Women

We Are Looking For

A clue!

Normally, I use this neatogroovycool magnifying glass to examine the minuscule creepy crawlies in the tank. Today, I’m using it to examine context clues.

I have a Twitter account (@MrsFringe). I don’t use it much, but I hop on semi-regularly to see what’s trending, and sporadically I’ll spend quite a bit of time for a couple of days having fun with one-liners. Some of those I follow are friends, some are Fringelings, some are people I admire, others are agents/editors who are sharp, or funny, or interesting. Quite a few publishing professionals will tweet tips–what to do/what not to do, why they’re requesting or rejecting queries, and query trends.

Recently I logged on and happened to catch a tweet at the top of my news feed that’s stayed with me. While it probably isn’t politic, I’m going to address it. Since I’m 40,000 years old and not twitter savvy (read: a blabberfingers), I’ll respond here on the blog. Someone (agent? I think, maybe) tweeted something to the effect of: Two spaces after a period and I know you’re over 40, don’t do it.

Really?

Well I suppose it’s true, those of us who learned to type on typewriters did learn to put two spaces after a period. If you learned in typing class and/or did a lot of typing for any reason, it’s kind of ingrained–and if you do think about it, one space often looks “wrong” to us ancients. Despite my advanced age and inherent slowed mental faculties, I actually understand that things change. The world changes, advances are made, things that were once acceptable are now either extraneous or completely unacceptable. Language evolves.

A friend of Nerd Child’s is staying with us for a few days. He hasn’t been here before, and when he first walked in he said, “This apartment is sick.” Hard to believe, but I didn’t go running for the Lysol, nor did I tell him to get off my lawn. I thanked him. Context clues.

I promise you, Fringelings, I am not what anyone would consider a delicate flower.

I checked. Nope, this is not a self portrait, but I may add it to my salad tonight.

I also understand publishing professionals are inundated with queries, and there are many reasons to reject manuscripts. What I don’t understand is why someone would think it’s ok, on a public venue like Twitter, to make this type of blanket, ageist statement. True, I (and others like me) should probably try to break this wasteful habit of two spaces after each period. All that white space left to rot by the end of a manuscript, shameful. Also true, there are practicalities and logistics, reasons someone might not want to take on a debut author who’s 90 years old. You wouldn’t have to dig too deep through my archives to find I’m quite open about not loving some of the facets of aging–oh, those saggy bits! But these are query letters for manuscripts, not applications for centerfold models.

I had dinner with my journalist friend the other night. She is (gasp) older than I am. Not only still writing, but people still pay to read what she has to say, because she’s good at what she does. If I checked the list of current best selling novelists, I’m certain a significant percentage would include authors over forty. If I checked tweets of those I follow on Twitter, I’m certain all would include tweets (from men and women) about being feminists, supporting feminism. You cannot separate feminism from ageism. I’d like to see that placard carried at a women’s rights march, “Equal Pay for the Perky Now!” It doesn’t bother me to be told to break an outdated habit, but the implication that my words hold no value because I’m a woman of a certain age? That bothers the hell out of me.

I think I’ve posted this video before, but you can just go ahead and blame senility for the repeat. Or, yanno, trust I felt it was appropriate for this piece.

*And yes, I made sure to add two spaces after each period for this post, ’cause that’s how I roll.

Exhaustion: It’s What’s for Dinner. and Celebration!

On the road, parenting style.

On Friday morning, Husband, Art Child, and I got in the car to head north for Man Child’s college graduation. College! Graduated! ~~I did it!!!~~ Err, I mean, Man Child did it. And in all seriousness, he did it well. Congratulations to you! Naturally, life being what it is here on the Fringe, Nerd Child and all his stuff needed to be picked up from his school on the same day, a mere three and a half hours from where Man Child was graduating.

So we drove.

I’ve always had a thing for log houses. Wonder how one will look on the beach in HI. 😉

You have reached your (first) destination!

Lovely petunias in flower boxes outside our motel room–a mere one state away from where the college actually is. Apparently the good mommies book their rooms six-nine months in advance, the fringe mamas end up 35 minutes away, across state lines, and pay a completely unreasonable amount of money for one of the most questionable motel rooms I’ve ever stayed in. Not to fear, we shooed the five bees we found in the room back outside to the flowers, and established that one of the five lamps in the room was indeed working. Then Husband got back on the road to pick up Nerd Child while Art Child and I rested (or in my case, waited for the painkillers to kick in so I could straighten up), got ready for the evening’s festivities, and sent panicked texts to Man Child regarding who would pick us up to take us to the school. His college puts on a lovely graduation, splitting it into two days so you’re never sitting for an unreasonable amount of time.

Man Child and Miss Music picked us up, I admired his new blazer, he admired my new (to him) cane, and we arrived in time for the dinner and speeches.

Thank you weather gods, for not being too hot or rainy.

This is a small, arts focused but not arts exclusive liberal arts college. I met several of Man Child’s friends–so full of talent, energy, and optimism. Dancers, artists, biochemists, one I’m certain has a great future ahead of her in comedy writing, another who’s written a Japanese opera. Together this means I saw some fabulous fashion, spectacular hair colors, had plenty of vegetarian options to choose from, and *drumroll* Gloria Steinem was the featured guest speaker. Can a 40,000 year old woman squeal and fangirl? Yes, yes she can.

First the speaker from the senior class gave her speech. Clever, well timed, full of hope and witty comments about attending a not-quite traditional school that prizes individualism. This young woman is a writer, graduating from a school that has more than a few successful and prize winning writers among its alums. During her time at the school, in addition to her coursework she finished a novel and interned at a literary agency.

This is about when I started becoming very interested in the structure of the tent. So much harder for the glassy eyes and sniffling nose to become full-on sobs when trying to determine how the cloth is joined to the poles.

Then Ms. Steinem spoke. I’ll be honest, she could have stood and read her grocery list and I’d have applauded and proclaimed her brilliance. C’mon, Gloria Steinem, forty feet in front of me! But she didn’t read her grocery list, and her speech was wonderful, inspiring to the young people (men and women) sitting and listening. I was thrilled to listen, but I’ll be honest again. I didn’t feel inspired. I felt smaller, further on the fringe, more frayed and broken. Plain old old. After telling everyone I hoped to meet her, when the speeches ended I walked away from the line formed immediately by those who wanted a chance to meet and take a photo with her.

After a few minutes of fresh air, Man Child encouraged me to go back and get on line. I realized there were just as many moms waiting as graduates, so I summoned my old mosh pit moves and got on line. We joked and waited, and then I was face to face with this woman who represents so much. Not only what she did do, but what she continues to do. I said hello and told her how pleased I was to meet her, and mentioned that I had told a mutual friend how much I was looking forward to this opportunity. She politely asked who the friend was and how I know her. And that’s where I metaphorically found myself on my face. Not my friend’s name, of course. But she’s someone I met through dog walking. I walked her dogs for years, she herself is a known, successful, talented journalist and feminist, and we have become friends. Standing there, though, surrounded by all that youth and hope and talent; with this successful, brave, powerful woman in front of me, the only image in my mind was dog shit in the rain–and rejection letters oddly addressed, “Dear Fraudulent Feminist,” I mumbled something about dog walking and fringiness, grimaced for the photo and slunk off.

When we got back to the motel, Nerd Child and Husband had arrived, and were already 2/3 asleep. I pretended for a few minutes that I’m a reasonably mature and graceful woman before Man Child and Miss Music headed back to school and I collapsed into the sleep of self-pity.

It rained all night, and was still quite cool and gray in the morning. Somehow, New England manages to be bright and beautiful even under cloud cover.

The commencement ceremony itself was beautiful, and aptly positioned (for us) right outside the financial aid office.

Afterwards, of course, were more photos, and a celebratory lunch. Once again the deadbeat mom, it hadn’t occurred to me that in a small town, reservations would be needed way in advance when an entire senior class was there with their families, all going out to eat. We ended up back across the state border, in a restaurant not far from the motel we had stayed the night before. While having lunch, Man Child brought it up. Yeah, we know each other well enough that he knew all the speeches and creative youth would hit that melancholy nerve in my heart. You can’t stay mired in self pity on such a beautiful occasion, and when you have an adult child who knows you well enough, and cares enough to acknowledge mom as a person. Said our goodbyes, then headed to yet another state to drop off Nerd Child at a friend’s–because they were going back to their school the following morning to cheer on senior friends for graduation (not theirs, thankfully, that’s next year). With any luck the contents of his dorm room will find their way out of the car and into his bedroom before the end of the week.

We couldn’t be more proud of Man Child. It isn’t easy to be a kiddo raised on the fringe. For whatever opportunities he’s had, help and sacrifices offered and acknowledged, it sucked to be the one listening to classmates talk about fabulous vacations, watch others go off on school year abroad while he plowed through. He’s worked hard, not just in the classrooms but outside; connecting with others, joined the greater community and created opportunities for himself. I’m hoping he enjoys this summer in New England, continuing to work in the restaurant he’s worked in for the past three years, now as a new graduate. He’s heading to Italy in the fall, so exciting! Bottom line, he’s doing what I wish for all three of my children; not living by “I will,” all too quickly followed by “I would’ve/should’ve,” but living by “I am.” May your future blogs never include the tag “downward mobility,” in any language. All the best and all my heart, Man Child, not just on ceremonial days, but every day.

Insides, Outsides, and the Shit that Holds it Together

Dora the Explorer goes salt and pepper.

I’ve been feeling restless. The restless that says the winter was too long, I’ve been broken for too long, I need a big change. Since moving to Hawaii still doesn’t line up with my bank account, I got a haircut instead.

I told the hairstylist exactly what I wanted, he did exactly what he wanted, and I hate it. I knew I didn’t like it while I was still in the chair, but he had someone else waiting, and my patience for sitting still while someone tugged on my scalp (or, yanno, touched me) was exhausted.

This is silly. It’s a perfectly nice haircut, and 70 percent of the time I don’t bother to do my hair anyway. And when I don’t do my hair, it doesn’t matter how it was cut, I look like a walking used q-tip. I can’t even see into most of the mirrors in my apartment, they’re placed too high, good enough for giving the illusion of a larger space. As I type I’m wearing my favorite summer skirt, a super comfortable plain brown skirt with a streak of white on the back, from where I brushed against a freshly painted wall the first time I wore it, five years ago. But that 30 percent of the time– that’s what I cut my hair for. This ladies-who-lunch-on-delicate-low-carb-dandelion-salads isn’t me.

I posted a photo to my personal Facebook page to whine about it, and my lovely and supportive friends all said all the right things about how nice it looked, I’ll get used to it, etc. Quite a few of them also agreed. It just doesn’t reflect the inside me. What does that mean, anyway, and why does someone who doesn’t bother to do her hair and regularly wishes she could stay in pajamas all day care about this?

I’m a pretty ordinary gal with a pretty ordinary life, someone who swings between stuffing all fantasies under the dirty laundry pile and dreaming about one of my word collections being available for purchase in a bookstore, all while carefully remembering to use qualifiers in personal statements. If my 40,000 year old dreams haven’t become realities, if I’m not claiming my fantasies as possibilities, what’s wrong with looking like I’m running for office on a ticket I’d never vote for–and using run-on sentences while I’m at it? You might say I’m average with an edge of funny, nice with an edge of bitchy, regular with an edge of kooky, or even tired with an edge of ragged, but there’s no doubt I do have an edge.

All this moaning, you’d think I wanted a mohawk. I don’t, just a little oomph, a little oh! a woman who lives in a box but dreams outside of it–maybe even a little humor under that frizz. But maybe not, maybe this bob is who I am, as opposed to who I thought I might be. Which one is your hairstyle supposed to match? Most of all, now that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about the dead cells sprouting from my head, what about you? Do your insides match your outside?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b6UAYGxiRwU

Irrelevance: Evolution on the Fringe

The other day I received an email from a friend that was so en pointe it was a bit frightening. Why? Because she used the word I’ve been thinking (feeling?), but afraid to say out loud–or on paper,–irrelevant. Sure, the thought has crystalized in reference to my fiction, but as important as writing has always been to my sense of me, it is only one part. I was thinking it walking dogs, thinking it more these past weeks as I’ve been unable to walk. Thinking it as I speak with my kiddos, as there are fewer issues that I can actually help them with. (Mom, you can’t help, you never took calculus.) Thinking about it as Man Child approaches his college graduation.

Besides the obvious pride and general the world-is-waiting-for-you momstuff, I’ve also been excited about his graduation because one of my feminist heroes will be speaking, and I wondered if I might have a chance to meet her and say hello. Then I thought, what would I actually say? “Thank you for being brave and paving the way. Thank you for remaining active and relevant so young women can see the possibilities of who they can be.”

And if that imaginary conversation moment occurred, then what? “Who me? No one.” Not the representation of possibilities, but the caricature of women of a certain age, right down to the busted pelvis from a simple slip on the ice. Irrelevant.

No, hon, I never took calculus. In fact, when I graduated from high school, my father commented on his surprise, they didn’t think I’d do it. He wasn’t being snide, it was just a fact. My school experiences left me at a bit of a loss dealing with my children’s school experiences. I never wanted to make a big deal about grades, I was afraid they would interpret it to mean that was all I cared about. Now I’m afraid they think I don’t care about their efforts. I try, and tried, to stress learning, and school as a tool for a better life. I don’t think I’ve been as successful as I hoped, but no doubt my boys are in a much better position than I was at their ages. I want Art Child to continue finding success through her art. I want them to have enough, to feel they are enough. I hope none of them will feel irrelevant when they’re forty thousand years old.

No one is ever going to confuse me with Hillary Clinton or Sandra Sotomayor; Arianna Huffington or Maya Angelou. Why do I even want to meet this woman at Man Child’s graduation, when I have nothing to offer? No degrees, no pedigrees, no byline or book jacket or contract. I’m a reefer who’s never been snorkeling or scuba diving, a self-proclaimed feminist without a career. Ridiculous. Then I remembered. This isn’t new. Mrs Fringe, a peripheral life. There’s a reason I don’t blog as Ms Important. I thought about my first post, almost three years ago. My space to be me, not “just” a mom, and not “just” someone trying to get published, either. The blog has evolved, I have evolved–hell, we even got that three bedroom apartment–but I am who I am, and life is what it is.

Regardless of how much Virginia Woolf I read I don’t have a room of my own, but I now have a desk, something I didn’t think was possible a few years ago. From it I see my beautiful reef, where I watch the interactions of all the critters, and remember how important even the simplest ones are to maintain the balance of the system as a whole. I’m not writing the Great American Novel, calculating royalties, or reading fan mail when I sit at this desk, I work on the occasional story and post some silliness or a rant here on the blog. Sometimes, just when I’m devolving into thoughts about my lack of success, moaning about not knowing the best way to encourage my kids, and ready to break out a tape measure to torture myself with how much I’ve sagged; I get a note from someone out there in cyberland, telling me one of my posts resonated with them, or made them laugh. That is pretty excellent, and fucking relevant.

Turbo snail eating algae off the glass.

Cleaning the sand under the plate coral.

An unlikely pair, but the turbo and the plate coral stayed snuggled together for two days.

Caution: Slippery

Pretty, isn’t it?

Even lovelier close up.

Now let’s change the angle. Same morning, same storm.

Ice encased trees, beautiful. The reality of walking and driving on those icy streets, something else entirely.

Ice encased trees, beautiful. The reality of navigating these icy streets, something else entirely.

No, I’m not really going to talk about the weather again. There’s a lot in the world of pop culture I haven’t read/seen/heard because it doesn’t catch my interest. 50 Shades of Grey? Uninteresting, I’ve passed tons of articles, tweets, posts, and discussions without so much as an I-wonder-what-the-fuss-is-about. But then I was on Twitter the other day and saw a link to this blog post. Women and domestic violence? This is interesting to me, worth talking about again. So here I am, late to the 50 Shades party. I wasn’t going to talk about and pass judgement on something I hadn’t read, so I downloaded and read the book.

Oy.

Some writers are more about the writing. If the writing is beautiful enough, the characters richly drawn, I don’t actually care if the story has plot holes the size of Toledo, I’ll cry at the end because I’m sorry to close the book. If the story is excellent, I’ll quickly stop noticing excessive adjectives and dialogue tags, the occasional POV inconsistency, because entertaining stories are fun. Escapism means never having to get out the red pen, after all. Because this novel has sold a gazillion copies, I expected there to be a point where I would get sucked into the story. By page 15 I was certain all the writing wisdom I’ve ever read must be a trick to keep unpublished writers unpublished. This isn’t just seasoned with adverbs, it’s downright encrusted. By page 20 I was wondering why nobody was taking this poor girl to the ER, she had flushed and blushed so many times surely she was having a stroke.

By the time I was a quarter of the way through I was pissed off. Recently I saw something online saying a positive aspect of the Fifty Shades phenomenon is that it opened a new world to women of a certain age. (If you are one who believes this to be true, please do some homework and research the history of erotica.) In Walmart, woo hoo! I didn’t think I cared if erotica is available next to the Charmin. Go ahead and squeeze.

But I do care. Because this is being touted as liberation (you, tender young thing, are really the one with the power since you’ve got a safe word–and once you’re uncuffed and ungagged you can go ahead and use it). Because you, beautiful young woman, can say no and leave the relationship anytime you want to–though our hero is likely to show up on your doorstep if you do–middle of the night and roommate be damned. Because this is being presented as a great love story. Everyone knows real love involves stalking, right? And if you use the word stalking two hundred times it’s definitely ok, hell, you can even laugh about it with your stalker. Because nothing says I care about your well being like wanting to control what and when your partner eats. Oh, wait. This is where we have sympathy for the hero, because it turns out he experienced real hunger as a child. Plus, yanno, he’s handsome. And rich. Not just rich, uber-rich and powerful. Before the age of thirty, so he can still get it up and fuck his partner “into submission” 10 times a night and another 8 times during the day.

I didn’t want to judge. Different strokes and all that. But in every scene where he hurts her, it’s presented as “not really” hurting her, because even though her mind said no, her body responded in a positive way, so she must like it. And in every one of those scenes, I thought of the many instances where rape victims report feeling conflicted and wondering if they’re the guilty ones, because physiology is what it is, and sometimes the body responds. This isn’t a story of sexual exploration, this is a story of abuse. When her friend/roommate is worried about her, and she’s afraid her roommate will say something to antagonize him, that’s a clear sign of an abusive relationship.

In the end, I think we’re supposed to admire her strength and brains. Oh yes, of course she’s smart, we know this because she mentions having a high GPA thirty times. So smart that she finally realizes being hit with a belt really hurts–after she agrees to it, he’s done it, and she’s cried delicately on his shoulder. She’s so strong she walks away from him in the end (ok, she doesn’t quite walk away, she’s driven away by his driver/manservant/pimp who is so wonderful and discreet he never even mentions the instruments of torture in the so-called play room), and rejects his lifestyle, his lavish gifts, and his incredibly handsome face that has working class women everywhere fall immediately to their knees–while blushing, of course. This even though she isn’t incredibly rich. She’s just an ordinary gal, who worked a part time job through college. Now she will have to suffer the pain of a three bedroom condo shared with her by her wealthy roommate, a college degree, the publishing job she wanted, and family and friends who love her but don’t stalk, humiliate, or physically hurt her.

For a little while, anyway. Since this is actually book 1 of a trilogy, I assume they get back together. Maybe he buys out her publishing house and shows her the joys of erotic asphyxiation while declaring his love. Or maybe the little subplot started at the end of the book, where he’s distracted by SOMETHING BIG, turns out to be something personal, and she comes back to support him through his time of need. Whatever.

I’m sad there are so many women who think this is a hot fantasy, because it makes me wonder how many will ignore early warning signs in their relationships. This isn’t a small number of consenting adults engaging in whatever sexual activities they enjoy. This is the mainstream, young women being told that it’s sexy to be controlled, stalking is fine as long as you label it, almost anything is ok in the name of love, and of course, just hang in there– because he’ll stop beating you eventually if you follow his rules. If you’re a really good girl, he’ll come to understand you love him enough to heal him with your magical vagina and deep throat skills. Then he won’t even need to beat you anymore. Except, of course, for when you ask him nicely.

Yeah, we need to talk about this, especially as the movie is about to be released in theaters. Much like the first photos above, this story looks innocuous enough, until you look a bit closer.

Wake up, women! This isn’t sexy or romantic. This is predatory behavior.

Get Thee Behind Me

From the Peace Fountain (artist, Greg Wyatt) in the Children’s Sculpture Garden-St John the Divine

And take hope with you, while you’re at it.

Why yes, I do kind of feel like the above. I mean, he’s just one piece of a sculpture representing the conflict between good and evil, but there he is, upside down–defeated.

My temptation? Still dreaming of literary offers, believing it could happen. The American way, right? Don’t give-up, never accept defeat, blah blah blah. If you work hard enough, success will come your way. Except when it doesn’t, in which case you accept defeat gracefully, shake your opponent’s hand, and try harder next time. Otherwise, you’re a loser–capital L. A quitter. Here’s where it gets tricky: because the general advice is never give up, unless you have delusions of grandeur. In which case take your pill, and sob quietly by yourself in the corner.

In order to pursue any art form though, you kind of need those delusions, just to try. Just to have the big brass ones to say yes, others will want to see me perform, read my words, view my paintings, my photos, even pay a dollar to do so. If you’re a follower here, you know I’m trying to figure out where my line is, how to shift my goals and what they could/should be shifted towards, how to accept defeat with grace. A downward mobility of expectations, if you will.

Because it has to be time. I can tell, because when I went to the store the other day, the young woman behind the counter gave me a great big smile when I got to the register, and announced it was “senior day.” That’s right, 20% off all purchases for seniors. Hmmm. 40,000 years old and countless miles? Check. Senior citizen? Nope. I wasn’t offended, probably because of my experience writing fiction. I’ve put a lot of time into thinking about perspective, point of view, who would notice what and who would think what, to have characters ring true. 18-20 year old woman? Not seeing a whole lot of difference between 40,000 and 65, especially when the woman standing in front of her has hair that’s more salt than pepper, no makeup, and bags that store a ten year sleep deficit under her eyes. So no. I wasn’t shocked by her assumption. Besides, 20% off toilet paper that’s 40% overpriced. Thank you dear, now get off my lawn.

Then there was a thread running on the writer’s site, about critiquing–the value of, giving up, and several fun and generally silly derails. Interesting to me (though the thread was slanted towards query crits, which are not my thing) since I’ve remained in that “What do I know?” state of mind. So I asked those who’ve been at this a long time without tangible (and measurable by others outside the writing community) success, their thoughts on giving up, when it’s time, etc. And am as confused and dissatisfied now as I was before the thread. I still believe my writing is good enough. I just don’t believe it’s going to “happen.” I don’t see my writing as a hobby. My tank is a hobby. Cooking, for me, is a hobby. Taking pictures, for me, is a hobby. My words? Not a hobby. See? Delusions. And hubris.

One kind and smart friend wrote a thoughtful response. A phrase that he used has stayed in the forefront of my mind. “There’s an opportunity cost for everything.” That’s reality. My time, energy, and resources are finite. Because writing isn’t cooking dinner, or baking a dessert, all to be enjoyed by family and friends. Writing is hours and hours of solitary work, time when I withdraw from family and friends to pay attention to imaginary characters and lives that exist only in my own mind. Time when I don’t get the laundry done, walk an extra few dogs, cook a nice dinner, pay attention to Husband, or figure out what’s really going to be next for me in life. Please don’t misunderstand me when I say this, I’m not crying about how difficult it is to write. It isn’t nothing, I don’t just sit down and vomit out 350 pages in two months and call it a novel–but it isn’t scrubbing public toilets or working in a coal mine, either.

I should grow the fuck up, accept that in the eyes of a young girl I’m a senior, on a crowded train I’m now offered a seat by a well mannered young man about half the time and I appreciate it. When I was a little girl, I was certain my real mommy was a princess who would show up to rescue me from the evils of sitting at the table until I finished my dinner, and I would grow up to be Laura Ingalls Wilder–except I’d live in a beach house, instead of the prairie. I gave up the princess fantasy long ago, and the 80 gallon saltwater tank that holds center stage in my living room is my beach house. Maybe it’s time to truly accept and be okay with the fact that people won’t be reading my words for generations to come. Except, of course, for what I have posted and will continue to post on the blog, because the interwebs R 4evr.

And Mrs Fringe’s Blood Pressure Skyrockets

I know, it’s predictable. If I’m posting a second time in one day, you know it’s a rant.

It’s a crowded city. Part of living here without losing your mind is the ability to block out what isn’t your business. The man next door might be cooking something that smells phenomenal, but you can’t knock on his door at dinnertime. Just because you can hear your neighbors argue doesn’t mean you’re invited to join the debate.

I just returned from picking up Art Child. When we left her school, there was a young woman in an “argument” with a young man. I put argument in quotes, because she was quiet, trying to get him to calm down, and he was all up in her face, backing her against a fence. Boyfriend? Husband? Brother? I don’t know.

Then he shoved her.

Yes, one woman was calling the police before I could get my phone out, when she was put on hold I got one of the police officers from Art Child’s school.

This block has not just one school, but 4 schools on it. This is pick up time, a beautiful Friday afternoon. Hundreds of children/adolescents to see this model of “relationship.” No. No. No. No.

Most domestic violence incidents are never reported.

This young woman looked fit and strong. I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass without breaking a sweat. But so much of domestic violence isn’t about the physical, it’s the mental/emotional. It’s the cancerous belief that this is part of being in a relationship. It’s the sad and horrifying fact that too many parents don’t have anywhere to go if they leave, except maybe, if they’re lucky, a shelter.

The stats I’ve seen say 1 in 4 women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. That’s in the US. Worldwide, the statistic is 1 in 3. Every year, close to 1/3 of women who are victims of homicide are killed by their former or current partner.

I recently saw something saying more American women have been killed by domestic violence than troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq in the same time period. I’m not 100% sure of the fact checking on this one, so don’t assume it’s accurate.

Look at the numbers. This isn’t something that only occurs in other parts of the world (whatever country you’re reading this from)/other states/among certain races/religions/socioeconomic groups. This isn’t somebody else’s problem. It’s our problem.

Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-621-HOPE

#YesAllWomen

This is the hashtag making the rounds on Twitter right now. Yes, sorry, back to back quasi feminist rants.

The Gilded Cage (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The hashtag and tweets are in response to this atrocity. A young man went on a rampage and killed seven people, including himself, in Santa Barbara, California. First and foremost, my heart goes out to the victims and their families, including the family of this young man–who reportedly saw his rantings/manifesto, tried to get him help, reported him to the police. I’m not sure how this still happened, and I’m not blogging about this to speculate re who dropped the ball.

No matter how many episodes of Criminal Minds I watch I’m not a psychiatrist, not his therapist, not an expert in human behavior, I can’t say if he was a sociopath or plain old crazy. What I am is a woman. And this young man’s harmful delusions centered around himself and women, their rejection of him. His sense of entitlement to “get” hot (or whatever the current catchphrase is) blonde women, and their lack of interest in having sex with him. Gee, can’t imagine why, his videos make him seem like such a charmer. #YesAllWomen have said no at some point. If you’re an asshole, you’re going to hear no a lot.

The problem as I see it, the reason #yesallwomen is the hashtag and not something tied in to gun control, or “affluenza,” is that he was so easily able to find his peeps, other men who feel their dangly bits entitle them to say insulting things to and about women, have sex with whatever women they want. In addition to his 140+ page manifesto, he left a hell of a cybertrail, rants on misogynistic websites. No, I’m not going to link them, I’m not going to help give them more hits and traffic so easily.

It’s the same sick fountain of bullshit that allowed the man I wrote about in my last post to not see any jail time, for his ex-wife/victim to be told instead she should forgive him. #YesAllWomen are still individual beings with the right to say no, even if we get married

How many women, whether they’re twenty or fifty, can say they’ve never had the experience of being called a bitch or a tease because they didn’t want someone touching them? Or commenting on their bodies? Because, yanno, we should all be flattered–it’s a compliment, someone wants you. Yeah. #YesAllWomen have experienced that moment of fear and tension, hoping the man making kissy sounds and following them will leave them the fuck alone.

Of course, this isn’t limited to misogyny, this young man’s rants had a heaping dose of racism and self hatred (he was half Asian). Because it all goes together. Hatred is hatred. I do believe, I have to believe, that he was mentally ill. But I don’t believe everyone who agreed with him, egged him on, everyone who is trolling by making provocative and hateful comments in response to the Twitter hashtag, is mentally ill.

Like every other social issue, I don’t think there is one answer, one solution. So many things feed into these attitudes, beginning with children, teaching little girls to hate their bodies and at the same time teaching them their bodies, their faces, and how they display them are the most important part of who they are. What? You would never feed into that! Never teach your little girl to objectify themselves, or teach your little boy to objectify girls/women. Of course not. So how come there are padded, push up bras in minuscule sizes in the girls’ department of clothing stores? I’m a shoe gal, I admit it. Heels are sexy, they make me feel…I dunno, powerful, in a way. Women are and should be entitled to dress however they’d like. Women. Not girls, women old enough to have learned their bodies are a part of who they are, not the sum total. Sure I’m uptight, sure I’m not an expert, but what is the reasoning behind these types of things beyond objectifying girls? #YesAllWomen don’t look like the ones in magazines, and it can be a hard battle to find self acceptance.

Children are still told that when they’re shoved to the asphalt on the playground, it’s just because he/she likes you. The same pressures put on girls are put on boys. Stop it. Being a man has nothing to do with your girlfriend–who she is, what she looks like, or if she exists.

Women are still attacking each other for individual choices. What do you mean, you don’t want to have children/be married/have a career/use cloth diapers/breastfeed/formula feed? #YesAllWomen are being told they not only can have it all, they have to do and be it all.

With all my waiting on agent replies, I’ve been doing a lot of ~~obsessing~~ thinking. One of my thoughts (and I’m sorry, I can’t remember how much I blogged about this and I’m too lazy to read my old posts) is about those romance novels that I wrote. I’m wondering how much our society’s emphasis on romantic love contributes to these delusions. I know, the romance heroes (mine or anyone else’s) aren’t misogynistic assholes–or if they appear to be at first, they quickly realize the error of their ways and come around to worship the heroine. On the writer’s forum I’ve seen several instances of people being told by agents or editors they need to add in or increase the romance in their stories to make it more marketable.

Is this true, readers will be unsatisfied without romance in their thriller/fantasy/coming of age story? Yes, we, as women, have come far. As a society, we’ve come far. Most people will at least pay lip service to lifestyle choices. But. How often do you hear people asking a single woman when they’re going to get married? How about hearing someone ask your 10/11/12 year old if they have a boyfriend/girlfriend yet–and if the answer is no, why not? And I’m not referring to Great Grandma asking these questions. If we believe a story is not complete without strong romantic elements, and we are partaking in a steady diet of these books and movies, how far away are we from saying people are not complete if they don’t have a significant other? Hmmm, somehow this isn’t sounding as far removed from the days of “old maids” as it should be. #YesAllWomen need to feel good about who they are, not just who they’re with.

Not all men are aggressive, entitled, driven-by-their-gonads jerks. I believe, at this point, those men are the minority, especially as we look to the younger generations. But too many still are. And too many more are given a pass, because oh, well, that’s just men. No, it isn’t just men. It’s us, male and female, what we’re willing to say is ok and close our eyes to, and what we’re willing to stand up and say no to. Enough is enough.

#YesAllWomen because

everyone gets rejected. Deal with it.

rape jokes aren’t funny.

we still hear, “all she needs….”

we still hear, “well, what was she wearing?”

men need to know we value those who treat us as human beings, not objects.

you _____ like a girl shouldn’t be an insult.

love doesn’t conquer all.

What Year is This Again?

NYC: Liberty Island – Statue of Liberty (Photo credit: wallyg)

I can’t even gather my words into a coherent rant, it’s more of a splutter. A few days ago I read about this case in Indiana. In all honesty, at first I couldn’t read the article all the way through. It’s like opening your front door and seeing something so terrifying, so shocking, your reaction is to slam the door shut, flip all the locks and put the chain on. But you know it’s there, and know it’s only going to gain traction and strength if you don’t open the door again to confront it.

The bottom line, a man in Indiana was drugging and raping his wife for at least three years. She found video clips of this on his phone and pressed charges. Good for her! She did the right thing. No excuses, no taking the law into her own hands. Prosecutors did the right thing, asked for forty years in prison. He was convicted of six felony charges, and sentenced to twenty years. Here’s the part that makes my heart drop to my bowels: He won’t be spending any time in prison. Twelve years were suspended, and he will spend eight years in home confinement. Why? Because it was up to the judge. A judge who told the victim she should forgive her attacker.

On a smaller scale, let me ask why? Why does she need to forgive him? What was done to her was immoral, illegal, unconscionable. Still, in my opinion she showed incredible strength of character by leaving him (so many women feel trapped, afraid and embarrassed in abusive situations they don’t have that strength), and by pressing charges. On a larger scale, how can this sentence be allowed to stand under the guise of justice?

More than why, how? How can this be? How can any judge think this is ok, and where are our leaders to say, “Hey! This can NOT happen in a country that is supposed to be about equality and justice for all.” Anyone who reads Mrs Fringe knows I lean left. But this isn’t about left or right. It’s about assault, it’s about treating women as property. Men and women in positions of authority should be speaking out about this, in my opinion. Especially the women. So where are you, Hillary Clinton, Michelle Obama, Nancy Pelosi, Oprah Winfrey, Jill Abramson, Janet Napolitano, Indra Nooyi, Ursula Burns, Diane Sawyer, Arianna Huffington, Melinda Gates, Ann Coulter–how about Lady Gaga? There are many strong, powerful women in positions of authority in this country. Apparently not enough.

That this woman was drugged and assaulted repeatedly over a period of years is sad and infuriating, but not shocking. Again, horrifying for her (and her children!), but it shouldn’t represent anything grand. There are fucked up people in this world who do fucked up things, maybe I’m cynical, but I believe this will always be the case. But this end result, this judge’s ruling does represent something. It illustrates all too clearly there is someone in this country in a position of power and authority who believes wives are chattel. That judge is an elected official–that tells me there is more than one someone who believes this.

According to this article in the NY Daily News, the judge told the woman to move on. Maybe she could, if attitudes were different.

Sarcophagus of Crying Women (Photo credit: voyageAnatolia.blogspot.com)

Tail End of Sunrise

Somewhere between 6:30 and 6:45 this morning.

Looks like an impossibility, no? I stood on the terrace drinking my cafè con leche, camera in hand and the blue and gray and pink and white of the sky made me feel inside out, upside down. I could have been looking into an ocean as easily as up to the sky, if it weren’t for the water towers and smokestacks of neighboring buildings to orient me.

This morning’s sunrise was a surprisingly accurate reflection of how I feel as I’m reading The Woman Upstairs, by Claire Messud. So perfectly simple, natural, it’s a deeply complex piece written with such honesty it makes my heart stop every few pages. The words and phrasing aren’t pretty but they’re beautiful (if that makes sense to anyone other than me). Her main character is pure in her anger– no coyness, no stereotypical qualifiers, I’m not reading into it, she tells us exactly how angry she is and how she sublimates that anger in order to function–much the way I know those deep pinks above, stunning as they are, represent a big storm on its way later. I took the photos so I can look at this sunrise again tomorrow or next month or next year, but they won’t give the same wow they did when I stood there this morning.

There are many writers I admire, for craft, plotting, characterization, descriptions, but. There aren’t many writers who have made me feel like I’m holding my breath, chest and head hurting but I’m afraid to exhale, afraid to keep turning the pages because then it gets me closer to the end. I don’t want it to be over, and I also don’t want to find out if it was wrapped up in a neat and tidy package where everyone gets to live happily ever after because sales-marketing-feel good-life is a cabaret.

*this, by the way, is why I don’t write book reviews on the blog. Not too many people looking to buy a novel want to know how a book made me feel, but the feelings are what’s important and memorable to me.

Some novels I read and know no matter how much I enjoy them, they aren’t my type of story to write. Thrillers, horror, so fun! My imagination doesn’t go in those directions. Some novels I read and think yes, I should be querying and pursuing publication, my work is competitive. This is a whole other category.

This is the type of book I will remember the name of, will recommend to friends and acquaintances for the next ten years. I’m guessing there are a lot of people who won’t like it. Anger, especially women’s anger, tends to make people uncomfortable. It’s also the type of novel that makes me wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. A strange feeling, hard to state clearly because it’s inspiring at the same time. There’s a little back room in my brain where I’ve been drafting a character for another story, and he’s starting to knock, wanting to move forward. As much as I’m loving The Woman Upstairs, feel it was money well spent, it also makes me want to stomp my feet and shake my fists because this is what writing can be, but my writing is not. Cliche as it may be, the word that keeps coming to mind is heartbreaker.

Must mean it’s time to get the Led out before I get back to reading and before the rain comes.