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 Laid-back Twinkly Music Extravaganza!

Today is beautiful outside in Tuscaloosa. I swear, the sun is out in the clear blue sky and the trees are shining green and everything is just so lush and I'm not even sneezing at it all. It's like magic, really.

So let me take a little time before I go right back out there to drop some music recs your way. It's been a while since I made a playlist for you anyway.

The Ultra Laid-Back Music Extraordinaire

• Start off with "Bottle It Up" by Sara Bareilles. Pretty mainstream but with enough of her own flavor that it tastes great. Chill and happy, meant for sunny days.
• Now take the energy down a notch with Melody Gardot's "All That I Need is Love". Kinda cynical but idealistic too? You'll get it once you listen. The woman's voice is smooth and husky and lovely. Yes, it's jazz, but people better get off that whole "omg jazz sucks" kick, mostly because it's completely untrue. You ever hear of Miles Davis or John Coltrane? Yeah, that's what I thought.
• Follow that with "Play In Reverse" by Lex Land. Kinda twinkly, but very very pretty. The lyrics are a little sad, but the music is chill. So chill-sad? I don't know. It's a good song about just letting go of an unrequited love.
• Next is "Sugarcane" by honeyhoney. Medium-paced with a kick to it and kinda wistful.
• Moving to slow acoustic wistful with the Fray's song "Unsaid" off their EP Reason. Great song. Perfect acoustic. All acoustic songs should wish to be this one.
• Kicking up the chillax feelings and tempo a notch with "Al Fin" by Florencia Ruiz. It's in Spanish but regardless of language, the song just resonates with closing your eyes and enjoying the breeze and the sun.
• Getting back into mainstream oldness with Anna Nalick and "Breathe (2 AM)". What, you guys didn't love this song? Whatever. I love it, and that's really all that matters. It makes me feel like I'm having an epiphany moment in a movie or a prime-time TV show. Swear, that's what this song is made for.
• Aaand then we have Michael Cera and Ellen Page's version of "Anyone Else But You". Shutup, I love this version. It's all guitars and quiet singing and Michael freaking Cera. ♥ Michael Cera, if you're reading this (yeah right), I am so in love with you it hurts. In every single movie of yours. Ellen Page, if you are reading this (ahahahaha), you are awesome incarnate. Like Kat Dennings and Emma Stone. Those three actresses are like the trifecta of awesome movie hits, trufax.
• Now more upbeat stuff! "Fantasy" by Anya Marina is next. Yeah, I know she didn't like this singer-songwriter album, but it's still one of my favorites. Hell, you could probably listen to this whole album and chill out to it. (I do so frequently, as a matter of fact.) C'mon, Anya, "Sociopath" was genius! It's my theme song, I swear!
• Next stop: Eleni Mandell's "Girls". It's cute and funny and about crushes! This is the song I listen to when I'm wearing pigtails. (...which I'm totally not wearing right now, no way. Yeah. Mm.) I need to get the rest of this album, especially now that I have Bittorrent.
• Quieter and slower to ground you back down is another Lex Land song (shutup, she's great and folky, my favorite two things) called "What I Want from You". Good for rainy days, sunny days, evenings, afternoons, whenever. And the lyrics! Aaaah. Perfect. Yes, I have a Lex Land crush, but then again she is the shiz.
• So after that five minute song, something short and sweet: "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson. Damn, I love this song. It's adorable. And catchy as all hell, really.
• Now for real twinkly: Snow Patrol actually added a music box to "You Could Be Happy" to give it that sound they needed. This one's kinda sad (okay, more than kinda) but it's so twinkly and chill. And it's quick, so if you must you can skip it.
• Ganking from The Last Kiss's excellent soundtrack: "Paperweight" by Schuyler Fisk and Joshua Radin. I have to be in just the right mood for this song, otherwise I just listen to the previous track (which is "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk (Reprise)" by Rufus Wainwright, an excellent song), but when I am in the mood, this can only be listened to once. It's a moment you can't really reproduce, you know? Putting it on repeat just cheapens it, I think.
• But "New Road" by AM and Meiko can be put on repeat to savor and draw out the moment forever, srsly. It's ridiculous. But so good. And yeah, I enjoy Meiko. Leave me alone.
• We finish our chill time with Yael Naim (aaaaah) and "Far Far". Easily my favorite song on her album, and I think a good ending note. Very fresh and lovely and uplifting.

There. You have yourself your very own Dominique-created playlist for any sunny chill day of relaxing. If anyone likes, I can burn you a copy if you can't find it all for yourself, I just have to fix my CD drive (ahem, Techie Boyfriend...?) - and I do mean anyone from all over the vast internets. So that way there can be no complaining that some of my music is too obscure. If you'd like to hear only the tracks that can be found on Playlist.com, here's the playlist (although I promise, it's much better with all of them together):

Comments? Opinions? Suggestions for another playlist? I really enjoy putting these together, as evidenced by the overdose of playlists on my iTunes, so I hope you enjoy listening to it.

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.

"I don't let anyone touch me."

“Why not? Because I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn’t come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them and then changed their minds. Forests of boys, their ragged shrubs full of eyes following you, grabbing your breast, waving their money, eyes already knocking you down, taking what they felt was theirs.

Because I could still see a woman in a red bathrobe crawling in the street. A woman on a roof in the wind, mute and strange. Women with pills, with knives, women dying their hair. Women painting doorknobs with poison for love, making dinners too large to eat, firing into a child’s room at close range. It was a play and I knew how it ended, I didn’t want to audition for any of the roles. It was no game, no casual thrill. It was a three-bullet Russian roulette.”


Say what you will about White Oleander, but it holds so many insights in one bound copy that I don't know how many people have had their world shaken by it. One day I'll go through and create a post full of my favorite quotable excerpts from this book, when I find the time.

So tell me, what do you see when you read this? What picture does it paint, and why, and how? What strings deep in your being does it twang?

I see my home, and how my mother and I sit at the kitchen table, close to the small television in there, so we can watch a movie with the volume low because my father is in the living room sprawled on the couch watching SportsCenter on our big, loud television. I see one of my closest, dearest friends distancing herself from me in high school because I was dating a boy she met once and claimed her stake on. I see Sex and the City and how four women can do nothing but talk about the way men change their lives. I see the desperation of a seventeen year old me because she needs him, she loves him, can't you see, if he'd only come back for longer than a week or so, then he'd love her. I see the way women tailor their lives around the men they love so they can hold on to something solid and safe and strong.

What do you see?

Re: my poetry...

...I'm moving it all.

Yes, again. I know, I can never make up my mind, can I?

Anyway, I want to keep this blog all about my opinions instead of clogging it up with my poetry, so I created another place to keep my poetry out of the way. I = resourceful, no? I'm moving the older poetry over there, so that three-poem post? Will probably be gone in a few minutes after I post them over there.

If you were really stoked about my poetry (why, I will never comprehend, but I can take a compliment), you can find it here:

The Perfect Someone

And that's that! Enjoy, darlings.

Poetry and Dissociating the Work from the Author

(Sorry about the srs bsns title. This post is all srs bsns, though, so it works.)

I was telling Shakira about a poem I'm currently writing or at least have formulating in my brain, but that I'm afraid to publish because it's about sex. Now Dominique, you might ask (but I don't think you would, so I'm asking myself for you), puzzled, you write about sex frequently in your poems (which is very true). Why would you be worried about posting another one?

Well, this one is a lot more explicit. I've written metaphors with sexual undertones, alluded to sex, and in one memorable poem (well, at least to me) actually wrote about what sex felt like with a stranger. But this poem that's hovering in my pencil, more than a little reluctant to be written, is blunt and honest and doesn't muck around with language. As in: really very explicit about sex and the mechanics and all that.

Writing all that isn't really the problem. It's what becomes of posting it and letting the public see it that I'm nervous about.

The problem is that people associate you with your poems. I can't write a poem from a first-person point of view and avoid the personal talk that inevitably ensues. "So... who's it with?" or "Ohh, so this is what y'all's sex life is like," are the comments I dislike, because it brings up such a long, disclaimer-y conversation. I live in constant fear of these comments because I hate trying to explain everything I feel about poetry in one sitting.

For the record: yes, my poetry is based on me, to some extent. But other than that? It's more an amalgamation of experiences - experiences that I've had, experiences I want to have, how I imagine something happening. It's personal, but it's more a glimpse into an emotion than anything else (or at least that's what I'm aiming for, at any rate). I can write about emotions that I haven't felt for years. I can write about dream encounters. That does not reflect what I'm doing/feeling/experiencing right now.

Shakira was actually the one who brought it up like she was reading my mind. "Yeah, but then people will be like, 'Oh, that's how it is, huh?' when they read it," she said. And it's true: when your peers write something and show it to you, you automatically assume that you are being shown their life under the microscope, exactly and precisely preserved the way it actually is. I do the same thing, although I'm fighting it now that I'm on the receiving end of it.

Really, I can't speak for others, but for me? I'd like you to critique the work. Does it flow well? Are the breaks used well? How about the language? Was it awkward? Or the content? Handled well or badly? Is there anything too oblique that I should clarify? Should I stop trying to clarify? These are the things I want y'all to focus on, not who the poem is about.

So my question to you is: is it possible to dissociate the author as an individual person from their work? Do you do it? Is it better or worse to do so? And do we always do it - with famous and undiscovered writers alike - or is it just with our peers that we have this problem? Share, please, because this is something v. important to me as a writer.