind, but because of the prevalence I've found myself thinking back to all the times I can remember other thoughtless comments or fights with friends over comments I made that hurt them. And I've never put any thought into the reality of TC's (thoughtless comments) existence beyond doing my best not to make them (since I am at a higher likelihood than most of letting one slip out). But language is what I hope to make my living studying and I hope to write some day, or at least better understand, the ways we create our individual perceptions of reality through language (though I won't write exactly on that because Derrida already did it and I'm so not Derrida). So today, the part of language I am choosing to examine is the TC--thoughtless comment.
The most obvious response to a TC is to verbalize that it hurt you. No doubt in a workplace seminar or couple's counseling this is exactly what they would tell you to do; however, on occasion you have a friend (and don't pretend you don't because we all have at least one) who makes a TC, but if you point out that it hurt they will become so guilt-ridden over hurting you that you will end up comforting them in the end. So you, having received the TC are now in the position of not only having to deal with the TC, but also not letting your friend know you were affected by the TC and are even then, while the conversation progresses, in the process of forgiving them. I would hazard this is a common occurrence.
What I want to know is how do you let that go? Depending on the type and severity of TC you can find yourself questioning any number of things: your appearance, your intelligence, your value as a human being, or even if your presence has been noticed for the past three to five years. These are all fairly happiness-threatening issues that have to be dealt with or they come back up two years later over a pitcher of beer in some dive bar. Not to mention, when that happens (discussing these things over alcohol) and everyone is so very sad it was ever said somewhere in the back of your brain, swimming in the alcohol is the question are they sorry they implied something they didn't mean, or are they sorry I found out about it?
This is the insidiousness of the TC you understand. It gets inside your brain and festers there. Then you, trying valiantly and failing to deal with the TC in some quiet, unnoticed way begin to focus on it and the inability to talk about it only makes it absorb that much more of your concentration. Eventually you do become incredibly uninteresting and a bit of whiner and everyone stops listening to you. Looking in the mirror one day and realizing you've begun to sicken even yourself you suppress the TC like a champ where it lies in wait for the fortifications of your will to weaken with beer and cheap shots. This is the whole sick and pathetic cycle of the TC.
So how do you skip all of that? How do you skip on by to the part where you don't even care? Is it possible? I haven't discovered a process yet, hence my analysis of the evil mind parasite that is the TC. G.I. Joe says knowing is the half the battle, but in this case I'm going to have to say that knowing isn't more than a third, maybe even a fourth. Recognizing the presence of a TC in your brain doesn't do you much good, in fact, it might make you even more crazy because you know it was only a TC and that you should be able to get over it.
I suppose one solution would be to get better friends, but even if that were feasible a) we can't change our family and this happens most often with them (especially mothers) and b) I wouldn't have any friends because I constantly made the TC in my youth.
I've got nothing. One year down towards a PhD and I still can't answer questions like this. Higher education is obviously of no aid in helping you figure out how not to feel like a crazy person. I bet if I wrote a self-help book on dealing with the TC I could make a lot of money though. At least then my crazy would be a rich crazy and I could be promoted to "eccentric." This is a good plan. I'm going to go with it. Let me know what you come up with so I can steal it for the book.
People make throw away comments every day to family and friends that stick with us our entire lives. Sometimes we say things with absolutely no awareness of their power or intention to harm, but they do nonetheless. How does one, as a friend, forgive another friend? Often we just brush it off and while we never forget it was said, we move past it. But can you forgive someone for a thoughtless comment or is the only closure found in verbalizing how it hurt you and hashing it out?
This particular trip home for me has sort of been the motherload of thoughtless comments and this is on my mind, but because of the prevalence I've found myself thinking back to all the times I can remember other thoughtless comments or fights with friends over comments I made that hurt them. And I've never put any thought into the reality of TC's (thoughtless comments) existence beyond doing my best not to make them (since I am at a higher likelihood than most of letting one slip out). But language is what I hope to make my living studying and I hope to write some day, or at least better understand, the ways we create our individual perceptions of reality through language (though I won't write exactly on that because Derrida already did it and I'm so not Derrida). So today, the part of language I am choosing to examine is the TC--thoughtless comment.
The most obvious response to a TC is to verbalize that it hurt you. No doubt in a workplace seminar or couple's counseling this is exactly what they would tell you to do; however, on occasion you have a friend (and don't pretend you don't because we all have at least one) who makes a TC, but if you point out that it hurt they will become so guilt-ridden over hurting you that you will end up comforting them in the end. So you, having received the TC are now in the position of not only having to deal with the TC, but also not letting your friend know you were affected by the TC and are even then, while the conversation progresses, in the process of forgiving them. I would hazard this is a common occurrence.
What I want to know is how do you let that go? Depending on the type and severity of TC you can find yourself questioning any number of things: your appearance, your intelligence, your value as a human being, or even if your presence has been noticed for the past three to five years. These are all fairly happiness-threatening issues that have to be dealt with or they come back up two years later over a pitcher of beer in some dive bar. Not to mention, when that happens (discussing these things over alcohol) and everyone is so very sad it was ever said somewhere in the back of your brain, swimming in the alcohol is the question are they sorry they implied something they didn't mean, or are they sorry I found out about it?
This is the insidiousness of the TC you understand. It gets inside your brain and festers there. Then you, trying valiantly and failing to deal with the TC in some quiet, unnoticed way begin to focus on it and the inability to talk about it only makes it absorb that much more of your concentration. Eventually you do become incredibly uninteresting and a bit of whiner and everyone stops listening to you. Looking in the mirror one day and realizing you've begun to sicken even yourself you suppress the TC like a champ where it lies in wait for the fortifications of your will to weaken with beer and cheap shots. This is the whole sick and pathetic cycle of the TC.
So how do you skip all of that? How do you skip on by to the part where you don't even care? Is it possible? I haven't discovered a process yet, hence my analysis of the evil mind parasite that is the TC. G.I. Joe says knowing is the half the battle, but in this case I'm going to have to say that knowing isn't more than a third, maybe even a fourth. Recognizing the presence of a TC in your brain doesn't do you much good, in fact, it might make you even more crazy because you know it was only a TC and that you should be able to get over it.
I suppose one solution would be to get better friends, but even if that were feasible a) we can't change our family and this happens most often with them (especially mothers) and b) I wouldn't have any friends because I constantly made the TC in my youth.
I've got nothing. One year down towards a PhD and I still can't answer questions like this. Higher education is obviously of no aid in helping you figure out how not to feel like a crazy person. I bet if I wrote a self-help book on dealing with the TC I could make a lot of money though. At least then my crazy would be a rich crazy and I could be promoted to "eccentric." This is a good plan. I'm going to go with it. Let me know what you come up with so I can steal it for the book.
Monday, May 26, 2008
I have been beat with a rollercoaster--repeatedly. I spent the weekend at Cedar Point amusement park and it was a fun-filled adventure, but I feel as if a train (a small train I'll grant you) has spent the last two days running back and forth over my body, just to make sure I'm dead. I have recaptured my love of rollercoasters, however.
Therefore, in honor of such a jarring, heart-stopping weekend I offer you this newest list. It's not exactly a top ten list, but it is a listing of the top ten times this weekend I thought I might die.
The Top Ten Most Intense Moments of Fear at Cedar Point:
10. Power Lunge Stairs
It was a water-slide that was more vertical than slide. I climbed a lot of wooden, shaky stairs to get to the top and while the ride itself wasn't so bad, standing on the stairs in cold weather, wet, watching the wood shake under my feet was terrifying. Things did not help when my friend pointed out that the bolts appeared sub-standard, but were actually okay. What I don't want to hear as I'm suspended hundreds of feet in the air is that the construction even appears suspect for a moment. After those stairs, how could any ride be scary?
9. Maverick
It was the first ride of the day and my first rollercoaster in years. It also has an inverted drop. Things I need to know before I ride. As we climbed up the rail I saw the first drop off and I thought where is the track? How was I to know it curled back underneath itself? How was I to know it would hold? I plunged upside down and backwards and lost my courage somewhere along the first five feet of track.
8. Snake in the Water
We stood atop the Preying Mantis waiting to board when one of the guys gleefully pointed out the water snake in the water below us. Do I have to elaborate why this is unacceptable? Now I had to worry that if the rollercoaster broke and I plunged straight down at sixty miles an hour if I did survive the fall I would also have to survive the snake. I can't plan ahead for that.
7. Raptor
The seat locked down; the man checked it. I dangled in the air climbing the track to the first plunge with my fear that the seat hadn't locked down and the concurrent fear that if I pushed to hard to check I might unlock my harness and so doom myself on accident. Granted, if my pushing on it unlocked it I was screwed anyway, but in my fear befuddled mind I couldn't think that far in advance. That's why they call such fear irrational.
6. Magnum
It didn't occur to me that climbing a very long hill, very slowly without anything on the side (no catwalk) would make the ride more frightening. Oddly enough, even though you know you are in a car on a track when you can't see said track your mind plays a horrible trick on you. It's a trick that requires all your concentration to fight lest you wet your pants.
5. Mean Streak
It's kinda mean, but very wooden. What worried me was that with as much as we shook there was no way to tell if the coaster was supposed to shake that much, or if the wood was giving out from underneath us. And, as we zoomed around and around there were wooden overhangs that looked like they were waiting to decapitate you. You know what's really mean? Wooden rollercoasters that do anything more than go up and down.
4. Demon Drop
All it does is go up and drop you. That's it. Seemed fun. Easy. Non-threatening. People in front of us were screaming as they were raised up and I mocked them. What's to scream about when you're only going up? Then we got in. The cage was grabbed by the ride and yanked upward at an alarming rate. Surprised I stifled my scream, but we kept going up, higher and higher. About that I time I realized we were going to drop most of the way back down free fall. With very little self control I started saying over and over again, "Bad idea. This was a bad idea. Bad, bad idea." It was fun, but that doesn't mean I was wrong.
3. Water Raft Slide
This ride marks the only moment actual death seemed eminent. The four of us rode one tube down the water slide and we got a lot of height on the turns. A lot of height. So much height, in fact, that it seemed as if one of our members was going to be launched either over the edge of the slide or across the tube onto another one of us. By the end of the slide we were all shaking, and one person was in the fetal position on the bottom of the tube. Truly memorable.
2. Vomit-tron
It was nicknamed the vomit-tron by those who came before me. It is an apt nickname and for awhile it was really, really fun. We swung up; we swung back. No big deal. Then we went higher than just parallel to the ground. It felt like we were going to go upside down but I knew the ride wasn't made to go upside down. All the while we were spinning to the side so your eyes told your body you were flying towards the steel supports. My senses were enraged; my heart was thudding. All signs pointed to death.
1. Seagull
How can a seagull be the most fear-inducing you ask? Simple: it dropped a five-mile stretch of seagull poop right in front of us as we were walking. There is no warning; no missile-lock to let you know you're in trouble. No sound to alert you to the danger that flies towards your head. Instead you simply see your life flash before your eyes as pounds of white bird poo fall from the sky, barely missing you to land on the pavement.
Tell me that doesn't scare you.
Therefore, in honor of such a jarring, heart-stopping weekend I offer you this newest list. It's not exactly a top ten list, but it is a listing of the top ten times this weekend I thought I might die.
The Top Ten Most Intense Moments of Fear at Cedar Point:
10. Power Lunge Stairs
It was a water-slide that was more vertical than slide. I climbed a lot of wooden, shaky stairs to get to the top and while the ride itself wasn't so bad, standing on the stairs in cold weather, wet, watching the wood shake under my feet was terrifying. Things did not help when my friend pointed out that the bolts appeared sub-standard, but were actually okay. What I don't want to hear as I'm suspended hundreds of feet in the air is that the construction even appears suspect for a moment. After those stairs, how could any ride be scary?
9. Maverick
It was the first ride of the day and my first rollercoaster in years. It also has an inverted drop. Things I need to know before I ride. As we climbed up the rail I saw the first drop off and I thought where is the track? How was I to know it curled back underneath itself? How was I to know it would hold? I plunged upside down and backwards and lost my courage somewhere along the first five feet of track.
8. Snake in the Water
We stood atop the Preying Mantis waiting to board when one of the guys gleefully pointed out the water snake in the water below us. Do I have to elaborate why this is unacceptable? Now I had to worry that if the rollercoaster broke and I plunged straight down at sixty miles an hour if I did survive the fall I would also have to survive the snake. I can't plan ahead for that.
7. Raptor
The seat locked down; the man checked it. I dangled in the air climbing the track to the first plunge with my fear that the seat hadn't locked down and the concurrent fear that if I pushed to hard to check I might unlock my harness and so doom myself on accident. Granted, if my pushing on it unlocked it I was screwed anyway, but in my fear befuddled mind I couldn't think that far in advance. That's why they call such fear irrational.
6. Magnum
It didn't occur to me that climbing a very long hill, very slowly without anything on the side (no catwalk) would make the ride more frightening. Oddly enough, even though you know you are in a car on a track when you can't see said track your mind plays a horrible trick on you. It's a trick that requires all your concentration to fight lest you wet your pants.
5. Mean Streak
It's kinda mean, but very wooden. What worried me was that with as much as we shook there was no way to tell if the coaster was supposed to shake that much, or if the wood was giving out from underneath us. And, as we zoomed around and around there were wooden overhangs that looked like they were waiting to decapitate you. You know what's really mean? Wooden rollercoasters that do anything more than go up and down.
4. Demon Drop
All it does is go up and drop you. That's it. Seemed fun. Easy. Non-threatening. People in front of us were screaming as they were raised up and I mocked them. What's to scream about when you're only going up? Then we got in. The cage was grabbed by the ride and yanked upward at an alarming rate. Surprised I stifled my scream, but we kept going up, higher and higher. About that I time I realized we were going to drop most of the way back down free fall. With very little self control I started saying over and over again, "Bad idea. This was a bad idea. Bad, bad idea." It was fun, but that doesn't mean I was wrong.
3. Water Raft Slide
This ride marks the only moment actual death seemed eminent. The four of us rode one tube down the water slide and we got a lot of height on the turns. A lot of height. So much height, in fact, that it seemed as if one of our members was going to be launched either over the edge of the slide or across the tube onto another one of us. By the end of the slide we were all shaking, and one person was in the fetal position on the bottom of the tube. Truly memorable.
2. Vomit-tron
It was nicknamed the vomit-tron by those who came before me. It is an apt nickname and for awhile it was really, really fun. We swung up; we swung back. No big deal. Then we went higher than just parallel to the ground. It felt like we were going to go upside down but I knew the ride wasn't made to go upside down. All the while we were spinning to the side so your eyes told your body you were flying towards the steel supports. My senses were enraged; my heart was thudding. All signs pointed to death.
1. Seagull
How can a seagull be the most fear-inducing you ask? Simple: it dropped a five-mile stretch of seagull poop right in front of us as we were walking. There is no warning; no missile-lock to let you know you're in trouble. No sound to alert you to the danger that flies towards your head. Instead you simply see your life flash before your eyes as pounds of white bird poo fall from the sky, barely missing you to land on the pavement.
Tell me that doesn't scare you.
Monday, May 19, 2008
I'm really tired of not being understood, so I'm going to use this post as my personal sounding board. It's unexpected I'm sure--I rarely speak my personal beliefs here. There is even a chance this won't get posted, but it's 1:30 in the morning and that's just the time for things like this to be make it onto the internet.
I appear to communicate in a violent, irritating fashion. I state my opinions forcefully and it seems that I am constantly misunderstood because of that. When I'm lucky, someone asks me politely for clarification and ascertains that I didn't actually mean what I said; when I'm unlucky someone attacks back working from what they thought I said, regardless of what words I actually used.
This is a ongoing situation in my life. When I was an undergraduate a professor awarded me an A because she "knew I had potential" not for the work I completed in her class. In a very long, very personal letter she informed me that I did not deserve the A but was being gifted it. When I was a masters student a professor sent me a very long, very personal email where I was accused of not caring about my career as a graduate student and was wasting everyone's time. He went ahead and finished my letters of recommendation, but wished I would just go away and not return until I was serious. Now, as a doctoral student I've been accused of plagiarism and awarded an A in the class even though my work was apparently sub par for most of the semester.
When I've attempted to broach the subject with almost anyone, they look at me as if I'm either overreacting or kidding. The reason I'm sharing this is because I've found it incredibly frustrating to be unable to communicate. Furthermore, the silencing I've experienced at almost every turn has been almost as frustrating as the experiences themselves.
Where am I going with this? I've never been a particularly serious student, and I've never been incapable of completing that which I attempt. What's more, I think most people conceive of me as generally unaware of my surroundings and tactless in my interactions. It then becomes that when I attempt to discuss any frustrations it is assumed that it isn't that big of a deal, or it was avoidable because it was instigated/caused by me in the first place. Oddly enough I've noticed two very gender specific reactions--women tend to brush me off and casually change the subject; men tend to engage me and then talk over me insisting that I said what they think I said and refusing to listen to me as I offer clarification. Both reactions have tripped my temper and it wasn't until this moment that I figured out why I'm writing all of this down.
Nobody likes it when someone else is unhappy. In fact, we would prefer that those who are generally happy stay happy all the time. When they aren't it unnerves us, makes us uncomfortable and we silently wish they would shut up (at worse) or crack a joke and try to cheer them up so things can return to normal (at best). But rarely do we just let them talk. I've experienced this in my own friendships and this semester with other students and even with my awareness of my discomfort it wasn't until this exact moment that I realized this is what I've been doing to people and what is being done to me. I'm not talking in absolutes here; not everyone does this to everyone all the time, but it happens enough.
I'm not trying to write an accusatory, whining diatribe here, but am attempting to speak, to make noise, about how much silencing occurs every day. I didn't realize until this moment how often we silence each other because we just don't want to be bothered with honesty. We don't want to be bothered with the burden of understanding. I'm as guilty as most, certainly more than some; like most everything in my life, though, I didn't become aware of it until it happened to me.
My point then is not that I am frustrated that I am a bad communicator, but that I am frustrated because so many times I am not allowed to communicate. Meaning is half made (at least) by the listener, but I think when a listener refuses to allow the other half to be made by the speaker, they are silencing--once that happens, once you tell someone what they've said instead of allowing them to explain it you've removed their voice. You've silenced them.
So this is me, speaking out. I can recognize my aggressive and threatening tendencies, especially when I'm riled. My question, then, is can anyone name them for me, or am I just supposed to accept my silencing and play the game? Be what is expected of me without challenging those expectations? Because that is really, really, not going to happen.
I appear to communicate in a violent, irritating fashion. I state my opinions forcefully and it seems that I am constantly misunderstood because of that. When I'm lucky, someone asks me politely for clarification and ascertains that I didn't actually mean what I said; when I'm unlucky someone attacks back working from what they thought I said, regardless of what words I actually used.
This is a ongoing situation in my life. When I was an undergraduate a professor awarded me an A because she "knew I had potential" not for the work I completed in her class. In a very long, very personal letter she informed me that I did not deserve the A but was being gifted it. When I was a masters student a professor sent me a very long, very personal email where I was accused of not caring about my career as a graduate student and was wasting everyone's time. He went ahead and finished my letters of recommendation, but wished I would just go away and not return until I was serious. Now, as a doctoral student I've been accused of plagiarism and awarded an A in the class even though my work was apparently sub par for most of the semester.
When I've attempted to broach the subject with almost anyone, they look at me as if I'm either overreacting or kidding. The reason I'm sharing this is because I've found it incredibly frustrating to be unable to communicate. Furthermore, the silencing I've experienced at almost every turn has been almost as frustrating as the experiences themselves.
Where am I going with this? I've never been a particularly serious student, and I've never been incapable of completing that which I attempt. What's more, I think most people conceive of me as generally unaware of my surroundings and tactless in my interactions. It then becomes that when I attempt to discuss any frustrations it is assumed that it isn't that big of a deal, or it was avoidable because it was instigated/caused by me in the first place. Oddly enough I've noticed two very gender specific reactions--women tend to brush me off and casually change the subject; men tend to engage me and then talk over me insisting that I said what they think I said and refusing to listen to me as I offer clarification. Both reactions have tripped my temper and it wasn't until this moment that I figured out why I'm writing all of this down.
Nobody likes it when someone else is unhappy. In fact, we would prefer that those who are generally happy stay happy all the time. When they aren't it unnerves us, makes us uncomfortable and we silently wish they would shut up (at worse) or crack a joke and try to cheer them up so things can return to normal (at best). But rarely do we just let them talk. I've experienced this in my own friendships and this semester with other students and even with my awareness of my discomfort it wasn't until this exact moment that I realized this is what I've been doing to people and what is being done to me. I'm not talking in absolutes here; not everyone does this to everyone all the time, but it happens enough.
I'm not trying to write an accusatory, whining diatribe here, but am attempting to speak, to make noise, about how much silencing occurs every day. I didn't realize until this moment how often we silence each other because we just don't want to be bothered with honesty. We don't want to be bothered with the burden of understanding. I'm as guilty as most, certainly more than some; like most everything in my life, though, I didn't become aware of it until it happened to me.
My point then is not that I am frustrated that I am a bad communicator, but that I am frustrated because so many times I am not allowed to communicate. Meaning is half made (at least) by the listener, but I think when a listener refuses to allow the other half to be made by the speaker, they are silencing--once that happens, once you tell someone what they've said instead of allowing them to explain it you've removed their voice. You've silenced them.
So this is me, speaking out. I can recognize my aggressive and threatening tendencies, especially when I'm riled. My question, then, is can anyone name them for me, or am I just supposed to accept my silencing and play the game? Be what is expected of me without challenging those expectations? Because that is really, really, not going to happen.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
-1We have a winner. Here I thought there weren't any exciting news stories to get me going today. Who am I kidding? This article is titled "If Not Now, When Can a Woman Be President? Women face letdown of seeing Clinton's shot at presidency fall short" and it is found at http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24685257
I have several problems with this article; the first, and most prominent, is one I've been asked about and have explained several times already to friends and family. Why is it expected that because a minority happens to share status with a public official, all are supposed to vote for that candidate? All black people are expected to vote for Barak and all women for Hillary. Furthermore, as Hillary's chances (finally) wane, this article presents it in a light of women lose again--if Hillary can't win what woman possibly could? Will a woman ever be president?
My problem here is that the article appears to be operating in a vacuum. Hillary Clinton isn't losing to John McCain, she's losing to Barak Obama. That is a huge difference. Furthermore, Hillary Clinton is a phenomenally aggressive and talented woman, but she is not women's only chance. If Hillary doesn't get elected that does not signal the end of all women everywhere in the U.S. of ever successfully running for President.
Every time a woman comes along she is singled out as a "special woman;" some sort of messiah for the women of the world. Isn't it more a sign of equality if Hillary gets elected, not because she is or isn't a woman, but because the majority of the people in this country think she is the best person for the job? Isn't it more a sign of equality when we stop asking ourselves if a "man" or a "woman" would be better as President and instead say, what sort of person do I want to run my country?
This campaign has been a particularly emotional one for me. The same as most everyone else I would guess, but because I'm an outspoken feminist (and I hang around with feminists) a lot of people have wanted to talk to me about Hillary Clinton. I am an unabashed Barak Obama supporter, but I've found that I've had to qualify myself. Not because anyone was interested in why I've chosen to support him, but because as a woman, and a feminist, I am expected to vote for Hillary Clinton.
It is, to some degree, a case of reverse stereotyping. What's more, I think the unexamined allowance of Hillary Clinton to be presented as women's "only" chance is as damaging as never having a woman seriously run for president. Hillary Clinton has accomplished some amazing things (good and bad) and while I'm sure she has overcome any number of difficulties, so long as women accept her as our only possibility we are still letting those who dislike women set the rules of the game. This whole time I've been thinking about Virgina Woolf's A Room of One's Own and the section where she discusses the special woman, the token woman, the one exception to the rule of women. For all the parts of that book I both agree and disagree with, that one rang very true with me. If every time achievement is had we look on it as an exception instead of expected, what are we saying? Wow, there's a [fill in the blank] who can actually do something. I wouldn't mind voting for [whomever] because s/he's not like all the others. If [name] can't do it, who can?
I don't know all the places I'm going with this other than a general outcry to the expectations the media seems to be placing on Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton. You are expected to vote for the candidate that looks like you, but if John McCain said anything remotely like that we would label him a racist.
My good friend and I were discussing feminism the other day and she said something I found incredibly poignant and true on so many levels; she said that it seemed we had more physical liberty than mental liberty. We aren't prepared for the equality that laws are giving us (hopefully I'm not butchering this in the retelling). I found that very true of women in particular, but as I think about our presidential nominees I think it might be true on a grand scale as well. We have the freedom and the choice to vote for any number of people now-a-days, but we aren't prepared to. We still want either a) the guy that looks like all the other guys before him or b) the guy/gal that looks like us. It still isn't about having knowledge of their beliefs or whether you think they'll do a good job.
At least we have the choice--that's something any way.
I have several problems with this article; the first, and most prominent, is one I've been asked about and have explained several times already to friends and family. Why is it expected that because a minority happens to share status with a public official, all are supposed to vote for that candidate? All black people are expected to vote for Barak and all women for Hillary. Furthermore, as Hillary's chances (finally) wane, this article presents it in a light of women lose again--if Hillary can't win what woman possibly could? Will a woman ever be president?
My problem here is that the article appears to be operating in a vacuum. Hillary Clinton isn't losing to John McCain, she's losing to Barak Obama. That is a huge difference. Furthermore, Hillary Clinton is a phenomenally aggressive and talented woman, but she is not women's only chance. If Hillary doesn't get elected that does not signal the end of all women everywhere in the U.S. of ever successfully running for President.
Every time a woman comes along she is singled out as a "special woman;" some sort of messiah for the women of the world. Isn't it more a sign of equality if Hillary gets elected, not because she is or isn't a woman, but because the majority of the people in this country think she is the best person for the job? Isn't it more a sign of equality when we stop asking ourselves if a "man" or a "woman" would be better as President and instead say, what sort of person do I want to run my country?
This campaign has been a particularly emotional one for me. The same as most everyone else I would guess, but because I'm an outspoken feminist (and I hang around with feminists) a lot of people have wanted to talk to me about Hillary Clinton. I am an unabashed Barak Obama supporter, but I've found that I've had to qualify myself. Not because anyone was interested in why I've chosen to support him, but because as a woman, and a feminist, I am expected to vote for Hillary Clinton.
It is, to some degree, a case of reverse stereotyping. What's more, I think the unexamined allowance of Hillary Clinton to be presented as women's "only" chance is as damaging as never having a woman seriously run for president. Hillary Clinton has accomplished some amazing things (good and bad) and while I'm sure she has overcome any number of difficulties, so long as women accept her as our only possibility we are still letting those who dislike women set the rules of the game. This whole time I've been thinking about Virgina Woolf's A Room of One's Own and the section where she discusses the special woman, the token woman, the one exception to the rule of women. For all the parts of that book I both agree and disagree with, that one rang very true with me. If every time achievement is had we look on it as an exception instead of expected, what are we saying? Wow, there's a [fill in the blank] who can actually do something. I wouldn't mind voting for [whomever] because s/he's not like all the others. If [name] can't do it, who can?
I don't know all the places I'm going with this other than a general outcry to the expectations the media seems to be placing on Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton. You are expected to vote for the candidate that looks like you, but if John McCain said anything remotely like that we would label him a racist.
My good friend and I were discussing feminism the other day and she said something I found incredibly poignant and true on so many levels; she said that it seemed we had more physical liberty than mental liberty. We aren't prepared for the equality that laws are giving us (hopefully I'm not butchering this in the retelling). I found that very true of women in particular, but as I think about our presidential nominees I think it might be true on a grand scale as well. We have the freedom and the choice to vote for any number of people now-a-days, but we aren't prepared to. We still want either a) the guy that looks like all the other guys before him or b) the guy/gal that looks like us. It still isn't about having knowledge of their beliefs or whether you think they'll do a good job.
At least we have the choice--that's something any way.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
I planned to write a brilliant piece on Atlas Shrugged. I am currently ten pages in to the sixty page speech. You know, the big one? A is A and all that? I should finish it before I talk about it, but I thought this was an excellent sounding ground for my thoughts on objectivism. However, as I began to type it up and put all my (not so) brilliant thoughts into writing I realized that I haven't actually slept in thirty-six hours or some such silliness, and, finally, it is starting to catch up with me. I hate not to write, though, because I'm back in Illinois and there's nothing better to do.
Well, I guess I could sleep but whatever.
So many things to talk about, but this semester has seriously sucked my soul. It has been like a sixteen week bootcamp but instead of push ups we read Derrida. I've done push ups, and I've run sprints. I've even had to run a mile on occasion. I'm not going to say that Derrida is worse, but I will say it makes you hurt about as much.
But nobody reads this to hear about my day! You come here for life altering prose! Words of wisdom! Insights no one else will give you!
Yeah, I don't actually buy it either. And if that is actually why you come here, well, I'm sorry because tonight I'm just going to talk about hot Australian men that take their clothes off. That's right. They are the Thunder from Down Under. I finally say my first male strip show.
Before you begin to label me a hypocrite allow me to clarify a few things: there is no tipping at this show, it is no more (or less) than a burlesque. That means once you buy the ticket (in this case it was free) you are simply watching a show—yes it is a show that includes men who are attractive selling their sexiness, but there is no shoving money in wastebands or full nudity. There are g-strings, but I can't get on my high horse about that. I should also clarify that my problems with the female equivalents of these establishments has very little to do with women choosing to sell their body (though, in general, I think it is a negative thing they are brought to that since few really want to make the choice) and everything to do with the sexual objectification. That being said were the men I watched last night objectified? Absolutely. Probably even by me at different points, though, I had a really hard time falling into the fantasy exactly. But my point here is that I think there is a difference between selling sex as a concept and your body. Last night was selling sex as a concept—that's something we do all over the place. The places I take issue with are selling bodies...it's a fine line and no one need agree with me, but that's the difference. I won't go see Chippendales, at least I have no plans to. Take that for what it's worth.
Okay, that took a lot out of me and I really just wanted to remark on the surprising dance skills at this particular show. They were all good looking, but not exceptionally so. However, while their dancing in unison was often cheesy, the individual performances were at times truly impressive. And that's when they became really hot. And then I had the realization—here I am, at a male strip show, and I'm only see the dancers as attractive when they show genuine talent dancing; I am such a bad objectifier. I apologize to you all. I love 300 because they're brave. I love Thunder Down Under because some of them can actually dance. It's a sad state of affairs when I insist on seeing people as people, even in Vegas a strip show. I am, actually, ashamed of myself.
There was one other thing they did at this show, however, that I found incredibly sweet. At different parts of the show a lady is brought on stage for a pseudo-lap dance, but really all you do is sit there while they do interpretive dance moves around you (I'm so not joking). During one audience contest thing they pulled up a cute bachelorette, a beautifully large black woman, and a punk rocker chick. The black lady won and it was cool to see they didn't only pull up twiggy, blond girls. Later on in the show they pulled up a lady that was at least in her sixties, possibly in her seventies—she was a bachelorette too. It was one of the funniest, and coolest, things I have ever seen. But seeing them interact equally with all different types of women, not for tips but just because that was the show, made it a more enjoyable experience—hence the selling of sex as a concept. They were, for the hour those men danced around on stage, selling a fantasy. A twisted Flashdance fantasy I'll grant you, but something different from the norm.
Look at me—who theorizes on Thunder from Down Under? I apologize immediately to you all. There are only three important things to take away from this tale:
1)They were hot
2)They danced good
3)They wore itty-bitty teeny-weeny little leather panties.
Does anything else about this story matter? No. It really doesn't.
p.s. I started with the intention of writing about Atlas Shrugged and wrote about male dancers instead—my vegetative summer is off to a fantastic start.
Well, I guess I could sleep but whatever.
So many things to talk about, but this semester has seriously sucked my soul. It has been like a sixteen week bootcamp but instead of push ups we read Derrida. I've done push ups, and I've run sprints. I've even had to run a mile on occasion. I'm not going to say that Derrida is worse, but I will say it makes you hurt about as much.
But nobody reads this to hear about my day! You come here for life altering prose! Words of wisdom! Insights no one else will give you!
Yeah, I don't actually buy it either. And if that is actually why you come here, well, I'm sorry because tonight I'm just going to talk about hot Australian men that take their clothes off. That's right. They are the Thunder from Down Under. I finally say my first male strip show.
Before you begin to label me a hypocrite allow me to clarify a few things: there is no tipping at this show, it is no more (or less) than a burlesque. That means once you buy the ticket (in this case it was free) you are simply watching a show—yes it is a show that includes men who are attractive selling their sexiness, but there is no shoving money in wastebands or full nudity. There are g-strings, but I can't get on my high horse about that. I should also clarify that my problems with the female equivalents of these establishments has very little to do with women choosing to sell their body (though, in general, I think it is a negative thing they are brought to that since few really want to make the choice) and everything to do with the sexual objectification. That being said were the men I watched last night objectified? Absolutely. Probably even by me at different points, though, I had a really hard time falling into the fantasy exactly. But my point here is that I think there is a difference between selling sex as a concept and your body. Last night was selling sex as a concept—that's something we do all over the place. The places I take issue with are selling bodies...it's a fine line and no one need agree with me, but that's the difference. I won't go see Chippendales, at least I have no plans to. Take that for what it's worth.
Okay, that took a lot out of me and I really just wanted to remark on the surprising dance skills at this particular show. They were all good looking, but not exceptionally so. However, while their dancing in unison was often cheesy, the individual performances were at times truly impressive. And that's when they became really hot. And then I had the realization—here I am, at a male strip show, and I'm only see the dancers as attractive when they show genuine talent dancing; I am such a bad objectifier. I apologize to you all. I love 300 because they're brave. I love Thunder Down Under because some of them can actually dance. It's a sad state of affairs when I insist on seeing people as people, even in Vegas a strip show. I am, actually, ashamed of myself.
There was one other thing they did at this show, however, that I found incredibly sweet. At different parts of the show a lady is brought on stage for a pseudo-lap dance, but really all you do is sit there while they do interpretive dance moves around you (I'm so not joking). During one audience contest thing they pulled up a cute bachelorette, a beautifully large black woman, and a punk rocker chick. The black lady won and it was cool to see they didn't only pull up twiggy, blond girls. Later on in the show they pulled up a lady that was at least in her sixties, possibly in her seventies—she was a bachelorette too. It was one of the funniest, and coolest, things I have ever seen. But seeing them interact equally with all different types of women, not for tips but just because that was the show, made it a more enjoyable experience—hence the selling of sex as a concept. They were, for the hour those men danced around on stage, selling a fantasy. A twisted Flashdance fantasy I'll grant you, but something different from the norm.
Look at me—who theorizes on Thunder from Down Under? I apologize immediately to you all. There are only three important things to take away from this tale:
1)They were hot
2)They danced good
3)They wore itty-bitty teeny-weeny little leather panties.
Does anything else about this story matter? No. It really doesn't.
p.s. I started with the intention of writing about Atlas Shrugged and wrote about male dancers instead—my vegetative summer is off to a fantastic start.
Monday, May 12, 2008
You know that one time you were in grad school and you thought you would write on comic books because those are easy and fun, but by the time you were done with the paper all that was good and fun in the world had been sucked out of your life? No? Maybe that's just me.
I've made my argument that Hippolyta, the poor beleaguered queen of the amazons has been misunderstood. That's all spectacular, except now I'm so sick of reading about amazons, writing about amazons, or even considering the possible existence of amazons that the idea of reading or watching anything with an amazon-like character (think Wonder Woman or Red Sonya) gives me heartburn. Not to mention, after studying this subject so intensely I've become hypersensitive to the way our society counteracts the "strength" of these female characters by hyper-sexualizing them.
People suck.
It is a sad state of affairs you must understand. As a student I take enormous pleasure in learning new things and my abilities to analyze society, but as a girl that just wants to have fun (thank you Cindy Lauper) I become so depressed by what I see as I analyze society. It was asked of me previously why I bother to analyze anything at all and I offered one explanation, but, in an effort to reclaim soul, I think I would like to ponder that question anew.
I began this particularly inquiry, how we read/watch the characters of warrior women, because I wanted to understand the disconnect between the pull these characters have the actual existence of strong, independent women in society. If you enjoy living on your own, if you are emotionally fulfilled without a boyfriend/girlfriend you seem to lose attraction in the eyes of those you hope to attract. I've had many conversations with my guy friends over the years that revolve around their heartbreak of having dated yet another crazy girl and the seeming inability to find a woman that isn't crazy. Meanwhile I have listened to their woes and wondered, why do you continuously seek out the obviously unstable, obviously crazy women? Crazy can be fun, there is no denying it, but at least in male-female relationships it seems that a relationship appears more natural when the male is dominant and the female submissive. In this case, he's normal and she's crazy. Despite that, however, the prevalence of such characters as Xena, Buffy, and Wonder Woman point to an enjoyment and appreciation of strong women.
So I decided to examine Hippolyta, amazon queen and mother of Wonder Woman, and see what I could make of it. My conclusions were not exactly promising. It appears that the craziness of women has been normalized, that means that women seem more normal, and hence more attractive, when they are a little bit crazy and just can't get enough of their man. This trend is even present in those same strong female characters mentioned earlier in their hyper sexualization. Their "hotness" counter-balances their strength and so a man can still want them (want to do them) without feeling the pressure of conforming to gender roles.
This means, ultimately, that part of the reason sane women don't end up with boyfriends/girlfriends, is because it feels unnatural to those very people that might want to date them. They don't conform to our societal understanding of woman and that means they lose some of their attractive appeal. As a woman that works very hard at being sane I find this very depressing. It is not my goal to whine about why I "can't find a man" but specifically to point out why researching things you love can take all the fun out them. I can never look at amazons the same way again.
But, as I say with every new piece of knowledge I gain, I wouldn't have it any other way. I now understand more about myself and the world around me and that is necessary to my continued sanity. And who knows, perhaps after a week of sleep and reading something more lighthearted than Atlas Shrugged I will return to my usual, shallow self.
I'm guessing watching 300 Spartans run around in their itty-bitty, teeny-weeny, little leather panties might help with that. See? Educated women can objectify too.
I've made my argument that Hippolyta, the poor beleaguered queen of the amazons has been misunderstood. That's all spectacular, except now I'm so sick of reading about amazons, writing about amazons, or even considering the possible existence of amazons that the idea of reading or watching anything with an amazon-like character (think Wonder Woman or Red Sonya) gives me heartburn. Not to mention, after studying this subject so intensely I've become hypersensitive to the way our society counteracts the "strength" of these female characters by hyper-sexualizing them.
People suck.
It is a sad state of affairs you must understand. As a student I take enormous pleasure in learning new things and my abilities to analyze society, but as a girl that just wants to have fun (thank you Cindy Lauper) I become so depressed by what I see as I analyze society. It was asked of me previously why I bother to analyze anything at all and I offered one explanation, but, in an effort to reclaim soul, I think I would like to ponder that question anew.
I began this particularly inquiry, how we read/watch the characters of warrior women, because I wanted to understand the disconnect between the pull these characters have the actual existence of strong, independent women in society. If you enjoy living on your own, if you are emotionally fulfilled without a boyfriend/girlfriend you seem to lose attraction in the eyes of those you hope to attract. I've had many conversations with my guy friends over the years that revolve around their heartbreak of having dated yet another crazy girl and the seeming inability to find a woman that isn't crazy. Meanwhile I have listened to their woes and wondered, why do you continuously seek out the obviously unstable, obviously crazy women? Crazy can be fun, there is no denying it, but at least in male-female relationships it seems that a relationship appears more natural when the male is dominant and the female submissive. In this case, he's normal and she's crazy. Despite that, however, the prevalence of such characters as Xena, Buffy, and Wonder Woman point to an enjoyment and appreciation of strong women.
So I decided to examine Hippolyta, amazon queen and mother of Wonder Woman, and see what I could make of it. My conclusions were not exactly promising. It appears that the craziness of women has been normalized, that means that women seem more normal, and hence more attractive, when they are a little bit crazy and just can't get enough of their man. This trend is even present in those same strong female characters mentioned earlier in their hyper sexualization. Their "hotness" counter-balances their strength and so a man can still want them (want to do them) without feeling the pressure of conforming to gender roles.
This means, ultimately, that part of the reason sane women don't end up with boyfriends/girlfriends, is because it feels unnatural to those very people that might want to date them. They don't conform to our societal understanding of woman and that means they lose some of their attractive appeal. As a woman that works very hard at being sane I find this very depressing. It is not my goal to whine about why I "can't find a man" but specifically to point out why researching things you love can take all the fun out them. I can never look at amazons the same way again.
But, as I say with every new piece of knowledge I gain, I wouldn't have it any other way. I now understand more about myself and the world around me and that is necessary to my continued sanity. And who knows, perhaps after a week of sleep and reading something more lighthearted than Atlas Shrugged I will return to my usual, shallow self.
I'm guessing watching 300 Spartans run around in their itty-bitty, teeny-weeny, little leather panties might help with that. See? Educated women can objectify too.
Friday, May 09, 2008
I want to share with you my spiritual encounter with a cock-a-roach.
It happened last Wednesday night. I came home a little after four that morning (so maybe it was technically Thursday morning?) and entered my bathroom for a little me time. It had a been a long day, I needed to use the facilities, and as I sat down with Atlas Shrugged in hand I was really excited to relax and let things flow before going to bed.
I perused the bathroom, making sure no cock-a-roaches were lying in wait because not two weeks ago while engaging in the activities one normally undertakes in the bathroom one scurried out of the wall and went kamikaze on my foot. It was unpleasant you understand. I'm not a boy, I don't pee standing up, and so as I sat there, mid-stream with bare feet and no where for me to go. This cock-a-roach had taken complete advantage of my vulnerable state and attacked me unprovoked. The little bastard ran under the sink counter before I could kill him until he was dead.
Being scarred from this previous encounter I since began a ritual before settling into my restroom. I turn on the light, look all around and then, and only then, do I sit down to do my business. The bathroom is a sacred place to me, you understand. It is where I go to be alone; I have my book, I have no rules of propriety, I have nothing but absolute silence and solitude. Often I'll go to the bathroom even when I don't really need to if I'm looking for some me time. It's just what I do.
Now you understand both how I had been violated previously and why I am so protective of the time I spend in the bathroom. One does not kamikaze a bare foot while that bare foot resides in the bathroom. It's incredibly rude.
So there I sat, reading my book, happy as a clam looking forward to sleeping when I hear a scurrying sound from the shower. Girding my metaphysical loins for shock I pulled back the shower curtain and there it was! A cock-a-roach in my bathtub. More angry than scared I quickly pulled out the curtain to remove his only means of escape and slammed a transparent shaving cartridge holder down upon him, trapping him in place. He would no longer escape and I could kill him at my leisure. These were both good things.
I began to sit back (unfortunately for him he was in striking distance of my throne) and pull the curtain closed so that I could finish the section of my book, but I found I couldn't focus. He was there. In my space. Trapped, yes, but waiting for a moment's laxness in my guard to escape back to his 300,000,000 relatives. This was unacceptable.
But then I looked at him. I saw his little legs; I saw his body. I saw his head with the antennae on top and I thought, this isn't a monster. He's a cock-a-roach, a big one, but he isn't evil or scary or grotesque. He's just one of Nature's creatures who happened upon me at an inopportune time. I started to feel sorry for the little guy. I thought, I could let him go, take him outside and release him back into the wild. But if I did that, if I let him go he would tell all 300,000,000 of his relatives that they could come hang out in my bathroom and that wasn't going to work for me. My bathroom is me time. It's sacred, not to be disturbed. Despite all of that, though, I felt a slight bit of regret at my anticipation of killing him--sure it wouldn't stop his relatives from coming in, but I would only have 299,999,999 left to go. And he had invaded my bathroom while I was in it in direct violation of the cock-a-roach/jess agreement of 5-1-08. He really had no one but himself to blame.
So I finished, I flushed, I washed my hands. I walked out into my bedroom and picked up my tennis shoe. I walked back into the bathroom and felt a slight bit of ickiness at lifting up the shaving cartridge--even though there was plastic between my hand and it I was still nervous about being that close. But it was time. I needed to kill him and he needed to die. Our impasse was at an end. Leaning down I lifted up the plastic and smooshed the cock-a-roach with my shoe. I didn't slam it down, I didn't beat him repeatedly. This wasn't a murder committed in anger without thought or self-control. No, I knowingly ended his life quickly and humanely in order to preserve the safety of my bathroom.
As his little smooshed body was flushed down to the sewers of the desert I could only fervently hope that one of his relatives would find him and realize that my bathroom was not to be trifled with. I am no longer scared of cock-a-roaches; I recognize their place in the cosmos. If not for my poor dead adversary I would never have had such a realization. But despite all of that--despite our spiritual, life altering moment he still had to die. And so I will kill every cock-a-roach that intrudes on my me time, quickly and without remorse.
Such is the circle of life.
It happened last Wednesday night. I came home a little after four that morning (so maybe it was technically Thursday morning?) and entered my bathroom for a little me time. It had a been a long day, I needed to use the facilities, and as I sat down with Atlas Shrugged in hand I was really excited to relax and let things flow before going to bed.
I perused the bathroom, making sure no cock-a-roaches were lying in wait because not two weeks ago while engaging in the activities one normally undertakes in the bathroom one scurried out of the wall and went kamikaze on my foot. It was unpleasant you understand. I'm not a boy, I don't pee standing up, and so as I sat there, mid-stream with bare feet and no where for me to go. This cock-a-roach had taken complete advantage of my vulnerable state and attacked me unprovoked. The little bastard ran under the sink counter before I could kill him until he was dead.
Being scarred from this previous encounter I since began a ritual before settling into my restroom. I turn on the light, look all around and then, and only then, do I sit down to do my business. The bathroom is a sacred place to me, you understand. It is where I go to be alone; I have my book, I have no rules of propriety, I have nothing but absolute silence and solitude. Often I'll go to the bathroom even when I don't really need to if I'm looking for some me time. It's just what I do.
Now you understand both how I had been violated previously and why I am so protective of the time I spend in the bathroom. One does not kamikaze a bare foot while that bare foot resides in the bathroom. It's incredibly rude.
So there I sat, reading my book, happy as a clam looking forward to sleeping when I hear a scurrying sound from the shower. Girding my metaphysical loins for shock I pulled back the shower curtain and there it was! A cock-a-roach in my bathtub. More angry than scared I quickly pulled out the curtain to remove his only means of escape and slammed a transparent shaving cartridge holder down upon him, trapping him in place. He would no longer escape and I could kill him at my leisure. These were both good things.
I began to sit back (unfortunately for him he was in striking distance of my throne) and pull the curtain closed so that I could finish the section of my book, but I found I couldn't focus. He was there. In my space. Trapped, yes, but waiting for a moment's laxness in my guard to escape back to his 300,000,000 relatives. This was unacceptable.
But then I looked at him. I saw his little legs; I saw his body. I saw his head with the antennae on top and I thought, this isn't a monster. He's a cock-a-roach, a big one, but he isn't evil or scary or grotesque. He's just one of Nature's creatures who happened upon me at an inopportune time. I started to feel sorry for the little guy. I thought, I could let him go, take him outside and release him back into the wild. But if I did that, if I let him go he would tell all 300,000,000 of his relatives that they could come hang out in my bathroom and that wasn't going to work for me. My bathroom is me time. It's sacred, not to be disturbed. Despite all of that, though, I felt a slight bit of regret at my anticipation of killing him--sure it wouldn't stop his relatives from coming in, but I would only have 299,999,999 left to go. And he had invaded my bathroom while I was in it in direct violation of the cock-a-roach/jess agreement of 5-1-08. He really had no one but himself to blame.
So I finished, I flushed, I washed my hands. I walked out into my bedroom and picked up my tennis shoe. I walked back into the bathroom and felt a slight bit of ickiness at lifting up the shaving cartridge--even though there was plastic between my hand and it I was still nervous about being that close. But it was time. I needed to kill him and he needed to die. Our impasse was at an end. Leaning down I lifted up the plastic and smooshed the cock-a-roach with my shoe. I didn't slam it down, I didn't beat him repeatedly. This wasn't a murder committed in anger without thought or self-control. No, I knowingly ended his life quickly and humanely in order to preserve the safety of my bathroom.
As his little smooshed body was flushed down to the sewers of the desert I could only fervently hope that one of his relatives would find him and realize that my bathroom was not to be trifled with. I am no longer scared of cock-a-roaches; I recognize their place in the cosmos. If not for my poor dead adversary I would never have had such a realization. But despite all of that--despite our spiritual, life altering moment he still had to die. And so I will kill every cock-a-roach that intrudes on my me time, quickly and without remorse.
Such is the circle of life.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
I've been toying with this idea for awhile and I think this is the perfect forum in which to test it. So it is that I have decided to prove that Dante's nine circles of hell actually correspond perfectly to Las Vegas. I stole my circle summaries from Wikipedia.
First Circle--Limbo
This is the circle for those not actively punished, the unbaptized and virtuous pagans. You can see their existence on the outskirts of Las Vegas; these are the people that live in North Las Vegas and Henderson. Far away from the center they still bask in the hellish glow of the strip, surrounded on all sides by the rusty red mountains that prevent escape. Their souls isn't actively sucked, but they still wither away, suffering, just like the rest.
Second Circle--Lust
Those overcome by lust exist in this circle. The string of wedding chapels that ring the city wait, sitting quietly and unobtrusively. But once you enter you exit in chains, bound by your lust to a hellish incubus or succubus that will never release you, doomed to suffer for all eternity. Those that avoid the bowers of bliss are tossed from strip club to strip club in the hot winds, never to find culmination or release.
Third Circle--Gluttony
The people that make garbage of their lives are doomed to exist in the filth of hell. These are the souls that are trapped in cheap casino buffets, surrounded by their own leftovers and unable to leave. The floor is sticky, covered with grease and the food is cold and cheap, but still the return, over and over again, for another trip--they cannot get out. The maze of the buffet traps them, preventing their escape and their dishes pile up around them, crusted with food as the smell of stale cigarettes infests their senses.
Fourth Circle--Greed
The avaricious who hoarded their material items and the prodigal who squandered them live here. These are the gamblers, subsisting on the edges of the casinos they sit at their slot machines putting quarter after quarter into the hole. Hoping to hit the jackpot, refusing to give up in case the machine pays out to the next person these slot players fight only themselves, desperate to beat the house.
Fifth Circle--Wrath
The wrathful fight each other in stagnant water as the slothful and sullen lie underneath its surface. Wading in dirty, hot pool water the angry and the drunk attend pool parties on the strip. Forever angry these young fraternal boys fight endlessly for women that aren't there. Their brothers float underneath, those that don't want to leave the hotel; in Vegas they simply exist, choking on the water and the air as their brothers fight each other above.
Sixth Circle--Heresy
Heretics are trapped in flaming tombs. These are the people that stand on the street preaching the hatred of their god. Holding their signs they are burnt by the sun, their shoes melted to the pavement and unable to escape the fire that liquefies their skin. Convinced they suffer because of others, they cannot see the sign they hold magnifies the painful, burning rays.
Seventh Circle--The Violent (in three rings)
Outer Ring: The violent against people and property are punished according to the severity of their sins. Here are the back alleys, the hidden crannies, and the places without cameras where the card counters, the cheaters, and the frauds are beaten.
Middle Ring: Those that committed suicide exist here in perpetual suffering. The are the ones that sit on the street, starving, miserable, and alone. They seek escape, understanding, forgiveness, but nobody sees them as they walk on by.
Inner Ring: The violent against god, nature, and art sit on a sea of burning sand while burning flakes fall on them from sky. This is the Valley of Fire. Those that are violent are taken here and left, forty miles from water, shade, or civilization to suffer everlasting.
Eighth Circle--The Fraudulent
Those guilty of committing deliberate knowing evil live here. These are the casino boss' and owners. These are the "developers" who knowingly destroy the water and the resources to provide the veneer of comfort. As the crowds look on in splendor they walk by, picking pockets from behind, laughing at the pain inside their establishments. But they keep losing the money they steal as it drains out the holes in their pockets worn through by over development. They grab more and more making bigger and bigger holes which continuously drains the money.
Ninth Circle--The Betrayers
Those that betray one they love suffer here. Here, on the strip, where friends steal chips from friends and abandon each other in search of a party. They wander aimlessly, seeking forgiveness, genuine love, but suffer for their betrayal--surrounded by people they are only wanted for what they can offer, what they can give. Broken and lonely these people lament their life as the friends they forgot lie broken and alone.
Hmm...this was supposed to be funny, but it's actually kind of depressing. That's probably because Dante's descriptions of Hell are depressing. But here you have it, Vegas as Hell baby. That was all eerily easy to do...
First Circle--Limbo
This is the circle for those not actively punished, the unbaptized and virtuous pagans. You can see their existence on the outskirts of Las Vegas; these are the people that live in North Las Vegas and Henderson. Far away from the center they still bask in the hellish glow of the strip, surrounded on all sides by the rusty red mountains that prevent escape. Their souls isn't actively sucked, but they still wither away, suffering, just like the rest.
Second Circle--Lust
Those overcome by lust exist in this circle. The string of wedding chapels that ring the city wait, sitting quietly and unobtrusively. But once you enter you exit in chains, bound by your lust to a hellish incubus or succubus that will never release you, doomed to suffer for all eternity. Those that avoid the bowers of bliss are tossed from strip club to strip club in the hot winds, never to find culmination or release.
Third Circle--Gluttony
The people that make garbage of their lives are doomed to exist in the filth of hell. These are the souls that are trapped in cheap casino buffets, surrounded by their own leftovers and unable to leave. The floor is sticky, covered with grease and the food is cold and cheap, but still the return, over and over again, for another trip--they cannot get out. The maze of the buffet traps them, preventing their escape and their dishes pile up around them, crusted with food as the smell of stale cigarettes infests their senses.
Fourth Circle--Greed
The avaricious who hoarded their material items and the prodigal who squandered them live here. These are the gamblers, subsisting on the edges of the casinos they sit at their slot machines putting quarter after quarter into the hole. Hoping to hit the jackpot, refusing to give up in case the machine pays out to the next person these slot players fight only themselves, desperate to beat the house.
Fifth Circle--Wrath
The wrathful fight each other in stagnant water as the slothful and sullen lie underneath its surface. Wading in dirty, hot pool water the angry and the drunk attend pool parties on the strip. Forever angry these young fraternal boys fight endlessly for women that aren't there. Their brothers float underneath, those that don't want to leave the hotel; in Vegas they simply exist, choking on the water and the air as their brothers fight each other above.
Sixth Circle--Heresy
Heretics are trapped in flaming tombs. These are the people that stand on the street preaching the hatred of their god. Holding their signs they are burnt by the sun, their shoes melted to the pavement and unable to escape the fire that liquefies their skin. Convinced they suffer because of others, they cannot see the sign they hold magnifies the painful, burning rays.
Seventh Circle--The Violent (in three rings)
Outer Ring: The violent against people and property are punished according to the severity of their sins. Here are the back alleys, the hidden crannies, and the places without cameras where the card counters, the cheaters, and the frauds are beaten.
Middle Ring: Those that committed suicide exist here in perpetual suffering. The are the ones that sit on the street, starving, miserable, and alone. They seek escape, understanding, forgiveness, but nobody sees them as they walk on by.
Inner Ring: The violent against god, nature, and art sit on a sea of burning sand while burning flakes fall on them from sky. This is the Valley of Fire. Those that are violent are taken here and left, forty miles from water, shade, or civilization to suffer everlasting.
Eighth Circle--The Fraudulent
Those guilty of committing deliberate knowing evil live here. These are the casino boss' and owners. These are the "developers" who knowingly destroy the water and the resources to provide the veneer of comfort. As the crowds look on in splendor they walk by, picking pockets from behind, laughing at the pain inside their establishments. But they keep losing the money they steal as it drains out the holes in their pockets worn through by over development. They grab more and more making bigger and bigger holes which continuously drains the money.
Ninth Circle--The Betrayers
Those that betray one they love suffer here. Here, on the strip, where friends steal chips from friends and abandon each other in search of a party. They wander aimlessly, seeking forgiveness, genuine love, but suffer for their betrayal--surrounded by people they are only wanted for what they can offer, what they can give. Broken and lonely these people lament their life as the friends they forgot lie broken and alone.
Hmm...this was supposed to be funny, but it's actually kind of depressing. That's probably because Dante's descriptions of Hell are depressing. But here you have it, Vegas as Hell baby. That was all eerily easy to do...
Friday, May 02, 2008
Oh sweet Amazon love. I've been reading theory all day, you understand, and now I feel like even my interest in learning about Amazons has started to wane. School has robbed me, once again, of the joy that once filled my life.
Are you prepared for another investigation into the world of male/female relations? I blame it entirely on my schoolwork and my current paper, which revolves around identifying gendering characteristics in text (things that mark characters as male or female). It should be noted, though, that I've been complaining about male/female relations since I was about twelve and realized I could. Even in my youth I was a little feminist. I'm so proud of me.
What makes this interesting, though, is my idea that women (in media) cannot be both warrior and heterosexual woman. I know, how is that interesting? Work with me here. Attraction is based to some degree on the physical, but not nearly as much--I would argue--as we would all like to believe. I say "as we would all like to believe" because I think very few people want to admit why they are attracted to the types of people/things/characteristics they are, or look to deeply into the cause.
Case in point: in my English class we used to answer the following question--is a white man who is attracted only to Asian girls racist? He says it's purely physical. This erupts in discussion fairly quickly, after all, you can't help who you are attracted to, the guy said it's just physical, so on and so forth. By the end of the discussion several factors have complicated the situation; first, what is Asian? It's more than oriental and it seems to draw to mind a particular type of Asian girl. That's iffy. Second, why only Asians? Other ethnicities can have many of the same qualities; are they just not "Asian" enough, or does this guy have a particular bead on the "Asian" pheromone? For better or worse, this dude is carrying around preconceived notions of Asians, and--whether you consider him racist or not--that isn't a wholly "physical" matter.
So, if you'll follow me in agreeing that attraction is heavily socialized, it becomes interesting to ask the question, just what is attractive in a woman? Not physical--that's an old subject that can be answered with any number of magazines, but specifically mental; her attitude. If I were to guess (generalize) I would wage that men want a woman reasonably intelligent, reasonably strong, reasonably sane, and with a reasonably good sense of humor. However, bombarded as men are by the idea of "white knight" they also need a woman who "needs" them to "save" her--at least on occasion. She must still be feminine; soft in specific ways/places/mannerisms. Not masculine. Different than him.
One of the easiest ways this manifests itself, I would guess, is through what we call the "bunny boiler" syndrome. By we, I mean me. Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction serves as the basis for that term. Essentially it means someone who is crazier then crazy. I've observed a disturbing tendency in many guy friends through the years to date obviously crazy, obviously unstable women. And, as they inevitably end up calling me to drink with them after a fight and hold them while they cry, I keep asking "why?" My theory, at the moment, is that crazy personifies femininity is some extreme version.
This fits when you remember that hysterics was coined to define a completely feminine affliction, hence hysterectomy. The darned traveling womb just drove women crazy. Feminine can be strong, but it needs to also be fallible. Women can be warriors, but they must also be vulnerable. She can fight side by side with a man, but on occasion, she needs to be saved by a man (and that's a 20th century update, back in the day she wouldn't have even fought side by side with him after she gave in). Her need to be loved by him, conquered by him, penetrated by him must overrule her need for anything else. And so you have the paradox of the Amazon; something I think has carried through to modern times.
Women can be warriors, but not simultaneously feminine. If they manage to preserve their femininity while fighting, then they can never be wholly independent thus allowing their femininity to surpass their fighting ability. Even if she fights the whole way through, she still needs him to save her at the end. I would ask you, even if you know better and are thrilled when it ends differently, how often do you feel a second, a moment's disappointment when the man doesn't rush in and save the day at the end? Perhaps you don't even acknowledge it to yourself; perhaps you know better than to admit it. But if you were completely honest, how often does it happen, or did it happen before something in you changed?
This carries over into modern times with the problem strong, independent women face. And please, if I may throw this in, I'm saying I hate men or it is men's fault or anything extreme such as that. I'm merely pointing out what I see to be a state of society and inviting others to determine how much it applies to individual attitudes. If you are independent then you make a great friend and, in the eyes of almost everyone, you'll make someone else a great girlfriend some day. Or, you attract all manner of horrific men looking to debase you in whatever way they can. In some strange way I haven't wholly thought out, independence has taken the place of the virgin in the virgin/whore dichotomy. It seems like it might look something more like chaste-independent/whore now-a-days.
In any case, this is what I'm writing on for a paper right now and I've subjected all of you to my musings. It does bear asking, though: why do you like what you like?
Are you prepared for another investigation into the world of male/female relations? I blame it entirely on my schoolwork and my current paper, which revolves around identifying gendering characteristics in text (things that mark characters as male or female). It should be noted, though, that I've been complaining about male/female relations since I was about twelve and realized I could. Even in my youth I was a little feminist. I'm so proud of me.
What makes this interesting, though, is my idea that women (in media) cannot be both warrior and heterosexual woman. I know, how is that interesting? Work with me here. Attraction is based to some degree on the physical, but not nearly as much--I would argue--as we would all like to believe. I say "as we would all like to believe" because I think very few people want to admit why they are attracted to the types of people/things/characteristics they are, or look to deeply into the cause.
Case in point: in my English class we used to answer the following question--is a white man who is attracted only to Asian girls racist? He says it's purely physical. This erupts in discussion fairly quickly, after all, you can't help who you are attracted to, the guy said it's just physical, so on and so forth. By the end of the discussion several factors have complicated the situation; first, what is Asian? It's more than oriental and it seems to draw to mind a particular type of Asian girl. That's iffy. Second, why only Asians? Other ethnicities can have many of the same qualities; are they just not "Asian" enough, or does this guy have a particular bead on the "Asian" pheromone? For better or worse, this dude is carrying around preconceived notions of Asians, and--whether you consider him racist or not--that isn't a wholly "physical" matter.
So, if you'll follow me in agreeing that attraction is heavily socialized, it becomes interesting to ask the question, just what is attractive in a woman? Not physical--that's an old subject that can be answered with any number of magazines, but specifically mental; her attitude. If I were to guess (generalize) I would wage that men want a woman reasonably intelligent, reasonably strong, reasonably sane, and with a reasonably good sense of humor. However, bombarded as men are by the idea of "white knight" they also need a woman who "needs" them to "save" her--at least on occasion. She must still be feminine; soft in specific ways/places/mannerisms. Not masculine. Different than him.
One of the easiest ways this manifests itself, I would guess, is through what we call the "bunny boiler" syndrome. By we, I mean me. Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction serves as the basis for that term. Essentially it means someone who is crazier then crazy. I've observed a disturbing tendency in many guy friends through the years to date obviously crazy, obviously unstable women. And, as they inevitably end up calling me to drink with them after a fight and hold them while they cry, I keep asking "why?" My theory, at the moment, is that crazy personifies femininity is some extreme version.
This fits when you remember that hysterics was coined to define a completely feminine affliction, hence hysterectomy. The darned traveling womb just drove women crazy. Feminine can be strong, but it needs to also be fallible. Women can be warriors, but they must also be vulnerable. She can fight side by side with a man, but on occasion, she needs to be saved by a man (and that's a 20th century update, back in the day she wouldn't have even fought side by side with him after she gave in). Her need to be loved by him, conquered by him, penetrated by him must overrule her need for anything else. And so you have the paradox of the Amazon; something I think has carried through to modern times.
Women can be warriors, but not simultaneously feminine. If they manage to preserve their femininity while fighting, then they can never be wholly independent thus allowing their femininity to surpass their fighting ability. Even if she fights the whole way through, she still needs him to save her at the end. I would ask you, even if you know better and are thrilled when it ends differently, how often do you feel a second, a moment's disappointment when the man doesn't rush in and save the day at the end? Perhaps you don't even acknowledge it to yourself; perhaps you know better than to admit it. But if you were completely honest, how often does it happen, or did it happen before something in you changed?
This carries over into modern times with the problem strong, independent women face. And please, if I may throw this in, I'm saying I hate men or it is men's fault or anything extreme such as that. I'm merely pointing out what I see to be a state of society and inviting others to determine how much it applies to individual attitudes. If you are independent then you make a great friend and, in the eyes of almost everyone, you'll make someone else a great girlfriend some day. Or, you attract all manner of horrific men looking to debase you in whatever way they can. In some strange way I haven't wholly thought out, independence has taken the place of the virgin in the virgin/whore dichotomy. It seems like it might look something more like chaste-independent/whore now-a-days.
In any case, this is what I'm writing on for a paper right now and I've subjected all of you to my musings. It does bear asking, though: why do you like what you like?
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