Why I Kept Quiet About Being Sexually Harassed

Recently, women in the Los Angeles improv community did the unthinkable: They named names--on facebook, no less.

One man in particular was credited with so many stories of sexual harassment that I'm tempted to think his daily schedule goes something like:

8:00AM: Wake up
8:30AM-8:30PM: Sexually harass women
8:30PM: Tinder date
12:00AM Go to sleep

[Personal connection: I was matched with this gentleman on an online dating platform. We never actually communicated.]

I kid you not. This crap has been going on for years. And women are finally speaking up. It's incredible to watch--equal parts inspiring and horrifying--inspiring, to see the support that these women are receiving from the community--horrifying, that this guy got away with sexually harassing so many women for so long.

It made me think about my own stories--about why I didn't speak up about being harassed. I've written before about the burden of secrecy: How women are so often burdened with keeping things quiet--don't cause trouble, don't make a scene, don't smear someone's reputation, don't accuse someone (particularly a powerful, talented, or likable someone) of misconduct.

There are so many valid reasons for keeping silent. And until the culture changes to one that prioritizes victims over perpetrators, it will always be extremely difficult to come forward.

[Ironically, even as I write this, I'm running through in my mind all the possible ways that the men I write about could be identified by readers.]

Story #1:

When I was in college, I wrote a blog for the school's marketing department about my experiences in the honors program.

I was connected to a staff member at the college who would post the blogs that I wrote every week. He was a man in his 40s (we'll call him RC)

At first, it was great. I loved blogging. Loved it. Because writing is fun.

Then, things started getting weird. From the beginning, RC and I had bantered back and forth via email. He was eccentric, borderline unprofessional and didn't act his age, but I didn't think too much about it. I knew he was in a relationship, and that made me feel safe, as if he couldn't be flirting with me (plus, I was a student).

Things took an odd turn when he created a facebook profile in the name of my college and started leaving weird comments on other people's pages and messaging me nonsensical things, to the point that I blocked him on facebook.

Then, he started harassing me about not sending him new blogs to post every week, repeatedly sending me pushy, sarcastic and vaguely threatening emails.

Something about the emails made me deeply uncomfortable and fearful. I asked him to stop. I used the word "Please." He didn't stop. I asked him again. I felt like no matter what I said, he wouldn't stop sending me harassing emails.

Conclusion: I stopped writing. I concluded that my blog made him feel as if he "knew me" or had some kind of personal connection to me. The only way to stay safe was to stop writing.

Blogging was something that brought joy and meaning to my life, but I stopped doing it--all because of this one guy.

Now that I think about it, this guy was on the clock when he sent me those emails--so he was basically being PAID to harass me. That just feels wrong on so many levels.

So, why didn't I say something to someone? Here are the reasons I came up with:

1. I was afraid that my bantering emails with him would be considered "encouragement"--that I had brought this on myself by not being completely professional. In other words: it was my fault that I led him on.

2. I had enjoyed the (seemingly harmless) attention from him. (My fault, again.)

3. I perceived those at the college I could have gone to for help as either distant or ineffectual. I couldn't imagine them helping me in any real way.

4. What about his reputation? Would I be putting his job in jeopardy?

5. Although our online interactions felt inappropriate and unsafe, he never said or did anything overtly sexual. So although I felt like he was both hitting on me AND engaging in some kind of weird power play, I really had no "proof."

Reading the accounts from women in the improv community, I'm struck by how many stopped doing what they loved because they felt unsafe. That makes me f***ing furious.

Story #2:

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I worked on a low-budget feature film for no pay.

At our very first crew meeting, I started talking to the editor, asking him about what system he used, etc. (I was interested in editing at the time). Later, he visited the set. We talked more, and he offered to let me help cut the film once it entered post-production. He had worked on several films by a director that I greatly admired, so I thought this was pretty cool.

Later that same night, I had to drive an actor home. When he offered to accompany me and I didn't immediately jump on the opportunity, but instead asked other people, he started acting like a petulant five year-old. I swear, this man in his early 40s started pouting and crossed his arms over his chest like a small child. He was angry with me and would barely talk to me. I had no idea what was going on, but something didn't feel right.

Then, early the next morning, I got the email, and my heart started pounding faster.

He explained that he had fallen in love with me from the very first night we met, felt a deep connection to me that was not just sexual (e.g., I'm not just interested in sex!), explained he had been angry because he thought I didn't want to be alone with him, something something something, hoped we could still work together.

I responded that I was not interested, but hoped we could still work together as colleagues. I didn't tell anyone about this email, even though it stressed me out. I thought I could handle it on my own and save him any embarrassment.

That same day, the producer called me over and said that I had to go pick up the editor from the train station the next day (the producer had no idea about the email). I was then forced to go pick this guy up and spend at least an hour alone with him. I can remember how he casually put his arm up around and on my headrest in the car as if we were at a movie and he was about to make a move. Under the circumstances, it made me uncomfortable. I tried to pretend like nothing had happened.

Later, other members of the crew told me how he was in love with me and ranting angrily about how much time I was spending with another guy onset, "I'm gonna f***ing kill him," he was saying about this guy, repeatedly.

One guy half-jokingly suggested that I get a restraining order.

I noticed that he had a camcorder and seemed to be filming me, but I wasn't sure. Later, after we wrapped, he sent me an email with pictures (screenshots from video?) that he had taken of me unawares. I never responded.

A week or so after shooting finished, I went into the production office to reconcile expenses, and the producer mentioned that the editor had said he wanted me to help out with editing.

I said, "I don't think I can do that." The producer was like, "Okay, cool." But then I tried to explain why.

"Oh, he has a crush on you?"

It was a little more than that. I told him I would forward him the email. That the email was funny.

"I don't think it's funny."

So, why didn't I (initially) say anything?

1. I felt like it was my problem to handle and that I could handle it.

2. I thought that after I responded to his confession of love with a professionally worded "let's just be colleagues" that he would leave me alone and respect my boundaries.

3. I thought he would be embarrassed and shamed if I told someone, and I didn't want him to be embarrassed or shamed (I put myself in his shoes).

4. I used humor to minimize how unsafe it made me feel.

Sadly, practically every single woman has a story like this--not these exact details, no, but the same dynamic.

Writing it all out like this feels clinical and distant--but it's helped me see that men who sexually harass women are not playing by the rules--

We ascribe shame to them (normal, healthy shame that you should feel for violating someone else's boundaries) when nothing of the sort actually exists.

We mentally and emotionally put ourselves into the shoes of the harasser--"Wow, I would feel awful if dozens of women accused me of sexually harassing them"--without realizing that they exist in a world where their actions are perfectly acceptable, understandable, normal, justifiable.

[Exhibit A, the same guy above who has dozens of sexual harassment incidents to his name is still by all reports setting up dates with women in the improv community via apps like Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge. I'm sure he feels just "Terrible, terrible!" about all the pain he has caused. 'Cause those are the actions of a man overwhelmed with shame. Right. I just feel so bad for him and all the humiliation he must be going through. My heart goes out to him.]

This plays out in the way that women respond to harassment. I assume, "If I say no, stop, I'm not interested, he will stop"--sometimes realizing too late that when I said "No," all he heard was static.

In this case, if there is no support from other people, and particularly from those in authority, then my best option is to disappear, because then at least he doesn't have access to me.

Think about it. Women are disappearing because that is their best option. It can be a kind of personal, professional, spiritual or creative death.

After cutting ties with an abuser, I have not only had to heal from the relationship itself, but also from the ways in which people responded (or didn't) to my story.

One person that I reached out to immediately after a traumatic incident was adamant about remaining neutral and hearing "his side of the story."

I get it. I feel like I get it. But to remain neutral is to side with the abuser. Every time. And I know that this is just one more layer to this wound that I'm going to have to deal with.

Intellectually, I totally get it. But emotionally, it's devastating.

Three Confessions and a Funeral

My Uncle Paul died on July 3, 2014 at the age of 91.

I got an email from my dad asking me to go to the memorial service.

First confession: I didn't want to go. If I'm honest, that was my first thought.

My second thought was this:

"You're selfish."

I showed up to the memorial service. I was late and wearing heels that inappropriately CLACK, CLACK'ed their way down the aisle.

[I can't really walk in heels--even comfortable, conservative size 8W heels purchased at Payless.]

Selfish. Selfish.

I sat in a pew in Sky Rose Chapel--high vaulted ceilings, stone floors, over-cranked AC--and listened to an account of my Uncle's life narrated in Chinese. My Uncle Paul had served as pastor of South Bay Chinese Christian Church for 33 years. He became a Christian in 1950 and moved from Taiwan to the United States in 1969.

I read the bulletin.

Printed there were these lyrics in Chinese and English:

What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit, oh, what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer! 

Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged--take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful, who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer. 

Second confession: Shoes.

I once "borrowed" my Uncle Paul's Nike sneakers when I had no comfortable shoes to wear home and "forgot" to return them.

Selfish.

But sitting in that freezing chapel, hearing and reading about my Uncle's life--and not only that, remembering the kind of man that he was--

Gentle. Incredibly gentle. Kind. Patient.

We weren't close, but I can remember him sending me off multiple times over the years after a visit or stay at his and Aunt Mona's house, always walking me outside to the driveway and praying to God for me in Chinese.

For my protection. For my blessing. For my safety.

A father's blessing. A father's gentleness. A father's forgiveness.

I cried. I cried because I'm me and I was at a funeral.

I cried because I had carried this burden of SELFISH for a very, very long time.

I cried because I had accepted this burden from someone that I loved (and it can be so hard to refuse burdens from those that you love).

I cried because in that moment I felt the gentleness and forgiveness of a God who does not condemn me. Who knows my every weakness and forgives me.

I cried because I felt like, "Hey, God wouldn't want me to carry this burden of SELFISH and I don't think my uncle would want me to either."

I cried because God is my father. And he is gentle with me.

Third confession: I'm still struggling to lay down this burden. And that's why I'm writing this.

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?

Femininity & The Blank Slate or Why I'm Not Flattered When a Stranger Tells Me I'm Pretty

This has bothered me for a while. 

Every time (yes, generalizing) a girl/woman tells a story about unwanted male attention (catcalling, harassment on the street, being asked out by a stranger, having her personal space invaded,  getting a sexually explicit fb message), someone chimes in with the equivalent of: 

"Jeez, he was just trying to pay you a compliment / be friendly / make a personal connection / ask you on a date." 

In every other situation I encounter in life, I'm supposed to be an adult, which means I have thoughts, I have values, I have past experiences, I have a modicum of practical sense, etc. 

But in this one specific scenario, I'm supposed to be a complete blank, approaching every fresh encounter with a new man as if I had just stepped off planet xx and this was the first time someone had ever told me to "Smile, Beautiful!"

And instead of thanking him or smiling sweetly, I flip him off.

And when I tell the story, someone I know (male) defends that guy on the street (or on the social network). 

"Why can't you give him the benefit of the doubt?" 

So...it's okay for him to objectify me and reduce me to an adjective [My name isn't "Beautiful," you asshat. Oh wait, it is. Nevermind.]

But I must ascribe to him thoughts, feelings, a deep and meaningful history of respect for all women, and, especially, that "he's not like all other guys."

He gets to be an individual with a unique background, history and cultural context, and how dare I treat him as anything less than a unique and special human being. I get to be "a pretty little thing."

"You're being so judgmental."

I mean, right. Maybe he's a really nice guy. Maybe he wouldn't hurt a flying cockroach if it landed in his beef bourguignon. Maybe he loves children, candy necklaces and riding escalators at the mall.

Well, welcome to my world, where making snap judgments about strangers based on past experiences and not making snap judgments about strangers based on past experiences can mean the difference between life and lying dead in ditch somewhere, to put it subtly.

Have you not watched a single episode of Law & Order: SVU? Evolutionarily-speaking, it's better to assume the worst.

This is what doesn't make sense to me. It's okay for me to follow my instincts EXCEPT when I don't respond favorably to a man's romantic overtures, or at least act a little bit flattered that, gee whiz, someone thinks I'm pretty!

"You should be flattered that someone finds you attractive."

The opinion of a total stranger > My safety, sanity and desire to appear in a public place without being harassed.

There's also the not-so-subtle threat: 

Someday you won't be attractive anymore and no one will think you're pretty or make obscene gestures at you from the safety of their motor vehicles AND THEN WHERE WILL YOU BE, HUH?? AT LEAST SOMEONE WANTS TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU, CAN'T YOU SHOW A LITTLE GRATITUDE!!!

Yet another reminder that my primary value as a woman lies in how attractive I am to the opposite sex.

And how to explain the anger some men seem to feel when a woman resists objectification or even--how dare she--complains about it.

I mean, a woman who finds her value within herself without any reference to outside male validation--

How unappealing.

Why You're Not Angry Enough

Because he's a really nice guy. One of the nicest you've ever met.

Because if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything.

Because you don't want him to think you're crazy, emotional, irrational, PMSing, or all of the above.

Because maybe this is God's will.

Because you don't want to scare the boys away.

Because what's done is done. You can't change the past.

Because if you're angry, you might start crying.

Because if you're angry, you might be told to "calm down," "don't over-think it" (too late), "you need to lighten up."

Because what happened to me wasn't all that bad.

Because God doesn't like it when you're angry.

Because if you're not nice, then you're a bitch, and you don't want to be a bitch.

Because women are allowed to be angry, but not too angry. [See, "And you'll scare the boys away," above.]

Because your parents did the best that they could.

Because anger feels like a destructive emotion, and you don't want to destroy anything (except patriarchy, of course).

Because you want to protect him.

Because you want to protect her.

Because maybe I led him on.

Because maybe I deserved it.

Because maybe it was my fault.

Because you don't want to "hold onto unforgiveness" or "allow bitterness to take root."

Because why can't you let go already and stop blaming other people for your problems?

Because anger hurts.

Because we don't talk about that in this house.

Because no one will ever love you if you're angry.

Advice From the Google Trenches: A Guy Asks You Out After a Year, Reasons Not To Date a Girl Who Flirts With Every Guy, and How To Ask For a Girl's Number at Work Without Hitting on Her

This is the fourth installment in "Ask me anything via Google search." You can find the first three installments here, here, and here.

"A guy asks you out after a year lust or like[?]"

Why can't it be both? Or he likes you because he's attracted to you? Or he asked you out after a year because he realizes he likes you?

I'm not sure what you're worried about. Perhaps he is only asking you out because he has already exhausted the supply of available romantic partners. But I doubt that's the case. Plus, he is deliberately asking you out (I assume). That really means something.

If you've known this guy for a year, you probably already know whether he's a good guy or not. If he's a good guy, why not go out with him.

Here's the thing about intentions: they are always revealed with time. Sure, a guy's intentions might be less than sincere. But the only way to know that is through his actions. I've definitely wondered about a guy's intentions before. However, I've come to believe that a guy's intentions (good, bad, or indifferent) are not my burden to carry.

Saying that, you might also keep in mind that men (and women) often state their intentions in so many words. For example, the classic "I'm really not looking for a relationship right now."

Pay attention to what he says, but more than that, pay attention to what he does.

"Reasons not to date a girl who flirts with every guy"

I've had friends who have been accused of flirting when they were really just being nice. Being nice can look like flirting, especially if the girl is attractive and the guy is...a guy (gross generalizations ahoy!)

These assumptions can really put a damper on flirting. And on being nice. [Not that I have a problem with being nice. Au contraire. I have been known to shut a guy down with a single look. What can I say. It's a gift.]

Which is to say, what's wrong with a little flirtation?

I think I know what you mean though. What if you date a girl who flirts with every guy and she doesn't stop flirting with every guy? What if you leave the table to go to the restroom and come back to find her engaging in playful banter with the waiter?

I can think of only one good reason not to date a girl who flirts with every guy. If she has unresolved insecurity issues, no amount of attention will ever be enough. And that could cause problems.

"How to ask for girls number at work without hitting on her"

This is very easy to do. Just say, "Hey, if I need to call you for [insert reason here], can I get your number?"

On the other hand, if you are hitting on her, then it will probably be obvious, and no amount of "I'm not hitting on you or anything, but can I have your number?" is going to help.

This has more to do with your intentions than the actual content of the question.

Face it. You are hitting on her. And yes, it's obvious.

Advice From the Google Trenches: Hitting on Girls, Respect at Work, and Why a Guy Might Think You're Desperate

And we're back! It's time for the next installment of "advice you didn't really ask for based on google search queries that led to this blog." You can find the first installment here. Let's get down to it.

"How to hit on a girl"

Today is your lucky day. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: you can talk to girls as if they are real people. Seriously! I'm not joking. Oh, you want me to be more specific? Okay.

1) Make eye contact. I'm not saying stare intensely into her eyes--I am saying don't stare at the ground the entire time if you can help it.
2) Smile. More specifically, smile while making eye contact. Be prepared to catch her if she swoons.
3) Ask her questions, preferably about herself.
4) Listen intently to what she says. You can even repeat back key points, so she knows you're paying attention.
5) Watch your body language. Are you facing toward her, facing her at an angle, or facing completely away? If you're making eye contact and smiling, this shouldn't be an issue.
6) If you are talking to a girl and you like her, it will probably be obvious that you like her. Hitting-on-girl mission accomplished.
7) It's okay to be nervous. If she likes you, she'll probably think it's cute.

If you're ready for some next level stuff, I suggest reading this post over at LABullets. Be careful though--it's not for the faint of heart.

"Thoughts about work and respect"

I have a lot of thoughts about work and respect:
-Playful banter and/or ribbing is not the same as disrespect. Of course, every workplace is different.
-If you feel you are not getting the respect you are due, there could be a deeper issue.
-This deeper issue could be with you--are you placing your worth in your job? Will any amount of respect ever be enough? Imagine getting what you want. How would it make you feel?
-This deeper issue could be with workplace dynamics or politics. It could have nothing to do with you.
-If someone condescends to you or puts you down, it might be worth it to call them out on it--to say, "Hey, what do you mean by that?"
-Ultimately, you can't change someone else's behavior or attitude. Think about why this is so important to you. Can you make peace with not getting the respect you think you deserve? If not, it might be time to look for a different job.

"Why a guy might think you're desperate"

Whoa. Hold up right there, girlfriend. Did a guy actually tell you he thinks you're desperate? No? Then what are you worried about?

There's tons of advice out there (I should know, I googled it) on not appearing desperate. But chances are if you're asking why a guy might think you're desperate, you're too self-aware to actually be desperate.

Desperate people are not self-aware. They are too busy etching their crushes' names into their forearms.

Speaking of which, if you like a guy, it's okay to tell him. Telling him does not make you desperate. Flirting with him does not make you desperate. Wanting a boyfriend does not make you desperate. Holding someone's favorite stuffed animal hostage until he agrees to date you--that makes you desperate.

Your question does bring up another issue: the difficulty of navigating the often contradictory demands placed on women by contemporary culture: being sexy, but not slutty; being intelligent, but non-threatening; being attractive, but low-maintenance; being independent, but still needing a man; being just-interested-enough, but not desperate. You can read more about this here.

Now, if you'll excuse me--I need to go mail this ransom note from "Binky."

The Burden of Fear

As I walked past the seedy--yet somehow comfortingly familiar--entranceway to the local crack den on my way to church, I couldn't help but think about respect, and its importance in my life.

Yes, I was thinking about the suspect(ly) named Love and Respect Ministries and how as far as I can tell, it's mostly about women learning to respect men, not men learning to love women. As it turns out, I have a theory as to why this is:

Books, conferences, and ministries focused on making marriage better are primarily marketed toward women. And the primary marketing tool at work is fear. Fear of infidelity (his). Fear of a less-than-great marriage. Fear of not being good enough (as a wife, mother).

But the core fear, that coveted, prized, and beloved of advertisers the world over fear--is the fear of abandonment. How do I know this? 'Cause Google tells me so. One of the most persistent, recurring ads I get online warns me: "Why Men Pull Away: 10 Ugly Mistakes Women Make That Ruins [sic] Any Chances Of A Relationship."

[Then there's this Christian book, "What Your Husband Isn't Telling You" by the same author of "Why Men Hate Going to Church." This guy has got this angle on lock. I love the contradictory messages: men are simple and have basic needs (food, sex); men are a mystery, buy this book.]

Christian or secular, it doesn't matter. The fear is the same. The message is the same: If he leaves, it's because of you. You did something wrong.

This plays out on a larger scale as well. Why are men leaving the church (or why don't they attend in the first place)? Women. The feminization of Christianity. The predominance of xx chromosomes. Who's supposed to do something about this "crisis"? Women, particularly if they hope to ever get married to a Christian man.

Seems a bit backwards to me--men aren't stepping up and being men in the church! Who's to blame? Women! The most manly thing we can do is blame someone else (Eve) for our problems.

But, sadly, it seems that this kind of fear, no matter how poorly articulated, sells.

I've been writing about the burdens that women are expected to bear in our culture, and I feel like this is a key burden.

It fits so neatly with a pressing temptation women face: To take on blame for the failure of a relationship. Or I dunno, maybe it's just me.

There's something oddly comforting about taking on the burden of blame, perhaps because it's easier than anger, or perhaps because it turns into something you can control. If I change my behavior, repent, respect, submit, then he won't leave me.

There's the fear too, that men always cheat. That they can't keep it in their pants. It's in their very nature to stray. And this fear too, sells.

And as far as the feminization of church goes...color me confused. I get the part about wanting "adventure to live" and "battle to fight" and such, but I doubt that this translates into "What I really want as a Christian man is to literally go into battle and die for my family/faith/country" or "I could really use a few more disfiguring knife wounds so that everyone will know I'm a real man" or "I want nothing more than to do the back-breaking, manly labor of a lumberjack for the rest of my life" or "I wish that disemboweling scene at the end of Braveheart could happen today."

All this "Men were made for battle" stuff seems to translate into, "Get back, woman! Let the men lead." Am I wrong?

I am not a man. And far be it from me to offer here a definition of masculinity. However, I am a daughter and a sister and a friend, and I'd like to challenge this conception of what it means to be a man.

To return to this article, my favorite article, from the website Love and Respect Now, I think we need men who can honestly and non-defensively talk to their own daughters. I'm not sure what, in the name of Mel Gibson, this has to do with battle, or MMA, or adventure, or knife throwing, or rescuing wenches from dragons, but it seems important to me. And probably way, way more difficult. Is that not true strength?

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.

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

Sex, Text and My Other Body

I'm sure there's a literary/sociological/psychological theory* that addresses this, but I've been thinking about something I can best describe as "my other body."

This is not my actual, physical body, but my symbolic one--not how I experience the world as flesh and blood, but how the world chooses to experience me. Perhaps I can explain.

I might see someone I don't know and based on his appearance alone conclude that he is smart, dumb, nerdy, a douchebag, etc.

Another person might see me and based on appearance alone conclude that I am not American and must be from a different country.

Or a person might view my body as a sexual object, no matter that I am not (an object).

I'll put aside for the moment the question of whether our bodies do have any inherent value, worth, or beauty. Let it suffice for this blog that there are in fact two very different bodies in play. [I imagine someone who saw the two bodies as one and the same would have some kind of body dysmorphia.]

I find this concept extremely helpful as a writer. From the earliest days of literature, writers have identified their works with their own bodies--often as mother or father to an errant child. Anne Bradstreet famously wrote a poem titled "The Author to Her Book" in which she chides the "ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain." In this conception, the work is both intimately associated with the writer's body (as child) and dissociated and excused for its flaws and imperfections (the text as orphan).

Another Renaissance writer wrote of having undergone "pressing" to produce his book (don't you just love a good suggestive pun?). Both of these metaphors indicate the vulnerability (to criticism, etc.) of not only the author, but the author's body.

I'm sure every writer can relate to this in one way or another. You write something. You put a little (or a lot) of yourself into it, then the editor/publisher changes a word here, a phrase there and completely changes what you wished to say.

[I used to metaphorically hit the ceiling every time the school paper came out and the editors had once again marred my flawless copy with one or more grammatical, typographical, or idiomatic errors. Did I mention I was a joy to work with?]

Or someone reads something you've written and takes it completely out of context, interpreting it to mean something it doesn't mean or imputing to you a belief you hate.

And for whatever reason, women's symbolic bodies have always been more vulnerable then the symbolic bodies of men: witness online (or in print) attacks on a woman's looks or sexual history or anatomy, all because she wrote about, I dunno, anything. I can understand why authors like Charlotte Bronte wrote under a male pseudonym. Protection. Safety. No one drawing attention to the vulnerability of your body as female.

I feel this vulnerability--as much as I have tried to protect this other body so intimately associated with my own. I've tried to protect it in the way that I dress (that doesn't really work, by the way). I've stopped writing because a man read my words and thought that he knew me, thought that he could read me, thought that he could take liberties because hadn't I put myself (my body) out there for everyone to read?

I've despaired to think that in the career path I wish to pursue, my male coworkers will see me primarily as the cute girl (with "deep, dark, and soulful eyes," direct quote from one confessional email) and not as competent, smart, or talented.

I know I've been stressing the disconnect between my actual, physical body and this other body, but truthfully, they're not always so disconnected. It's this other body, I think, that causes men to casually touch my leg, my waist, my butt (without, as one friend so memorably put it, even bothering to buy me a happy meal first). It can't be me, right?

I don't know what it's like to be white, male, and heterosexual (a girl can dream), but I imagine there's less of a gap between the way other people perceive you and the way you perceive yourself. I imagine there are fewer moments of disconnect. I could try to primarily see myself as a sexual object, but I think that would get in the way of my writing.


[Based on this, one of the major feats that women in our culture are expected to achieve to become adults is internalizing the male gaze, or viewing themselves as primarily sexually attractive or not. Thus, being sexy is a culturally conditioned behavior that requires seeing a reverse image of yourself (as sexy) and then projecting it back to the world.]


*This might be Lacan and the mirror stage. Or Marx and alienation (alienated from work, from your body, from other people's bodies which then become instruments of production?). Or feminism and the male gaze.

Pretty is not dead--it's just taking an intergalactic nap

Someone, somewhere (Pat Archbold) wrote an essay on "The Death of Pretty." In it, he opposes the two values of "pretty" and "hot," lamenting the death of the former and the cultural ascension of the latter. Girls today, he alleges, want to be hot, not pretty.

The Problem with Pretty

Archbold defines "pretty" or "the pretty" as "a mutually enriching balanced combination of beauty and projected innocence."

Given this definition, I think I understand the putative girl's problem with pretty, especially if you replace "pretty" with "cute." "Cute" is so innocuous. Hot turns heads; Cute gets a pat on the head. Teenage girls naturally don't want to be cute, implying as it does a patronizing "Aw, you're so cute!" when what they want to hear is "you are an attractive, grown-up woman."

And this incidentally, is my primary problem with the author's definition of "pretty." It's infuriatingly infantilizing. The writer conflates "girls" with "women," although from what I can tell, his message is only aimed at women young enough to be considered conventionally "hot" (he cites Taylor Swift, Megan Fox, Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus, none of whom is over the age of 25).  Does a woman ever outgrow pretty? Must a woman of 50+ be primarily concerned with projecting innocence? I hope not. Innocence is not something I aspire to project now, let alone after I qualify for the senior discount at Denny's.

In fact, only young women (and possibly teenagers?) seem to be implored to embrace the pretty. If only they would stop being so enticing! The more I think about it, the more conflating perceived innocence with youth and physical beauty just seems weird and creepily objectifying. So you're saying that my perceived level of sexual experience dictates whether or not I'm "pretty"? Ew.

Pretty and hot are simply opposite sides of the same coin--a woman's attractiveness being contingent upon perceived sexual experience or knowledge.

(see also http://bit.ly/snb0mJ)

If I'm wearing a push-up bra, will you let me get mauled by bears? 

Predictably, I find the tone of this essay particularly patronizing. Pretty is pleasing. Pretty is unthreatening. Pretty is passive. Pretty begs to be protected and rescued, or as Archbold puts it,

"By nature, generally when men see this combination [of beauty and innocence] in women it brings out their better qualities, their best in fact.  [...] the pretty inspires men to protect and defend it."

In other words, pretty never kicks ass. Rather, it inspires men to kick ass. 

And what are these women/girls innocent of, exactly? Grand theft auto? Confusing "your" with "you're"? No, Archbold is referring to sexual innocence or the appearance thereof. [Interestingly, pretty is about projected--not real--innocence. Probably because this is the only kind of "innocence" we can pretend to objectively judge--based on how a woman dresses, of course.]

Now, I could be wrong here, but I doubt that the writer is advocating the kind of chivalry that protects and defends a woman in need of protecting or defending only if the clothes she happens to be wearing at the time are sufficiently modest. (Oh, and to qualify as "pretty," she must be beautiful too.)

If I'm in the process of getting mugged, I hope the passerby's first thought is not "Gee, I hope this girl appears both sexually innocent and beautiful, so I can feel compelled to save her--oh wait, she's wearing stripper heels." 

Or worse: "Well, she is dressed like a commodity (read: whore) and we all know that consumables are meant to be 'used up and thrown away.' I just don't feel like stepping in." 

Nonsense. True chivalry defends the defenseless regardless of either their perceived sexual history or their level of attractiveness. 

Which is all to say, the writer confuses the state of a man's heart with the state of a woman's dress. Pretty, "that special combination of beauty and innocence," can inspire more than just the noblest qualities in a man's heart. It can inspire lust, fear, hatred. It really depends on what is in his heart in the first place. 

Speaking from personal experience, wearing revealing or tight clothes is not a prerequisite for being harassed, groped or otherwise treated like a commodity in public. Ask any woman--you don't need to put on your "hot" clothes in order to be objectified. Sometimes all it takes is walking out the front door in jeans and a T-shirt. 

Furthermore, innocence can be an attractive quality to a predator--the less she knows, the less experience she has, the easier it will be to take advantage of her. 

All the pretty in the world will not turn a predator into a protector. 

Pretty, Pretty Pedestal

Pretty girls, it would seem, have the magical ability to bring out the very best in men as long as they remain safely perched upon the pedestal of passive prettiness. I submit that they would be happier descending from said pedestal and excelling at academics, sports, a career, relationships, life. Men are ultimately responsible for their own hearts, their own actions. That's not a burden girls should feel compelled to bear.

No woman--hot, pretty, cute or any other looks-related value--should be treated like a commodity (read: prostitute). Not because of how she looks or dresses, but because it's wrong to treat a person as if she were a thing.

I still remember a speaker in chapel (Phil's dad) quoting from the movie version of Les Miserables. His voice broke as he recalled Jean Valjean's words to Fantine, the prostitute: "In God's eyes, you have never been anything but an innocent and beautiful woman."

Hugging and the Single Girl

Don't hug me, I'm awkward. 

Hi, I'm an awkward hugger. It's a gift/curse that only seems to get better/worse with time. 

Hugs vs. Handshakes

Have you ever noticed how persons of the male gender, when they are leaving a social event, will shake hands with the men and hug the women? I'm guessing shaking hands = respect and "you are my equal," hugging = friendly affection and "You are so cute." I'm not claiming that the hugging is necessarily condescension on the man's part, but it does seem as if women are generally perceived as more huggable (e.g. non-threatening) than men. 

One guy offered up the explanation that men don't want to shake hands with women, because women aren't usually very good at it. And plus, men are perverts. 

I have been occasionally fooled by the "bro hug"--the kind that starts with an extended hand as if to shake, then pulls you in for the one-armed embrace. Tricky, tricky. 

Side Hugs, or Is Hugging Dangerous? 

I remember complaining to a friend that the insistence on side hugs made me feel as if hugging (me) were dangerous. We attended a Bible college program in which side hugs between guys and girls were the rule. On one rare occasion when I accidently non-side-hugged a guy,  he pulled back in semi-panic. 

"Hugging is dangerous," she said. I had no reply. I've never heard anyone come right out and say that hugging leads to fornication, but this seems to be the rationale behind side hugs. Side hugs are safe and fraternal. Side hugs say, "I consider you a friend and nothing more." You can't hit on someone with a side hug. Or can you? 

Based on a one friend poll, girls are less likely to hug guys that they like. So don't go getting any ideas. 

You might think that guys are the hugging opportunists. However, I have a vivid and funny memory of another friend asking a cute European guy to show her again how people in his country say goodbye (or hello?) with the hug, cheek kiss, cheek kiss, cheek kiss combination. Practice makes perfect. Wait, now I'm not sure who the opportunist was. 

Speaking of cheek kissing, you know what's awkward? Going in for a hug and having the other person go in for a cheek kiss. This is the kind of thing they don't warn you about in study abroad orientation.

First Date Etiquette

One guy ended a first date by asking, "Awkward A-frame hug?" I side hugged him. I never saw him again. 

Another guy decided that a fist bump was the way to go. I never saw him again either. 

I prefer no hugging on the first date. I don't like you that much yet. Sorry. 

The Theology of Hugging

Yes, there is a such a thing, of which Matt Jensen does a great job of explaining here via Miroslav Volf's Exclusion & Embrace.  

Things I glean from this theology: 

1. A good hug requires emotional vulnerability. No wonder I'm not a huge fan. 

2. A good hug is consensual. This goes without saying. 

3. A good hug ends eventually. Ditto. 

"Hugs not Syllogisms" 

You know what is inimical to hugging? Thinking about it. Analyzing it. Writing about it. It is nearly impossible to execute a sincere, non-awkward hug while simultaneously stressing about whether or not it's expected. 

Well, reader. It's been great. Are we supposed to...crap. 

<<awkward_cyber_hug>>