Women

I’m Sorry

Alexander Archipenko, “Seated Woman,” 1912-Bronze

Really, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re tired of reading and hearing about this, everyone who’s anyone or no one has already blogged, posted, written this article or that essay. I want to let this go, want to roll my eyes at the stupidity of people and snicker about those on the Right getting the candidate they deserve. I can’t do it. I can’t let it go, and I don’t believe anyone deserves someone who brags about sexual assault as their President. Not even those who want him. Maybe especially not them, because in the year 2016, there shouldn’t be one woman in the world who believes sexual assault against women is a man’s right. Not one woman.

I can be uptight in many ways, but language isn’t one of them. I straight out tell people not to bother checking out Mrs Fringe if they’re offended by the word fuck. I tell them because I acknowledge that some people are offended by certain words, and if you are, you aren’t going to be happy here. I love language, and I love words, all of them. Words are powerful, written or spoken they can outlast a good deed, a box of candy, they can remain and ring through your brain and guts longer than any slap upside your head. A couple of years ago there was a hashtag that went around twitter, #yesallwomen in response to #notallmen, I blogged about it here.

And here we are again. Only I’m seeing “not all men,” “not my men,” “not my sons,” etc, in response to comments and posts supporting Trump, saying that horrific tape of him speaking about women, with charming highlights like, “I moved on her like a bitch,…she was married…you can do anything,” and of course, “Grab them by the pussy.” I literally feel sick to my stomach with every comment and post I see in support of him and his words. Here’s the thing, most of those posts and many of those comments are from women. Women. Protesting that all men speak that way, no big deal, it’s only words. No, these aren’t only words. And no, I haven’t suddenly become a delicate fucking flower, offended by the word pussy, in need of men to stand up for me and remind everyone that when Trump was speaking, he was speaking about someone’s wife, mother, daughter. I saw a meme floating around to the effect of “If Trump’s words are so offensive to women, who bought a gazillion copies of Fifty Shades of Gray?” Sigh. If this makes sense to you, look up logical fallacy.

These language used is not colorful, against the rules of the FCC, or naughty. They are words describing assault, making it clear that he sees nothing wrong with literally aggressively touching and grabbing another human being whether they want to be touched or not. A likely smaller person, not as strong physically, and likely someone he’s in a position of power over.

I don’t want to hear about responses that begin “But Hillary,” or “Well Bill.” This has absolutely nothing to do with Hillary Clinton, and she is not responsible for what Bill Clinton chose to do.

When I was 16 I worked as a cocktail waitress. Think about that for a second. 16, working as a cocktail waitress. Standards, not that high. I remember one busy night, I had just begun serving wine to a large table, no room to maneuver with another table right behind me when one of the men reached back and, well, grabbed me by the pussy. In the moment, with his wife sitting right next to him, I was stunned. He said (exact quote, because WORDS), “Sorry sweetie, I touched your box.” And he smiled. A fucking fifty year old man, who turned his back to his wife and didn’t move his hand. At this point in my life, I had already learned there were situations where I could be out numbered and overpowered but this wasn’t one of them. I lifted the still full carafe of wine I was holding and poured it on him, “Sorry, sweetie, did I pour that on your dick?”

The manager came flying across the restaurant and hustled me into the kitchen before going back to the table, apologizing profusely and comping their wine and their meal. I didn’t lose my job, I had been working there long enough and the manager knew me well enough to know I wasn’t kidding, imagining, or exaggerating what had happened. If you’re thinking what a good guy the manager was, stop. This is the same man who, when I asked for a specific day off from work a few months later, told me he’d be willing to give it if I “popped his son’s cherry.” In retrospect, I’m sure the whole underaged thing played into the decision to keep me, too, not a scenario where he would want attention. It didn’t occur to me that by comping this man’s meal, he was rewarding him for being a pig, I was just grateful not to be fired. I’ll be honest, at that time, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to make a “bigger deal” of what happened. Sure I knew I didn’t want his hands on me, and I sure as shit could tell him to get his fucking hands off of me, but I’m not sure I knew I had the right to do so, and I had no idea that this was something that could be considered assault. If someone had floated the word to me at that time, in 1980something south Brooklyn, I would have either laughed or taken off, certain that I would be the one in trouble. Why? I don’t know, something about not having dangly bits and being the kind of girl who worked as a cocktail waitress.

I’m not sixteen anymore, and I know better. I know better, my husband and I have both taught our sons better, we’ve taught our daughter better. That doesn’t make us anything more than decent human beings, who’ve tried to raise decent human beings. Don’t you dare, anyone, tell me or anyone else, that Trump’s words are no big deal. I’m not offended. I’m sickened that anyone, male or female, is telling our children that assault of women is okay. I’m disgusted that there are women who are just fine with this type of behavior for themselves, their children, their loved ones, for the hussy down the street they’ve hated since the third grade. I’m saddened that people are perpetuating the myth that women are less than men, because that’s what you’re saying when you condone this message. I’m angry, because get your hands off my body! This isn’t about not-all-men speak this way, or think this way. This is about no woman should accept this as a fact of life, ever, and it is unacceptable for any man. Not if he’s older or younger, rich or poor, famous and powerful or a shlub toiling away in obscurity. #Notoneman.

Daily Assault: Booby Prize Edition

A surprise double yolk for this morning’s pancakes. Because I’m immature, this made me think of cleavage. *insert snicker here* Because I’m an adult, what it did not do was make me want to reach out and grab the yolks with my bare hands to give a little squish.

I remember being little and admiring my grandmother’s cleavage. It seemed so powerfully adult, that hint of simultaneous swell and wrinkles. Of course, I also admired the way she could take her teeth out and clean them in a separate glass, her lifetime bus pass, and the way she could cup her hand and use her palm as an ashtray. She had her own ideas about men and women, which she shared through lectures equally generous and cryptic. As far as I could tell they boiled down to men were not to be trusted (outside of progeny–in which case, they should be lionized), marriage was a necessary evil–so be sure to marry rich, and fergawdssake don’t have too many babies. She was what used to be called a tough cookie, and I wanted nothing more than to grow up to be her.

I’m a blabber-fingers left-leaning blogger, which means I indulge in the not so occasional political rant. I don’t address every injustice I see or read about (impossible), or even every big story, because I’m exhausted and frequently too damned disheartened. Is there such a thing as blogging battle fatigue? Do I have the right to feel it when I don’t address all? Yesterday I came across this story. A few days late, because I’ve been busy rattling my pots and pans, sticking to the kitchen–barefoot, naturally. I considered blogging when I first saw it, but what could I possibly say? So I posted the link on my personal Facebook page, thinking I would just spread a bit of awareness amongst my three friends and that would be that. One friend replied with a statement about Republican men, and another friend replied to the first about the unfairness of the blanket statement. Fair enough, and it made me think. Not only because it is unfair to categorize ALL Republican men, but because it implies male Democrats are ALL more enlightened. Would that it were so. I woke up still thinking, and decided I couldn’t let this incident pass without comment here on Mrs Fringe. Because I’m a woman. And as a woman, I say without hesitation that this is bullshit.

The gist of the story: State Rep (NH) Amanda Bouldin (woman) wrote a statement opposing a proposal made by State Rep Josh Moore (man). The proposal is for it to be a misdemeanor for women to expose their nipples in public. Bouldin disagreed in a statement on her Facebook page, saying the bill should *at least* exempt breastfeeding mothers. The proposed bill actually does exempt breastfeeding mothers, but that isn’t the problem. The issue is Moore’s response (written on Facebook, later deleted–when will people learn there are no take-backs on the internet? Your Words ❤ The Internetz R 4eVER), where he wrote that Bouldin (and women in general, I guess) should have no problem with a man’s natural response to stare and grab when a woman exposes her nipples in public while breastfeeding. This all devolved in true internet fashion into comments from other men as to whose nipples they would/would not want to see.

I’m sure Moore thought he was being clever, perhaps even funny, a play on the “argument” that breastfeeding is natural. Cause, yanno, women’s breasts are really for and about men. Not babies, and certainly not women. This shouldn’t be an argument, a debate, or even an issue. What he described is assault. This isn’t a breastfeeding debate. This is about women; our rights to control and make decisions over our own bodies, our right to be safe. If his natural inclination is to assault every woman he sees, or at least every woman where he spies a bit of pink or brown skin, I am afraid for every woman he has ever or will ever come into contact with. I feel sorry for him, and every man like him, who believes they not only have no control over themselves, but it’s the fault of evil-original-sin WIMMINZ, for having breasts. And wombs. And vaginas. And calves, thighs, hair, lips, and ankles. No wonder we need men to tell us how to care for and hide our bodies. *sarcasm* More than fear and pity, I’m fed up. This man was elected. He represents far too many: right, left, or libertarian.

That he would even say this is an assault, a not-so-clever play at intimidation. When someone wonders what is meant by the phrase “rape culture,” this is it. This statement tells women we not only aren’t safe from unwanted stares, pinches, and grabs, we have no right to expect safety. Regardless of age, race, religion, or socioeconomic class, I’m guessing at least 98% of women have experienced multiple moments of feeling unsafe, feeling and/or being assaulted by unwanted remarks, leers, hands, or full body grinds on a not-so-crowded bus or subway car.

As time goes on, I believe there are fewer men who think along these lines. More men understand human rights, the need for equality in the social contract, fewer believe entitlement is a natural extension of dangly bits. Not enough, though.

Women have fought for and won many advances. In many countries we can vote, work outside the home (though not necessarily for equal pay), own property, hold political office, expose our ankles. But we still can’t do any of these things with a reasonable expectation that we won’t be groped along the way.

I didn’t grow up to be my grandma, but I am a tough cookie.

Maiden, Mother, Crone

The fates like to play with scissors (Photo credit: shellgreenier)

A few weeks ago I read an article that referenced Germaine Greer and crone culture. If you’re unfamiliar with her, Germaine Greer is an academic, a journalist; a feminist and a powerhouse in the women’s movement. I didn’t remember hearing that term before (though I’m sure I must have, perhaps I was busy weaving flowers in my hair while I read The Female Eunich), but I fell in love with it, fascinated, and because I’m ~~certifiable~~ a curious gal, I’ve been doing some research in my free moments. Crone culture. Imagine, an enlightened world that might choose to see older women, post menopausal (gasp) women, not as impotent and invisible beings, but as valued and valuable members of society. Possible? Is it even possible for us to see ourselves in that light?

And what does it mean to be a crone? Is it pure biology? Age? Children’s age? Fatigue? Wear and tear? Cause let me jussay, this vehicle is only middle aged, but its got a lot of mileage. Is 40 really the new 30, and 50 the new 40? Why does it have to be, why can’t it just be fine to be 40 and 50?

For the average first world woman, there’s quite a bit of time, 20-40 years, in between our roles as Mother (Lachesis, if you’re into Greek mythology) and death: the Crone (Atropos) role. Is it possible to embrace that phase and use it as the period of fertility for the mind and soul, instead of spending the first half pining for our prior roles and the second half waiting to die? Is it realistic to think about using this time to deepen connections and understanding, broaden our world when we’re still fully occupied with getting by?

As I think, I’m thinking of women like myself, on the fringe. Women whose adult worth has been not just tied but knotted with wife-ing (whether you stayed a wife or not) and mothering. Women who have jobs–paid or unpaid–but not careers, who don’t have initials after their name to proclaim their continued relevance. I don’t pretend women of privilege don’t face some of the same issues, after all, they’re still women, but I think it’s different; easier to remain relevant for a longer period of time when you’re respected in a field of study, know you still have quite a bit to say that’s worth being heard, can purchase the right clothes, cosmetics, surgeries to present yourself the way you wish to be seen.

Copper-Boiler-for-Distilling-Brandy__15665 (Photo credit: Public Domain Photos)

I make no judgement about that last bit, by the way. If I had the money and freedom, I think I’d have a little tweaking done at this point in my life. Not to attract or please anyone but myself. For me. Can that be distilled, separated from the society I live in which dictates what is or is not attractive? Probably not.

There is a difference in how women of different socioeconomic brackets see themselves and present themselves. When I was at that lit bar the other night, I was chatting with a woman, another friend of the friend I was there to hear. She asked if I was a writer and I said, “Well, I’m a wannabe.” With great confidence, she told me not to say that; if I write, I’m a writer. I’m not so sure. Do I write? Yes. Do I have skill and talent? Maybe, I think so. But I’m a pretty good cook, too. I’ve left restaurants wishing I had stayed home and eaten my own sauce. But I certainly wouldn’t identify myself as a chef. Even as I argue for recognition, I question my validity.

Imagine a crone culture. A culture that valued women as they age; saw experience, caregiving, and connectedness as valid alternatives to degrees earned for 30 year old, forgotten lessons. What if those experiences could be used for opportunities?

Maybe, though. Maybe. Maybe in my imaginary world where crones are empowered. Instead of being reduced we are a reduction–as in cooking. Thickened and intensified, adding richness and bringing the individual components of the dish together.

Hecate’s Wheel, the symbol used by Hecatines, Dianics and Aquarians. It is a representation of the Goddess and of her three aspects: the maiden, the mother and the crone. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)