Dashing

Welcome to Door Dash! We’re pleased you’ve decided to become a “Dasher.” You probably started doing this as a “temporary gig,” but you may find that it becomes one of the best jobs you’ve ever had, if you’re a slightly rebellious type who doesn’t like being told what to do. There’s almost complete freedom, you can consistently make around $20 per hour, and it’s mostly driving around while listening to music or podcasts. You don’t even really have to schedule yourself. Just dash when you feel like it. 

But as a new dasher, there are a few things you should know. 

People will not always leave their porch lights on, have a clearly visible address on their house, nor leave detailed instructions on how to reach their apartment number within a sprawling labyrinth of a complex. You may occasionally find yourself wandering around with a full meal from Popeye’s for ten minutes before finding your destination. You may consider writing a strongly worded letter to the universe in general, requesting that your destinations always be well-lit and easy to find. 

While the Dasher app has the ability to connect to your phone’s GPS system, this is not always reliable. You could discover that in your attempt to deliver McDonald’s to a family in Magna, your phone has guided you to the abandoned Saltair Pavilion, a dilapidated venue on the edge of the Great Salt Lake. These kinds of misadventures can be avoided by making sure the location in the Dasher app and the location in the Maps app are the same. 

Some people will be assholes. They will come out of their houses without masks and expect you to hand them their food, which you will either reluctantly do, or more often, you’ll set their food down on the ground and walk away because there’s a pandemic still happening. Some people will also be assholes by not tipping. You don’t have to take those orders. You can ignore them. 

If you’ve struggled in the past with the difference between left and right, in part due to years of being both an actor/dancer and a director/choreographer, where stage left and stage right are opposite of your left and right when looking at the stage, you may find that following GPS instructions regularly will help improve your ability to tell the difference. Spending hours each day being told to turn either left or right with pictures and arrows to guide you will kind of start to embed the difference more solidly in your brain.  

You’ll also grow more deeply familiar with the area in which you live in general. You’ll start to patch together neighborhoods and highways and areas into a more comprehensive mental map. It will be deeply satisfying. 

You’ll also grow familiar with restaurants in your area, and learn their quirks and what to expect. An order from that Boba place will usually take 10 minutes longer than stated, but you’ll get to watch KPOP videos on the large TV in the lobby while you wait. One restaurant chain will not serve Dashers through the drive-thru, but this other one prefers it. That cookie place always pays well, and the customers tip like gangbusters. Never take a grocery delivery from Walmart unless you know how big it is. 

Note that there are a dozen hotels near the airport and that the drive is a bit of a pain, but the tips are usually worth it. Also not that the FBI has a large, nondescript office building in the same area. You’ll discover this because one day you’ll deliver Panda Express to a friendly employee there. 

You may, on some nights, find yourself wishing that no one else would be on the roads while you are driving, ever. You may long to cruise through town, unhindered by other drivers, not needing to deal with long lines, lights that are slow to change, or people who don’t understand speed limits and/or turn signals. This is normal. Take a few deep breaths. 

If at all possible, drive a car that has infinite cupholders. You will need to be able to transport your water bottle, a separate drink for yourself if you’re fancy, customer drinks, and your phone. A 2012 Compact Toyota Prius will have excellent gas mileage, but not enough cupholders. 

Keep your eyes open. Not just for safety, but for wonder. There will be evenings when the sunset sky looks so spectacular it will seem like a painting. You may see a white rabbit nibbling in the grass of someone’s front yard. You’ll get two orders in a row for two different people named “Gray.” Look for magic. There are little altars everywhere.

Breathe

“I need another short breather,” I say. 

 

Patrick stops a few steps ahead of me. “No worries,” he says. “We’re in no rush.” 

We’re standing in the shade, halfway through the first ¼ mile of this hike, which has a 600-foot elevation gain. I lean forward and put my hands on my knees as my lungs struggle to gulp enough air. 

“Don’t let me forget my inhaler ever again,” I say. 

 I’ve only had my inhaler for a few months, so I never remember to bring it anywhere. I got it after I realized that my lungs were consistently tight after going on walks in spring. My lungs often felt tight in spring in general. But this time, my lungs felt tight in early spring when I was going on daily walks in an effort to stave off the madness of quarantine. (The albuterol prescription also helped alleviate my anxiety about having COVID-19. If the inhaler helped, it meant I was negative for the disease?) 

“Okay,” I say, once my lungs stop burning. “I’m ready.” We walk slowly, setting a deliberate pace. I glance around at the aspens, the rocks, the wildflowers. I take a sip of water. My head has begun to ache. Not enough oxygen. Not enough hydration. 

I put one foot in front of the other. I’ll probably be a little sore tomorrow. If I had marched yesterday, I would be sore today too. But yesterday, we stayed in the car, honking the horn, blasting Childish Gambino’s “This Is America,” participating in a drive-by protest of police brutality. 

I wish there was a phrase other than “drive-by.” 

My muscles and bones and lungs and heart carry me up the mountain. They’re carrying a lot for me nowadays. 

How it felt to dance in the blinding heat, a few hundred of us in the streets, dance-dancing for the revolution, blocks away from the District Attorney’s office. How it felt to lay on the hot pavement in front of the governor’s mansion, face-down, gravel pressing into my knees, for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. The burn in my feet and knees as we walked up the long hill to the Capitol building. I forgot my inhaler that day, too. 

Patrick and I pace ourselves, a slow and steady climb to the lake. When we get there, the light glints off the water, and the grass is wet and cool at its edges. The sky is blue blue blue, the leaves on the aspens twirling in the breeze. 

It feels good to be outside. I temporarily took Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter off my phone yesterday. I’ve recently found myself caught in an endless cycle of bad mental health, which I try to alleviate with social media, but social media makes it worse. So I’m doing a “fast” for a few days, even though I’m always judgmental when other people do that. Just have some f***ing self-control, I always think. Or, If you think social media sucks that much, I think you just have crappy friends. 

But I also apparently lack self-control. And it’s not that social media sucks, or that I have crappy friends. It’s that I mostly have passionate, empathetic, and compassionate friends who are constantly fighting for justice and equity and it’s beautiful and also somehow exhausting, and then I have a few friends who keep doing theatre and having social gatherings without masks and it is NOT beautiful and it is definitely exhausting. (The pandemic is not over, my friends. You are endangering everyone around you and prolonging hardship for yourself and your entire community, my friends.) 

And I’m exhausted by strangers stopping me to discuss how “not all police are bad” because they see the sign on my car. I’m exhausted by people telling me that Black Lives Matter is a terrorist organization. I’m exhausted by editing my resume for every remote job posting that I find on ZipRecruiter. I’m exhausted by not being able to breathe when I walk up a mountain. I’m exhausted by calling the DA’s office every day to ask that the life sentence charges be dropped against protestors. I’m exhausted by the steady and relentless heat of this corner of the planet, and by the wildfires that blur the skies for days on end, and by my dwindling savings account. 

So I’m taking a break. I’m taking a break, knowing that my whiteness is part of what allows me to take a break. But I'll be back to do the good work eventually. I just need a few moments. 

A few moments to just breathe.

Short Imagined Monologue: Coronavirus edition

Listen, man. I get it. I suck or whatever. But at the same time, you gotta admire how f***ing powerful I am. Right? Like, I’m basically invisible to the naked eye and I am still pwning you all so hard right now.

Sure, you’ve got your “strong economy” and your “healthcare systems” and your “toilet paper.” But one particle of me, between 0.06 and 1.4 microns big, and BOOM. Unemployment up to 14%! Refrigerated trucks being used as temporary morgues! You’re wiping your butts with rags made from old t-shirts!

I did that. Me. All on my own.

Okay, well, I guess TECHNICALLY y’all helped. All that coughing and sneezing and breathing on each other. Skipping the handwashing. You’re disgusting animals, all of you. And I love it.

I especially love when y’all disregard all the recommendations that are supposed to protect you and your loved ones. Please, keep gathering in large crowds to protest the government “taking away your freedoms.” Please don’t wear a mask in public. Please stand way too close to each other in line. You are the true MVPs of my campaign to f*** up humanity.

But I simply can’t go any further without acknowledging the folks in power who made me so powerful. I’d like to thank my boy, P Trump, and his gang for basically disbanding Global Health Security two years ago. Y’all really opened the door for me. Hell, you f***ing rolled out a red carpet. (I don’t really get how that Cheeto-d*ck perv is your PRESIDENT, but whatever.) Make America sick again, libtards!

Hm? What’s that? You miss sitting in restaurants? You want to get a haircut? You still want your “really good friend” to come over because you can’t survive two weeks without getting laid, even though y’all are “just casual”? Tough titties, all you cool cats and kittens. You can’t have any of that. Because of me.

Because of me, the line to get into Home Depot winds around a city block. Because of me, aisles in grocery stores have “one way” signs. (Shout out to all my peeps who blatantly ignore those signs, btw.) Because of me, there’s caution tape fluttering in the breeze around every public play structure. Because of me, everyone who works in live entertainment is f***ing out of a job for the foreseeable future.

Ha. The future. As if you could make any plans beyond tomorrow’s to-do list. I know some of y’all are counting down the days to when things are “back to normal,” but f**k you. This is your new normal, b*tch.

See, I’m forcing you to face the delusion you’ve been carrying all this time—that you ever had control over your life in the first place. Your bank account, your career, your shopping trips, your travel plans, your daily routine are all subject to the whims of fate. Or in this case, the whims of a badass coronavirus like yours truly.

It’s like in Jurassic Park. So many of you are John Hammond, sitting in a room and eating melting ice cream and saying things like “When we have control again.” But you should be Ellie Sattler, yelling across the table “You never had control! That’s the illusion! I was overwhelmed by the power of this place. But I made a mistake, too. I didn’t have enough respect for that power and it’s out now. The only thing that matters now are the people we love.”

I’m the power she’s talking about. And I’m out now.

Granted, you guys have tests. Although it kinda makes me happy that it’s soooooo uncomfortable for your fragile little bodies. Raise your hand if you want to have your brains scraped out of your head through your nose to check to see if I’m hanging out in your cavities! That’s what you gotta do to get to me, dude. You’ve got to go somewhere and have your brain scraped out of your head through your nose, and then wait 2-10 days for someone to call you to tell you whether or not you have to stay alone in your room for two full weeks.

And also, granted, you do have masks and social distancing practices and medical teams working around the clock and coordinated efforts to control me in these “unprecedented times.” And okay, FINE, so you’ve made strides in recovery and treatment and containment or whatever.

But I’m just trying to survive, you know? And if I have to kill a few healthy cells in your fragile special little snowflake respiratory systems to stay alive, then so be it. I’m not so different from you, you motherf***er who refuses to wear a mask. We’re both just trying to live our damn lives. Who gives a damn about anyone else.

Pornography was not the problem. Ted Bundy was the problem.

Hi, this is my standard response whenever anyone posts anything linking Ted Bundy to pornography use.

There’s this infuriating thing that gets perpetuated by well-meaning folks who are concerned about pornography. The serial killer Ted Bundy gave a final interview in the 24 hours before he was executed. He was interviewed by Rev. Dr. James Dobson, a Christian psychologist and the founder of the organization Focus on the Family.

Among saying many other things, Bundy made the claim that he was a good, normal, happy, healthy boy from a good Christian home, and that pornography snatched him away from that life at a young age, and that he became so addicted to violent sexual media that he ended up murdering 30+ women. You can read his full final interview here, or watch a spliced version of these claims on YouTube here (although I'd recommend reading the full final interview for better context and because I don't want to give that YouTube video more views).

And let’s break it down, shall we?

Bundy was probably a clinical sociopath
Ted Bundy meets just about all of the DSM-5 criteria for Antisocial Personality Disorder (APD). Like, ALL OF THEM. I’m not a doctor, but I think we can pretty confidently conclude that he was a clinical sociopath. From what we know about this disorder, genetics play a part, but children who are abused or neglected are also far more likely to develop this disorder. Consuming violent sexual media is something that many people with Antisocial Personality Disorder do (like the folks in prison that Bundy mentioned), but pornography DOES NOT AND CANNOT CAUSE the disorder. It’s better to think of consuming violent pornography as one possible "symptom" of sociopathy, rather than the cause of it.

Bundy had a traumatic childhood (not a "good Christian home" as claimed)
Not much is known about Bundy’s childhood, but here’s what we do know. He was born to Eleanor Louise Cowell at the Elizabeth Lund Home for Unwed Mothers. His father’s identity has never been determined, but some family members believe that he was fathered by Eleanor’s own abusive father, and is the child of incest. Bundy was raised by his grandparents in early childhood, and was told that they were his parents. His grandfather(/possible father) was bigoted and violent. He beat his wife and abused animals, both their own and neighborhood pets. He once threw one of his daughters down the stairs for oversleeping. Bundy’s mother later remarried and he was adopted by her new husband. Bundy disliked his stepfather, was distant with his half-siblings, and worshipped his violent grandfather. (See note above about how children who are abused/neglected are more likely to develop Antisocial Personality Disorder.)

Bundy was probably trying to get a stay on his execution
Multiple reporters asked to interview Bundy before his execution. Bundy specifically requested Dobson to come from California and conduct this final interview in prison in Florida, and he was blatant about his desire to spread a message about the harms of pornography. Bundy, as someone with Antisocial Personality Disorder, was extremely manipulative, and it’s highly likely that he was appealing to Dobson’s beliefs to try and get a stay on his execution.

Pornography addiction is not a thing
At the very least, it’s not an accepted thing within the psychological community. It was not included in the most recent revision of the DSM because there is not enough peer-reviewed scientific evidence to support it. People may have sexual compulsions, but these are often a part of other diagnoses/different psychological challenges.

Sometimes people who consume pornography may feel like they can’t control their porn use, but it’s more likely that they are caught in a shame cycle than that they have an actual addiction.

(Negative emotion like shame → self-medicating by viewing pornography → shame about viewing pornography → self-medicating that shame by viewing pornography again, etc.)

I don’t want to downplay the very real and very painful feelings of many many people who struggle with pornography. But I don’t think treating it like an addiction is helpful. Check it: BYU did a study in 2017 that found that seeing oneself as a pornography addict did more harm in relationships than actual pornography use. The porn isn’t the problem. The shame is the problem.

Pornography does not create serial killers
If pornography made the men who consumed it into serial killers, there would be a lot more serial killers.

I do think violent pornography is a PROBLEM. I think it perpetuates misogyny and provides damaging and inaccurate sex education. I think it normalizes violence against women, and women experience violence at a rate that is unacceptable. I would guess that each of you reading this is maybe two or three degrees of separation from a woman who was murdered by a partner, whether you know it or not.

But violence against women is most often committed by someone known to the victim, and the murder is usually an escalation of a pattern of violence—violence that’s normalized by lots of influences, including violent sexual media.

Ted Bundy is different. Ted Bundy abducted strangers*, raped and murdered them, and sometimes sexually penetrated their dead bodies until decomposition made that impossible.

So like, not the kind of thing most men are watching in pornography.

This narrative linking pornography to serial killers is harmful
Using Ted Bundy as an example of “what can happen if young men watch pornography” is not only totally inaccurate, it’s harmful. It sends the message to anyone who watches pornography: “You are a monster.” Which perpetuates the shame cycle that pornography use may already be a part of. It fosters secrecy, which is what shame needs to grow. It’s weaponizing shame to fight a “problem” that is caused by shame in the first place. If someone wants to change their relationship with pornography, or develop healthier romantic/sexual relationships in life, telling them that watching pornography is always harmful, no matter what, and is part of the path to becoming a serial murderer/necrophiliac WILL NOT HELP.


I know how tempting it is to find and blame a single thing for a monstrosity like Ted Bundy's behavior. It's convenient and powerful. But it's not based in reality. The reality is that Ted Bundy was the perfect storm of genetics and upbringing and looks and intelligence and timing. And we do a disservice to ourselves to try and blame anything else.



*Ted Bundy confessed to or is suspected in at least the following abductions/murders:
Anne Marie Burr
Lonnie Trumbell
Lisa Wick
Joni Lenz (AKA Karen Sparks, or Mary Adams, or Terri Caldwell)(survived with permanent disabilities)
Lynda Ann Healy
Donna Gail Manson
Susan Elaine Rancourt
Brenda Baker
Roberta Kathleen Parks
Brenda Carol Ball
Georgann Hawkins
Janice Ann Ott
Denise Marie Naslund
Nancy Wilcox
Melissa Smith
Laura Aime
Carol DaRonch
Deborah Kent
Unknown hitchhiker
Carol Valenzuela
Unidentified female found in Washington
Caryn Eileen Campbell
Julie Cunningham
Denise Lynn Oliverson
Lynette Culver
Susan Curtis
Melanie Cooley
Lisa Levy
Margaret Bowman
Karen Chandler
Kathy Kleiner
Cheryl Thomas
Kimberly Leach
Shelly Robertson
Nancy Baird
Debbie Smith
Rita Lorraine Jolly
Vicki Lynn Hollar
Rita Curran

Food vs. Fight or Flight

I hate the sound of people smacking their lips when they eat. For the first few months of marriage, I couldn’t eat in the same room as my husband. I couldn’t figure out how to explain how his lips smacking sent me into fits of barely concealed rage. For years, I imagined my sensitivity came from being raised in a home where table manners were strictly observed. Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t talk with food in your mouth. Small bites. Elbows off the table, hands above the table. Forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right. Cups on the right. Napkins folded neatly in your lap. Smacking lips while eating was a blatant disregard of the decorum that a social contract demanded. Even when my father was losing his hearing, and the sound of smacking lips wouldn’t have been an issue, he continued to eat as if at a state dinner, and we continued to follow his example.

Once, at a restaurant, a friend declared to the group that he hated it when people were overly strict about table manners. People shouldn’t have to try and be neat eaters, worrying about their bite sizes or chewing noises. “Just enjoy your food!” he said. I was instantly filled with horror. I took a deep breath and explained that if you do that and disregard manners, no one else at the table can enjoy THEIR food. It’s not arbitrary politeness. It’s evident of a deep consideration for the comfort of others.

Extended family gatherings are a source of deep stress for me. The elderly wheezes, the open-mouth chewing of in-laws. I eat through gritted teeth. How does one tell an entire family that the way they’re eating is horrifying, that it causes shudders to run up and down my spine, that it is the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard? There’s no polite way to correct someone’s chewing without being a snobby asshole. So I just assumed I was a snobby asshole.

And then, years ago, I came across an article detailing a newly discovered neurological disorder. Misophonia. Hatred of sound. Selective Sound Sensitivity Syndrome. For those with the disease, there seems to be a heightened connection between the auditory system (the part of the brain that controls hearing) and the limbic system (the part of the brain that controls emotion). Sufferers report feelings of intense and immediate anxiety and rage upon hearing the “trigger sounds.” Common triggers include eating and chewing noises, breathing sounds, and repetitive sounds like pencil tapping.

There it was. Validation. I could post this article to social media. I could share it with extended family. I could explain it to friends. I’m not a snobby asshole. I’m a sufferer of a neurological disorder.

But the stupid thing, the really deeply stupid thing, is that no matter how many times I share this article, I will always be in situations where people continue to smack their lips when they eat. I’ll come up with an amusing anecdote about misophonia before a meal, a subtle diplomatic announcement that I will be filled with rage when manners are ignored, not because of strict social upbringing, but because my auditory and limbic systems are closely linked. People nod. “That’s interesting,” they say, as they continue to smack their lips wetly, breathing through their noses, their mouths wide. I can feel the muscles in my jaw tightening.

A friend who shares the disorder once described the feeling as “wanting to crawl out of my skin and stuff that skin down the offending person’s throat.” It’s not just annoyance. The feeling isn’t akin to someone cutting you off in traffic, or posting a political article you disagree with on social media. The feeling is disgust and anger swirled together and multiplied by 100. It’s projectile vomit plus someone stepping on your toes. It’s banging your funny bone in a sewer. It’s stepping on a lego that’s covered in slug slime.

It has nothing to do with WHO is doing the lip-smacking. It isn’t a moral judgment, or an indictment of someone’s upbringing. It’s just an abnormal connection between my frontal lobe and my anterior insular cortex causing a visceral reaction to stimuli.

The good news is that I’ve managed to develop some coping mechanisms. A little cognitive-behavioral therapy here, a little mindfulness there. I’ll leave the room in the most desperate situations. My symptoms tend to fluctuate, depending on general stress levels. But most of the time, when I hear lip-smacking, I feel like I’m eating a food I hate. I can survive it, but everything in my brain and body is shuddering.

So if I ever say something about how you’re eating, it’s not because I’m a snobby asshole. It’s because I want to stay in the room with you, even though my brain is screaming fight-or-flight warnings about chewing noises.




Further Reading:
Science Alert article
Harvard Health Publishing article
Science Daily article
Misophonia Online (resources for sufferers)

"In this age of 'Me, Too'"

(Warning: I’m mad as hell, and I swear in this entry. I could apologize, but I’m not actually sorry, so.)

I keep hearing people say things like “In this age of #MeToo, men have to be so careful.” “Nowadays, men everywhere are looking over their shoulders, worried that they’ll be accused.” Afraid that they’ll be the next Harvey Weinstein, Mario Batali, Israel Horovitz, Garrison Keillor, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, Al Franken, Louis C.K., Jeffrey Tambor, Kevin Spacey, Bill Cosby, Roy Moore, Donald Trump. (ad infinitum)

No.

This is not some new time, when men have to be extra careful to not sexually harass women, to not get caught in their sexual misconduct. Men should have been this “careful” the whole damn time.

I am 12 years old, a child, leaning over a drinking fountain. A strange man says something to me about how I’m bent over. Says something leering about the shape my body makes as I lean forward to drink from a water fountain. I am almost 33 now, and I feel shadows of shame every single time I lean over in public. Careful to make it quick. Careful to tuck my pelvis so my ass isn’t on display to be commented on.

I hear people make jokes about it sometimes. Dismissing this "Me, too" uprising with that kind of benign misogyny that is insidious not because it rapes women behind dumpsters, but because it pays more attention to sports scores instead. Laughing when they accidentally bump up against you, their hands suddenly invasive. It's become a punchline for some, when unwanted touch comes up in conversation.

I am 23 years old, working for a vacuum company in the San Francisco Bay Area. It’s before morning meeting, and Carlos is at the white board with a marker. He’s drawn a big bed, and labeled the stick figures in it. “Hot bitch.” “Hotter bitch.” “Carlos.” The words “LAST NIGHT” are scrawled across the top. He draws squiggles to indicate the movement of these characters, making obscene noises to accompany his obscene gestures, then sits down next to me. When he catches me shaking my head, he grabs my knee. “You know what I’m talking about, Liz! That shit is hot!” I smile at him briefly, that careful smile so many of us women have perfected. The one that is polite, but closed off. The one that carefully smooths over the moment and waits for it to pass. Eventually, he moves his hand away from my knee.

This narrative of women accusing powerful men of sexual misconduct in order to “take them down” doesn’t make sense to me. It never has. It’s based on two premises that are difficult for me to accept. That A, women are consistently listened to and believed when they make accusations of sexual assault and harassment, and B, that men are consistently held accountable for their actions. Because historically, until recently, neither of those things have been true.

I am 23 years old, sitting with co-workers on a break. Michael and I have kissed a few times in the last few days. He’s sitting now with his arm over the back of my seat, his hand dangling close to my breast. In order to move it away, I take his hand and compliment it’s shape. “They are nice hands,” he replies. “They should be here”—he hovers over my breast—“or here”—he starts to reach between my legs. I grab his hand to stop him. “No,” I say. “Why not?” he asks. “My body,” I say, “ My body, my rules.” Later, another co-worker tells me to not lead Michael on. “If you’re not going to fuck him, don’t lead him on.” He tells me to be careful about how I treat Michael, to be careful to not waste his time.

Women’s accusations are not often believed, and men are not often held accountable. Harvey Weinstein sexually harassed actress Ashley Judd in 1997, and eventually, the New York Times uncovered nearly three decades worth of allegations. Weinstein remained in place at the Weinstein Company until October of 2017. Bill Cosby raped women starting in the mid-1960s, and didn’t face trial or even suffer commercial consequences until 2015. Donald Trump has been accused of sexual assault and harassment by at least 15 women since the 1980s, and has been recorded bragging about assaults. And he’s the fucking President of the United States. Why be careful in the way you treat others, the way you cover up what you do? Why bother?

I am 27 years old, and exploring Rome by myself. A man at least twice my age stops me on the street to tell me that I’m very attractive. I use that smile again, the one that says, “I am nice. I don’t want any trouble. But let this moment pass.” He keeps talking. I move away. He follows me. He eventually tells me that we should sleep together on the last night of the year. I quickly walk away, move down the street. I’m freezing, but I take off my bright orange, easy-to-spot jacket, careful to disguise myself so the man doesn’t follow me.

Of course there have been cases where men have been falsely accused of rape. (Historically, in the United States, these have been predominantly men of color, and racism is a major factor in many of these cases.) But most studies show that only between 2% and 10% of rape accusations are false. Correction: Only between 2% and 10% of REPORTED rape accusations are false. There’s no way to know how many rapes go unreported. And that’s just rape—not assault, not groping, not catcalling, not solicitations, etc. So, if I were a man, I’d be careful about calling myself a victim in this situation.

As a woman, I am so careful. All the time. I carry my keys like a weapon. I lock my door as soon as I get into my car. I don’t lean over public drinking fountains too long. I get the keys to my apartment out before leaving the car, so there’s no fumbling at the front door. I don’t walk alone at night. I don’t leave drinks unattended. I fake phone calls and I smile that careful polite smile and I carry pepper spray and I text friends that I made it home safely. So careful. All the damn time.

Men. We are not asking you to be careful around us. That’s not what we’ve been asking. Not in the past, and not in this “age of #MeToo.” We are asking you to treat us as human beings, and we have been from the beginning. Here’s the best way to avoid being accused of sexual harassment or assault: don’t sexually harass or assault people. It’s that simple. Not sure how those things are defined? Do some damn research. Get online and google “consent.”

#MeToo is decades, centuries overdue. The widespread nature of sexual misconduct that we now see in the media is not new. It has always been this bad. Historically, it’s been worse. The thing that’s new is women saying, “ENOUGH.” We are saying "TIME’S UP." We will not allow this to keep happening. You cannot treat us as less than human anymore. We are tired of being careful around men. We would like to feel like people around them instead.

#MeToo

(Note: Much of this blog entry has been written with a focus on the sexual crimes men commit against women. I know that women also commit sexual crimes against men, and men against men, and women against women, etc. But it's the crimes that men commit against women that are most prevalent. I don't want to discount the very real experiences that men have as victims of sexual harassment and assault. I've tried to be somewhat inclusive in my language, but I do want to focus on the specific problems of men assaulting and harassing women.) 

It's been simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring to see so many "#MeToo" statuses on social media over the past couple of days.

For those unfamiliar with the hashtag, on Sunday, in light of the Harvey Weinstein case, actress Alyssa Milano posted the idea on Twitter. She urged any women who had been sexually assaulted or harassed to simply post "Me too" on social media. She said, "If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem."

I posted my own status, along with this story: Once, during my freshman year in college, a bunch of girls from my dorm building were all talking about the ways we'd been treated by men, strangers or otherwise. Finally, I said, "Well, heck, let's test the statistic. Apparently it's one in four women. Raise your hand if you've been sexually harassed or assaulted."

Every single woman in the room raised her hand.

There were twelve of us. We were all under age 20.

My own sexual assault was confusing to me at the time (and sometimes still is) because I was raised in a culture--both societal and religious--that placed absolutely zero emphasis on consent. Even within Mormonism, we don't talk about consent. We talk about "rules." There are things that you are and aren't "allowed" to do.

But just because you're "allowed" to do something, doesn't mean you want to. There's plenty of room for interpretation within the law of chastity. I can't tell you how many Mormon women I've talked to who did things (or let things be done to them) that they were uncomfortable with, simply because it wasn't "against the rules" so they didn't know how to say anything. There's this strange pressure to be "nice." You get into a situation and you think, "I don't think what he/I/we're doing is wrong. I don't want to do it, but I'll be selfless and avoid contention and just let it happen. Besides, I'm not one of those prude girls who don't know how to have fun!" All of these things set up a world in which women are voiceless, so that when something DOES "cross a line" or "break a rule," there's no precedent to speak up.

I'm infuriated and heartbroken at how many times I see "Me too" as I scroll through Facebook. At the same time, I'm filled with hope and inspiration for two things: that people can feel less alone and less shame, and that people WILL start to really understand the magnitude of the problem.

As I've read through the conversations that are happening everywhere, there are a few thoughts that I wanted to share. (Men, now is not the time to talk. Now is the time to listen, and then talk.)

For every "Me too" you see, there are millions unseen. 
It takes a great deal of courage to speak up. Survivors don't owe anyone anything. If they're ready to talk, they can talk. If not, they don't have to. Their journey of healing is their own. But this also means that there are probably a lot of people who HAVE been sexually assaulted or harassed who haven't posted. And those only include those who have internet access, which is less than half the world's population.

The statistic is insane because men tend to assault/harass multiple women. 
I've heard some men express disbelief at how many women claim to have been sexually assaulted or harassed. "Surely there aren't that many terrible men!" Well, there aren't. Statistically, most men DON'T sexually harass or assault women. But those who DO, do so multiple times to multiple women. If 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted/harassed, it doesn't mean that 1 in 4 men are sexually assaulting/harassing. It means that a small percentage of men are sexually assaulting/harassing multiple women. A study from 2002 found that of college men interviewed, "only" 6% had attempted or completed rape. WHICH IS STILL TOO HIGH OF A NUMBER. But among those 6%, they had each been responsible for an average of 6 rapes/attempted rapes.

So already, if that's 6 men out of every 100, they're responsible for a minimum of 36 rapes/attempted rapes. And this statistic doesn't include any other form of assault or harassment, including groping, sexual comments, online harassment, etc.

Men, we know it's not all of you. But you're Schrodinger's Rapist.
I'm sure women would love to live in a world where we could assume every man around us was safe. Most of us adore the men in our lives, trust them, and know that they're good men. But when we meet someone new, we have no way of knowing if that man is going to try and harm us or not. Until he proves otherwise, we just have to assume he's dangerous. So don't take it personally if we don't immediately trust you, boys. Don't try to convince us that you're one of the good ones. Trust our sense of personal safety and show us that you're one of the good ones. (This article is a brilliant, more in-depth explanation of this idea.)

Men, you may not be aware of the problem, because men don't always assault or harass in front of other men. 
Men, you may have opportunities to speak up against harassment and assault that you witness. But the reality is, you're probably not going to be there when it happens. Men who are assaulting or harassing women do so when women are more vulnerable--AKA away from other people, and away from other men. (More great reading on this phenomenon here.) Be aware of this. Just because you don't personally see it, doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

We need to face the reality of how harassment and assault look 
I think a lot of men (and a lot of women) have this idea in their heads of what "rape" looks like. A woman is walking alone to her car or apartment, and a stranger with a knife jumps out of the bushes and violently assaults her. While this does happen, it's far less common. More commonly, we are raped and harassed and assaulted by our friends. By our boyfriends. By our husbands. By our bosses. By our neighbors. When you realize that, you're much more aware of the potential dangers around you.

Harassment and assault are all part of the same pyramid
There are some who say that "harassment" isn't that big of a deal. That we shouldn't put it in the same category as "assault." I'm not going to argue about who deserves compassion for their experiences. I'm here to say that both harassment and assault are symptoms of the same problem. They're both evidence of a lack of empathy and a disregard for consent. Check this out:

If we want to change the violent crimes at the top of the pyramid, we also have to address the issues at the bottom.

So how do we change things? Here are some ideas:

Emphasize consent
This goes for all activities for all ages. If your kid doesn't want to give you a hug, don't make them hug you. If a friend doesn't like to be touched, don't touch them. Don't take it personally. Allow people to set their own boundaries. When teaching youth about sexuality, emphasize that they must always always respect someone else's boundaries.

I worry sometimes that a lack of conversation around consent creates situations where someone doesn't KNOW they're assaulting or harassing. Because people sometimes don't know how to say "no," there are people out there who have just assumed that everything was okay, and unknowingly caused enormous pain. I don't blame these "accidental perpetrators"--they are victims of the system, too, in their own way. But I can still show compassion for their unintended victims. And I can still be an advocate for these conversations.

Finally, don't teach that boys are evil sex monsters "who only want one thing" and don't teach that girls are chaste vessels who are responsible for guarding their virtue. Almost everyone has sexual thoughts and feelings. Those thoughts and feelings are the responsibility of the one experiencing them, and no one else.

Emphasize communication
Even for those of us who got sex ed beyond "this is how babies are made" and "don't have sex," most of us didn't get many communication skills. Even if we WANT to say "no" or "stop" or "I don't like that," we don't always know how. I'm a big fan of the "red light/green light" system. Red light means "stop, don't take it personally, no questions asked" and "green light" means "yes, continue this." Quite often, you can tell from body language and other cues whether or not someone is into something. But if you're not sure, you can stop and ask. And it can still be sexy and fun to ask. Sometimes we think something like a first kiss is way more exciting if you don't say anything. But you can say, "I want to kiss you," or "If I kissed you, would you kiss me back?" which is kinda hot, and also let's the other person know what you're thinking, and also gives them a choice as to how to respond.

And here's the other bonus: People like and dislike different things. Just because one person liked the way you kissed their jaw doesn't mean someone else will. If a magazine tells you, "Try this--women LOVE it," don't believe it. Because here's the secret: ALL OF US ARE DIFFERENT. And the cool thing about communication about what's going on is that consent is automatically built into the conversation.

Ask "If I was dangerous, would this person be safe?" 
This is an especially good thing for men to ask themselves, but it can go for anyone. Could the person you are with "escape" if they needed to? Is there a power dynamic going on? If you are unknowingly "endangering" this person, or if there's anything about your circumstances that might make someone uncomfortable, do what you can to make sure they feel safe.

Call it out when you see it
Did the person next to you cat-call a woman walking by? Say, "Hey, that's not cool, man." Is a woman experiencing unwanted attention from a stranger on a bus? Intervene by sitting next to the stranger and engaging him or the woman in conversation instead. Is one of the guys on the team being picked on in the locker room? Defend him. Call out rape culture in books, movies, TV shows, plays. Listen to and believe victims. Don't laugh at the seemingly small experiences women have...they pile up.



It feels like all of the women (and men) who are posting about sexual harassment and assault on social media are really saying, "I'm mighty tired of carrying this." And the women (and men) around them are replying with a resounding, "Me too."

Midnight Thoughts on Fried Brains

My brain is fried. Maybe my heart is a little bit, too, but mostly my brain, I think.

I don't know why the hell I'm writing. It's early by my bedtime standards (11:45) but I've been tired for two weeks straight. I should go to sleep. But as a fellow MFA student said this quarter, "I write because it makes me feel better." And maybe I want to feel better. Think better? I don't know.

This is going to be a little all over the place. Apologies in advance for any failings of grammar.

Here's why my brain is fried:

Because of the Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival, wherein I perform a 15-minute monologue, three times in a row, while two other people are talking at the same time. And that takes a lot of energy. And it took a lot of energy in rehearsal, and it takes a lot of energy to perform. (It's also awesome, and one of the things that keeps me anchored, and I love being a part of this awesome thing with awesome people.) (And hey, come see "Punxsutawney" at the Fringe Factory, Friday @ 10:30 pm, Saturday @ 3:00 and 6:00!)

Because school started again, and somehow we're already 4 weeks into the quarter? That's a third of the way done. So I've got reading and writing and critiquing and discussion board posting always on my mind.

Because auditions for a show with PYGmalion are coming up, and I've gotta memorize this monologue.

Because I had to fill out all this paperwork and send all these emails to see if I could qualify for a little bit more financial aid to help me make ends meet while I finish school. (Finally got the additional financial aid--yay!)

Because divorce and legal name change and blah blah blah.

Because I get to see all this amazing theatre as part of the Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival, which I'm currently obsessed with. But also, it's exhausting.

Because I am certainly not ready to step into the dating world again, but I can feel the water of it inching towards my toes, occasionally washing right over my feet, and I'm not sure if I remember how to swim and I thought I had found a lifeboat in the form of marriage, but now I don't have the lifeboat but I'm also not ready to swim, so it's like I'm trying to build my own lifeboat WHILE I'm trying not to drown? (I don't know if this metaphor works, but I'll revisit it in the morning or sometime later when my brain isn't fried.)

Because one of my bosses was gone all last week, and we've got this HUGE project that has all of these different parts, and I've driven 45 miles running errands and it's my job so I'm happy to do it, but it's just occupying a lot of headspace. I sometimes have time at work to do homework, but that's definitely out nowadays.

Because of the insanity of making travel plans for August and September.

Because it's been like 100 degrees all week and while I'd rather be too hot than too cold, the heat makes it hard to function.

Because of trying to figure out how to balance self-respect and expressing my thoughts and feelings with respecting others' desires and thoughts and feelings, and not sacrificing one for the other, which is like, really complicated. (Good thing I have awesome friends like Carrie to give me awesome advice.)

Anyway, I'm tired all the time. So when I get a second, I just binge-watch Mad Men and eat ice cream and do art. I suppose it would be more productive to take a nap or something, but I'm always afraid I won't sleep well later, so I stay awake to try to ensure a good night's sleep. (Spoiler alert: it hasn't worked.)

If I've been weird (like, weirder than normal), thanks for your patience while I'm trying to get my head back on straight. I've got a marathon of a weekend to get through, but I should be able to breathe again by Monday.

That lifeboat analogy is feeling more and more applicable, and not just to dating.

But what do I know? My brain is fried.

The Social Justice Perfectionist

It's a tough time to be an INFJ.

That's a "Meyers Briggs" personality type, and it's "pop psychology," which can only be trusted so much. But in my case, it's pretty damn accurate. You can read more about it here, but basically, the nickname for this personality type is "The Advocate." INFJ's are deeply sensitive people who feel a strong moral obligation to create fairness for all.

And at this point in American history, "fairness for all" is feeling pretty threatened.

I don't know how to talk about this without sounding like an insufferable, self-righteous jerk. So you'll just have to like, trust that I'm not sharing these things to somehow prove how good of a human I am. I have to talk about it because it's the premise to this entire blog entry.

Because here's what's going on. I'm EXHAUSTED. I'm tired of explaining systemic racism to friends on Facebook. I'm tired of defending my place in the Women's March. I'm tired of making phone calls to senators whose voicemail boxes are always full. I'm tired of checking Twitter/Facebook/any news website, and finding something else that terrifies me and breaks my heart and demands some call to action. I am mentally and emotionally overwhelmed. I need a break.

And I feel like I can't take one. I feel like the whole fragile world is collapsing, and I've got to do my part to keep it upright. I know I'm not single-handedly holding it up. I am CERTAIN that I'm not that important. But I feel like if I let go, if I walk away, even for a moment, it forces everyone else to work harder to keep it all up. I'm making other people do my work. And it just feels so selfish.

Here's what's always in the back of my mind:

How can I walk away when people are fighting for their lives?! I have a moral obligation, as a human being, to fight for the equality of all human beings. I want history to show that I did that.

Now let's talk about the fact that I deal with anxiety and depression. My anxiety manifests itself most often in perfectionism. That perfectionism is a double-edged sword...I feel like a lot of the success I've had in my life has come from my relentless desire to do things really well. My perfectionism is what drives me to make to-do lists, and organize office drawers, and rehearse with intensity. A desire to do things well can be healthy and productive. But there's also a dark side to that perfectionism...at it's heart, perfectionism says, "I HAVE TO do this, because if I don't, no one will love me."

So here's the mental loop I've had buzzing in my head/heart since Inauguration Day:

"These laws and practices and ideas are dangerous. I need to fight them because I care deeply about the world around me!" 
"This inspires me! Look at all these other people doing awesome things! I'm so glad I can do things like march and make phone calls and stand up for what I believe on the internet." 
"This is getting tiring. I don't know how to explain this to people in a way that will make them understand."
"I am exhausted. I can't do this anymore. It hurts too much to do this in the face of so much adversity and criticism." 
"I'm going to take a break." 
"But how unfair is it that you CAN take a break?! Other people can't! Why should they pick up your slack because you were 'too tired' to post that reply?"
"You're being so crappy right now. The world needs your voice. You need to do your part." 

There's no clear order to these thoughts...I cycle through them all at varying speeds and for varying durations. In general, I swing back and forth between feeling obligated to fight for truth and fairness, and feeling obligated to save my own sanity.

Jacob has a beautiful habit of asking me how I am, in a way that shows that he really wants to know the answer. If I answer, "Fine," he'll usually say, "Are you really?" And I try to truly be honest. I don't want to play mind games. But I've lacked the words lately to explain how overwhelmed I've been.

Because the other thing is that I also need to just...live my life. I need to go to work and file the things and clean the bathroom and do my homework and perform the show and prepare for the auditions and text the friends. And I WANT to do those things. I CARE about those things. And sometimes life is stressful enough trying to balance JUST THOSE THINGS, without the additional weight of trying to fight fascism in the highest offices of one of the most powerful countries on earth. But how stupid and selfish of me to be like, "Hold up, I can't make this phone call to express my concern about a WHITE NATIONALIST holding a position of power in the United States government, because I have to fold my laundry."

I have wondered briefly if theatre is frivolous in these troubled times. But I know it's not. Whether political or personal or comedic, theatre is a tool for such good. Theatre is one of the greatest teachers of empathy I know of, and empathy is what leads to fairness and equality and the world generally being a better place. And if the show is a ridiculous comedy, then it gives people an emotional boost, to just sit and laugh for an hour or two, so that they can then go out and do good in the world. For as long as I live, I will be so grateful that the show I did right before the election was "Cabaret," and the show I did after the election was "The Nerd." Both hold such an important place in fighting injustice.

Cognitively, I recognize the need for self-care. I mean, I just said that it's valuable to just sit and laugh for an hour or two to recharge. I know that in theory, everyone needs to take care of themselves so that they can be a force for good in the world. I won't be much help to a social cause from a padded cell. But I'm a perfectionist, remember? I need to be better than everyone else. I shouldn't need breaks. I shouldn't need re-charge time. I should just be able to do it--to marathon this sucker until it's finished. I have a MORAL OBLIGATION to marathon my way through this. Other people have to because they have more skin in this game, and I'm a hypocrite if I SAY I fight for these causes, and then watch Netflix for hours and hours.

Writing this out has been helpful. But I think I need to make a solid plan of action. I need to figure out what I can change and what I can't, and come up with practical strategies. I need concrete things I can do and say that will help me find balance. Advice like, "Remember to take care of your mental health" is too vague. I don't know that this blog is the time and place to make that solid plan of action in detail, but because it's helpful to write it out, here are a few ideas. I may not use all of them...I'm just sort of brainstorming here. Feel free to use these in your own life if you need to, and I'd welcome any strategies you all have to stay sane.

HOW TO STAY SANE WHEN EVERYTHING IS THE WORST: A FEW IDEAS

1) Limit time on social media. This is a source of a lot of anxiety for me right now. I do want to remain informed, so I don't want to cut myself off. But limiting my time there may be a helpful way for me to get the info I need without overwhelming me. Maybe I could limit to a certain number of hours per day/week, or have days when I don't go on social media, or have social media "black out" hours.

2) Schedule time in for social causes. Sometimes the desperate need to contribute to the social good sort of looms over me. I can schedule in time during my week/month/day to specifically concentrate on researching issues, donating to causes, attending meetings/marches/protests, making phone calls, etc. Doing this will allow me to contribute in meaningful ways without overwhelming me. It allows me to cross off "stand up for what's right" on my empath and perfectionist checklist, but it also allows me time to heal and recuperate if needed.

3) If things are bad, use healthy coping mechanisms. Yoga, meditation, cleaning/organizing, exercise, walks. Sometimes, cake and Netflix can be healthy, too, even. All things in moderation.

4) Use positive self-talk. This is a cognitive-behavioral therapy technique (which is real psychology, as opposed to pop psychology). It involves tuning in to what your inner monologue is, and creating positive counter statements. I can write a handful of these statements and post them where I can see them often. I can repeat them to myself when I need to interrupt the negative thought loops my brain gets stuck in. (If you're interested in learning more about this, I highly recommend the books "The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook" and "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway.")

5) Take time to surround yourself with positive and hopeful things. I was so inspired by the powerful things I saw and heard during the Women's March. I'm bolstered by the efforts of others around me. Reminding myself of the progress that has been made will help me to move forward.



Okay. Keep on walking, Chapman. Deep breaths. Fist raised, heart held soft and grounded.

We can do this.

photo via

Mourning

We made it into 2017, everyone!

There’s been a lot of talk about how 2016 was kind of the worst year ever. And I know that’s purely subjective. There were definitely years in human history that were worse, and there were definitely really awesome things about 2016. I think the insanity of the U.S. election sort of colored everything else that happened—we were all seeing the world through these terrible red/blue-tinted glasses that made everything ELSE feel terrible. (I don’t think red/blue-tinted glasses are always terrible, but they sure felt that way this year.) There’s something to be said for a positive attitude, but even I have to admit that 2016 was a rough year.

But I want to talk specifically about the celebrity deaths of 2016. And why it’s 100% valid to mourn them in whatever way you need to.

During this past week, I overheard a conversation that went something like this:

“I’m really sad about Carrie Fisher.”
“But you didn’t know Carrie Fisher.”
“But I’m still going to miss her.”
“But you didn’t know her!”

The general sentiment is that it doesn’t make sense to mourn the deaths of celebrities we don’t know. Other arguments against mourning celebrity deaths include the fact that we should be mourning the deaths of soldiers/civilians/children/animals/etc, that you’re just mourning because everyone else is and you’re not even a real fan, or that their contributions weren’t valuable.

I’m calling BS. On all of that.

Of course most of us didn’t personally know Carrie Fisher. Most of us don’t personally know any of the celebrities whose deaths we are mourning. But many of these people invited us in to know them by living a public life, or by creating works of music and writing. I know that a public life and a private life are often two very different things. But the public life can still be inspiring.

Regarding the deaths of soldiers and civilians and children and the many other thousands of humans that have died this year: OF COURSE THAT SUCKS. Death just sucks. It’s an unavoidable part of the human experience, but it still sucks. Each life lost should be mourned. But I think the difference is that my own personal life wasn’t as deeply or directly affected by the deaths of many of those others. Yes, I understand that a soldier giving up their life in the line of duty often helps maintain the freedom I sometimes take for granted. And I am grateful for the sacrifices made on my behalf. I ache for the families of those who have lost loved ones to war, to cancer, to poverty, to disease. I ache for that loss of life. But my mourning the death of a celebrity doesn’t have to diminish the meaning of someone else’s death.

And I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a horrible person, but the truth is that Edward Albee’s life and work personally and directly affected my life in a different way than the death of a nameless soldier. I mourn the loss of Edward Albee more than the loss of other strangers simply because I know exactly how he changed my life. I will feel it more personally and more often. It’s more measurable.

If we were to truly mourn every death, we’d all end up in padded rooms somewhere. It’s too much to process that much loss. The human psyche can only take so much. I think sometimes the sorrow we feel for celebrity deaths also includes sorrow for all of the nameless…like we channel some of the despair of the world into the black armbands we wear for the singers and actors and writers who leave us.

And the whole “you’re just mourning because everyone else is and you weren’t really a fan” thing? IT DOESN’T MATTER. Let people mourn, even if you think they’re faking. Let people connect over stuff. Your sorrow doesn’t have to be more legitimate than anyone else’s—this is not a competition. I didn't know much about Prince before he died. But I was deeply inspired by everything I learned about him in the aftermath of his death, and it made me sad we won't have more of him.

As for whether or not the contributions of a celebrity are valuable, that’s in the eye of the beholder. There were some celebrity deaths this year that didn’t affect me very deeply. But there were others that did. I think each human being brings something utterly unique to this earth, and sometimes their contributions get to be widely shared. And when those contributions are meaningful to you or me, their loss is something to mourn. I’m still sad about Ray Bradbury—there will never be another like him. There will never be another story written by that man, in his voice, from his imagination. That’s a loss I still ache to think of, and it’s been almost five years. His dedication and imagination have been a huge part of why I’ve done NaNoWriMo, why I’m doing an MFA in Creative Writing. His books and stories allowed me to escape when I needed to. I know I didn’t personally know Ray Bradbury, and I know he didn’t sacrifice his life for my freedom. But I mourn the fact that the world, and my own life, will no longer read new words penned by his hand.

Many of the celebrity deaths I have mourned this year have left lasting contributions. And I can thank them for those things even as I mourn the fact that they have left us—that there’s a cap on what they brought to the world. So I mourn them.

David Bowie and Prince, thank you for rejecting toxic masculinity. Thank you for being fiercely yourselves, for blazing trails in music. Bowie, thank you for your prolific and ever-shifting career. Prince, thank you for your musical mastery and for being a delightful and enigmatic human.

Alan Rickman and Gene Wilder, thank you for the honesty and humor with which you approached your work. Thank you for Galaxy Quest and Willy Wonka and Severus Snape and Young Frankenstein. Thank you for your passion and dedication.

John Glenn, thank you for being brave enough to put on that suit, climb into that metal contraption and allow yourself to be shot into space. Almost infinite horizons have opened to the entire human race because of your work.

Harper Lee, thank you for “To Kill A Mockingbird,” and the simple lessons it has taught for generations. And thank you, too, for “Go Set A Watchman,” and the harsher, more complicated lessons it teaches. I hope we learn that it’s not as simple as Atticus made it seem.

Edward Albee, thank you for giving so much to the world of theatre—for your fierce and life-changing words. Leonard Cohen, thank you for the music. Debbie Reynolds, you have inspired generations of singers and dancers. I spent hours in my garage and in dance studios and in my living room, learning the steps you danced on that silver screen. You were the lucky star for so many.

And Carrie Fisher. You intelligent, talented, brave, funny, honest woman. Thank you for showing the world that a woman can be both a princess and a war general. Thank you for teaching Hollywood to make the women smarter. Thank you for your honesty in dealing with mental illness and addiction. Thank you for reminding us that good looks are happy accidents of time and genetics and nothing more. Thank you for not giving any f***s.

And there are others that I felt pangs about, even if their lives weren’t inspiring to me in the same ways. Kenny Baker. Muhammed Ali. Elie Wiesel. Ron Glass.

(Ugh, it was awful to make this list.)

I am so so so grateful that I get to live in a world where the works of talented and brave and smart individuals can be spread far and wide. I'm grateful for the lives these men and women led, and I am better for what they brought into the world. So mourn them with me, if you need to. Or don't, if you don't need to. But know that it's perfectly valid to be sad that their lives are over.

photo via

What It Means

In the week following the election, I had this strange kind of "reactive mutism." I couldn't figure out how to say what I was thinking or feeling, so I just didn't really say anything for a little while.

I tried to write about the election when it first happened. That blog entry is a jumbled, emotional mess, so I left it in drafts while I processed everything. I'm still processing, and this is the best I could do when it comes to organizing my thoughts.

As an American, as a Christian, as the granddaughter of immigrants, as a survivor of sexual assault, as an environmentalist, and yes, as a woman, I cried myself to sleep over the election results.

Electing leaders is a matter of evaluating both character, experience, and policy. Trump's character is mercurial, narcissistic, unpredictable, dishonest, and thoughtless. He has no political experience, and his experience as a businessman has been fraught with bankruptcies and failure to pay the people he has hired. His policies are marginalizing and harmful to people who have been marginalized and harmed for decades.

Clinton's character is level-headed, thoughtful, and intelligent. The email "scandal" is the result of technological ineptitude, not criminal intent. She has spent a lifetime in civil service. Her policies are well-researched, and do the most good for the most people. 

And America chose Trump. A reality-television "star" who has used fear as one of his main campaign weapons. And even if something happens and Trump is impeached or resigns, Mike Pence will be in office, and he worries me, too.

 Everything feels wrong, and it feels like nothing will fix it.

A friend said that she woke up the morning  after the election, it was like waking up after a really bad breakup. You have a few moments of peace before remembering what happened and then it hits you again...all the heartbreak. It's like a bad dream that you can't wake up from.

 There's a part of me that hears the faint strains of a fiddle being played while the country burns.

And before anyone accuses me of whining because my candidate didn't win, let's get something out of the way right now. This is more than just partisanship. I have been disappointed in elections before. I've been sad when people whose policies I disagree with are elected to office. But this is different. This was the first female nominee who has a lifetime of civil service vs. a man who has zero political or military experience. You may have been disappointed when Obama took office, because maybe you disagreed with his economic policies or his healthcare plan or his budget recommendations. I'm disappointed that both Congress and the Presidency will be Republican, since I'm a Democrat.

But never before has the President-elect: made so many false claims during his campaign, advocated war crimes, said women should be punished for abortions, urged violence at rallies, mocked a reporter's physical disability, called for a ban on members of an entire religion entering the U.S., described climate change as a hoax perpetuated by China, called Mexican immigrants rapists, disparaged someone's military service because they were captured, praised the poor treatment of Japanese-Americans in America during WW2, praised a North Korean dictator, not paid his bills as a businessman, bragged about sexual assault, been praised by multiple white supremacy groups, discussed the size of his penis in a Presidential debate, lied about charitable donations, said that "laziness is a trait in blacks," been a plaintiff in almost 2,000 lawsuits, been accused of sexual assault, made multiple disparaging remarks about women (pumping breastmilk, menstruation, looks), and more. Any one of those things should have been an end to it. Any one of those things should have shut the whole thing down. Even if he's apologized or recanted, the thing about words is that once they're said, they're said. Do not compare the dismay I'm feeling to disappointment at losing.

(And before anyone accuses me of media bias, some of the links I provided are through media companies, but the primary sources are not hard to find, nor do they refute any of the things reported. It's not my job to do your research for you. I'm just providing jumping off points.)

I know that a lot of Americans are in a really tough place right now. For example, Detroit got completely screwed by the auto industry. The closing of coal mines and manufacturing plants throughout the U.S. have put a lot of people in a desperate place. Trump talked a lot about rising crime rates, even though he was completely wrong about them. Donald Trump offers hope and policy that speaks to people who feel afraid or disenfranchised, even if he might not be able to follow through. Cracked had a great article that explained the appeal of Trump for so many people. But all of that stuff? That's not a good enough excuse. Because your economic situation is a result of your circumstances. They can be changed, even if it's really difficult. Being Muslim, being black, identifying as a woman--those things can't be changed. For some of you who voted for Trump, it looks for all the world like you traded the safety and value of Muslims, people of color, and women...for a job.

All of this means we haven't come as far as I thought we'd come. I know that not all Trump voters are racist, xenophobic, or sexist. But even if they aren't, they were willing to overlook those things in their nominee, and that's just as big of a problem. Which means the country I love is not as thoughtful or kind as I believed.

Liberal vs. conservative is rarely about "right" vs. "wrong"...it's more often a question of what people value more. And I'm dismayed to learn that fewer people than I realized value diversity and equity and kindness. Or at least, it seems like they don't value those things as much as I thought people did. 

I'm always wary of hyperbolic or highly emotional posts about politics. I try to counter my emotional reactions with rational thought. But I am disturbed in both mind and heart. I am deeply troubled that the majority of the people in this country are willing to risk the lives and safety of so many others for what they want. I know there are still tens of thousands of kind, thoughtful, good people. (And I'm sure that many Trump supporters are also kind, and thoughtful, and good.) But it's heartbreaking and terrifying that there are so many who were willing to put a demagogue in power--someone who has not demonstrated kindness or thoughtfulness or goodness.

My mom sent me this inspiring email on the morning of the election, about what it means to her personally that we have a woman on the ballot for President. Before the election results came in, I sat at my desk at work and cried at the beauty of what it means to have a woman President. I cried for Susan B. Anthony and for the Equal Rights Amendment and for the generations of women who weren't encouraged to have a career. I agreed with Hillary Clinton's policies and trusted her character, which are the main reasons I voted for her. But I also couldn't escape the beautiful symbolism of her candidacy.

Listen, I know things will be "fine." I am inspired by the messages of hope and love and yes, anger and disappointment. That anger and disappointment assures me that there are still so many good people in the world, and the hope and love they're willing to share reminds me to be better and kinder and to not let my sorrow make evil of me. I know that America will recover from whatever possible disaster happens over the next four years. That's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried about the COST. I'm worried not about the ultimate fate of this country. I'm worried about the casualties.

I'm worried about Planned Parenthood. I'm worried about the Environmental Protection Agency. I'm worried about health insurance. I'm worried about foreign relations with Cuba, with Russia, with Mexico, with the Middle East. I'm worried about race relations in America. I'm worried about the Dakota Access Pipeline. I'm worried about the Muslims in our country and throughout the world. I'm worried about survivors of sexual harassment and assault--if they see what our President could "get away with," it sends the message that they won't be listened to and that perpetrators won't suffer consequences.

People always say, "It could never happen here" when they talk about political disasters. But I'm sure that's what ancient Rome said. I'm sure that's what Germany said. And while America does have legal and cultural checks in place to prevent our own self-destruction, we did put over 100,000 Japanese Americans in camps less than 100 years ago. There are people alive today who were interred by their own government simply for being Japanese.

I don't know how we'll explain to our children what happened. I don't want to be a fear monger. But I also don't want to ignore what are potentially really really really big problems. Don't tell me we need to come together. I know we do. But I refuse to ignore the real problems of people of color and women and Muslims in this country.

I deeply admire those who are patient and forgiving of those who spread hate and fear and ignorance, even while fighting it. I'm not there yet. I'm working on it. This is why I haven't spoken a lot about the election during the last week--I'm still hurting too much, and I don't know how to be patient and forgiving without feeling like I'm abandoning my principles of standing up for those who need defending. When I say "I forgive those who spread hate and fear and ignorance," it feels a lot like I'm saying that what they did or said is okay. And it's not. I've got plans for how to deal with it when I witness harassment. I'll continue to participate in marches and rallies and protests. Right now, I'm just concentrating on letting my anger/hurt/disappointment take the Martin Luther King, Jr. route, instead of the Malcom X route. Because I know that ultimately, letting feelings make decisions is what got us into this mess.

I have hope, but I'm exhausted just thinking about the next four years. SaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSave