Monday, August 20, 2012

I hate politics, or Todd "Legitimate Rape" Akin

Guess what I got to wake up to this morning?

6:10am.
NPR alarm
"It seems to me, first of all, from what I understand from doctors, that's really rare. If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down." --Rep Todd Akin

You can read more about it on Jezebel here, on Slate here and on NPR's site here. NPR has a transcript of the interview; Jezebel and Slate have reporting/opinion pieces.

I woke UP to this. On the first day of my period no less. My body and mind felt like it was rejecting itself with rage.

But why am I mad? Ooo-oh-oh-hoh-hoh.

1) I'm upset because there is the expectation that (even wanna be) public servants have the people's best interest in mind. This expectation is blown clear out of the water with the above statement because A) there is no such thing as the distinction "legitimate" when it comes to rape and he's not-so-subtley insinuating that those thousands of women who are impregnated through a rape weren't actually raped since "science" and B) fuck you.

2) I'm befuddled because there is a minimum expectation that if someone who is, or wants to be, in a position to affect legislation that affects our literal, physical lives then they will do a little research before making blatantly incorrect statements on National Public Radio.

3) I'm fucking furious because politicians actively affect people, including me, through policy based on ignorance. And I can't just disagree with them. I have to abide by the law, lest I pay a fine to the gov't with which I disagree and/or I go to jail.

4) I'm peeved because there's nothing I can really do about any of this. The only real thing I can do is provide support for survivors, keep the discussion alive with people I know and never, EVER vote for these ignoramuses. 

At least Obama is a boss.

The president held an impromptu conference about Akins' comments, saying "Rape is rape. And the idea that we should be parsing and qualifying and slicing what types of rape we are talking about doesn't make sense to the American people and certainly doesn't make sense to me. So what I think these comments do underscore is why we shouldn't have a bunch of politicians, a majority of whom are men, making health care decisions on behalf of women."

I wish what he said here would actually happen. More women in politics, please?

Long Way to Happy - Pink


Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Obsession in Session!

Obsessing about meaningless shit 
is the second most hated thing I hate. 
(The first is grocery shopping. The first-first is injustice! Grr!)

Acceptable/healthy fixations:
Fascination with a famous writer. :) Yay, happy heart-brain stimulation!
Fantasizing about moving to Portland. :) Woohoo! Future mountainous lovely times, ahoy!
Looking up grad school programs in multiple disciplines. :) Goodness, don't these opportunities look fun and challenging!

But it's those hours-to-years of mental neon signs that blink...and blink and blink until you feel crazy and want to go home, but you're all ready home because your head is your only true home. The ones labeled "You Suck!" or "Ex-boyfriend" and "How to really fix your posture this time" or "Why are you so fat?!" that crash my mental clarity party really ride my nerves.

Examples of the most annoying fucking reoccurring thought-binges:
1) I've eaten too many fig newtons again. ...
You've eaten too many fucking fig newtons again! Fucking fig newtons, you'll never realize your dreams! Vow to never eat again. Cue self-hatred. Blame your complicated relationship with your mother on fig newtons. Realize nothing has anything to do with fig newtons. Eat fig newtons again because you ate almost half the package yesterday, so naturally you finish it off today. Whyyyyyy?! Repeat until you get the good sense to stop buying fig newtons (which is usually after day 4.)

2) My nose is huge. ...
Your nose is huge, bitch! Your enormous schnoz is the reason no one could possibly ever love you! Look up angioplasty procedures. Cue self-hatred. Realize a nose job will not solve your problems. Research dignified big noses, like those on Native Americans. Notice they all look good on dudes. You look like a dude. Fuck, your life is screwed, you look like a dude. Remember that's not a big deal, who are you to judge beauty norms and apply them to your totally warped sense of self? Fuck it, when I turn 40 I'm going under the knife. Go home and have a beer, sheesh. (Also avoid mirrors for the next 24 hrs.)

3) My ex-boyfriends probably all date supermodels in Ph.D. programs. ...
You're never getting anywhere in life and that's why you were so hostile, they deserve those Dr. McPerfect-Specimens. Look up ex-boyfriends on facebook. Cue bloodhound research skills when you realize he doesn't have a public profile. Find the one that dumped you for that girl at HIS university married him and she looks exactly like you. Luckily you love your boyfriend otherwise this would be hell. Remember he's the greatest guy ever, but still feel that lingering bear trap of need-to-know! in the back of your head for days.


These bullshit* pacing back and forth in the big vacant room of my head that leaves no space for anything else Q: What's black and white and red all over? A: My brain (gray matter, heard of it?) after I've had an aneurism from freaking out for 7 straight hours about the cellulite shadows on my arms in that one vacation picture or how I'll be hump-backed in 6 months if I sit at this desk for another minute...err, another 6 months.(Yeah, logic isn't my forte in this state of mind.)

Oh, want to hear the best part? Meta-obsession!

"What does that mean?" you say? It means that I have been researching the possible reasons I do this constantly. There's no way I can be normal (I say with an obvious hint of sarcasm because of-course-I'm-normal and a slight rise in tone at "mal" just in case you don't agree?)

Possible disorders:
OCD
Anxiety Disorder
ADHD
Paranoid Schitzofrenia

Possible physical causes of depressive and anxious thoughts: 
Hypothyroidism
Too much damn coffee
Lack of excercise
Unclean colon
Excess consumption of artificial sweetener

This doesn't really relate to what I'm talking about but here's some Guns N Roses!

Bad Obsession




* I contend that "these bullshit" is plural, similar to "these data" or "these moose".

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Thank you? A hangover story

I'm not in the habit of thanking things. Thanking people? Sure, in the moment of their nicety. But that whole think about or write down one thing you're grateful for every day is not my bag. I certainly don't want to be that person who squeals at the sun at 5am on a weekday, "Isn't it a wonderful day?! I love life, don't you!" That attitude is so bright it's blinding, and it pretty much pisses me off. But I wonder if I wouldn't be so angry all the time if I focused my thoughts on things I'm grateful for. Not that I'm an angry person or anything...

Well, maybe I am. This morning on my commute, I grunted rather loudly, "The fuck are you doing" to a sweet young girl on a pastel blue bike with a fucking-wicker-basket when she slowed down next to me. I barked at her because I didn't want to be responsible for her falling over like an idiot and hurting herself. I also barked at her because she basically whispered like a shy little fairy, "e-e-excuse me" when she was wobbling aside my stride; her timidity annoyed me. Why? She's acting like a shrinking violet in that moment to avoid irritating anyone, when simultaneously if she just spoke up, I'd get the message that she's coming by and I wouldn't give a shit.

That's not true; I would still give a shit. I wanted to be angry this morning. It was a beautiful morning: sun shining, breeze blowing, temperature mild, the air smelled like grass and water, the trees were green and my shoes were comfortable. But instead of focusing on that, I let my stomach churn with vile and spit acid at the first thing that came in contact with me.

Maybe instead, I just shouldn't drink during the week. A hangover is terrible for morale.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Oh, you wouldn't say VAGINA in front of women? Silencing Rep Brown and the Vagina Monologues performance on the steps of the MI Capitol!


VAGINAS TAKE BACK THE CAPITOL!

Vagina. While I don't normally write about current events, this one needs an exception. Representative Lisa Brown was banned indefinitely from speaking on the House floor of MI for using the word "vagina" in her part of the conversation about the anti-abortion bill on the docket in Michigan. Well, I suppose it used to be a conversation, but now it's not. This is anti-democracy if I ever saw it. 

Vagina. Yeah, it's no onomatopoeia, it's kind of a harsh sounding word. But it's the only word that anyone could use to actually talk about what the anti-abortion bill would be affecting in the physical body of the constituents of Michigan, of the United States. 

Vagina. She says it after making a poignant point about her Jewish faith's view of saving a mother over saving a fetus in utero if the mother's life is in danger. The anti-abortion bill bans all abortions by doctors that would consider it against their Christian (or otherwise religious) upbringing to perform abortions, regardless of the circumstances. Her point is that she's not up there on the podium requesting that her Jewish faith be mandated to be incorporated into medical practices on all women.

Vagina. This point is not being highlighted or even discussed much, but it is the important one. Her concluding sentence is what's getting attention: "I'm very flattered that you all are so interested in my vagina, but no means no." 

Vagina. You can see Brown's speech here, it's just a couple of minutes and it's really good. Yay, youtube!: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=BGS9vo1avVg#!


Vagina.Members of the MI House respond in varying degrees to Lisa Brown's ban. My favorite, on The Daily Mail coverage of the story, is this quote by this guy:
"'What she said was offensive,' state Rep. Mike Callton, R-Nashville, told the Detroit News. 'It was so offensive, I don't even want to say it in front of women. I would not say that in mixed company,' he said."
Vagina. So, when you, Mr Callton, say "mixed company," you mean women? He's implying here that he would say the word "vagina" in front of other men, but in front of women, it's not appropriate? What are we, NOT the bearers of vaginas? What are we, children? 
Vagina. OH. But where was the ban for Mr. Gene Seaman of Texas when he proposed his infamous Viagra Amendment? He was joking around to make a point about health care coverage for women's health, and asks the question, "what if a man doesn't get his Viagra, maybe THAT's a catastrophic event!" He then goes on to PRETEND TO BE AN ERECTION and mockingly compare cervical cancer to not getting it up to prove to everyone that mandated health care is ridiculous.  
Vagina. While in a vacuum, it's kinda funny, because haha c'mon, Seaman?, this just shows the double standard. Which is NOT funny. You can see a group of guys behind him talking, not even batting an eye. The speaker of the house at the end just kinda laughs in his hands. A female representative in Michigan says the word vagina, the medically correct term in reference to the regulation in question, and the speaker of the house bans her from speaking again. 

Vagina. What. The. Fuck?

Vagina. But tonight, this is very exciting. A friend of mine works for the V-Day campaign, and told me yesterday that tonight, her, Eve Ensler and so far 11 female political representatives are going to perform the Vagina Monologues on the steps of the Michigan Capitol building at 5pm.

Vagina. They are: 
Rep. Lisa Brown (D-West Bloomfield)
Sen. Rebekah Warren (D-Ann Arbor)
Sen. Gretchen Whitmer (D-East Lansing)
Rep. Barb Byrum (D- Onondaga)
Rep. Stacy Erwin Oakes (D-Saginaw)
Rep. Dian Slavens (D- Canton Township)
Rep. Rashida Tlaib (D- Detroit)
Rep. Vicki Barnett (D-Farmington Hills)
Rep. Joan Bauer (D-Lansing)
Rep. Ellen Cogen Lipton (D-Huntington Woods)
Rep. Maureen Stapleton (D-Detroit)

Vagina. If you're reading this, and you're in Michigan, and you want to be a part of this, you can find the information on their facebook event, VAGINAS TAKE BACK THE CAPITOL!


Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Internet Dating, or Dating Til You Don't

Of all the things I’ve always wanted, the one thing that caused the most distress was Love. Before you barf in your mouth (unless it’s already done), just hear me out. I know you wanted it too. Yeah yeah, don’t pretend you’re too cool to admit you haven’t yearned or pined or agonized or downright paaaained for love. So what if I’m that mid-twenties Midwestern white girl that writes acerbic comments on blog posts about the atrocities committed in the name of the institution of marriage? I’m that type, sue me. No don’t sue me; I’m a lover, not a high-income earner. (Thanks liberal arts college.) Instead, why don’t you go ahead and think to yourself that you know for sure I love all those sappy Meg Ryan rom-coms, fawn over my scrapbook of Leonardo DiCaprio magazine cutouts and bakes catnip cookies for my “babies” when you’re not looking. I know you’re doing it anyway. And you know, you might just be right about that (well, all but the last two), and what I say to you is…
Fine, it is a little embarrassing, ok?! In a time where women can be Anything, I wanted to be in movie love. At the time, it was more like Hollywood movie love that I wanted. That passionate, kissing under the waterfall love that consumes your very being. I wanted to twirl with him in an whirlpool of sugar and dreaming that looks like the innocence of cotton candy from the outside, but is really made of the intoxicating gases of Venus perfectly aligned with his eyes and the light of the moon. (um, rude, can I get you a paper bag or a breath mint or something?)

When I was stricken with the Yearning, I believed it afflicted me deeper than anyone. The first person who I fell in love with was my next door neighbor in 7th grade. He was blonde like me, older than the other guys in our neighborhood group that were all in love with my best friend anyway, and he could stay out late on Wednesday nights when my mom was somewhere til 10pm. We would take walks on Wednesdays after the sun went down through this field behind our townhome complex. It was Matt and I, we’d hold hands, stare up at the real stars and I’d periodically remember to breathe. And when I did breathe, it had to be shallow because my chest was filled to capacity with ecstatic nervousness, which was surprisingly suffocating.

After a few months, one icy night we took a detour to a little courtyard with a bench obscured to potential onlookers by snow-covered pine trees. He sat down, and then asked me to sit down. I hesitated, but by the utter majesty of the universe, I slipped on a patch of ice and tumbled straight into his lap. Of course I was mortified because all my friends called me “cow” back then, so I assumed I’d squished him, but he just looked at me with his icicle-colored eyes and smiled. In an effort to save the moment, I let as many muscles as I could go limp to pretend I was relaxed (which required me to strain my left hamstring for a while to keep myself actually up on the bench) so that I could be held.

  “Would…would you…would you want to go out with me sometime?”

Oh god oh god oh god, what is he asking me?! A jolt of lightning pierced my lungs and the ecstatic nervousness I held there for months paralyzed my body like I had swallowed a grenade full of IcyHot that just burst in my belly. I stared like a laser beam at a sidewalk block, making my intense focus on the cement exactly perpendicular to his gaze, which was at god-why-me? In response I pretended there was no possible way I assumed that he was asking me out. Nothing would have been worse if I responded as though he, Matt, beautiful Matt, asked me out and I was wrong. I stammered, oh how I stammered, “Uh, sure, y’know,  Jessie has some connections at this one club in town, um, she could probably get us in, um, yeah when are you free, I could talk to her and see, y’know, yeah, what do think?” When I finished, it was as if all hope of an “us” escaped out of my mouth and dissipated with my heavy breaths in the vacuous night air. I tensed up again, knowing I used all those “ums” and “y’knows” as a sword and shield against the beast of admitting that Oh God There Is No Way This Is Happening Right Now And I’m Blowing It. He gave me a confused look, then a more certain one when I think he realized what I realized, then rose to get home. There’s no way anyone could expect me to remember what we talked about on the way back, if anything. What I do know is we definitely didn’t hold hands.

Of course, like all good movies where you cry for the main character because “he got away,” the neighbor moves away a couple weeks later thus commencing the decade of No One Will Ever Love Me. So, like a cowardly mutt that barks and chases you until you turn around to pet it and it runs away, I too, barked and chased after that feeling. Throughout my adolescence, I didn’t really date, had a few flings with rules like you see in squinty-eyed Renee Zellweger flicks. But always, in the back of my head and in my journal I wanted love so badly even though I was thoroughly convinced that it was impossible for someone like me.

And so, while I never thought it would happen, I have indeed been through a few beaus since that first pining at prepubescence and after my teen years. In my young adult love travels through college, found that what I wanted as a kid is out there, I just had to adjust my expectations a little: For instance, it just so happens that waterfall part works out ok because he kisses like a drooling Rottweiler. The whirlpool is the toilet flushing after I puked up my Flash Tacos and PBR after a horrific night of consummating my latest four hour relationship. The sugar and dreaming are what I lived on at home or in the dorm watching Lost marathons during my period. Today, the stars are those glow-in-the-dark plastic stick on ones that I stared concertedly at when I finally made it into his bed. The stars are manufactured promises I pretend are communicating hope to me from the ceiling, plaster and paint peeling around the corners, as I keep my face as still as I can so I don’t ask him to be my boyfriend. Venus is still a distant planet and the moon is still a satellite.

After a while, the dating scene in college and my young adulthood after college just weren’t hacking it. I had dabbled in internet dating as a teen, too, flirting in AOL chess chatrooms, initiating with my best friend cyber sex encounters with guys that likely had no idea they were the butt of budding sexuality snickers. Or they did. Looking back, I hope for the former. So when I wanted to get into that scene again, I talked about it with a friend and fellow comrade-in-arms who was on active duty in the field. She says something along the lines of, “I’m actually on The Chicago Reader Matches site. It’s pretty fun and seems to be working.” And by working she meant she met a few guys in person and she wasn’t robbed or maimed. She had fun, even! So I decided, what the hell? Let’s get some.

OKCUPID.COM is my jelly.
For the uninitiated, “internet dating” is a term used for people who meet and chat with people on websites that are specifically constructed for the purpose of inching, email by email, toward real-life romantic encounters of your consensual choosing. (Please note, as for these websites, they’re pretty much divided into the camps of let’s-pretend-we’re-mature-here-and-say-we’re-looking-for-a-long-term-relationship (see: eHarmony.com) and find-accessible-loveless-sex-escapades (see: okcupid.com & the Reader Matches). Of course the real-life part is not so binary.) The Reader Matches and Okcupid are personals websites more of the find-accessible-loveless-sex-escapades variety (let’s use the acronym false for the rest of our time together). That’s where I found many profiles that were of interest to me, but Ah, these sites mimic real life insofar as that you cannot just say that you want to false without generally coming across as creepy, if you are male, and slutty, if you are female. As a person concerned with the pursuit of movie love (c’est moi), I chose the false route because it opened up the possibility of connecting with so many more people than I encountered during my daily life.

You create an alias, or username, and that’s what people see as your name on the website. Conventionally, you then create a profile for yourself. That includes a picture or pictures of your choosing and a few sentences about yourself, which is essentially a cover letter that you’re using at an interview with thousands of people who come across your profile and may be interested in copulating with the idea of you that you created for them. These profiles begin with a hook, similar in importance to the first sentence of a novel, and continue with more detailed information. I’ll give you me. Then how about three guys: one who broke my heart, one who broke even, and one whose heart I broke. For brevity’s and dignity’s sake[1], I’ll just show the first bits of these profiles.
My online presence was a little cheesy. While my headspace is full of a hot mess of emotions and insecurities, I could meticulously finesse online another’s perception of how totally playful and carefree I am! LOL! Though as you can see in my personal essay, I can also playfully slip in there that I love over-analysis, which is code for obsessing about every facial muscle spasm. The sweet and sassy part may tip off the reader that I’m moody as hell, the sassy part more vitriolic.

Sources:okcupid.com & chicagoreader.selectalternatives.com/gyrobase/Personals
Screenname: Aliasilicious & Jensese
Personal essay (for both): I’m a sweet and sassy kind of lassie who loves coffee, over-analysis and quite possibly you.

Now what stupid, stupid man wouldn’t want to date that saucy profile?

Now here are those three men whose profiles and impacts stick out in my memory, in order of appearance:

Time: Winter 2008-Summer 2009
Source:chicagoreader.selectalternatives.com/gyrobase/Personals
Screenname: NickBelane
Personal essay: These profiles are bullshit, just message me if you want to have a beer on my roof.

I really wasn’t planning on this one. If you could believe it, I got my heart broken even though I was going in expecting false. I couldn’t believe it either. Thank god for internet dating, otherwise what would I have done afterwards?! We had exchanged messages for a couple of weeks before Christmas 2008. Then we started texting. Which was exciting. We hadn’t heard each others' voices yet, and flirtation was high. When I had to go to my mother’s for Christmas Eve, I stayed up til 3am watching A Christmas Story over and over. When Barack Obama was elected president, the QVC gold coin people made Obama collectors coins BEFORE the inauguration! I couldn’t believe how funny I found this and texted NickBelane about it. At that, he decided I was worth calling the next day. He called to say “Hey, Sara,” and I said “Hey…” and he said, “Merry Christmas and shit” and I said, “Uh, thanks, you too,” and he said, “Ok…bye-bye” and hung up. My stomach exploded a little from the inside, a little like it used to when I was young. My cheeks wouldn’t stop contracting in joy even though it was my job to make Christmas miserable for my family. 

We met for the first time a week later. I took the #72 to his apartment. I dressed up, straight-ironed my hair and donned an art-deco patterned shirt that hid my upper arm fat. When he let me in, he was wearing ripped up jeans, a ripped up t-shirt and desperately needed a haircut, and just sort of opened the door and walked straight back to his grimy kitchen. He poured me a straight, shitty vodka. I was very tense, and he could tell that, which come to find later, he enjoyed very much. We sat on his ripped up couch looking at pictures from a family album he kept under a dingy pink blanket he’d had since he was a boy. From that moment, we became best friends for 6 months. Practically inseparable. Never agreed on anything. He said the difference between us was that if someone dropped an orange in the top of his head, it would come out his mouth an orange. If that same orange were dropped in mine, a little gremlin would catch it, sniff it, conduct non-invasive experiments on it to determine it was, yes!, indeed an orange, then come out my mouth the orange.

He moved in with me because he was broke and unemployed and he would have to move back to Texas if I didn’t let him. I already knew he had another girlfriend, but I drank whiskey and smoked out on the porch pretending it wasn’t true til he finally moved out.   

Time: Winter 2010
Source: Okcupid.com
Screenname: MariusLT
Personal essay: I'm looking for a female/girl/woman/fairy princess/cyborg/other fairy incarnations (got enough sausages around me), someone to shoot the proverbial sh!t with and do the coffee/tea thing...perhaps even sushi, enjoy each other’s company, laugh, get to know each other, scamming the man, and destroying the law, ya know, the usual fun stuff.

MariusLT was a long-winded fella, just like myself. He so readily shared everything that was on his mind and was so willing to explore it, I got lost in his rambling as if I were the kid chosen to explore Charlie’s Chocolate Factory. He was 1 part disturbing, 2 parts sweet and 3 parts not quite right, but I liked it. We first met at my apartment this time. I had a new roommate after NickBelane moved out, and we discovered through conversation that my roommate was started dating a girl that was MariusLT’s best friends in high school…and was already planning to come over to my apartment! It was a little less awkward to meet MariusLT, because not only did we have these mutual friends in common but we apparently graduated in 2008 from the same small liberal arts college.
We went out a few times. He hated his job in finance, and I disliked mine in administration, and so we would bitterly complain whenever we saw each other. We would bitch and moan. There’s really only so much of that two people can do, especially when one was so disillusioned with the imagination of the other based on the otherworldly letters we wrote each other before we became acquainted with each others' realities.

He said he was too tired to drive to the city and back to his home in the suburbs, but I knew we bored each other quite a lot. We still write each other letters and rarely meet for coffee. Our relationship works in the internet ether, but rusts too quickly to function regularly when exposed to reality’s airs.

Time: Summer 2010
Source: Okcupid.com
Screenname: infinitjazzkeys
Personal essay: I'm an adjunct professor of Mathematics at [CONFIDENTIAL]. I also play jazz piano on the side with a few small groups. Don't worry though, I'm not uptight or your typical jazz nerd. 


My first impression of infinitjazzkeys was that he was a professor and a jazz pianist, also that he has triple citizenship in the United States, France and England. Impressive stuff. Given my last couple of joyrides, I wasn’t really expecting much from this particular guy other than the soft, self-satisfying glow of having seduced a math professor/jazz pianist/citizen of the world. He wasn’t the type to mess around on the internet so much, but especially since it turned out the two of us lived within blocks of one another in Edgewater. The midpoint between our apartments was Moody’s Pub, a favorite of both of us, so we decided to meet there. It was a weekend day in August 2010, and I arrived at the pub first. It’s a dark wood pub with stained glass, bull skulls and ye olde gardening tools mounted on the walls. Their patio is gray stone spotted with mature hardwood or oak trees lined with white Christmas lights, reminiscent still of the monastery the building used to be. The place makes me feel calm. When we talked, I figured he was too hoity-toity for me being a triple-threat and all. I figured I was beneath him, that he must think I was fat since he was so trim and that he was bored of my sing-songy suburban vocal intonations that come out from suppression when I feel nervous. But little did I know, I seduced him by the end of the night. Not enough for him to invite me over, but enough to invite me over in a few days.    

Infinitjazzkeys’ apartment resembled NickBelane’s in the coating of grime over virtually everything in it, but I am not one to judge, just notice. He actually similarly offered me the shitty vodka. Within two weeks, I had reconnected with my college boyfriend, Jonathan, whom I did not meet online. He and I met in our library, I was the circulation desk assistant and he worked A/V. I caught Infinitjazzkeys on google chat and told him I couldn’t see him anymore, that I was just back together with my ex-boyfriend, and that I was sorry. He accused me of fucking him and leaving. It stung, but isn’t that what we all do til we don’t?



[1]Just kidding, there’s no shame in internet dating despite all the cultural dildo-logue that would suggest otherwise, but really, I can’t remember the rest of their profiles anyway. They’re much too long. I liked writers.

How about we try, "Occupy Yourself-a-Life?"

            For months, news of the “Occupy Wallstreet” protest satellite in Chicago has been trumpeted from the TV, radio, internet and in my email inbox. In the last couple of weeks, those media outlets warned Chicagoans of the upcoming G8 Summit that was placed in President Obama’s “home city.”[1] When I get home to my apartment after work on the Friday before the Summit, my thoughts focus in on my weekend plans downtown. I think how they are so extravagant against the atmosphere of global politics and public protest: Those buses of protesters have arrived from other cities.... There were some nurses at Daley Plaza midday today, right? Shit, Jon and I need to get to the Millennium Knickerbocker Hotel for Ryan & Kim’s wedding reception tomorrow by 6:00pm; there shouldn’t be too much traffic in Streeterville[2] since that’s way north of the protests, isn’t it?
I start to become upset. Worrying about logistical details is the gentle breeze of anxiety, but it’s enough to kickstart the turbine. The turbine is my own personal self-loathing machine that powers constant anxiety. (At least it’s an alternative to fossil fuels?) When I’m nervous, I rifle through things like my purses for loose change, my coats for receipts, pick the skin from under my nails or squeeze blackheads from my chin, because I feel better when I clean things out. Now I’m fucking with my hair. Then I check around for a lighter so I can go smoke on the porch. Remember when you got on that bus to NYC for the RNC protest of 2004? Sara, you’re only 26. How have you become so valueless, disimpassioned and disengaged already? You’re just dead weight. And a lot of it. Yeah, go ahead and get that cheese from the fridge, you thoughtless consumer. You’re no better than the pigheaded corporate giants and corrupt politicians who exploit and drill and take take take!
When the turbine runs, I forget to breathe. I can’t find my lighter, so I pause a moment to look out my new apartment windows. We get to see the trees and the sky and the apartment complex across the street. It reminds me of the suburban developments where I lived from birth through high school, sort of Nordic, like Ikea developments. The main difference here is I can see in each apartment. Every other one is freckled with flickers of light. As of two weeks ago, this is the first time I’ve been able to see a literal cross section of an apartment building and see just how many people are watching TV. I suspect this problem has gotten worse with time, labor laws and exponentially increased show budgets, especially since my own television consumption has become somewhat of an obsession. See, I was only half-raised on TV, the other half I took  care of myself with books and homework, tree climbing and soccer. As a person affected by the likes of Wells, Orwell, a Clockwork Orange and Brazil, the thought that so many people are glued to the boob tube make my stomach lurch a little. But really only a little. In order to distract myself from this unnerving feeling, I’ll just go ahead and turn on the TV.
No, Sara! You can resist! Finish this essay, and maybe I’ll reward you with the latest episode of Once Upon A Time…
Instead of sitting down to finish this essay, I walked out onto the  back deck of my building and smoked a cigarette, looking out over the city where I knew those protests specific to the G8 were starting for the weekend. I walked out there to calm down. The open air always brought me peace, like my brain is an overstuffed belly and walking outside is unbuttoning a constricting pair of jeans. But instead, the act of calming down just reinforced that I felt overwhelmed. I get that way when I have to write. It’s a hot feeling. It begins in my gut, as most meaningful emotions do, splays out through my veins and finds its release in the capillaries of my face and ears. From what I understand of the sensation through self-diagnosis is that it is equal parts fear, anger, resignation and envy. I fear this essay is terrible. I am angry that I cannot become the person I want to be. I resign to the TV when fear and anger propel my blood too fast. I envy everyone. Including the person I used to be that joined the protest against the RNC eight years ago. On second thought, maybe the feelings are not equal parts. The sum of them incites an intravenous hurricane of anger that rages until I drink a glass of beer or wine, act on the subject of the storm or fall asleep. Most nights I’ll fall asleep. I never have any trouble with that because the exhaustion that comes after the physical tension of worry and ire and jealousy is enough to keep me from staying awake. I am lucky my boyfriend knows all this, because I can tell him I am angry, and he understands he has not upset me, but I have upset myself yet again.
I feel packed in, so maybe it will help to unpack. Sara, why are you upset really?
As a teenager who was raised in a shopping-mall and corporation oriented suburb of Chicago, I was snarky and longed to participate in public forums that expressed dissatisfaction with the status quo. By status quo, I mean that landscape of the economy of conformity: Obsession with buying new curtains, new lawn chairs, new appliances, even when you have two of each. Computer red-eyed and hunched over a desk in a cubicle. Pacing on phones with grins because the client and your mother-in-law can hear it if you’re not smiling.  Daily complaints to your loved ones about your boss’ condescending remarks or how the dogs won’t stop barking or how you just can’t get help like you used to. But you need to make enough money to live in homes with the same floor plans as your neighbors. Mini-mansions popped up behind our townhomes when during the 2000s recession since management in the corporate headquarters down the street were doing quite alright for themselves. It was around that time the cops started citing my friends and me “gang activity” when we’d play a game of football in one of our dead-end driveways.
east wall to the right of acceleratorWhile I couldn’t be 100% certain, I don’t think my craving for joining a community of nonconformists was awoken like some sleeping dragon of stereotypical adolescent rebelliousness. The kind that emerges too cool to actually wake up, but won’t mind telling you to “fuck off” first. No, no. See, I also grew up with my father, in part, in small art galleries in less homogenous towns. The artists would express their individual realities through their visual art while I watched from my post next to the cupcakes or the dry ice machine. I remember one woman who was made of long limbs created two-story canvases she covered in moss colored acrylic. She hung the vague shapes of female bodies from them. Their skeletons were made of wire, papier-mâché for the flesh, and their skin, a slop of the same peaty paint. They looked like a vertical swamp with bog bodies[3] bursting from the wall. Once, my father showed a piece he made with naked Barbie dolls, slathered in barbeque sauce, swinging by their smooth plastic hands from the inside of a rusted birdcage. After I saw that installation, I didn’t want to play with Barbies like my friends did anymore. Everyone there was so much older than me back then, though they may have been about my age at this moment. I remember I wanted to be like them when I grew up. I wanted to be a part of a community of artists.
But I wasn’t. There were honors classes, a couple part time jobs, parties. There was always enough pot to haze the days away without succumbing to my greatest worry: That I don’t belong anywhere.
It was this foggily suppressed dormant worldview with which I started college, after all that. I attended Lake Forest College, a whole fifteen minute drive east of my beloved suburban home. While Lake Forest was the third “top earning town” in the nation in 2008 according to CNN Money online, at least it produced Dave Eggers. Maybe I could be Dave Eggers! Anyway, one of the first people I met was Stephanie, a political type who lived just down the hall from me in the only single sex dorm on campus.
We got on famously, as she was a self-proclaimed rare liberal from a conservative, wealthy city in Arizona and I from just around the corner with all my aforementioned contradictions to clumsily contribute to conversations with her. We both hated our origin stories in relation to the way we thought the world ought to work. I know I didn’t have any productive ideas, but we knew it wasn’t with Dubya’s[4] decisions. He sent people to a war that facilitated the procurement of cheap gas that fueled the status quo. This was funded by the taxes of people who needed it more at home (presumably and ideally in our minds for something other than another lawn ornament or light switch covers), not to mention the lack of funding for other domesticky things like public education, arts programs or veteran services. We believed that the war in the Middle East was of interest to those corporations whose top executives lived both our home towns and especially in the city we resided in for college. It wasn’t to “spread democracy” like the government justified it to the public. How does that even work anyway? If that’s what they were even setting out to do, it would somehow be the military pointing weapons at people, forcing them at gunpoint to believe whatever they want now? No, it’s oppression in liberation’s disguise, the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Besides, isn’t the belief that you are free to choose your beliefs a belief in and of itself? To me, the war was like a mermaid milking a goat, then threw it into the ocean and yelled back to it as she swam away to her corrupt little milk mongering cronies, “You’re free to swim!” Yes, that absurd. Not to mention politics confounded me a bit back then.
The first few weeks of college, we walked by the by the much-larger-than-mini-mansions overlooking the ravines with Stephanie to our World Politics and Intro to Sociology classes every day. We saw their lush gardens, the lavish stone lions overlooking their yards, the white pillars, white fences and brown faces that tended the gardens and walked the white faced children in strollers during the day. While it was, in the proverbial vacuum, so breathtakingly beautiful, and I could have chosen to go to another school… Well, Lake Forest College offered me the largest scholarship, which did not, at the time, puncture my ass-headed[5] view of the world. I was different, damn it. When Stephanie asked, “do you want to…”, I hesitated not.  I was going to prove it by hopping on a bus to New York City to protest the September 2004 Republican National Convention[6].
We rode the Metra together thirty miles south to the loop in Chicago, then walked to the edge of Grant Park where buses were supposed to load up people for a free ride to NYC. We didn’t see buses, but we saw people. Our people. Among the trees, Steph and I gathered anarchist leaflets and smoked cigarettes, scanning the crowd of people to see if there were any small, inviting looking group (read: clean 18 year olds?) through which we could enter into the larger scene. Instead, a tall, dark haired and coke-eyed man(iac) locked in on our wandering eyes. He darted toward us. We did not cower; that’s not what we were here for, cowering. We were here to stand tall for justice. So we froze. Close enough. While we were not even close to appearing like small frightened bunny children, he introduced himself as Patrick. He was glad we were here! And would we like a copy of The Socialist Times?! And see you on the bus! …aaand gone. Phew.
Of course, being the young things we were, we met two boys our age that were dressed in khaki shorts. They were standing next to a of androgynous drum circle of whipping leather limbs, hemp everything and white-people dreadlocks. I’m almost sure we thought we were all the same, being present for the same cause and all. One of the boys joked, “I’m just here for a free trip to NYC!” I know that I… certainly… wasn’t a little bit interested in that part of it.  I was relieved when the buses finally arrived. When we boarded the ancient yellow school bus, Patrick announced that we needed to write down the emergency numbers to call in case we got beaten or pepper sprayed or tazed or gassed or especially arrested. Stephanie and I, who sat next to each other in the cramped, tall-backed seats bus squealed with adrenaline at the thought. Arrested! We each raised our jean shorts from the thigh. We scrawled the emergency numbers on our thighs in black marker. For a badass photo-op we also wrote, on my left thigh IN CASE and her right OF ARREST. Our first protest temporary tattoos inscribed. We were off to make a difference.
After a full night on the road, with the mandatory stops for diet cokes and bags of Chex Party Mix on the way there, we finally made it. To New Jersey. I’m glad I was listening when we were told we would take the commuter train into NYC. The protest was already so crowded that the main streets, of Manhattan I think, were all shut down. When we arrived at our stop on the subway, emerging from the ground we could hear thousands of people already chanting, whistling and drumming. When we met the horizon, we squinted in the light, our faces and feet flushing with the heat of the pavement and excitement. I closed my agape mouth and craned my neck in either direction, scanning the protest panorama. T-shirts and shorts, posters, puppets, costumed Penises that mocked the former Vice President Dick Cheney, bikini clad protesters with signs that read “Give Bush a Brazilian[7],” every color hair and every color sweaty flesh. Plainclothes protesters like us picked up paraphernalia, from BUSH LIES and KERRY 4 PREZ buttons to bongs disguised as bracelets. I bought an “Imagine Free Speech in Central Park” t-shirt, since the city wouldn’t allow protesters to congregate there. Look at me; so in the know! We were proud to be one of almost 100,000 fractured lives in together in solidarity against The Bush Regime. Here, among strangers, I felt big. I felt more swollen with importance and more included than I had ever felt before. Nobody here turned away when I caught their eye. Everybody screamed and smiled, scrunching their eyes and baring their teeth. Being a participant in this collective voice, it was akin to the feeling I get of simultaneous largeness and smallness next to the ocean when I believe in that moment I am both the sky and a grain of sand, but with people. But with purpose.   
Speaking of sky, I wasn’t wearing any sunscreen. The sun beat harder and harder as the drums beat less and less frequently. After our go around of the main, blocked-off streets, we stepped onto the sidewalk to find relief under storefront awnings. We picked up iced tea from a convenience store. Stepping in the shop seemed to burst the burst the bubble. Having to wipe sweat from my embarrassing sweat-mustache, pull my shirt down to cover my midriff and speak in an inside voice to the attendant, I remembered what society I’m from.  Rejoining the hullabaloo didn’t feel so swollen. We found a drum circle to hover by, and the music stretched out what was left of the day’s magic. Before getting back onto the subway, I took in a good deep breath of New York City. I did something today.
When we returned to Chicago, then to Lake Forest, both Stephanie and I returned to our routines. In the months following, the news trumpeted louder to her than it did at me. She tuned in while I was busy flirting with the bassoon player in concert band and avoiding my roommates. But come November, it was time to cinch the experience at the protest with my first time ever at the polls on Election Day! I turned eighteen just in time! Since I only lived fifteen minutes’ drive from my polling place in Vernon Hills, I secured a ride there with my mother. On November 2, 2004, at the last minute, my mother backed out on her promise to drive me to the poll. I couldn’t even vote. I was devastated. I was furious. Honestly, it was mostly because she let me down again, not because I couldn’t vote. That part just made me feel like a schmuck.
While “every vote counts,” when it was all said and done, mine didn’t anyway. In fact, many votes that were supposed to have counted did not, and those that shouldn’t have been weighed as heavily counted infinitely more. Not too many people know how the Electoral College system works in the U.S., and this 2004 election caused quite a stir. Everyone votes in their own state, and each state has a certain number of Electoral College votes based on the recorded population garnered by the U.S. Census Bureau. For example, in 2004, Illinois got 21 votes, New York got 31 votes. States like Alaska, Wyoming and Delaware get 3 each. The announcement of the winner of the election was delayed one day, because of a debate as to whether to recount do a recount in Ohio. Unofficially, though, George Bush won.
Stephanie heard this breaking news first. She stormed into my room sobbing, and then broke the news to me in garbled wails. She hugged me, and I remember thinking that I should feel guilty that I didn’t care as much as she did. What kind of monster doesn’t care? Then, I felt detached in disbelief, like we were in some movie where Bush’s election win was just a plot twist that would come undone soon enough. When we were in New York, it felt like we really closed the book on who would win. The people said No, we said No. All that. Then again, I didn’t even vote. So is it futile to think about the futility of the electoral system if I’m not even going to participate? Oh Well I thought as Stephanie gathered herself up enough to start sobbing all over again to her brother on the phone in her room. I needed a cigarette. And then I needed another one when the presidency was locked in January after the final Ohio recount. Happy Birthday Bush.
Through the next few semesters in college, I had taken a genuine liking to Sociology classes. Cultures! So thaaat’s what I’d been picking up on in the humanity ether throughout my life. Suburban culture. Artist culture. Economic sociology. I spoke Spanish fairly well, so I also took Latin American Studies classes that overlapped with Sociology classes. More cultures! Clashing! Class warfare!  I learned about literal imposition of European bodies, thought, and culture on the Americas. In Cuzco, Peru, the conquistadores enslaved the Incas of that city, forced them to tear apart the stones of their downtown, which was on top of a hill, sacred, closest to the heavens. They rolled the massive rock down the hill to create the foundations of the Spanish churches in the center of Cuzco, since that is the western vision of city planning. Today, this same European influence over the continents take the form of government sanctioned military coups and free trade agreements. White American politicians carried on the tradition of general imperialism based on the procurement of cheap, if not free, resources. All the while, the U.S. government exploits the natural resources of foreign lands like the oil fields of Iraq or the forests of Brazil. U.S. corporations outsource labor to take advantage of pennies-on-the-dollar “human capital” in, say, the sweatshops of China, Taiwan and India or the maquiladores of Mexico. The tradition of insistence that spreading Freedom and opportunity is the reason of the season continues as well. With this comes the violence of European cultural influence. Whether it’s a religious mission, a War on Terrorism or the abuse of slack international labor laws, they overpower and conquer the natural expression of people they felt were different, they feared or believed to be inferior.
This forceful infiltration and penetration of homogeneity and manipulation felt familiar to me on a base, human level, even though I am white myself. I felt it in the mall. I felt it every time I saw an advertisement on TV. I felt it when my step-father made fun of “the Mexicans” in Vernon Hills’ neighboring town for being stupid and lazy. I worked as a teenager and young adult side-by-side with Mexican and Puerto Rican guys who worked harder than anyone I ever met before. Plus, he never even tried to learn Spanish, so qué diciste, Señor Anderson? I felt it when I walked around my college campus when sorority girls dressed in mini-skirts and Northface jackets in the goddamn wintertime and ridiculed anyone who participated in theater. I feel it when I find myself scared of homeless men on the train on my way home from work. When I make fun of modern dance. When I feel ashamed that I don’t understand the stock market or somehow intuit that I am not taking full advantage of my white privilege.
            As I wrap up this essay at the Psychology Department of Northwestern University in my administrative assistant’s chair, I realize that I have. I have taken as much advantage as I can without becoming an asshole. Then again, it could be the reactions people have had to my female being that have tempered the asshole potential in me. Of course women are organized, smart, nurturing, and responsible. That’s who I grew up to be and that’s why I’m here, both at the university and in the role of administrator. I dare you to Google Image Search “administrative assistant.” For some reason, working for a non-profit organization, even one as large as this, makes me feel less like a white devil. At the same time, across the hall from my office on the back of a professor’s door, there is taped a cutout from an article about the rising employment rate of adjunct professors and the simultaneous decrease of tenured professors.
I find I try very hard to reconcile the way I see the world and the way I see the world. Ok, I know I work at the university, but no, I’m not high. There is a conflicting yet complimentary dual-awareness in my head through which I experience the kaleidoscope of reality. (Still not high.) Imagine life is a painting made of only abstractions. No canvas, no paint or pastel or pencil. A painting made of the interaction of ideas. For me, the landscape of this painting is the economy of conformity. The economic exploitation of one another might be our desert. The insistence that my reality has to look like just like the TV ads might be our reflective ponds. The belief that we are not, in fact, equal might be our mountains. The pontification of politicians and their false promises might be the wind. The hatred and fear of difference might be our tundra. Now, the people in my painting are made of rugged individualism and the radiant glory of artistic and intellectual expression. While I envy you all for your beauty against the harsh landscape, I think I can be in there with you.
How about we turn off the TV together? One… two…



[1] This is untrue, he grew up in Hawaii, but the European PR folks did not fact check before making their informational video. They also said that Chicago is the capital of Illinois.
[2] Streeterville is the Chicago neighborhood closest to the loop to the north. It is just north of the Chicago River, and on Lake Michigan. There are those, including me, who do or have mistaken if for part of the loop since it is where you’ll find Navy Pier, but not quite the loop.
[3] Bog bodies are archeological finds in the peat bogs of northwestern Europe. The reason for their presence in the bog is unknown. There is evidence of trauma on many of the bodies, such as punctured skulls and leather nooses preserved around some of their necks. The microenvironments in bogs allowed for some of the hair, skin and bone to be totally preserved, but not others, such as the internal organs.  http://www.archaeology.org/online/features/bog/
[4] Dubya: the disrespectful nickname given to the former president George W. (hence “Dubya”) Bush. It was a play on his southern accent and how informal he tried to come off to the American public. Well, most of us didn’t think he tried, he was just such an idiot that conducting himself formally wasn’t a thing he was capable of doing. Of course, who knows with politicians?
[5] It’s a Democratic Party pun party up in here!
[6] Daily Show “coverage” of the event
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/fri-september-3-2004/back-in-black---rnc-protests
[7] A “Brazilian” is a form of pubic hair removal that requires every follicle on the groin region be stripped clean via waxing.