Cheers to Emma Sulkowicz

http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2014/09/columbia-student-art-project-protests-her-rapist.html

             …So if another victim of rape, a young lady three years my junior, has the moxie to carry around a mattress with her full time to send out her message, I think I can blog about it.

                About two and a half months ago, I was raped.

                Some people would refer to what happened as date rape or even “gray area rape,” but those who are educated would just call it rape. All the “gray area” term really accomplishes is making me think it’s more my fault and less legitimate that the whole ordeal should have an effect on me. So the first lesson here is never to refer to anything as gray area rape. Lack of consent + sex = rape. Moving along..

                Many of my friends have seen me since, and would never guess any such thing had occurred. Unlike the brave young lady taking a stand, I was unwilling to shout about my assault from the rooftops, or let it effect me in any way really. But as a cheery open book-type individual, and as a lifelong advocate for domestic violence survivors, I guess I should start by standing up for me.

                There’s no right way to handle or cope with this situation. I commend the Columbia student because she made her problem everyone’s problem, as it truly is. Rape isn’t just her problem, or my problem, or my countless friends who have slowly joined me as statistics problem. This is every college student’s problem and thus every college’s problem, every NFL participant or viewer, every mother and father, daughter and son. Everyone who has ever listened to or supported Cee Lo Green in any way. You get the picture.

                It didn’t happen to me because I’m a slut, because I’m unintelligent or uninformed on the issue, or because I’m reckless. My outfit that night didn’t rape me, nor did my blood alcohol level.

                 Some stupid privileged boy did.

                And I’m willing to bet he has no idea he even did it. The next day he texted me saying he had “had so much fun hanging out.” I vomit. And I blame him, but I don’t.

                Sure I repeatedly refused. Sure he had no right. But somewhere along the line, he learned that to be acceptable behavior. He’s a monster in many ways, but more of a Godzilla than anything. An amalgamation of all of the crap New York City (I mean our culture)  has to offer…

                 I don’t want pity or condolences, I want awareness. That this can happen to anyone, and happen at the hands of even the sweetest guy you think you know. That sex without consent is as far from okay as it gets. That we live in a world where people say “I raped that test” and have no idea who they’re triggering or how they’re minimizing other’s nightmares in the process. That we all need to look out for each other and treat one another as the beautiful fragile beings we really are.

                As a final disclaimer, I’m really okay, it’s rape culture that isn’t. So if you’re reading this and feeling sorry for me, or Emma Sulkowicz, stop and instead expand that sentiment into your behaviors, actions, awareness of and beliefs towards this omnipresent issue.  

               

How I Got My Only Scar; That’s It Part 2

“Here comes the sun little darling. Here comes the sun and I say..” the song blared distantly on the speaker system.

Like clockwork, my counselor chirped, “Alright, girls! Up! Hoppers to the dining hall in 10 minutes!”

I wasn’t a Hopper, so I pulled the covers over my head to block out the light and the one fly that was buzzing in my ear all morning, causing a half sleep-like state.

 I could usually get away with this for a good 3-5 minutes.

“ALEX! UP. Line-up is in 7 minutes and I don’t want you last in line again!”

Of course I would be last in line again. Who were we kidding?

 “Raise the flag raise the flag at the break of the day when the daily work is beginning, raise the flag raise the flag at the break of the day when the daily work is beginning.” I lazily clapped along as girls side chanted around the flagpole.

“Well everyone,” Sarabeth, head of girls side announced, “we have a VERY special day today here at Perlman Camp!”

“It’s Erica’s birthday!” one of the older girls called out. In response, a 7AM  level of excitement "wooo" from her bunk.

“Yes it’s Erica’s  birthday, but we also have a specialty day!” Sarabeth continued. “Today..drumroll please…. Will be Harry Potter day!”

Gasps and woos from the Potterheads. Silence from the rest.

I had only read the first 2 books because my sister told me they were a little scary, but I was a gasper, a wooer, and likely one of the most excited people on camp for the magical day that would ensue. Because I was a naive little believer. 

“You will be sorted into one of four houses at breakfast, where the day’s activities will be explained. Freshmen, off to the dining hall!”

My hopes were immediately diminished when I saw that there was no transformation of my every day dining hall into the "Great Hall," no floating candles or sky above. I guess I realized that magic definitely isn't a thing. 

 Just like Harry, all I could think throughout my soggy waffle breakfast  was, “not Slytherin please not Slytherin. Gimme Gryffindor pretty please sorting hat gods I want to be in Gryffindor. Or Ravenclaw. But not Slytherin”  

So of course I got stuck in Hufflepuff.

As you can imagine, the day was pretty unremarkable. A mere mask of every day activities and challenges, but channeled with the competitive component of us being on separate teams or “houses.” Though the loudspeakers did play the eery, classic Harry Potter theme music between activities, I was unimpressed. Plus I was in Hufflepuff. How excited could I get? My only consolation was that a close friend from my bunk, Mollie Gibson, would be on my team.

 Until I heard that the final day’s activity would be a quidditch match. Still hope for magic!

At the match, I was again disappointed, but also in awe, to find that the players held the broom between their legs and did not, in fact, fly. The "snitch" was an athletics counselor dressed in mustard yellow, running about. The goal posts were only about as tall as myself. And worst of all, I was still rooting for Hufflepuff.

To add to the burn of our housing placement, another rather annoying girl from our bunk, Eva Tulchinsky,  came up to Mollie and me during the heat of the match and said, "Gryffindor is the best, you guys SUCK," (as if we didn't know this.) Mollie continued on to quarrel with the rude girl who cared way too much about arguing a clearly proven point. The fight escalated into Eva clawing at Mollie. When I saw this, I ran and got between them. You mess with Mollie Gibson, you mess with me.

Eva scratched away at my arm and drew blood. A counselor saw, and she was sent away without canteen for the night. I continued to pick at the scrape from Eva because I'm an idiot, and because it looked cool... and it turned into a small white scar on my upper right arm. I still wonder to this day if I'm Eva's last horcrux...

..And that night I pulled the giant sword of Gryffindor from a sorting hat. Because we all know the sorting was a fluke and I was clearly the bravest person at B'nai Brith Perlman Camp. 

C'est ca. 


PS THIS IS ME AND MOLLIE AT THAT AGE. WOULD YOU MESS WITH US? (PROBABLY) 

Beyonce Lied; Funny Hurts More

Robin Williams' death has deeply affected anyone who has been touched by his limitless performances. Reactions range from anger at his loss, tasteful commemoration of his acting triumphs, to open discussion about mental health issues. The last of which, is my personal favorite.

Our actors by definition have an obligation to distract us from reality. Though they often hit us with more real (It's not your fault,) within that distraction, it's calculated. It's on a screen, not in our lives.. for now. As we saw from Heath Ledger's loss, our actors are not immune from the feelings they fight to instill in us via their talents and efforts. While I'm not saying actors are all at risk or deserving of more attention, it's their entire profession to mirror human nature, so their work and their reactions say a lot more about all of us than we may care to acknowledge.    

Funny characters in a  work, the one's whose technical one dimensional purpose would be to make us laugh, have a tendency to also be the most honest and clear thinking. I believe the Fool in Shakespeare's King Lear helped begin this tradition of "you're laughing at me because it's too difficult for you to acknowledge realities of these awful situations." The Fool has an unparalleled level of clarity, in contrast to his counterparts, and yet he will always be the Fool. Sometimes I'm interested in how Louis CK is even considered a comedian. His brand of humor specifically isn't even funny to me, it's a clear vision of the world. It's people watching on crack. He's just reiterating the world he sees with decent timing. But that is in so many ways the role of the comic. Show us the world in an idea or an observation, and we'll laugh at you because it's too fearful and hard hitting to our core to get near for ourselves.

 One of my favorite Kurt Vonnegut quotes explains, "Humor is an almost physiological response to fear." As someone who has been considered "funny" by some.. I would say that this is the best summary of my inclinations. When I make a sarcastic side comment, it's a subconscious ploy to be loved that has worked time and time again. Which comes from an inherent fear of not being loved. Robin Williams in an '09 interview told us that his second descent into alcoholism was fear induced. "It's just literally being afraid. And you think, oh, this will ease the fear. And it doesn't." No matter how funny, talented, brilliant a man is, he never will be impervious to every day fears.

Everyone has fear, and everyone copes and reacts differently. I hope with William's death, we can continue to learn that no one is immune to fear, depression, or grief; not even the ones who can temporarily relieve us of those exact same plights with their humor and performance as a hilarious cross-dressing nanny. In sum, we've all got to look out for each other, even the ones we least suspect need our help.       

An UnKosher Perspective

I am jealous of my Christian friends.

For one thing, they get Christmas. Which I think we can all agree is a little unfair. Judaism has given me so much, even a free trip to Israel. But I'll never wake up to the smell of pine and the promise of bangin' neatly wrapped gifts as seen on Nickelodeon commercials.. and a part of me mourns that loss..

I could live with the Christmas envy though. Love Actually and its relevance to my life is not even a minor source of the raging green monster inside. It's the ease with which one gets to associate themselves in relation to their beliefs.

Christian people get to be just Christian in America. There are shades of extremeism as with any religion, and fights over interpretations of texts and their political connotations, as with any religion. But my dear Christian friends have no notion of the pressures behind being a Jewish American, or the fact that, to one another, we Jews are viewed to only be as "Jewish" as our stance on a highly controversial country's politics. For us, the choice not to stand with Israel, and firmly, gets perceived as a choice to stand against Israel... And to thus declare oneself to their beloved community, as a "self-hating Jew."

Put aside the fact that many of us grew up in Hebrew school, singing songs about and learning about every Israeli crevice. Or the fact that Birthright showed us the most beautiful landscape, the richest historical background, and some truly incredible people to tie us to this land. Or even the idea that our parents and peers constantly post pro-Israel statement articles and videos, almost aimed at one another in a "who loves Israel more" like contest. Even without all of that, we Jews have an obligation to the country as a source of historical safety and pride. And we love the damn place and all the falafel, hookah, and soldiers who hooked up with us on our Birthright trip, that Israel contains.

But then you see videos of children on all sides of the Israeli issue, dead. And you want to mourn for loss of life, because each of those lives is precious. And you wish it was so simple as to stand behind your country and believe that all of their actions are in line with your values, or even their purported values, but it isn't. You hear fireworks overhead, and thank your lucky stars that you never have to wonder if it's a rocket, and you worry for Israeli friends, but you worry for civilian strangers on the other side too. And you wish you 100% believed every word of every impassioned article, but you don't.

Personally, I am too tied to the whole affair to have any say whatsoever. Whether I talk about these issues with my most staunchly pro-Israel, or anti-Israel friends, my stomach tightens, my face heats up, and I freeze. I've read countless articles and learned so much, and all that learning has led me to one truth; there is no way to learn a full truth. I love Israel with my heart, try to understand it all with my head, and shut up about it to everyone else.

I would never in a million years want to lose the rich cultural life Judasim has introduced me to, or the doors it has opened up, be it friendships, food, or worldly perspectives. But my religion has got some serious baggage. So dearest Christian friends, consider yourselves lucky in a "religious-conflict-ignorance is bliss" sorta way.  And share your nerf guns with me, because my parents never took Hannukah that seriously and I was deprived of these awesome Nickelodeon inspired gifts.

ExSqueeze Me Weirdo

It's incredible how one word can change you. It can create you, destroy you, contort your being in such a manner that you'll never know who you could have been, or should have been, without its existence.

For me, that word is "weird."

As a child, I always wanted to squeeze my friends. I felt so strongly about them, I didn't know how else to show my admiration but to just grab and exert my love such that they could feel it. That squeeze meant I love you to the ends of the earth but I have to hurt you a bit, because it makes me so damn vulnerable. It meant I don't have words for the joy you bring me just by including me and laughing with me, so my body has to speak for me.

Through that hug I hoped to transmit bliss, acceptance, and the thrill I felt from gratitude that they were them and I was me and we connected. It was pure.

I was told early on that this was weird. And it's true, that's totally weird. You can't go around squeezing people all the damn time. There are better ways to express it and people deserve their space. Later on, squeezing turned into biting as my good friends know, and I guess that was even weirder.

But with that word, others unknowingly implied that my impulses were all wrong. I was made to believe that my modes of expression were incorrect, as well as the feelings behind them.  Thus began the coding of exchanges, the creation of an attempted "socially acceptable" self, the watering down of my thick vast mess of a deeply loving heart.

Unfortunately, I think most everyone had that moment. Where change was forced upon them for the sake of "normative" behavior. We dance at parties, text crushes nonchalantly, tell close friends deep secrets only when it's one on one and late at night. Extreme or differing behavior is just plain "weird." But the weird stuff is the fun stuff, the substantive stuff, so often. And to me, the fact that expression is normed makes it even more weird, like we're all in a robot Sim's colony where you can either smile, hug, flirt, or chat about a series of commonalities (wow, I miss the Sims,) and that's it.

You can go your whole life dancing around weird, attempting to avoid the judgmental slap of its use against you, and never succeed. One person's weird book is another's bible. Cool changes constantly, even the word to describe cool changes; groovy, far out, chill... you get the point.

This simple word has quieted me in the past, and inspired me in the present. Basically, all you can do is like what you like, say what you want to say, and squeeze who you want to squeeze as long as no one gets hurt. Surround yourself with the weirdest people you know, they're on to something.

22

MIDNIGHT SHAMBLES

Thank you for the shots

I don't remember them much

Tequila does that
(s/o to Olivia, Itay, Will?)

JIMMY JOHNS

Sandwich to the face

Sorry I called you "shorty"

Strangers make good friends

DENNY'S

Birthday noms fo free

Waiter is just not amused

Old couples high five

THE MALL

Feet dip in fountain

Feeling all of the feelings

Shannon saves the day

DINNER

Earth is our waiter

That was not a metaphor

His real name was Earth

PARTY TIME

Balcony chillen

Until we had Knox trouble

Cake was delicious

END OF BIRTHDAY

Bentley's in shambles

I am now an old woman

Stoop kids are afraid

THANK YOU ALL FOR A GREAT DAY 

Feminism and Fecal Matter

I’ve been looking forward to this post for a long time. As a recent college grad, I’m feeling bold, and ready to take on the topic, no matter how shitty it gets. Hah. Get it? So many more poo puns to come…moving on..

GIRLS POOP. THEY DOODIE. THEY DROP THE KIDS OFF AT THE POOL. ETC.

In case you aren’t clear on what that is, it’s this biological process thing where you excrete waste from your bumhole. All humans do this! Also, most animals. Actually all animals, I looked it up and snakes poo too.. The more you know, right?

Yet there’s this running joke I’ve heard, mostly from men, that girls poop “flowers.” That rainbows and baby unicorns come out of our tushes instead of the nasty brown goo men enjoy bragging about to their friends.

Yes, guys love and thrive in poop culture. They brag about their big ones to their friends, and movies and television portray men on the toilet, pants wrapped around ankles, holding the newspaper all the time. Men are encouraged to enjoy their “wasteful” activity. In Dumb and Dumber, we all gagged along but also laughed when the main character managed to get poop all over the bathroom walls.

 When’s the last time you saw a girl, pants around her ankles, humming whilst reading the paper in a movie or television show?  Sure, in Bridesmaids it’s referred to, but we still see Maya Rudolph quaintly falling in the street in a huge gown, ashamedly covering up the mess. Certainly, no enjoyment there. Recently, a commercial targeted towards women attempted to sell “poopourri,” an odor masking product. A gorgeous British woman in a fancy dress asks, “How can we make the world believe your poo doesn’t stink? Or that you don’t poop at all?”

As a staunch feminist, I find this to be problematic, horseshit, a piece of crap.

Girls are entitled to the same waste, and enjoyment of the deed as men are. In pretending that women don’t have normal body processes, we are forced to instead appear as dainty creatures whose sole purpose is to provide beauty and entertainment in an effort to appear “lady-like.” Any way you look at it, it’s dehumanizing. Another manner in which women are asked to conform to a physically impossible level of desirability. We are not art or any kind of passive beings created for you to gawk at, and therefore we do not poop flora. We are equally human, and we deserve to enjoy this biological process that will certainly remain a part of our EVERY DAY lives FOREVER. Maybe even twice or three times a day if your metabolism is kickin.

Between the smells and the mess, it’s not the most pleasant process, I know. But when you add the level of shame women have to feel about their bodies, the amount of constipated friends I have because they’re too afraid to poop at their boyfriends apartments, we have a problem.  

In essence, women; I challenge you to embrace your poo in all of its glory, and men; I challenge you to quit being such turds about it.