Yeah, TITS!!!

“Yeah, TITS!!!!”

That’s what a guy hollered at me from his car as I walked home from the university library today.

My first thought was, “This shirt isn’t even that tight or low cut.” Some asshole I don’t even know yelled at me as he drove by, and I wondered if I was wearing something I shouldn’t be, as if HIS opinion is what matters. And, even if I were wearing a tight, low cut shirt he still has no business yelling at me. He has no business identifying me with my reproductive organs.

I wasn’t even wearing anything to be “asking for it.” I was wearing a baggy t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I was wearing my backpack. It was the afternoon. I was coming home from the library.

But, you see, this is how it works: Street harassment is about policing women. It’s about keeping us in our place. It doesn’t matter what we wear, where we walk, what time we go out. Street harassment is about ensuring that women know our bodies are regulated in space, in time, and in our dress. It’s about making sure we know that our value to society comes from our looks (specifically our desirability to heterosexual men) and our subordinate social position in relation to heterosexual men.

Street harassment is about establishing masculinity in terms of women and heterosexuality. So long as men and boys think that the worst thing to be is a woman and the best (most masculine) thing is to be a man in sexual control of a woman, street harassment and rape culture will continue to be the dominant paradigm for women’s and girls’ experience of living in the world.

“Yeah, TITS!!!!”

This two word phrase, hollered at me by a perfect stranger, made me doubt my own ability to dress  myself, made me doubt my ability to walk safely in broad daylight between my university library and my home. It made me feel like shit. It made me feel like nothing more than object – well, TWO objects: my tits, because that’s all I was to this guy.

Men: Don’t tolerate this kind of behavior in other men. Call other men out when they treat women like objects. Call them out when they engage in street harassment. And don’t behave this way yourselves.

Zombie Apocalypse: Or I’m one lucky bitch.

So I finally got around to reading World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War and I’ll tell you something, unless it’s the Second Coming of Jesus Christ Himself, if the dead start walking, I’m fucking killing myself.

World War Z is a series of interviews with survivors of the WWZ, civilian, military etc. It’s organized to tell the stories about the beginning, the middle, end, and rebuilding afterwards. So on the one hand, you know that everyone you’re reading about survives. On the other hand, it’s fucking scary to think about what happens in the Zombie Apocalypse. It’s terrifying to think about what the hell would happen if civilization fell apart.

See, I live in the western world of the 21^st century. I’m in a PhD program, I’ve got a Master’s from an Ivy League school – so, I might not be personally rolling in the dough, but in many ways I am the elite of elite in the damn world. I can rest assured that my water is potable, and if it ain’t, I can get a filter system. I can get aspirin and emergency medical service (although I might not be able to afford the latter, I can definitely get it). Most days I don’t think of myself as that lucky. I’ve got enough debt to own a house in some places and all I got was an education, I don’t have a dishwasher. Wah wah fucking wah.

My point is: I whine about not having a dishwasher. I can’t begin to fathom the social fallout of the Zombie Apocalypse. My 11 year old goddaughter is totally into zombies and is patiently awaiting WWZ so that she can test her zombie survival skills. I am not so amused. See, the Zombie Apocalypse isn’t going to be all fun and games. It’s going to be blood and brains and piss everywhere. It’s going to be the collapse of civilization as we know it, and people will die because civilization as we know it has divided labor so well that most of us in the western world wouldn’t know how to hunt, kill & butcher an animal, determine which plants & mushrooms are edible, nevermind knowing how to build a secure shelter, repair a car, or shoot a gun and hit a zombie in the brain.

I’m really fucking scared of Zombie Apocalypse. I don’t think it’s especially likely that the dead will start walking and want to eat us all, spreading infection and doom exponentially. No. I’m scared of whatever fucked up shit would happen if America ever really faced a war within the borders, thermonuclear apocalypse, famine, drought and/or environmental devastation leading to Mad Max insanity. I’m soft. Oh SURE. I’m a Girl Scout. I know how to set up a tent and CPR and shit, but I’ve never fired a gun, I’ve never really been in a physical fight, I can’t even run a 10 minute mile and nevermind climbing anything.

So I’ve picked up my gym pace. I’m committed. And you know what, when I hit the treadmill, I envision a) Zombie Apocalypse or b) The Rise of the Machines. Sometimes I envision zombies and the T-1000 teaming up to get me.

In conclusion:

World War Z is a scary book, and it gave me some really messed up dreams. I’m afraid of this war/apocalypse/end of civilization thing. This motivates me. “Run fat ass, RUN.” I also wonder if I should learn some more practical skills, like shooting guns, fighting, building, sewing, hunting etc.

And if the Zombie Apocalypse happens, I’m gonna bend over and kiss my sweet ass goodbye, then off myself. In the meantime, I’ll try to remember how seriously lucky I am that my biggest problems are student loans, picking wine for my wedding, and lack of dishwasher.

United Airlines & Passengers with Disabilities

I’m just posting a link to a copy of a note to United Airlines Customer service (I refuse to link to the bastards).

It seems  that United airlines treated a passenger with a disability – who happens to be young and whose disability is not readily apparent – like total shit.

She writes:

The wheelchair left me off at the door and after making sure I had all of my belongings, he turned around and left. I boarded the plane and made my way back to my aisle seat where I set down my special seat cushion and lumbar brace before looking around for a flight attendant to help me put my luggage in the overhead compartment. The attendant standing in the front section of economy was a blonde woman probably in her late 40s-50s and I called her over to explain that I needed her assistance because I wasn’t capable of lifting my luggage due to my disability. To my surprise, the attendant rejected my request while excusing it by saying: “If I helped everyone do that all day then MY back would be killing me by the end of the day!” I asked her how I was supposed to get my luggage stowed and her answer was: “You’ll just have to wait for someone from your row to come back here and ask them to give you a hand.” When I asked what would happen if no one would, her response to me was: “Well, normally a passenger is around to overhear something like this and they’ll offer to help with it on their own. You’ll just have to ask someone when they get back here.” Then she turned back around and went up to the front seats where she waited to “assist” other passengers.

and that’s just the start! Click the link above to read the letter.

And fuck United.

Put the Motive in Motivation!!

I have been trying to find decent motivation for and attention to my work for the better part of this year. After I advanced to candidacy, I pretty much went on brain freeze. Oh sure, I had two good weeks right after advancing where I was all EXCITED and shit… but now I feel like I’m dragging my ass to the books, taping my eyelids open only to discover that at the end of the day, I’ve managed to half-heartedly read a chapter of something instead of finishing the book I meant to finish.

The isolation is getting to me. I think I need to plan more lunches or coffees – something to force a schedule, someone to be accountable to. “Did you finish those books you were reading”

Ultimately, I have to find the motive to motivate myself. WHY IN THE HELL AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF?

I know the reasons: I love what I do. I read and think and talk about it for a living. I am actually committed to the idea of public higher education, to education at the undergrad – lower division, even – level. As I said before, I really do believe that my research has value and part of that value is my teaching… SO

GET OFF YOUR ASS, GET A COFFEE AND GET TO WORK!!

I just requested summer teaching, so maybe I’ll get to test out all my fucking brilliant teaching skills and ideas and come up with the perfect survey course.

Some more meaningful bogging is in the works, I just want to get through some work first. *sigh*

On Being Busy

It has certainly been a while since I last posted around here, and I wish that wasn’t the case. Here’s a brief update:

1. I got engaged in August. Long story short, he asked me “How’s next summer?” We’re getting married next summer back in Home County and are very excited, but a little bit stressed about the planning.

2. I love-hate my boobs. They’re enormous, but the Rack of Doom (thanks Kate Harding for this term) just doesn’t fit in and stupid store bought dress, and frankly, neither does my fat ass. Why? Because apparently fat girls don’t get to shop off the rack – and I am totally not about to put half down (non-refundable) to order a dress is a size I haven’t tried on. So I’m considering dressmakers.

3. As a result, dissertation research is going slow. I had hoped to have a chapter done by now and I don’t. Boooo!

4. My (university owned) apartment has a water leak in one of the closets, and termites in the ceiling trusses – or maybe HAD – the termite guy is coming today.

5. I once worked as a nanny for a Jewish family and had a discussion with the father about the smashing of a glass at a Jewish wedding. M- said almost nonchalantly that it served as a reminder of the destruction of the Temple and earthly suffering, and as a reminder to participate in Tikkun Olam, the healing or mending of the world. I like  these explanations, and as my dissertation is largely about the destruction of the Temple, I am considering adding this to our ceremony. I am not sure how my fiance will react to this proposition.

(NB although I am a scholar of religion, and even to a certain extent, of ancient Judaism, I am not actually familiar with the development of this tradition.)

6. I am struggling with another fellowship application. I’m trying to abstract my diss to 200 words (!!) THAT’S NOT FAIR and I’m trying to find the most eloquent way to express the relevance of my project to the study of religious values (which has not been required of any other application I’ve submitted so far).  **sigh**

7. In the event that any readers of In the Pink have clicked here after reading my comments, Hello!

And with, that, I’ll leave you again, until I have something more substantial to say.

OH.

8. PUBLIC OPTION NOW! Either it’s a moral imperative to provide health care to everyone, or it isn’t. I think it is.

9. Watch Zombieland!! If you’re lucky, it might still be out in theaters, but you might have to Netflix it

10. Also, Roman Polanski is an as ass nugget who deserves to be prosecuted.

MJ Memorial Service

Yes, I watched it. Yes, I cried. Yes, I saw Paris and yes she made me cry.

In spite of how much his music makes me happy, Michael Jackson was a terribly sad,  unwell person in the end. I find it terribly sad that all the joy he brought to the world in his music & dance was at the expense of any sense of normalcy in his whole life. I feel sad for him and I feel sad for his children.

And this concludes the media fiasco (I hope).

Michael Jackson

I was a high schooler at the height of Nirvana’s fame.

I don’t remember the first time I heard a Nirvana song. I don’t remember when I was when I heard that Kurt Cobain had died. I didn’t cry. His death didn’t phase me at all. I didn’t even own a Nirvana cd until I was almost 30.

I absolutely remember when my parents brought home the Thriller album on vinyl. I doubt it was the first time I heard Michael Jackson. It was the same say they got Culture Club’s Colour By Numbers. When my parents asked me which one we should listen to first, I picked Culture Club. My mom asked me if I knew that the person on the cover (i.e. Boy George) was a boy and not a girl. I remember studying the Thriller album cover. I remember being allowed to watch the full version of the Thriller video as a scary movie.

I had this poster.

I never really identified myself as a Michael Jackson fan. I guess I just sort of assumed that everybody liked his music. He was a talented performer and he had an incalculable impact on music in the last half century.

I don’t remember where I was I when I heard that Kurt Cobain died, but I will probably always remember where I was when I heard that Michael Jackson died.

I was working in the library at Beach U, taking a break from editing the web page I’d been assigned to create. I read TMZ’s announcement that Michael Jackson had died, and then waited and waited to get “reliable” information. My immediate reaction? “OH MY GOD, MICHAEL JACKSON DIED!!” I guess I thought he’s just be around, like he had been for my entire life.

The Way You Make Me Feel and Beat It are probably my all time favorite Michael Jackson songs.

I hope he’s found peace.