A Story Worth Fighting For

I never imagined it would be this much of a struggle to be the hero of my own story, the lead in my high school play, the center of my own narrative.

No one and nothing prepared me for this. Not college. Not courses in feminist, post-modern, post-colonial, or Marxist theory. Not reading Doestoyevsky, the Bronte sisters, Donne, Shakespeare, or George Eliot. Not all the papers I wrote about hybridity, syntax or laughter. Not being good at school or good at my job. Not praise from teachers, employers or peers. 

Nothing. 

Part of being the hero means you get to have layers. So, for example, one of the most jarring things about inhabiting my identity is the baffling (to me) denial that I have a past. That things have happened to me. Not only that things have happened to me, but that I've been affected by these things that have happened to me.

At every fresh encounter with a new person, I'm assumed to be (supposed to be) a blank slate. 

As if you were the first stranger to tell me to, "Smile." 

The first white guy to call me "exotic." 

The first person to ask, "So, where are you from?"

The first man to speak to me in a condescending tone of voice about something technical. 

I'm told that I'm "cynical." That I have a bad attitude. That I "hate white people."

I feel like part of being human is learning from the past, taking in experiences that repeat themselves over and over again, making sense of these experiences and even molding them into a narrative. 

Like any three-dimensional character, don't I deserve a back story too? 

Like Marx said, history repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce. But sometimes it seems like even laughter is not allowed to me. Because to laugh is to have a distinct point of view that sees the cracks, the contradictions, the absurdities of the status quo. 

I think I can say that I've paid a price for not aquiecsing to the dominant narrative. And as I fight for my story, I can't help but feel like I'm fighting for my life. That if I don't have this, I have nothing. That if I don't fight for my story, no one else will. 

Let's stop shaming people for feeling like outsiders at church

Ah, a subject close to my heart--and all I could come up with is this clunky title:

"Let's"--as if there is a unified "US" that goes around shaming people.

"Stop"--as if I can actually get people to stop doing anything.

"Shaming"--Now there's a strong word.

"People"--Who are these people?

"Outsiders"--Okay. They feel like outsiders in some way.

"Church"--Refer to the unified "US" of the first word.

There's a phenomenon on facebook and elsewhere that I've started to think of as "Push Back." Push back is the "But what were you wearing?" of mildly controversial conversation. Example:

"Some guy grabbed my butt while I was riding the bus."
"Maybe he was just having a bad day and your ass reminded him of home."

Or:

"It can be difficult being a woman in the entertainment industry."
"I was the only man in my women's studies class."

Or:

"I don't feel like I belong at my church."
"Have you tried joining a small group?"

I think that at heart, a push back response is a misdirect. It misses the point and steers the speaker in another direction, like, "Well, have you tried jiggling the handle?" The listener in effect avoids, glosses over, ignores, minimizes, invalidates the original statement

I think the underlying message when it comes to belonging and church is, "It's not okay that you feel this way."

At first, this might not seem like a particularly shaming response. But think about it.

"I don't feel like I belong."
"It's not okay that I feel this way."
"There must be something wrong with me that I feel this way."
"I should stop talking about this because it makes other people upset."

It's a double burden of shame. And to state the obvious, people who already feel like they don't belong are hyper-sensitive to the shame of feeling "Not Ok."

Sometimes the response from the listener seems to be rooted in defensiveness, as in, "How DARE you suggest that my church is anything but welcoming and inclusive!" This response makes a lot of sense. If the identity of the church is rooted in how welcoming or inclusive it appears or feels to others, then any threat to this appearance or feeling will be met with incredulity and even hostility.

This is frustrating. As if no matter how much vulnerability, humility or honesty I express or how much humor I use to deflect the pain, or how much I qualify every statement, or how much credence I give to other perspectives, my story will still not be validated because it falls outside the boundaries of how church wishes to perceive itself.

Some of the things that Jesus says in the New Testament are pretty funny, especially when he's talking to the Pharisees. It's like they're speaking completely different narratives (they are) and Jesus is like, "I know you are, but what am I?"

He just, like, says stuff, and it's awesome.

Anyway, I think I feel like this a lot. As if I'm trying to tell this story and it's not getting through because the other person immediately imposes his story onto mine. There's instant denial, defensiveness, explanation or "Have you tried online dating?"

It's exhausting. I'm tired. I'm very, very tired.

Racist people don't think they're racist

I bet Donald Sterling wouldn't call himself a "racist." In fact, I'll bet you three housing discrimination lawsuits that HE is the victim in this unfortunate and regrettable situation.

When's the last time someone was accused of racism and said, "You know, you're right. I am a racist." 

No. No one considers themselves a racist just like no one considers himself/herself a "bad person." It just isn't done. 

It's like the guy I dated who called me a "bitch" and referred to other women as "bitches" but who was certainly no misogynist. 

Or the same guy who, when I called him out on his racist comments, insisted that he "didn't actually believe those things." He was merely throwing softballs at me so I could "knock them out of the park." 

That's all they were. Softballs. Racist softballs. Racist softballs thrown at my head. 

Racism. It's all just a game and somehow I'm always up at bat. Or standing at the free throw line--the outcome riding on whether or not I can make the shot. 

And there's the rub. Racist/sexist people are not even a tad bit bothered by your righteous indignation. They're not interested in your arguments. They're not interested in change or transformation or regeneration.

No. 

If they suffer, it is the world's fault. 

They are misunderstood. They are hurt. They are attacked. They are vilified. Unfairly.

All your righteous indignation does is assure other people--or maybe just yourself--that you are not racist. You are not like that. You are not Donald Sterling. 

I'm struck by the fact that: 

A: Sterling purportedly dated a woman who describes herself as racially mixed. 

B: Sterling donated a lot of money to the NAACP.

I don't find these things surprising. 

After all, isn't love often mixed with hatred, generosity with contempt, kindness with cruelty?

The Upside of Crisis

It's been a rough couple of months. You know when a situation quickly escalates from bad to The Room (except it's too immediate to even be funny yet)?

When I'm not hiding in my closet, crying, or hiding in my closet crying, I've been doing some crisis-induced thinking. Except when it feels like CRISIS and not just unfortunate-situation-I'm-trying-to-deal-with, it gets really hard to think clearly.

When I'm in fight-or-flight mode I really only want to do one of two things:

1) Run away.
2) Punch someone in the face.
3) Punch someone in the face and then run away.

Okay, that was three things, but you get the idea.

That's the downside of crisis. Calm, rational thought goes right into the proverbial whirring garbage disposal (along with, unfortunately, the ability to execute normal day-to-day functions like brainstorming my next crockpot recipe and wearing matching socks. Wait--who am I kidding. I can't even manage that on a good day).

I feel like I'm in the midst of emotional warfare, but they brought a [insert military grade weapon here] and I brought a paper clip and a stick of chewing gum (In case you were wondering, I'm losing).

Add to this the fact that my emotional reaction time is basically glacial. If you stab me repeatedly with a piece of broken glass I might say "ouch" roughly two weeks later. Imagine how long it takes me to heal. Yeah.

And just as the wound appears to be scabbing over, I get stabbed, again, by someone who keeps telling me they would rather succumb to a flesh-eating disease than hurt me. It's confusing as #$@!.

But I digress. The upside.

Recognizing that I am a human person with human limitations

Unspoken Rule #178 - Do not be weak.

Unspoken Rule #3 - Don't be a victim.

Unspoken Rule #65 - If you cry, expect to be made fun of. Oh, and if you do cry, people are secretly judging you for being overly emotional and "weak."

Unspoken Rule #82 - Never allow yourself to be dependent on someone else.

Unspoken Rule #77 - If you are dependent on someone else, they will resent you. For being weak.

Unspoken Rule #34 - Do not ask for help.

Unspoken Rule #91 - You need to figure this out on your own.

Unspoken Rule #117 - The worst thing you can do is feel sorry for yourself.

Learning the signs of "I'm not okay"

I feel like this must be easier for other people. Maybe not. It takes me days (it feels like) to even realize that I'm upset. I analyze and compartmentalize my emotions as if they are completely separate from me, kind of like other people might organize their DVD collection by genre, director or year of release.

"I'm filing all my Wes Anderson movies under M for 'melancholy.'"

Acknowledging some hard-to-accept truths about myself

Hard Truth #35 - I don't have a ton of automatic respect for authority, power, position, or the status quo.

Hard Truth #21 - I have a near-crippling fear of disapproval from authority figures.

Hard Truth #88 - I think I'm better than the rules. See also Hard Truth #35 & Hard Truth #21. See also, COMPLETELY SCREWED.

Hard Truth #103 - Subverting the system makes me gleeful and somewhat smug. [Thanks a lot, Dad.]

Hard Truth #999 - I ride my bike to work, drink fruit-oatmeal-spinach-flaxseed smoothies, and attend the occasional yoga class. Yes, I have become THAT person.

I have really awesome friends

They would be awesome even if I wasn't going through a crisis or CRISIS. Thanks you guys. It is because of you that I have yet to either run away or punch someone in the face or both.

I'm going to get through this.

What side should you hug a girl, dating women at church, and how to hit on girls with a facebook status

More advice from Google searches below. I'm kind of starting to sense a theme here...

"what side you should hug a girl" 

Okay. This sounds like a personal question. But may I suggest hugging the side that is facing you, unless that side is her backside. Hugging from behind is not recommended unless you are already in a relationship. 

As for which side is better to hug, the left or the right, I can't really say that I have a preference. I'm right-handed, so I guess it's more natural for me to side-hug with my right arm. 

Perhaps you can observe the girl in question for a few minutes to see whether she's right or left-handed, then go in for the kill, er, I mean side hug. 

"a lot side hugs from a guy at church" 

Hmm. This is perplexing. Is this guy chasing you around the foyer giving you lots and lots of side hugs? That's kind of creepy. Especially if he's alternating sides. *shudder*

Or is he just giving a friendly, Christian, brotherly hug every time he sees you? 

I'm guessing this is one of two things. 

1. A guy at church is side-hugging you a lot. You do not like him and it's making you uncomfortable. 

2. A guy at church is side-hugging you a lot. You sort of kind of like him and you especially like his hugs (maybe a little too much). You want to know if there's something more than brotherly affection going on here. 

If it's #1, simple, don't hug him. I don't care how nice he is, or how Christian you are, no one should be side-hugged without their consent. Period. 

If it's #2, observe how he interacts with other women. Does he promiscuously side-hug women left and right? Is he just a really friendly, sincere kind of guy? 

Maybe it's nothing. 

I say keep hugging him (and maybe a few other guys too). The bigger your sample size, the better you'll be able to tell "It's so good to see you, person I only feel platonically for!" from "Maybe some day we can take this side hug a little bit further but not too far because that would cheating on our future spouses unless you are my future spouse in which case how do you feel about full-frontal hugging before marriage?" 

"how to hit on girls with a facebook status"

This is a new one. Are we talking hitting on one girl or a bunch of girls at once? 

Let's hope it's just one girl. Here's what I would do: 

Tag her in a status update that either A) Lightly teases her for something funny she did, or B) Challenges her to a friendly and fun competition, or C) Both.

The key here is to keep it light and low-pressure. Think good-natured teasing or something harmless you can be competitive about (progressively squee-worthy pictures of baby animals?).

"dating a guy with no qualifications" 

What kinds of qualifications are we talking about? How's his side-hug technique? 

"dating women at church" 

If you want to date women at church, or if you want to attend church solely to date women, here's what I would do: 

1. Show up.
2. Be attractive or have a good personality or both.

3. Ask a woman out. 

That's all I've got. Best of luck to all you huggers and daters out there. 

Boundaries, Shame & the Peanut Butter Defensive

I recently tried to set a new boundary with someone I used to be close to.

This was hard for me.

And he responded with some version of "Okay. By the way, I think you blew this way out of proportion."

That's the thing with boundaries. I don't expect guys to actually respect them.

. . . . . . .

When I was a young teenager (14) my family visited Nepal. I remember quite a bit about our trip--white water rafting, my sister's bout of dengue fever, the incredible oatmeal at the missionary boarding house--

And the rather sudden objectification and perceived accessibility of my body.

There was something about being 14, being a stranger in a strange land, and having men "accidentally" "bump into" me as I was walking down the street.

It was a confusing business.

I wrote to my dad about this, and in his reply he humorously suggested I coat myself in peanut butter or some other sticky substance so that the offender would get a nice little surprise as he copped a feel.

"Ha! Bet you weren't expecting to get peanut butter on you, you pervert!"

Unfortunately, I could not appreciate my dad's advice at the time.

Instead, I started crossing my arms over my chest and not making eye contact.

. . . . . . .

I was 15 and my favorite, most-worn piece of clothing was an extremely baggy, thin black sweatshirt. It managed to engulf whatever boobs I had at the time.

I'm certain one friend threatened to take it out and burn it.

I loved that thing.

. . . . . . .

I've had guys tell me, "I'm you're boyfriend. I'm supposed to push your boundaries."

I've had guys ask me out after I told them repeatedly I just wanted to be friends.

I've had grown men ignore my (polite) requests to stop harassing me via email. [Pro tip: don't use the word "please" when asking someone to stop harassing you.]

And the thing with boundaries is, they can start closing in on you, until you keep contracting inward, smaller and smaller, barely taking up any space, in a desperate attempt to hold onto whatever is still inviolate about the self.

And I wondered what about my boundaries or my self seemed so fluid, permeable, and defenseless. What about me said, "No really. I don't mean it. Go ahead and cross that line."

And my boundaries felt about as valuable and effective as smearing peanut butter on myself to prevent sexual assault. [So many questions: Crunchy or creamy? Name brand or store brand? Organic or not organic?]

When someone (or lots of someones) tramples your boundaries more times than you can count, you start internalizing the shame of "I'm not worth it."

. . . . . . .

But that's not what boundaries are for--I want boundaries that leap, and bound, and expand, and run, and fight back, and talk back, and that assert that--

YES. I am important. I am worth it. My story is worth telling. And this is MY side of the story that you don't get to control.

These are my boundaries.

This is my peanut butter defensive. Or rather peanut butter offensive--I picture myself running through the streets of Nepal, covered in peanut butter head-to-toe.

And if you don't like it, well--

I've got a jar of Skippy with your name on it.

Is calling someone a "racist" part of white privilege?

Apparently some Americans found this Superbowl commercial offensive because "America the Beautiful" was sung in different languages.

I saw many people on facebook (mostly white) calling these people out and using the word "racist" quite indiscriminately.

There were (bloodless) calls for social media blood to be spilled.

This got me thinking: is using the word "racist" with equanimity and aplomb part of white privilege?

I'm not white (wouldn't you know). And I think long and hard before I even talk about race let alone use such a loaded term as "racist."

Why?

One look at me, and you would know that I have skin in the game (not white).

I'm not white.

Not white.

Got it? I'm not white. And therefore for me to even talk about race means that I am not objective. I am wholly subjective, biased, non-neutral, and prejudiced.

Because of my not-whiteness, I have no credibility.

To be white is to be untouched by history, free from the shackles of the past, free to disclaim responsibility for the actions of not-my-ancestors, free from the burden of guilt and shame that racism represents--

"I am not responsible. Not my past. Not my history. Not my family. Not my burden."

[I feel like this is the crux of white privilege. White privilege says, "I don't care because I don't have to care. I see you over there carrying this burden, but I don't want to know about it. I'm not interested. I'd rather ignore it. That's your problem that you feel that way. I'm sorry, but it's your choice, not mine. Your burden has nothing to do with me."]

My ethnic ambiguity testifies to my lack of clear-headed thinking about racism. And people don't always respond particularly well when I talk about race or when I use the word "racist."

I've experienced some of this righteous indignation before. I've used the word "racist" relatively casually and been not-so-subtly challenged and rebuked.

I've found that using the word "racist" can shut down entire conversations, entire relationships. Except, looking back, I wasn't the one who used the word.

It was more like, "You think I'm a racist? How dare you."

To be honest, blatant racism doesn't really interest me that much. To quote M. Scott Peck quoting Simone Weil, "Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring."

The word "racist" is the exact opposite: inflammatory, loaded, weighted, the worst thing you could possibly call someone (which, if you notice, is not the same as "the worst thing you could possibly be").

So in a world where calling someone a racist is such a terrible thing (worse than actually being racist), I want to ask:

Is there room to talk about the everyday banality of racism. The ordinary kind. The kind that doesn't make the news?

I ask, if you didn't feel righteous indignation, what would you feel?

What would it mean for "racist" to be merely a descriptor, not the word you hurl at your worst enemies?

What if "racist" wasn't used to shut down conversations, but to start them anew?