The Burden of Shame

Wow, I've been writing about shame a lot lately. And really, all of these burdens seem to be about shame in one way or another, see also, the burden of secrecy. But this time, I'm gonna get a little bit more specific. Hopefully. We'll see.

Have you ever heard the (Christian) cliche that women need love and men need respect? There are whole books, websites, ministries, etc. devoted to this idea. These books, websites, and ministries list hundreds of ways women can work on showing respect for men--you know, shoulder that burden, that burden of shame.

It's not hard to see that shame and respect are two sides to the same coin, or to hone in a little more exactly on the meaning, shame and ego. The message is clear in this and other contexts: Men aren't stepping up at church. Well, then women must step down. Men aren't stepping up to lead their families. Again, women must step down, respecting and honoring the divine hierarchy of male headship. It only makes sense that women must become less so that men can...become. Women must diminish. They need love, not respect, and so this diminishment, this restraint, can only be easy for them.

Even in secular contexts, it's clear that one harsh word from a woman can easily destroy a man, no matter how powerful he is. Therefore, women must wield this awesome power with care. A man's ego is a fragile, fragile thing--much like a tiny, speckled robin's egg. A woman's job, in marriage and career, is to faithfully guard that little egg with her very soul throughout the great obstacle race of life. If the egg drops and the man's ego is crushed--it's her fault.

Men must be protected from their own shame. Perhaps if a woman feels shame, she's just being her normal, insecure female self. Shame looks good on her. But if a man feels shame, it's a crisis of masculinity.

I don't deny that both love and respect are important in a marriage. However, if a man or woman has not worked out the problem of shame for themselves--it's doubtful that all the respect or love in the world will make them feel whole.

I suspect this often plays out in abusive relationships. And I wonder if shame often looks a whole lot like rage. If only she didn't "make" him angry. If only she didn't set him off with her careless remarks. I've mentioned before that I was once in an emotionally manipulative relationship, and he would often say, "You don't respect me," when I failed to do what he wanted me to do. And he would rage.

Now I know that someone's else's shame, their anger, is not my responsibility, just as my shame, my ego is no one's responsibility but my own. And if you think that persons of the female gender don't struggle with ego--Hi, my name's M. Nice to meet you.

And you know, I wonder. I wonder at what age we start teaching girls that the shame of others is their burden to carry.

I read this article on the Love And Respect Now website (Yes, it's Love And Respect for the younger crowd. Eep.) about daughters engaging their emotionally distant fathers in a respectful way. The article has some pretty good advice. Part of growing up is forgiving your parents and engaging with them as real people with real flaws.

But part of me feels deeply saddened. Here's an excerpt:

"It’s also important to note that while a man can talk about relationships and marriage, it may not be as energizing to him as it is to you because he feels like he might be a failure to you in this area. Men often feel that “questions,” no matter your motive, are calling them into question because they believe women want them to change, resulting in them feeling not liked by you."

[So, men just wanna be liked, just like everyone else? I dunno. These fathers don't seem to like their daughters very much anyway (not talking to them, ignoring them to watch TV...) There may be little to lose.]

Well, the writing is depressingly clunky, but that's not what I'm talking about. Ouch. Just ouch. Any question is suspect. If you know me, you know I'm screwed. I might not be cut out for this whole love and respect thing.

It distresses me that the daughter is, emotionally speaking, the only adult in this exchange, ever careful of her father's delicate masculine feelings. There is no suggestion that pain and hurt can be honestly and frankly expressed. Real emotion is way, way too threatening in this context. Men can't handle the anger of women, unless it's couched in "respect." And I know we're talking (presumably) about grown daughters here, but at what age do daughters start bearing the emotional burdens of their fathers? The day they stop being daddy's little girl and start asking real questions? When is dad's emotional withdrawal first conceived of as "my fault"?

To conclude, as a woman, have you ever felt compelled to bear the burden of shame and if so how, why? As a man, have you ever expected a woman to bear the burden of shame for you and if so how, why?

And forgive the disrespect. It was not intended.

The Burden of Secrecy

So I've gotten some feedback on the "burden of intention" and I feel the need to clarify. I'm talking primarily about unwanted attention. This is not a case of I wish the guy would make the first move or why won't he ask me out, but of OH-CRAP-I-THINK-HE-LIKES-ME-MUST-AVOID-ALL-INTERACTION-OR-I'LL-BE-ACCUSED-OF-LEADING-HIM-ON-WHICH-WOULD-MAKE-ME-A-BAD-BAD-PERSON.

Let's move on, shall we.

The Burden of Secrecy

This one is hard to write about, as I don't fully understand it myself. I look back on instances when I've willingly shouldered this burden and it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Why?

Of course, women are not the only ones expected to bear this particular burden. Take the victims in the Jerry Sandusky case, for instance. For whatever sick reason, children are often held to secrecy too. The powerless are expected to protect the powerful, the victims their victimizers. For another distressing example, you can go here.

So why don't I--me, personally--speak up about inappropriate male behavior? Why do I tend to keep someone else's "shame" a secret?

Well, for one, silence and secrecy might be a burden, but I think we all realize that speaking up carries its own price. In fact, this corollary could apply anytime an individual speaks out against injustice or wrongdoing. The more powerful the institution or individual, the higher the price to pay. If I speak up, I know that my conduct, character, dress, and body could be scrutinized as well.

I can think of one specific example where I kept silent, partly out of a strong (but misguided?) sense of self-sufficiency. I asked myself, can I handle this on my own? And the answer was yes. So I did. But it goes deeper than that. I wanted to spare him (my harasser) shame and embarrassment. I was concerned not only for his feelings, but for his reputation.

Which leads me to this question: How was it that I was able to internalize a borderline harasser's potential shame to the point of keeping quiet, but he was unable to--for even a second--empathize with the discomfort he caused me with his unwanted and inappropriate verbal and physical advances?

Is this the way we socialize good girls and good boys? We teach the girls to feel for others. To desire to be desired above all else. To keep the peace, and for goodness' sake, if you don't have anything nice to say--

We teach the boys that empathy is for girls and that their [the boys'] desires are always legitimate. It's only harassment if he's ugly. No, it's harassment if it's unwanted. It's harassment if you tell someone to stop and they persist anyway.

I have a new standard now, for speaking up. I ask myself, if this happened to someone else, some other girl, would I be angry? If it were my friend, my sister, would I want this to happen to her? I can't think of a question that has the potential to make me feel more enraged, more protective.

And I was wrong, by the way, about his shame and about mine. He felt none. I felt all.

Shame, Expectations and Unnecessary Suffering

I was on the verge of tears--not at sad news though. At happy news, good news, welcome news. These, however, were not happy tears, I'm dismayed to report. These were more like tears of frustration--frustration over unnecessary suffering.

I'm sure none of you were ever like this, but as a child, I was fully capable of making myself unhappy--of denying myself good things like forgiveness, hugs, even pastry, because I was determined to be miserable, no matter what. There's a pride of grief, of unhappiness, of cutting off your nose to spite your face, because it's MY nose dammit, and I'll do what I please with it. Let the noseless rejoice in their sweet, if unsavory, suffering. 

Of course as an adult, my suffering is much more refined now, if still as unnecessary as ever. For one, there's procrastination, which many agree is a fine, even dignified form of suffering. You suffer, you suffer, you get the work done--and then the suffering ends, and you're left with nothing but emptiness where the suffering once was. 

Then there's the suffering of extremes, the rushing from one pole to the other in a frenzy of self-abnegation. Pick a personal fault, any fault. Perhaps you are prideful, insensitive, egotistical--sometimes. Generalize this fault into an all-encompassing final word on the nature of your basic character. You are arrogance itself. Criminally insensitive to other people. You are flawed to the core, and somehow, it feels so right to be so wrong. Tears. Abasement before God and perhaps other people. It all makes sense now. And this suffering will save you from yourself. 

And let's not forget the suffering of standards and expectations, your own and others', that you will never be able to live up to. Ever. The kind of things where you fail before you even start. Where you can never make him or her happy, no matter how hard you try. And even if you make that grade, get into that school, land that job, they will never be proud of you. And even if they were, it still wouldn't be enough. The kind of standards where you're tempted to say, screw it. Forget it. I won't even try. But even then, the bitterness rises up inside of you. And you suffer. 

And what about the suffering of miscommunication. Missed communication. Message not received. This one, perhaps, eats me up most of all. You spoke, but I was not listening. But I heard you say--But you never said--And I never bothered to ask--Because to ask, for clarification, for reassurance, for love, is to admit vulnerability. To admit that I need you. That I need. All that I wanted was there for the taking. I had only to ask. But I did not ask because I did not want you to know how much I wanted to ask. I would not risk even that one moment of vulnerability, because I would rather you see me as self-contained and complete, needing nothing, no one. 

Which brings me to the suffering of self-sufficiency. Some people, and I don't admit to knowing anyone like this, would much rather suffer than ask for help. Would much rather risk isolation than rejection. Let's be real here. There are certain types of martyrdom that are very highly regarded in our society, the most socially accepted of them all probably being martyrdom for your job, your career, your art. My art is my life, you say. Nonsense. You are not a paintbrush. Your life is your life. No one, not even God, is asking you to suffer for art. 

That's the problem with suffering though. It can feel so good. So noble. Soul-cleansing even. It's like eating vegetables--this tastes so bad it must be good for me. 

But is it necessary?




Sources of inspiration:

http://peterrollins.net/?p=3739
The story of Hannah as heard at http://www.churchinhollywood.com/#/sundays/podcasts

Burdens and the women who bear them

Zora Neale Hurston famously called black women the "mules of the world" in her book Their Eyes Were Watching God. I find this image, resonant within the book, resonant without too. In brief, I've been thinking about burdens, and the women who bear them.

I am also inspired by the article "A Message to Women from a Man: You Are Not Crazy," particularly this quote:

"It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice." 

Here are some of the burdens I think women are expected to bear: 

The Burden of Intention

This is a burden that I take on a lot--way more than I should. Perhaps I have mostly myself to thank for that, or perhaps evangelical "purity" culture should get some of the blame. But folks, today we're talking about intention. So let me just put this out there: I worry about the intentions of other people. All the time. 

Yes, I'm talking about romantic intentions. If I'm nice to this guy, will he think that I like him? What if I'm leading him on? What if he thinks I'm leading him on? Is this guy asking me on a date or just asking me to hang out? What if he likes me? Crap. MUST AVERT SITUATION. 

Now, I over-think a lot of things (as if you didn't know that already). But why is the burden on me and not on the man to clearly define his intentions. I don't want to monitor my every word and action so I'm not sending out the wrong signals. I don't want to manage the situation. I don't want to have to straight up ask, "Are you pursuing me romantically?" I don't want to have to make my (non) intentions clear when he hasn't even asked me out.

Why would I think this is my responsibility in the first place? Maybe it has something to do with needing to be "nice." Or maybe it's the mantra to "guard the other person's heart."

This is a burden that I do not want to bear, a price I am unwilling to pay. And yet I pay it.

The Burden of Desire

This one is tricky, but I've been thinking about the different ways that women and men desire in our culture, or more specifically, how our culture thinks about the desire of men versus the desire of women.

Yes, I'm talking about sexual desire. One thing that's always struck me is that a woman's desire is so easily itself made an object of desire (fetishized). Sexualized advertising aimed at men often seems to hinge on [a simulacrum] of female desire--this woman, this beautiful woman, desires ME. 

For whatever reason, I could say something seemingly innocuous, like, "Brad Pitt is hot!" And that could easily turn into: "You think Brad Pitt is hot. Nudge nudge, wink wink." It's as if any acknowledgement on my part that I am a living, breathing and desiring human being makes me something of a tease. Means I'm doing it for the attention. Makes me into a sexual object when really, I was asserting my subjectivity (KEANU REEVES IS HOTTER THAN BRAD PITT). I don't see this happening when a guy calls someone hot.

Let's take this deeper. There's a common rationalization out there that has to do with female desire. I'm sure you've seen this snl video titled "Sexual Harassment and You." No? Go watch it and come back. 

Basically, women are shallow (and kind of dumb). It's only sexual harassment if the guy is ugly. If the guy is Tom Brady, well, I just met you, and this is crazy--

I'm really struggling here, because this rationalization appears to be taken as the God-given--so obvious it hurts--TRUTH. What exactly is this truth saying? 

Women prefer attractive men. Yeah, that makes sense. Is that shallow? Sure. 

Women will tolerate (even welcome) harassment, abuse, etc. from a guy, just because he's hot. Okay, now you're making me queasy. Apparently a woman's desire, her preference for attractive men, makes her sick in the head. What?

Along the same line of reasoning, a woman will only call a guy "creepy" if he is unattractive. If he is attractive and exhibits the same courtship behavior he is not creepy. Women obviously don't really know what they want. That guy wasn't really sexually harassing you. You were just comparing him to Ryan Gosling.

A man's desire, on the other hand, is almost always valid (and validated). It doesn't matter if she desires him (she's irrational, capricious, shallow, and probably likes jerks), it only matters that he desires her. She is not a person. She is a projection of a man's desire.

This explains the fixation on the sartorial choices of rape victims. She may not have desired sex, but what was she wearing? What kind of male desire was being projected? 

A man's desire is pure and unequivocal. The heart wants what it wants.

So how do women bear the burden of desire? Women are required to be open and accepting of the desire of any and all while also accepting that any desire they express could be ridiculed and sneered at (especially if they are considered unattractive).

Tune in next time for...

The Burden of Secrecy

The Burden of Shame
The Burden of Fear

The Burden of the Body

The Burden of Character

Facebook and Telling Our Own Stories

"Is that your girlfriend?"
"What?"
"In your facebook profile picture. The one you're dancing with. Are you a lesbian?"
"No. That's MY TWIN SISTER."
-Not a real life conversation. Oh wait, this actually happened. *facepalm*

I've been thinking recently (and not so recently) about the relationship between my real life and my social media life. I've been thinking about how we "write" our lives--both online and off.

When it comes to social media, it seems that not only do we need to lead a happy, fulfilling, sparkly life, we have to prove that we are living a happy, fulfilling, sparkly life. Having lemonade on the porch with a good friend and a weighty philosophical tome? Instagram it. Convinced you have the best boyfriend everrrr? Tag him in a post on facebook. Losing weight on an awesome new diet/exercise plan? Tweet daily updates of your progress.

Of course these things aren't wrong or bad. It just sometimes feels like the equivalent of grabbing the world by the shoulders and screaming, "Look at me. I'M HAVING FUN AND LIVING LIFE!! DO YOU BELIEVE I'M HAVING FUN YET??!!"

There's something about expectations and being in your 20s. Or expectations and being in your 30s. Or expectations and being in college. Or expectations period. These are the best years of your life, after all. Shouldn't you be out there enjoying them?

And so we post pictures. And we tell a story. A story about our lives and how much fun we're having. Whether we mean to or not, we tell a story of one kind or another.

Facebook, of all things, understands this. I remember joking about the ads I would get when my relationship status was listed as "single."

"__ years old and still single?" (obviously, you're a freak). "Lose weight with this awesome new diet!" (and then you will feel lovely and desirable). "Revolutionary treatment for herpes!" (no wonder I'm single: I weigh 250 pounds and my body is ridden with STDs).

And what could concern me about these ads is their emphasis on controlling women's bodies. My body. My other body. (You're female. Clearly you're unhappy with your body and you want to lose weight.)

But facebook is not the only one telling me stories about myself, repeating back to me the stories I have consciously or unconsciously told.

And it's not all negative, either. I enjoy the stories that my friends tell. I realize that they're not the whole picture, however--not even close.

Have you ever tried talking to someone whose entire picture of your life is based on social media? It's very confusing.

Recently, a (former) facebook friend summed up my life in one damning question: "Still having trouble finding a man?" (Yes. Haven't you been paying attention? Lesbian. 250 pounds. Herpes. 'Nuff said.)

I found this confusing for several reasons. For example, if I'm looking for "a man," will any man do? Why am I trying to find him? Is he lost? I did not remember having a face-to-face, heart-to-heart with this person about my attempts at finding this poor man. And yet, to him, this was my story.

I can't find a man. Done. Finished. Written in bold.

Nevermind that the phrasing is insulting. Nevermind the "still," implying a lengthy search over an extended period of time (It's all I ever do, actually. Really. I'm exhausted.) Nevermind the implication that not having found a man, I am incomplete. Nevermind that this narrative has little to do with what I want and everything to do with being wanted. Nevermind how much it pisses me off that a woman can be belittled so easily with so little.

Most of all, that this was the story I'm telling, via facebook, via blogging. We tell stories. Other people tell them back to us, adding their own spin. I write about dating. I must be beyond desperate to find a man (any man) who will date me.

Bullsh**.

This is my story. I get to write it. Better yet, I get to live it. Granted, I can't completely control the hermeneutic by which other people choose to interpret my story, and that's frustrating. I can't even, on my own, eradicate the harmful stories that advertisers continue to tell women about their bodies, their lives, their worth.

But I will continue to write. And, reader, what you choose to believe is up to you.

Sincerely,
A 250 Pound Lesbian with Herpes

Life. And stuff.

I want to write about how much I like my new job, but I'm not sure if I can. So instead, a story:

When I was 16, I went to visit my dad in Beijing. A visit meant to last one month somehow stretched into six. For reasons I don't fully remember, comprehend, or wish to think about, I didn't want to go back to North Carolina.

I applied for an internship with a humanitarian organization in Beijing. As part of my application, I sent in an essay I had written for school entitled "Sexism in Paradise Lost" (It started early, folks). Somehow, I got the internship and started translating articles from English to Chinese.

This humanitarian organization also happened to have a media department. Cue life-changing event: I learned how to edit video using Final Cut Pro.

I started editing a camp video. I had dreams about cuts. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was hooked. For the first time in my life, I was truly passionate about something.

I remember editing late, late at night in the empty office. I remember how I felt going in after a weekend away, the mixture of trepidation and elation as I pushed in the door--would they be happy to see me? Would I still feel at home? Did they think I was a nuisance? I remember the huge crush I had on a guy who worked there. He was at least 14 years older than me, and I tried really hard not to have a crush on him, so of course I did anyway. But most especially, I remember Ivy, the director of the media department, and how her enthusiasm, kindness, and dedication to teaching made me feel.

Interning there changed my life. And ever since then, I've wanted to be that same kind of person for someone else.

Because I know that if it weren't for the people who have mentored me and encouraged me, I wouldn't be pursuing filmmaking. I would have given up before even starting.

Maybe this helps explain how strongly I feel about church, production, and mentorship.

I feel very, very grateful, because I know the real world so very rarely bears any resemblance to the experience I had when I was 16.

I've mentioned this to some of my friends, but there have been times and places and people that have made me feel like some of my strongest character traits are a liability. I'm independent to a fault. I'm passionate and a bit obsessive when I really care about something. I'm extremely focused and driven. And sometimes that hasn't gone over well, and I've paid the price for falling outside of the gender norm or otherwise stepping on people's toes (egos).

None of this is true in my current job. I can be independent, driven, and a little bit obsessive, and it's not only okay, it's encouraged (not that I have nothing to learn about being more interdependent and sensitive to other people).

I can breathe. And for that, I am extremely grateful.

How to Make Me Happy

In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy famously wrote that "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

My happiness depends more than I would like to admit on external factors that I usually have very little control over. Which is to say, all the environments I've been happy in tend to share certain characteristics.

The title actually doesn't make sense, of course, as no one can actually make me happy. But, you know what I mean. If someone needed a user's guide to me, it might include some of the following points. 99% of the time, I am super easy to please. Really. And now for a few items:

1. Food.

This one should go without saying. Food is important. I like it. I may not be particularly great at feeding myself, but I am really great at exploiting--I mean, finding--events with free food. I am all over that.

My sister is really good at feeding people. Seriously. She owns her own dumpling truck, and you should check it out. I always eat well when she's around.

2. Junk food.

Junk food goes into its own special category. I like it. Particularly if it's free. I'm the only one in my family who still thinks junk food is cool. The rest of the lot have all embraced something scary called "healthy eating"--and yet my brother still steals my skittles. Who's the hypocrite here, hmm?

3. Freedom to work independently.

I'm crazy independent. I like figuring things out on my own, but I also want to be able to ask questions. Sometimes, I just do stuff. I can't help it! It's the way I am.

4. People.

People make me happy. I like being around them and bugging them. You know how you just like people sometimes for no reason? You see them and you just want to smile.

5. Writing (and the freedom to write whatever I want to write).

If I'm not writing, something is wrong. Or I'm just being lazy. Or I'm afraid that people are actually reading what I write. It's complicated--but the freedom to write the truth the best that I know how feels a bit like God's intention for my life.

6. Talking through ideas.

If I couldn't do this, I think I would die.

7. People making fun of me (teasing me?).

I'm not sure why I love this, but I do. I myself can't pull it off without sounding like a jerk.

8. Learning new things.

9. Good writing.

10. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Challenging circumstances. Being on set. Filmmaking.

11. Teaching/training

I used to work as a master control operator at a small TV station and I was so excited to get to train new employees (three people, singly, to be exact) to do the job. My favorite part had been the training, and so I was looking forward to training other people. There's something about seeing someone put into practice something you've taught them. There's definitely a sense of pride.