Walking in My Shoes (another retro post)

So after all that's happened recently, I think I should put up another Retro Post for Justice. This one gives a tiny tiny glimpse into my and many other women's everyday lives. No joke, no bullshit - just straight up trying to make you listen. Don't get defensive or butthurt about it, because I'm not putting you on the defensive here. All I'm trying to do is speak my story that gets brushed off by people who think that sexism isn't a problem or their problem any more. I hope I show you that that's not the case by a long shot.

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Here are some things that the average woman can look forward to experiencing in her lifetime (conjectured from a lot of experience and storytime with women I know):

• Catcalls from guys in cars when you wear a miniskirt.


• Catcalls from guys in cars when you wear jeans and a T-shirt.


• Catcalls from guys in cars when you wear anything at all, really, and happen to be walking to the library/grocery store/bus stop/anywhere at all.


• At least one guy at the bar who doesn’t understand “no”. "C'mon, please, it won’t hurt, just a few more drinks, you’d really like me.” No, because I certainly don’t like you now, so why should my opinion change in five minutes?


• Men staring at your boobs and not at your face constantly.


• Unlimited unsolicited comments about the size/shape of your breasts and/or ass from guys. Any guys. They might be your friends, they might not be. And it will be said to your face.


• That “friendly” hand on your ass from your friendly neighborhood creep.


• Some dude who doesn’t understand boundaries and insists on putting his hands all over you when you’re like, “Um, who the hell are you?” Mostly found at clubs, but can also be friends of a friend, someone you’ve barely met, or some dude in a crowded public space.


• Being told you’re a frigid prude with a repressed sexuality because you don’t like unsolicited comments and/or gropage.


• Being told you’re a cocktease because you are “dressed for it” and you don’t want unsolicited comments and/or gropage.


• That really creepy guy who doesn’t understand why you don’t want to let him touch you and freaks you out really badly.


• Telling a police officer that a man is not leaving you alone and you’re a little scared now and being told that he has more important things to deal with than your standards for men.


• Hearing this statement: “I bet if Johnny Depp were the one asking random girls to fuck him in the parking lot of a university campus, those girls who were saying ‘eww’ to the regular guy would jump all over him!” Uh, no, I would still be scared and I would still tell the cops and hope to god they listen to me.


• Getting scared because some guy is getting really angry that you aren’t saying “yes, please grope and fuck me now”.


• Having a man take you out on a date and paying for dinner, then letting you know that you owe him sex because he paid. (Newsflash: I don’t owe you anything, asswipe.)


• Being told by a lot of men (not all, but a lot) that all of the above is “a compliment, jeez, can’t you just take a compliment and move on?”

Ever since I was fourteen, I have known all of this and more. I have been called a fine piece of ass (by people who didn’t know me or who had just been introduced to me), a tease, a slut, a whore, a frigid bitch, and numerous other epithets. At fifteen a friend that I had just really got to know dubbed my breasts “boobles” because they were too small for his taste, and I got that nearly every single day of my sophomore year of high school. I have not yet made a trip to the library that hasn’t had a truck full of thirtysomething year old men honking and whistling at me involved. Guys have called me names and more for saying, “Sorry, but no thanks.” I have been felt up at clubs too often for me to list. And on one memorable occasion, I was pushed into doing something that ended in a paralyzed Dominique frozen next to the window of a car, getting fondled by a skeevy, sketchy guy that scared the crap out of me, and my friends knew about it, and they didn’t do a damn thing to help me. That guy robbed me of my feeling of security. He stole my assumption that if I said no, he would stop. And he took away the idea that if I spoke up, my then-best friend would help me.

I know that my experiences pale in comparison to some, and I know that they also exceed what some others have experienced. This does not make them any less true. I’m not exaggerating any of this. In fact, I’ve downplayed a lot of it.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve learned that I am a sex object. Whether I want to be or not, men will see my body as something they have a right to. Not all men, and I am grateful for that every day. But because of those men that do act like they can do whatever they want with my body and if I argue back I should be put in my place, I assume the worst when in a teetering situation. I will immediately go on my guard when put in these situations because I have seen it happen before, time and time again. So no, I do not hate men. Not at all. But I have to be cautious and careful because I never know which guy isn’t going to understand a polite “no” and keep pushing; I don’t know if the guy that keeps pushing will start getting angry with me; and I have no idea what a man that’s angry at me for denying him something he’s always been taught he had a right to will do.

Now do you understand why I think this hurts more than it helps, and why I think it doesn’t help at all?

Why I'm a Feminist (that's right, Virginia, I'm a feminist)

Just so you know, I'm tired.

I'm tired of being told, "Well, if you wear shorts, what do you expect, Dominique?"

I'm tired of being told, "That's the way men are, and if you don't like it cover up."

I'm tired of being told, "Men are stupid, but we just have to live with it."

I'm tired of being told, "That's life."

Really? No.

My friend Errol had a note today on Facebook talking about how girls that bitch and moan about getting stared at by guys or catcalls and whistles walking down the street really secretly want it, and hey, they're the ones dressing that way, so maybe if they stopped they wouldn't get all that crap! But since we know they really want it, they won't, and so dudes, feel free to stare!

Words like "advertising" and "teases" were thrown around in the comments.

Jacob held up a little and got hella criticized. And then I swooped in like the wrath of an avenging deity.

Here's a sampling of my comments and some responses at which point I started writing this post:


Dominique: We're gonna take this point. by. point.

I get catcalls no matter what I'm wearing, be it shorts, tank top, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie... if I walk down the street, chances are some dipshit in a truck is going to honk at me. Yes, Virginia, there is such a thing as sexism, and it is alive and kicking.

I. don't. give. a. fuck. if I am wearing a v-neck or a turtleneck; if I am trying to carry on a conversation with you and you are ogling me, there will be hell to pay. And there frequently is, because guess what? No matter what I wear, when I wear it, I will still get told things like, "nice ass, sweetheart," or, "ooh, girl's got some legs on her." Right now? I'm wearing shorts. Short shorts, to be exact. And I wear them because they are comfy and it's hot outside, not because I'm trying to validate myself through how many men give me unwanted and intrusive stares.

Because that's what it's about. Women do not get appreciative once-overs; we get leers. We don't get glances; we get long hard stares. We hear, "I want a piece of that ass," which is looooovely because it lets us know that that's all we are. If I'm with Jacob and I catch a girl checking him out, it's whatever because I know it's nothing. But if we were out and he saw a guy staring, you'd better believe there'd be shit going down - because *it's not the same*. And I wish it was, and it should be innocent, yes, *but it isn't*, and pretending like it is is bullshit, plain and simple.

(Oh yeah, and my chest does get ogled if I'm wearing a turtleneck, just for context.)

So if I say, "I wish guys would stop checking me out," I mean it, because it's not about the way I dress; it's about the assumption that my body is always there to look at, to touch, to check out, whatever. It isn't. It's mine. And maybe I like my v-necks and my short shorts, without having a man tell me, "baby you lookin' good today." We fix that idea, and I promise we will fix the complaints.

Oh, and I've been called a tease more times than I can remember. yyyyeah.

Errol: no one understands the mind of the Man that oogles girls....I have maybe seen 3 girls in my life time that I would STARE the hell down and NONE of them went to U0fA...lol..

Dominique: PS. If anyone wants to see about how it's not about covering up? Go study Iranian women's lives. Watch them in their chadors and then try and tell me it's about "covering up your assets".

[To Errol:] you poor poor misunderstood man. Try mansplaining to me again, and maybe I'll get it this time.

Errol: different culture

Dominique: Doesn't matter. Same idea, same complex.

Errol: its America, its just the way it is, Certain Men are gonna stare u down no matter what...Others wont pay u attention. IDK Y. We should do a Case study though

No, different Culture different Idea.

Dominique: ...and I'm supposed to accept it and change the way I feel comfortable because of it? No.

http://deepad.livejournal.com/18056.html
for an actual Indian woman's account (yeah, I know, not Iranian, but I love this post). Look, the idea is, in case you didn't catch it the first time: men and women are taught from a very young age that women's bodies belong to men. Boys can look aaaall they want and girls are told to either a.) put up with it, or b.) cover up. Boys aren't told to stop. They aren't told that's intrusive and makes the girl uncomfortable. They're taught it's acceptable. Covering up doesn't help one damn bit, because it doesn't matter what I wear, what deepad (linked) wears, what any woman wears - there will always be men leering and honking and catcalling. I could wear a parka and snow pants and still get whistles. Covering up or changing is not the point.

Errol: well the note doesnt apply to you, but it u dont have to change anything, your no more likely to be ok with men looking at you funny than, Men not doing it and everybody in the world speaking the same language.

And men are told to stop, U talk as if men are raised to be rude. I wasnt taught that and neither was a majority of my friends.

its just life.

Dominique: I'd just like to be something other than my body parts, that's all.

If that's life, then I want something more. I'd rather fight an uphill fight than give up early and let myself be shoved in a tiny corner.


...and then I stared at my computer.

What is wrong with this world, that I have to argue for my freedom to wear the clothes that I like and feel comfortable in? Why are people (usually men) so utterly dismissive of my opinion about these things, despite the cold hard fact that I live this every single day of my life? Why is it that when I dissent, when I stand up and call out loudly that this is wrong, I get shrugged off and ignored?

God, that's even worse than arguing back. Because if you argue back, you're acknowledging me as an equal. You're saying that I have a point worth arguing. This way? It's trying to make me feel silly and unimportant, like I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.

I'm not.

And you know how I know this? Because it happens to me every time I bring it up. I get shrugged off, gently moved aside, and told, "Well, that's life."

I said it before, and I'll say it again: If that's life, then I want something more. I'd rather fight an uphill fight than give up early and let myself be shoved in a tiny corner. It bears repeating, because it's true. I'd rather spend my whole life fighting this kind of bias and mentality than accepting it and having to cage myself and everything I stand for. Can't do it, ladies and gentlemen.

So you know what? I'm a feminist. That's right. And it's my soapbox issue. And if you fuck with me on it, be prepared to be met with plenty of evidence, anecdotes, and just plain facts. I know what I'm talking about. I live this every day. Boys, this is my life, and if you can't accept that or refuse to believe me, then sit the fuck down and shut up, because you clearly don't know what you're talking about or who you're talking to. I'm done with being told to cover up. I'm done with being told to stay quiet. I'm done with being ignored. If you can't deal with my voice, then get the fuck out of my way, because I'm not shutting up for you.

I'm not shutting up for anyone any more.

The F-Word (oh-so-retro)

Today's blog is an oldie but goodie. I wrote this about a year ago after a discussion with one of my best friends about feminism and labels. Although I might change a bit of it now (I do self-identify as a feminist now, but I always clarify), the gist still remains my point of view. Yeah, I wish I wasn't all about the F-word too, so to make it up to everyone for the next week I'll write about more generalized topics. Promise.

Enjoy the throwback entry!

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Today, boys and girls, I'm going to talk about the F-word. That's right: feminism.

I shy away from describing myself as a feminist whenever someone asks me because it's a loaded term. It's not because I don't campaign for equality between the sexes. As a matter of fact, I think sexism is still alive and well in today's society. Why is it that so many female superheroes are sexually degraded as part of their "tragic past" when this is not true of male superheroes, or even that female heroes are killed more brutally than male heroes in comics? Why is it that I can pick up a trillion comics about a stunningly beautiful, smart, goal-oriented woman dating a total drooling nerd, but you can forget ever seeing a comic strip about a sexy slab of manhood seriously falling in love with a geeky girl? Male hourly wages are still higher than female hourly wages – same position, same hours; the male still gets paid a fraction more, which adds up with the hours, letting the male know that he is just that much more important than the female. I think equal treatment in these areas and others are very important, something that is at the core of theoretical feminism. So why on earth do I hesitate to give myself that label?

Nicole and I were discussing this just the other night and why, although we agree that equality is paramount, we veer away from calling ourselves "feminists". Basically, it all boils down to being told what we are able to do as people and as women.

Recently, as most of you know, I've taken up knitting as a hobby with enthusiasm. I love it. And yes, I will be the first to admit I was completely wrong when in high school I made fun of my knitting friends. I rolled my eyes and said I wasn't into all that homey, domestic stuff. Nope, it was academia with the big boys for me at seventeen. I'd rather debate the merits of Satan in Milton's Paradise Lost than knit up a scarf that wouldn't do me much good in South Texas. Well, I'll still gladly tell you why I'd rather listen to Blake's Proverbs of Hell than Paul's Letters, but I just might be clacking my needles trying to finish my latest project at the same time. Why? I enjoy making something. It's not the finished project that I look forward to; it's the looping of the yarn around the needles and the intricate patterns that make me eager to try a new stitch pattern. It keeps me busy and makes for some great presents come baby showers or weddings.

However, knitting is looked down upon in "modern circles". If you casually mention it to your power-suited best friend, she might look at you like you just announced you commune every night with a three-headed Elvis that doubles as the father of your unborn child. "What?" she'll exclaim incredulously. "Why on earth would you want to knit? It’s so old-fashioned and unfeminist." Yet if you told the same friend you'd taken up jujitsu or shooting, chances are you'd receive an approving smile and inquiries as to how you're liking it.

So essentially, a woman taking up traditionally masculine hobbies is "feminist", but a woman trying out traditionally feminine hobbies is "unfeminist" and inherently wrong. Why? Because it's demeaning? I see nothing inherently demeaning about knitting, and in fact some of the strongest women I know love it: my Grandma, my aunt Colleen, my best friend Tifarah, and my sister Crystal. My younger sister's friends see me knitting and exclaim, "That’s so cool, how do you do that?", as if it's some strange mystery that all the cool girls are initiated into to learn how to manipulate yarn with two pointy sticks. When I was their age, I would have rolled my eyes and whispered to my friends about how lame that girl looked with her knitting, just like some old lady, how embarrassing!

Since I was thirteen, I learned what to me is an undeniable truth: everyone has the right to be on the same playing field as everyone else. We should all have equal chances, regardless of gender or race. I should have equal chances of seeing a story about a pretty girl falling for a dorky boy as reading a story about a hunky guy in love with a geeky girl. But I should also be able to do whatever it is I want without anybody dictating what's "right" or "wrong" for me as a woman or as a person. Whether it's something as controversial as sexual prowess or as mundane as knitting, nobody has the right to tell me what I can or should do based on my gender. That was the basis for early feminism: they campaigned for equality and the right to do what they wanted without men dictating the way they lived their lives. Now, I'm sorry to say, we let other women tell us what is acceptable to do, say, or act. That is not what feminism in its core is about. Those women demanded equality with men, not a higher platform. They never said, "We’re better than…" but "We can do that too if we so wish." The point was to say that anybody can do whatsoever they want without anybody saying that it's not appropriate for their gender.

This is why so many women today are afraid of being called feminists. This is the reason why we flinch from it as if it's the vilest of insults. If feminism means acting elitist and snobbish, then I certainly will refuse the label. If it means that I have to only do that which is "acceptable" or only dedicate myself to being better than the men in my life, I can't in good conscience do it. I believe in equality and being able to do the things I like without anyone naysaying me. If this makes me unfeminist, then I will wear that badge proudly. When it comes down to it, I will never be June Cleaver. I am messy and dread cleaning my room (although in public I am tidy out of respect for others). My favorite shoes are my trusty beat-up Vans sneakers. I don't see the point in anything other than wash-and-dry hair. But I also love skirts and heels, knitting any kind of yarn I can get my hands on, and having my doors opened for me.

Conclusion? The things you do don't make you feminist. Wanting to be better than anybody doesn't make you a feminist. Desiring equality and not letting anyone – male or female – tell you what you can and can't do is feminist. And I think it's about time that we started changing our public definition of that loaded word to what it should mean.

Why I have such a hate-on for Gretchen Wilson and her ilk

First thing: I enjoy country music. Quality country music, of course. Garth Brooks, Lee Ann Womack, Emmylou Harris, Brooks and Dunn, Miranda Lambert, Josh Turner... people who demonstrate actual talent in crafting songs and real music. I catch some teasing from friends about it sometimes, but I do see quality in country music, just like there is quality in any kind of overcommercialized music *coughhiphopcough*

Gretchen Wilson is not quality.

Let's not delude ourselves - nobody ever said she was. But I'll be damned if my ire doesn't pique every single time I hear that "classic" "Redneck Woman". It offends every single sensibility of mine in the lyrics alone.

Because I have such a burning hatred for this song, I'll show you and explain the lines that make me incoherent with rage. Fun!

Well I ain't never
Been the barbie doll type
No I can't swig that sweet champagne
I'd rather drink beer all night

The beginning of the song, ladies and gentlemen. The beginning. And already I want to break her beer bottle and stab her in the eye with it. What she does here is set it up nicely to explain that all women get divvied up into two categories:

1. "Ah don't b'lieve in bein' some uppity girl who cain't take a li'l beer now and again! Hey, wanna arm wrestle?" and
2. "Like, check out my BMW, girrrrrrls! But be careful you don't break a nail! *giggle*"

Seriously, Gretchen, fuck you. Some of us have never been from the country and quite frankly have absolutely no desire to - and are not perfectly-sculpted Barbie dolls that swill champagne. There are myriad other categories that women alone fall under that don't involve those two. How about the woman from the inner city who's worked her whole life to get somewhere? How about the hipster girls at the poetry slam? How about the moshers at the Nine Inch Nails concert? Way to acknowledge any of them - or, even worse, imply that all of those women are "the barbie doll type" simply because they aren't down-home country like you. Let me tell you, if somebody told my friends I was the Barbie-doll type, they'd laugh until the tears were streaming down their faces.

Worse, we're supposed to agree that she's inherently better because she's country. Uh, no, actually. I think I'll pass that one because it is just too easy.

I'll stand barefooted in my own front yard with a baby on my hip

You do that, sweetheart, but others kinda wince at the imagery of a barefoot pregnant woman. It's not like that's inflammatory or sexist at all, nope.

Also, I have nothing against having children, but seriously? Some of us would like to get some education before we go down that long hard road that is parenting. And maybe some of us don't want kids, for whatever reasons. (I know that having children is something I have to think seriously about because depression is hereditary and look at all the problems I've had with it. Not saying I don't want kids, but for anybody with a mental illness, it's something that requires thought.) Not everyone wants to live in a trailer with their infants chucked on their hips. Actually, if you can point out to me anyone who thinks that's desirable or a great goal in life, I'll... well, I'm not actually sure what I'll do. Probably bang my head on my desk repeatedly.

Cause I'm a redneck woman
And I ain't no high class broad

Extra "fuck you" for calling anyone not like you a broad (I hate that term with a passion). And ooh, if they ain't homegrown like me, they must be puttin' on some high-class airs! Not. Reality check, girl: there's a huuuuuuge middle ground between "redneck" and "high-class".

And I keep my Christmas lights on, on my front porch all year long

This is just a personal pet peeve, but that offends my sense of aesthetics. Have some pride in where you live, please.

Victoria's Secret
Well their stuff's real nice
Oh but I can buy the same damn thing on a Wal*Mart shelf half price
And still look sexy
Just as sexy
As those models on TV
No I don't need no designer tag to make my man want me

No, actually, you cannot buy Victoria's Secret-quality at Wal-Mart. And you never will. My Wal-Mart bras have all fallen apart at this point - it's the stuff I got at department stores that's still holding up. And I will be damned if a Wal-Mart bra gives you half the push-up that Vicky's gives me. Also: does Wal-Mart sell that sexy little lingerie hiding in my drawer? I didn't think so. Until they do, I don't take that section seriously.

And come on, no man gives a shit about the tags on your bra or lingerie, and saying that they do is stupid. Does anybody here know a man who cares if the bra you have on is xhiliration or Frederick's? But the quality does and should matter. If you can't afford it (god knows I can't), then that's fine, but don't sit there and tell me that it's all the same and nobody gives a damn. Well, I give a damn, because I like my stuff to last a long time. I'd rather buy one bra that'll last for years than a cartful of bras that'll last for six months max. (And if you really need to save, go buy Target or head to the mall and get something from a department store. It's still inexpensive and the quality's better. Maybe not as cheap as Wal-Mart, but when I say cheap, I mean price and quality.)

...and then the rest is mostly a lot of "hell yeah"s, to which I can only say, "woo."

Do you see now why I can't stand this song? I mean, I know I was just fucking around with that last part, but it's the absurd set up that women can either be down-home girls with babies and no education or airheaded bimbos with pneumatic tits and pouty lips. I happen to be a slight, intelligent woman going to college to further myself who loves learning and despises both of those stereotypes, mostly because they simplify women too damn much and partially because both of those types of women don't even care about taking the time to get educated.

Don't believe me?

"In 2007, [Wilson] completed the GED program."

You mean to tell me she had all that time, all that fame and money, and only recently bothered to get her GED? Ridiculous. And don't throw that "she comes from poverty, okay?" excuse at me, because if you want something hard enough, you'll do what it takes. My high school best friend came from poverty and frequently did not have enough money for essential things. There was no way in hell she could pay for college. But she worked hard and did what it took to be able to go. We've since fallen out, but if I'm correct she's still at college, working for her scholarships and loans. Do not tell me that Gretchen Wilson did not have the opportunity to go to a public high school where everything is funded for you and get her high school diploma.

Yes, I am intolerant of those who deliberately pass up education as an option and deride it as something for the elite. Education is for everyone. There is no excuse not to get one. Maybe it's my privilege speaking, but guess what? I went to public school too. I come from a lower-middle-class family who has had to strain and push for every penny we earn. There was no way my family could help me pay for college, and there was no way I could pay on my own. I had to bust my ass for scholarships and ended up landing a sweet one. I know what it's like to have to work hard in order to further myself.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate this song because of Gretchen Wilson. I hate Gretchen Wilson because this song is a complete insult to any intelligent, thinking woman who uses her brain to do something other than hit the keg with the good ol' boys.

You might think I'm trashy
A little too hard core

Trashy? Yes. As for hardcore... darling, I know high school freshman more hardcore than you'll ever be. You are a woman who thinks "broad" is an acceptable term to call another woman. Any "down-home" thing you do is mostly to get the boys to love you because you aren't like those "sissy girls", undoubtably. There is absolutely nothing hardcore about you. Now go put that GED to some use, for the love of god.

Folgers, just leave the feminism to us. You go ahead and make your coffee.

Ye olde Folgers commercial (or alternatively, Pretty Wife, Icky Coffee)

I know, it's from the 60s, but honestly? This makes me want to break things.

Look, I understand that doing nice things for your husband or boyfriend or whatever is great and the key to a good relationship. I like doing nice things for people in general, so of course I try extra hard for someone that I love. But it's his disdain for her and the way he knocks her down that's so infuriating. "How can such a pretty wife... make such awful coffee?"

Ladies, that's the part where you stick your nose up in the air and say, "Then make it yourself, asswipe. You're the one drinking it."

Also: she's such a pretty wife! Who brings her man coffee! How delightful! Gag. Now I remember why I love actresses like Mae West so much. If everyone in the 60s was like that, I'd feel better about my daydream of living with the Rat Pack.

And all that matters is her coffee? I won't even go into that.

Therefore:

Dear future husband,

I recognize that you may like coffee. I like coffee too. So you see, I can make my coffee. If you don't like mine (why I don't know, as it's perfectly fine), make your own damn coffee. Easy, right?

Love,
Dominique

(That's assuming I make my own coffee and don't buy it at a coffeeshop, what with my penchant for chai lattes. Sheesh.)