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.

"That's Not Cool, Bro": Homosociality, Objectification and the Uses of Social Media in Rape Culture

I've been contemplating writing this for a while now. This is the "nice" version, believe it or not. The hide yo' wife, hide yo' kids, hide yo' husbands version is in the works.

Upfront disclaimer: I'm going to talk about rape. And feminism. And Twitter.

Maybe you've heard about the Steubenville, Ohio rape case. Maybe you haven't. You can read about it here or here, but if you don't care to, a few facts about what allegedly took place:

1. Two high school football players sexually assaulted a girl at a party.
2. Many other people were present.
3. Some of these other students / partygoers posted to YouTube or Twitter about the rape.
4. They expressed positive and/or approving thoughts and feelings about the rape [There's a YouTube video of a guy talking and laughing about it].

Now, I think you and I have at least a little bit of difficulty getting into the headspace of a rapist. We probably also have a problem getting into the headspace of anyone who would think of rape as a good thing.

Nevertheless, these people and these reactions exist, so let's think about it for a minute. Okay, more than a minute:

Why would someone think that rape is funny?

There's a lack of identification. There's a lack of empathy. There is perhaps a sense that the victim of rape deserves to be raped.

Then, think about the dynamics of two intersecting phenomena: homosocial approval and social media.

What is homosocial approval?

For the purposes of this blog, homosocial approval is explicit or implicit social approval from other dudes. In the case of Steubenville, this could be an over-identification with football, with high school social status, and with the approval that comes from other guys when you boast about your sexual conquests.

Of course, homosocial approval is not always negative. It can be very positive. But when combined with sexual violence and social media, it becomes something else entirely. See also this incident in which two high school boys took pictures of a girl as they assaulted her (because what's a sexual assault unless you can show pics to your friends later, amiright?).

Like most of us, I have borderline racist and misogynistic friends and/or acquaintances. [I'm sorry, is that harsh? You know what I'm talking about, though. Maybe it's because I have a lot of Christian friends (low blow).]

And the friendly misogynist-next-door--he's unlikely to ever rape anyone. However, he does continue to perpetuate the idea that women are objects. Or, that a woman's primary value is in how she looks. Or that she's fair game as long as she's legal. Or that a woman is responsible for a man's behavior. And that, my friend, is destructive.

I started writing this with a question: How do my male friends respond when their friend says something borderline racist/misogynistic? Does it bother him? Does he say something? Does he shrug it off? Does he laugh nervously?

I guess that was actually a series of questions.

I'm asking you, hypothetical guy friend, to do one thing: withhold your approval. Don't agree. Don't fist bump. Don't retweet. Don't hit "like."

Maybe the phrase "rape culture" makes you mad--because you believe that there is no such thing. That it's a phrase coined by feminists to victimize men. Fine. Forget that phrase. Call it whatever you want. Call it dude-thinks-rape-is-super-funny-in-youtube-video culture. I don't care.

And what about me? I'm female. Guys are supposed to be trying to impress me. Doesn't my approval or lack thereof count too?

It doesn't. Not in the same way. I'm not the target audience here. You try lecturing a guy on manners after he calls you a bitch for turning him down. Or giving a crash course on sexual harassment to the gentleman, and I use that term loosely, who won't take "No" for an answer. It's not gonna happen.

He doesn't care what I think. That crude joke was not for my benefit. It was for you. Not me.

So hey bro, dude, man, whatever. Do me a favor and don't laugh.

It's not that funny, anyway.

Nihilism, Ambition, and Minor Revelations

I recently spent some time at my mom's house going through all my stuff in the garage. In the process, I had a few minor revelations--let's call them "Thoughts upon going through all my crap."

Minor Revelation #1 - Taking Latin was unnecessary. As was taking trig, calculus, Bible Literature, European Civilization 1...

I've already mentioned my penchant for academic masochism. And I took a lot of classes. A lot. Like way, way more credits than I needed to take.

I don't regret any of the unnecessary classes I took though (actually, scratch that, I regret taking chemistry). There's something so hopeful about registering for a new semester. I miss that part of college. I miss learning for the sake of learning.

Now explain to me why I kept all of my trig homework...

Minor Revelation #2 - I spent a lot time researching things.

I don't even want to talk about how much time I spent researching what college to go to, leafing through those glossy brochures with pictures of attractive undergraduates spread out like lawn ornaments. I think the hypotheticals themselves were compelling. It's fun to dream about the future. However, my life has been a lot of theory, not as much action. The research has to end eventually. Right? Eventually, you have to make a choice. Choose a college. A career. A city.

It's no coincidence that one of my resolutions for 2012 was to "Think less."

Minor Revelation #2.5 - The direct correlation between my attachement to an object and my affection for the person or experience with whom/which the object is associated

Minor Revelation #3 - I wrote/write a lot. A lot.

I mean, dear God, if there was a margin to be spared on an index card, pamphlet, or receipt, I wrote in that margin, dammit. I scribbled down shreds of profundity and banality--okay, mostly banality.

I guess this isn't much of a revelation. I write. It's what I do. Now, if only I had confined my writing to logical places, like journals and notebooks. Sometimes you just need something to write on.

Minor Revelation #4 - If there was something I was even remotely interested in, I went after it 100%.

I was extremely ambitious in my teens (not that my work ethic always cooperated). Where any rational, sane person might have been like, "Hey, maybe flying to Tahiti to build an ice cream factory isn't such a good idea," I was like, "Sign me up!" I had quite a few terrible ideas. Thankfully, not all the things I pursued panned out.

Sometimes it's not the thing itself (say, video production) that's the misdirection. Sometimes, you are simply incompatible with the people or the organization. I hate to say it, but you really do have to be in the right place at the right time. Perhaps the world is not yet ready for your genius. Or more likely, you still have some growing up to do. Right place. Right time. Right person (that would be you).

There I go, giving advice again. I need to write about another career myth--the myth of experience, or how do you figure out what you want to do when you grow up? I'll tell ya what you don't do--base your entire career on a single negative or positive experience.

Again, I don't regret being overly, scarily ambitious during my high school years. I did a lot of worthwhile things, however,

Minor Revelation #5 - Everything is meaningless.

"Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done

    and what I had toiled to achieve,

everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind;

    nothing was gained under the sun."

[Ecc. 2:11]

Sifting through years worth of stuff--keeping the best of it and tossing the rest--I was reminded of Ecclesiastes' famous existentialism.

I spent a lot of time thinking and/or worrying about things that I could not care less about now (I'm looking at you, Homeschooling).

Likewise, things that seem to matter now probably won't matter at all at some future date. We can all relate to the thought that "everything is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." Pleasure. Wisdom. Accomplishments. Great hair. The perfect body.

People. I believe that people matter. And despite the meaninglessness of accomplishments, I still feel compelled to offer something to the world, however small, insignificant and temporal.

I still have to figure out how to live this life.

Light of My Life

I almost just finished listening to Lolita (performed by Jeremy Irons) and I'm not sure quite what to say about it.

The novel is brilliant, obviously. But having listened to it via audio book, what I really want is to read it via book book (visual book?). In other words Lolita makes me miss the textual, word-on-the-page experience of reading. 

Nabokov crams in gads of verbal puns and other delights, many of which I'm sure I didn't get. I suppose any reading of Lolita must also take into account the mean spirited nature of much of the humor:

"I had glanced at her as she smiled in her sleep and had kissed her on her moist brow, and had left her forever, with a note of tender adieu which I taped to her navel--otherwise she might not have found it."

Still hilarious.

And then there's the subject matter. I'm struck by the ease with which Lolita is transformed from a 12 year-old child to a 15 or 16 year-old adolescent, both in the film versions of Lolita (1962, 1997) and the imagination of the average person--a "Lolita" is usually well past puberty. The ease is striking because of the lengths that Nabokov goes to elucidate Humbert Humbert's interest in the physical immaturity of prepubescent girls.

This is all very unsettling--as it should be and as Nabokov intended it to be. Why then have we taken the book and turned it into the prototype for one of the conventional sex interests of men? Because it's more titillating and less horrifying?

If I could assign a few companion pieces to Lolita, I would assign a short story by Milan Kundera called, I think,  "Let the Old Dead Make Room for the Young Dead" and a short story by Doris Lessing called "The Habit of Loving."

The Best Contraception

I can't get over the way posh English speakers pronounce the word "condom." They pronounce the "dom" as in "dominate" or "domicile" whereas American speakers pronounce it as in "wisdom" or "freedom." In the British pronunciation, both syllables end up having equal weight.

Try saying it out loud: "con-dom."

Now say it ten times fast.

I've been listening to the audiobook version of Nick Hornby's "Slam," a British YA novel about teenage pregnancy. The word condom comes up a lot.

I had just finished another book about teen pregnancy, "After"--as in after the 15 year-old protagonist dumps her unplanned baby in the trash. Yeah, hard-hitting stuff.

And so "Slam" launched me on the second half of my unintended teen pregnancy double feature, one told from the girl's perspective and one told from the boy's.

I can tell you this: listening to "After" made me never want to get pregnant. Even as a non-teenager. No way.

I liked "Slam" better. Nick Hornby ("High Fidelity", "About a Boy") has a way of making immature and clueless male beings sympathetic and even likable. Fundamentally, Hornby is a funny writer. His female characters are less fleshed-out, but this might be the by-product of first-person narration.

Hornby also wrote the screenplay for "An Education," which is told from a teenage girl's point of view. I don't remember "An Education" being particularly funny. Maybe I need to watch it again.

In conclusion, perhaps the best contraception of all is a book about getting pregnant at 15. That or a conDOM.