I was walking in my neighborhood with my husband, and we were behind two very young girls, maybe 11 or 12. It was a beautiful spring day, and the girls were wearing shorts and tank tops, letting their skinny, pale legs get some sun. They are at that delightfully awkward age where their limbs seemed like they just grew 5 inches, and they are walking like baby deer. Suddenly, someone driving by yelled out at the girls. Afterwards, I overheard the girls talking about it. Who was that? Was it Samantha’s dad? He doesn’t have a car like that, does he? What was he saying? I thought about the countless times that same situation has happened to me and the fear and uncertainty it always provoked--did I do something weird? Am I wearing something too sexy? Are those people going to turn around a come back? I also thought about the 10 year old neighbor girl and my 8 year old goddaughter: girls I have known from infancy; they, soon, will be experiencing the same thing. Lately, I’m finding myself more and more enraged about a routine aspect of female life: the catcall. When bringing this up with the teenagers I teach, it usually gets a laugh, and some even suggest that a catcall is a compliment. Well, there is actually a big distinction between the two.
One obvious difference is the way they are delivered. A compliment will tend to be said in a two way conversation, whether it be in speech or in writing. If it is in person, the compliment might be made while looking the other person in the eye, or at least in her general direction if it is one of those charming, shy compliments. Maybe there is a smile involved. When I think about the best compliments I have received, the ones that I still call up to boost me up on grey days, I usually recall the look on the person’s face along with the words that were said. A catcall, on the other hand, is delivered with some distance. The distance could be physical, like the girls on the street. It could also be made from the immeasurable distance of social media, the void that stretches out between people and makes a stark level of anonymity possible. The point is, a catcall is not a moment of connection. It is meant to maintain distance between the speaker and recipient. More so than distance, intention is what defines a catcall. A compliment builds someone up, makes her smile or maybe makes a connection to get a number. A catcall makes someone feel uncomfortable, makes her feel smaller and reinforces the power of the caller. I usually try to avoid absolutes because people in this world might like anything, but I have a hard time imagining the scenario where a group of guys comments on a woman’s anatomy while she’s walking down the street and she turns around and asks them for their number. Or when a woman is going for her evening jog, a carload of guys yells something out at her as they pass, and she tries to flag them down to get a ride, to get to know them better. Even the people doing the catcalling would be astonished at this outcome. So why do they do it? The intention must be something besides connection. It must be more about making the other people he is with laugh, but what is funny? The “humor” comes from seeing someone else uncomfortable, from startling someone, from provoking a reaction. These are all the classic things bullies thrive upon, and that is exactly what catcallers intend--bullying someone. A compliment is also directed toward a specific person. When I think about the best compliments I have gotten, I recall the sensation of feeling noticed, that something specific about my appearance or personality or fashion sense called to someone else. The catcall, on the other hand, since it is not a connective gesture, is about performance. Even though the catcallers may be “noticing” a characteristic, they are not recognizing someone’s individuality. In fact, the catcall generalizes. Instead of making a woman feel noticed or special, it reduces her to her body parts or the surface of her appearance. Often, the catcall is just about reinforcing a female stereotype. One night after I had recently had my son, I got to sneak away from the duties of a new mom to go out with a group of other new moms. It was winter in Michigan, so we were all bundled in puffy coats and hats. Under our going -makeup were faces lined with the fatigue of weeks of sleepless nights. As we were walking down the street, from a passing car a young man yelled out, “Hey, Sluts.” We laughed at the irony, but this really reinforces my point. The words didn’t have anything to do with what we looked like or were wearing just as the guy driving by didn’t really want to get to know those 11 year olds. The catcall is directed at a pair of legs or a woman shaped idea, not a person. It is mostly, at its heart, about reinforcing stereotypes and generalizations about women as sexual objects. An aspect that confuses this issue is that a catcall can be given by a stranger or a friend, just like a compliment can be. For example, one day when I was just 18, my first year at college and on my own, I was walking down the street by myself and an older man at a cafe table made eye contact with me and said, “You are special.” I remember smiling at him and feeling so, you know, special. The reason this was a compliment and not a catcall is because he looked at me, he smiled at me. I think the other aspect was it was between me and him. There was no audience, no one at the table with him. It was two-way conversation. Generally, a catcall is about the audience. The person that is getting catcalled is simply a prop in the performance that the catcaller is making for the group he is with, which can be even more painful when the catcaller is a friend or acquaintance. Another bizarre similarity between a catcall and a compliment is that they can actually be the same words. Often times a catcall is more sexual or derogatory than a compliment, but sometimes it is not. Sometimes it is a simple “Hey Mama” or “Hey Baby,” but the key difference is again intention and delivery. The same words feel very different based on whether they are delivered by a smiling person one-on-one as opposed to a group throwing out the words like scraps to a dog. To clarify, I am not a woman who instantly resents comments about my appearance. In fact, I love fashion, makeup and savor a good compliment, even if it is just that my legs look great. I also give compliments out like candy, even to strangers because I love the little thrill of seeing someone smile when at the unexpected words. I appreciate physical beauty. However, I hate catcalling because it has the opposite effect. It provokes fear and discomfort and is not at all about connection. Some might question why it matters. Catcalling is a harmless or maybe just slightly inconvenient part of modern life. However, in a world that is becoming more sensitive to bullying and harassing behaviors, catcalling is just another in a long list of ways that people try to make someone else feel small. It reinforces a power inequality that, in other areas, our society is making strides to correct. It contributes to the fear that women and girls feel walking alone, an activity, which, in a perfect world, would be a easy part of everyday life. Most insidiously it makes the person that is targeted question their feelings because maybe she should just take it as a compliment.
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Maddie, a "bubble-girl" whose immune system is so compromised that she is trapped inside her sterile house, is quite happy with her tiny, secluded life with her mom and nurse until a handsome boy moves in next door. Striking up a friendship with the boy though email, she gets a glimpse of the outside world and all of the experiences she is missing. Adventure, heartbreak and startling revelations ensure as Maddie tries to figure out what is a life worth living and what risks are worth taking.
Although this book is written about a time period more than 70 years in the past, this modern-day graffti and what it represents really connects to the mood of my book. In X, Malcolm Little is growing up in a family that tells him he can do whatever he wants, that he is strong and capable. Then, as he gets older, he is confronted again and again with a society that clearly does not think that. Reading about the oppression that young men like Malcolm experienced and internalized makes me feel like I can't breathe. It makes me sad and angry that so much has not really changed for young African-American men and what there life is like on a day-to-day basis. Week 8--Rhetorical Reading ResponseIn the essay “Camping Out,” Ernest Hemingway, the author, is describing the process of how to camp out comfortably in the woods. It is clear from his very detailed descriptions of such things as how to make a comfortable bed and how to bake a pie over a campfire that his purpose is to actually teach his audience how to do the process. Given the fact that essay was originally published in a newspaper, it seems that Hemingway wrote this essay for a general adult audience. However, such details as the pervasive use of the pronoun “he” and sentences that mock the non-manly like, “ He’s heard the call of the tame with both ears. Waiter, bring him an order of milk toast” seems to indicate that he had a more male audience in mind, perhaps never envisioning that women would camp. As with much of Hemingway’s writing, I have the distinct feeling that I am not part of his target audience of manly men. The main insights here are the steps in the process, which begins with how to avoid insects then progress to how to make a comfortable camp in order to get a good night’s sleep. Subsequently, he describes how to cook well, giving details about how to make trout and bacon, pancakes and a pie over a campfire. One of the most remarkable aspects of the essay is the tone in the piece, which is a little sarcastic toward anyone who would not be able to accomplish these steps. The way he describes the steps indicates that the steps are so easy that only the most pathetic man would not be able to master them. For example, he asserts that “any man of average office intelligence can make at least as good a pie as his wife.” At the end of the essay, he also says, “It is all right to talk about roughing it in the woods. But the real woodsman is the man who can be really comfortable in the bush.” Even the use of the word “woodsman” seems to emphasize that being able to be in the woods is manly, as compared to the person that only talks about it. The tone of the essay supports his purpose of showing the average male reader that camping comfortably and well is clearly within his capabilities. Choice Blog Week 7A huge influence on me has been my friendship with Kelly. I met her at the beginning of 11th grade. She was a skinny girl with huge hair, an overachiever in every sense of the word. I was new to the school and quiet and about to go through some of the worst years of my life. Our friendship started off normally, with a shared English class and working on a class project together. However, near the end of that year, after a lot of personal turmoil, I was kicked out of my house. I was 17 and my mom and many of the people I had grown up with completely disowned me. I spent the whole next year living in the basement of my dad, who had a new, young family and really didn’t have time for a problematic teenager. I spent my Senior year skipping my classes and feeling like nothing mattered and that everything in life was basically either corrupt or irrelevant. During this time, Kelly, perfect grades, President of the National Honor Society, Kelly stayed my friend. She was my friend when I failed Pre-Calc, she was my friend as I spent my art class smoking in the darkroom, and she was friend even when I got suspended. Her family offered me their spare bedroom and let me come over and spend hours with their daughter, although it was clear that I was not a good influence. Most of all, Kelly was my friend after high school. I was in Colorado, and I remember calling Kelly from the pay phone in a small town in a big, dusty, empty plain that I had been driving through for what felt like days. I told her I wasn’t going to college, that I was going to travel and “be free”. She told me that was ridiculous and asked me what my Social Security number was. Kelly, of course, had a full scholarship to Wayne State, and she decided I was going to go there too. She filled out my application, and I got in. That fall, after I had run out of money from being free, I moved in with her at her grandparent’s house and took my first three college classes, which ultimately changed my life. I was a poor student those last two years of high school, but college was a completely different experience. I found that I loved my college classes. Instead of being forced to take something I hated, I found that I got to study poetry, and art history and politics. Over time, I gradually learned how to love any class that I took by putting my mind and heart in it. I graduated from Wayne State Summa Cum Laude and went on to get my Master's degree from a prestigious, selective program at the University of Michigan. I don't know if I would have done any of this if Kelly had not helped me get onto this academic path. The year after I got kicked out, I felt like I would never trust anyone again. Kelly’s friendship showed me that, even when we are betrayed or abandoned by our own families, we can, if we are lucky, still have people that love us unconditionally, even when we are being stupid, or destructive or selfish. She not only got me to go to college, but she showed me that family is more than just being related. That I could and should trust people again. That I could choose my own family. 22 years later, we are still friends. I think I made a good choice. Week 6 Choice Blog"Yesterday, I was talking with a colleague, and I told her that she made my list of the "10 Things that Make Me Laugh." She said, "I'm glad, but I do it for myself. That is how I get through things." Laughter is one of the most precious tools in the fight against bitterness. When I was little, my family went to Canada with another family. Over the 10-hour car ride, almost eveything that could go wrong did, including getting lost, getting a flat tire, getting stuck in the mud and, when we tried to get out of the mud, getting leaches on us. Mud-splattered, leach-covered, every member of that family laughed their heads off. I think about that a lot when I accidently book a rental car 25 miles from the airport, or when a student tells me my favorite author looks like a "tool" in his author's photo, or when I realize I have 10 hours of grading to do in 2 hours of "free" time. Laughing at myself, or at a situation that could make me yell or cry in frustration, makes me remember that I'm not so important, and neither I, nor my students, will remember that it took a few extra days to get their essays back. Laughter is also the glue of all of my strongest relationships. I have been friends with Sara for over 15 years, and I have laughed with her at everything from her temper tantrum trudging up a hill in France in 100 degree heat to that fact that my college beauty regime consisted of combing a little bit of my long hair with a free comb that I got at a funeral. There are so many times when something happens, and I can't wait to tell it to Sara to make her laugh. Mark Twain said, "the human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter." In my life, I have experienced times where joys seem few and anxiety or sadness threatens to overwhelm me. In those times, and really everytime, I'm glad I have laughter by my side. Choice Blog Week 5
When I read Keturah's blog her last line really stood out to me, "So many other men, women, boys, and girls have gone through the same thing I have. After all things are said and done we all have one thing in common. We are strong. We have made it through the impossible and come out victorious. We are survivors." This made me think of an art piece I saw come through my Facebook feed that I have been thinking about for days. I love the idea that our trauma can make us stronger and even make us storytellers. We can turn pain into art.
Choice Blog Week 4On the radio this morning, I heard that activist Grace Lee Boggs died yesterday. Boggs was an advocate for social justice and a prominat activist in Detroit. I met her when I was in grad school when I did work with the organization that she started, Detroit Summer.
As I was listening to the article about her life, the first thing the reporter said about her was how, over the years, her ideas and ideals changed. She even said, "...changing was more honorable than not changing." The report goes on to say that a critic of hers said that, "we cannot change ourselves to change the world; rather, we must change the world to change ourselves.” That line has been bouncing around in my head all morning. How do we change the world if we can't change ourselves? This idea--that we have to wait for the whole world to change before we can change, is just silly. But, more importantly, how do we change ourselves? Ghandi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world." but how do we do that in a world that seems so messed up? How can we be peaceful when the world is violent? How can we be caring when the world is unkind and may try to take advange of us? How do we impact problems that seem so big and impossible like global warming or institutalized racism or the increase of mass murders? One way I think we start is with ourselves. Hailey, one of my students, wrote about a project she and her mom are in charge of called "Tide Me Over," which works to provide lunches for children to take home over the weekend for familes that have food insecurity. To me, this is a good example of how individual changes change the world. By providing food for people in this community, they make the world a more caring, and maybe even safer place. It seems to me that a lot of the violence in our society happens because people don't feel cared for or connected to their communities. Choice Blog Week 3The past few weeks the project Humans of New York has been in Europe interviewing refugees who are seeking asylum there. Sometimes, I must admit, I skim over these stories in my Facebook feed because who wants to read about all this heartbreak in between cute kitty videos and random comments about my friends' lunches. However, this week I have made it a point to read all the refugee posts. I have even read some to my son. One in particular, describing a woman who lost her husband in the sea crossing, has been on my mind all week. I keep thinking about having to make the choice to get into a leaky, crowded boat in the dark to leave behind everything you know. I think about the families who pack their children on these boats. I imagine myself in the dark water, losing sight of my husband, knowing I will never see him again. Sometimes, I just feel helpless when confronted with stories that show that the world can be such a cruel and unfair place. Nevertheless, I am also impressed by the importance of listening to other people's stories and the empathy that a story can provoke. I think whenever countries make policy decisions, we have to keep in mind that we are making decisions about people. |
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March 2018
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