As I sit here “studying” for my last 2 finals of my undergraduate career, I am tempted to reflect back on my four years at the University of Michigan. While I would love to nostalgically recollect all of the hours spent dozing off in the UGLI, all of the ways I have tried to rip off Starbucks, and all of the times I have been reminded that Michigan Hillel Jews are weird as hell, I find myself wholly distracted. I am going to kick myself later for not memorizing all of those stupid paintings for my Art History final tomorrow and blogging instead, but I am both inspired by a competition ignited by a fellow blogger and taken aback at the events that transpired in my so called life last evening.
As I was preparing my roommate for her highly anticipated completion of her preparation for dental school, telling her how smart she is and how the DATS are nothing in comparison to the MCATS, through which I suffered, I received a jarring text message. While I am accustomed to receiving phone calls and/or text messages bearing bad news (“your uncle is dead”, “someone called you a KKK member”, “there is no Glee this week”), I was in no way prepared for this one. Coming from what I know to be a selfish, competitive, and annoyingly sneaky vantage point, an old romantic partner of mine texted me to let me know that a friend of his had just gotten into a medical school that I am anxiously awaiting a decision from. He claimed that, since his friend had just heard back, he was wondering if I had heard anything about my position. Well, fuck me.
As the last person I would like to get this news from, I immediately panicked. A rush of anxiety took over my whole body, causing my intestines to writhe and my skin to shiver. I ran to the bathroom. The combination of learning that I may not get into yet another medical school and be forced to either retake the MCATS or become a prostitute (which I am confident that I would excel at) and seeing his name show up in my inbox and having just participated in a dorm cafeteria feast (don’t even get me started- heaven is a place on earth) was just far too much for my already weakened stomach.
Part of me would love to think that he was asking because he truly cares about me and my success and genuinely wants me to conquer my goals, but I know that this is wishful thinking. I am not arguing, however, that he is an evil person altogether; rather, his is just (again) misinformed. I know that this sudden outreach was completely my fault given that my boredom, to which I have previously alluded and we all now know is epic, took hold of my fingers and texted him a couple of weeks ago to find out how he is. I totally brought this on myself. I admit it. But that doesn’t change the fact that I heard some of the worst news I have heard in weeks from the last person on God’s green earth who I would want to hear it from. It was like some kind of cosmic joke.
How is it possible for someone to have that kind of power over another? How can something so seemingly innocent as a text message propel someone into physical pain? It may just be me. I might just be a crazy person who way over-sweats the small stuff, a drama queen who feeds on situations like this to liven up an otherwise milquetoast (yes, that is a word, pronounced like milk-toast, and I have just successfully used it in context…take that!) life. But I know that I am not alone. I can think of many other people who react in the same way, many other individuals who flip a shit the minute one person comes barging back into their lives. He/she says jump, and we say how high. It’s sad, demeaning, humiliating, disheartening, and true.
I am graduating from college on Saturday. I am joining the ranks of the world’s citizens who actually contribute to society. I am being let out of my alcohol infused, irresponsibility tolerating, noon wake-up encouraging cage and thrown to the wolves. If I am going to make it at all, don’t you think I should grow some thicker skin? Don’t you think I should stop reading into everything so much and take things at face value? Don’t you think I should rearrange my priorities, moving self-preservation to the top and excitement to the bottom? I think so too. But how?
I guess only time will tell. In the meantime, I should probably focus on passing Art History. Ex-boyfriend drama, medical school anxiety, and graduation apprehension are going to have to wait patiently. And, who knows, maybe Obama will have something inspiring to say at commencement. Eh, nevermind.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Those of you who have spoken to me consistently over the past 4 months or so should know that I don’t get out much. Ever since second semester rolled around and I realized that non-science classes are for remedial students (like, seriously, dumb) and I remembered that my grades don’t matter anymore, I have taken to my bed. It is unusual to find be awake before noon, Mondays do not fit into my schedule, and I would RATHER spend my Thursday and Saturday nights doing Sporcle geography quizzes and watching CSI reruns. While this may seem like a dream come true to some of you, and don’t get me wrong, it has been, for the most part, quite pleasant, let us not neglect to realize the ramifications this sedentary lifestyle has had on my body, mind, and soul.
If you hug excessive TV watching with excessive sleeping, you get fat. That bastard child of laziness. There might actually be a real reason why those are called the seven DEADLY sins. My boobs need their own zip code, my clothes are tight in all the wrong places, and mint chocolate chip ice cream has stained all of my sheets. I have not been to the gym in months; in fact, I have done nothing more than walk back and forth from class all semester, and now even that makes me break a sweat. Attractive, I know.
While, after reading the aforementioned information, you might think that I have hit an all-time low, that I could not sink any lower than eating ice cream in my bed while watching The Tudors (even Jonathan Rhys Myers can’t make me put it down), but I have done it. I have outdone myself. All of my time spent indoors, away from anyone other than my roommate and the occasional tête-à-tête with the maintenance man, has made me completely, utterly, wholly, socially inept.
You might be asking yourself: how does one actually forget how to converse with others? How it is possible for someone to forget how to act in public? Well, let me tell you, dear readers, it is very much possible. Let me give you an example. A couple of weeks ago, a few friends and I got together to have a few beers and play some pool at a friend’s house. Sounds fun and social right? Well, my guy friend brought along some fresh meat that night. He had recently become friends with this gorgeous Armenian prince who was totally rocking this Raphael Nadal slash John Mayer look, complete with the leather jacket and the “I definitely did not get this look on purpose” tussled hair. Yum. Needless to say, I was creaming over him. I tried my hardest to catch his eye and give him the “look”. You know, the one that says I am a respectable, nice Jewish girl who is completely sexually available and will do everything in my power to rock your world, if you want. I am not sure if he was picking up on it, but when he finally came over to talk to me, I almost had to go home to change my underwear. He strolled up to me, with his guitar slung across his back, tossed his hair, and asked if I wanted a shot. Stunned and wildly turned on, I looked at him, batted my eyelashes, and said “meh meh um eeeehh weellll nooooo thanks”. Oh. My. God. Was that even English?
Another story. Just the other day, I was “studying” for finals at Hillel, when the cutest boy in the entire school (or, at least, I think), walked in. I have been trying to get his attention for months, but he is super shy and overly dedicated to his work, so it has been impossible to get him to notice me. Well, that, and I don’t leave my room very much. Either way, he walked into Hillel, and I immediately perked up to see if he would say hi. So, I was lying down on one of the couches in the lounge, on the phone, and he finally caught my eye. As he was about to turn into the bathroom, he waved. He waved! And, what do I do, of course? I waved back…with my foot. My foot. Seriously? Who does that?
I do, apparently. Evidently, I use my feet to communicate with people and I don’t speak English. What has happened to me? I’ll tell you what it is—boredom. I have been so bored at school, so cooped up in my apartment, so engrossed in television, that I have forgotten how to be a social person. I have forgotten how to talk to boys. I have forgotten how to flirt. I have lost my mojo. Fuck.
I know why the caged bird sings. Because she is fucking bored, that's why.
If you hug excessive TV watching with excessive sleeping, you get fat. That bastard child of laziness. There might actually be a real reason why those are called the seven DEADLY sins. My boobs need their own zip code, my clothes are tight in all the wrong places, and mint chocolate chip ice cream has stained all of my sheets. I have not been to the gym in months; in fact, I have done nothing more than walk back and forth from class all semester, and now even that makes me break a sweat. Attractive, I know.
While, after reading the aforementioned information, you might think that I have hit an all-time low, that I could not sink any lower than eating ice cream in my bed while watching The Tudors (even Jonathan Rhys Myers can’t make me put it down), but I have done it. I have outdone myself. All of my time spent indoors, away from anyone other than my roommate and the occasional tête-à-tête with the maintenance man, has made me completely, utterly, wholly, socially inept.
You might be asking yourself: how does one actually forget how to converse with others? How it is possible for someone to forget how to act in public? Well, let me tell you, dear readers, it is very much possible. Let me give you an example. A couple of weeks ago, a few friends and I got together to have a few beers and play some pool at a friend’s house. Sounds fun and social right? Well, my guy friend brought along some fresh meat that night. He had recently become friends with this gorgeous Armenian prince who was totally rocking this Raphael Nadal slash John Mayer look, complete with the leather jacket and the “I definitely did not get this look on purpose” tussled hair. Yum. Needless to say, I was creaming over him. I tried my hardest to catch his eye and give him the “look”. You know, the one that says I am a respectable, nice Jewish girl who is completely sexually available and will do everything in my power to rock your world, if you want. I am not sure if he was picking up on it, but when he finally came over to talk to me, I almost had to go home to change my underwear. He strolled up to me, with his guitar slung across his back, tossed his hair, and asked if I wanted a shot. Stunned and wildly turned on, I looked at him, batted my eyelashes, and said “meh meh um eeeehh weellll nooooo thanks”. Oh. My. God. Was that even English?
Another story. Just the other day, I was “studying” for finals at Hillel, when the cutest boy in the entire school (or, at least, I think), walked in. I have been trying to get his attention for months, but he is super shy and overly dedicated to his work, so it has been impossible to get him to notice me. Well, that, and I don’t leave my room very much. Either way, he walked into Hillel, and I immediately perked up to see if he would say hi. So, I was lying down on one of the couches in the lounge, on the phone, and he finally caught my eye. As he was about to turn into the bathroom, he waved. He waved! And, what do I do, of course? I waved back…with my foot. My foot. Seriously? Who does that?
I do, apparently. Evidently, I use my feet to communicate with people and I don’t speak English. What has happened to me? I’ll tell you what it is—boredom. I have been so bored at school, so cooped up in my apartment, so engrossed in television, that I have forgotten how to be a social person. I have forgotten how to talk to boys. I have forgotten how to flirt. I have lost my mojo. Fuck.
I know why the caged bird sings. Because she is fucking bored, that's why.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Me and the First Ammendment
I have received some feedback from readers (yes, I have readers) that my posts are getting a little repetitive. Apparently you all are sick of hearing about women’s inferior place in society and my evil ex-boyfriend; I am tempted to tell you all to go to hell, reminding you (Ellie) that no one is forcing you to read my blog, but I just so happen to have something else on my mind today that I would like to talk about instead. I am obviously open to suggestions and would not mind talking about anything that you guys want me to, no matter how ridiculous. I do love to talk about double standards, gender issues, and my failed relationships, but I love stating my opinion on everything even more. Suggest away.
But, before you do, I would like to draw your attention to an issue that is a far cry from the feminist rants I usually go on. A rant all the same, this topic is equally, if not more, controversial than the stuff I usually talk about and if it offends you in any way, I am sorry. Actually, no I’m not. I have my opinions, you are the one reading my blog, and if it offends you, then go read Al Jezeera and leave me alone. So, reader be warned, this is touchy stuff, but it needs to be said.
Something happened to me yesterday that shook me to my core. I am not a very politically motivated person; there are very few public topics with which I actually take issue, very few national problems that I have actually formed an opinion on. With this in mind, the very few issues that I do care about, I care about passionately. I don’t care about the health care reform, weapons of mass destruction, or the national deficit; however, I do care very much about the Arab-Israeli Conflict in the Middle East. I have visited Israel at least once a year ever since I was old enough to withstand the flight (I was 6 months old), I lived there for a year, I might go to medical school there, and my entire family, grandmother included, lives there right now. Every one of my cousins, including the girls, has served in the Israeli Defense Forces in some capacity and my friends and family outside of Israel support the country to the best of their abilities. Attacking Israel means attacking me.
Accordingly, I have very strong pro-Israel opinions and I fully support all operations and efforts carried out by the IDF. I know the issues, I know the other side’s opinions, and I know the public’s opinion of it all, but Israel is my country and I would like to think that I would give my life for it and its citizens. So when I was personally confronted by an issue regarding my pro-Israel opinions yesterday, I immediately went on the defensive. Basically, in a nutshell, I have been suffering through my Women’s Studies senior seminar all semester. I need it to graduate and it has proven to be more painful than your average 3 hour-long social science lecture. Since the Women’s Studies department, in general, despite the feminist principle that we must be accepting of everyone, expresses predominantly liberal sentiments. Most of the professors and faculty are openly anti-war and pro-choice—expressing anything to the contrary would prove to be economic and social suicide for anyone involved with the department. It comes as no surprise, then, that my senior seminar, whose main topic of discussion SHOULD be Gender and Health, has been punctuated instead with moments of anti-Israel protest. The teachers and guest lecturers have referred to the problems in Israel as the “Israeli Apartheid” and have openly expressed their disdain for the Israeli army and its efforts to maintain peace in the region. Since none of these viewpoints were directly aimed at me and were only said in passing, I sat in my chair, and quietly fumed to myself. It wasn’t worth it to make a scene. But ever since yesterday’s drama, it is now very worth it to do so.
As part of our final project, we were told to make one PowerPoint slide featuring an “artifact”, or thing that represents a lesson we have learned throughout our Women’s Studies education that we had written a reflection paper about during the semester. Since we covered a section in class on militarism, I wrote a reflection paper about how my exposure to my family’s involvement in the Israeli army taught me what it means to fight for a cause. Accordingly, on the slide, I put a picture of my cousin and me, both dressed in her army greens, a picture of an Israeli flag, and a little blurb that explained how I had been taught a lesson in conviction. Pretty harmless. Or so I thought. We had to submit our slides to a girl in our class who had volunteered to compile the overall PowerPoint presentation and prepare it for presentation at the Women’s Studies graduation brunch. So, like everyone else, I finished my slide, and sent it to her. A friend on mine, innocently walking on campus, ran into said volunteer and struck up a conversation with her about the slides that we all had submitted. Keep in mind that this friend (who ran into the volunteer) is also Jewish, went on Birthright, and has expressed her dislike for the anti-Israel rhetoric expressed in the class to me in the past. Anyways, when my friend ran into the girl (we will call her Karen, because no body likes people named Karen. Just ask Dane Cook), Karen said that she had received my slide and was “completely offended” by it. She said that she intends on speaking to our professors (one of whom is Palestinian) and demanding that it be removed from the presentation because “putting up a picture of herself wearing the Israeli army uniform is the same thing as her putting up a picture of herself wearing a KKK uniform.” I kid you not. This is a true story.
No, I’m sorry Karen, now I am offended. The beauty of living in this country and attending a university like this one, where I am free to think and say ANYTHING I want, is that I can say and think what I feel. ANYTHING. Just because you align yourself with a line of thinking that loves censorship and hates dissenting opinions (shout out- you know who you are), doesn’t mean that you have the right to censor me. This is American, honey. For better or for worse, this IS the land of the free.
The worst part about this whole ordeal is that it’s all in limbo. The only way I can actually stand up for my opinions and myself in this case is if my teachers actually ask me to take it down (in order to save face, and their jobs). If they never say anything to me, then I have to endure this quietly and allow Karen to maintain her belief that my convictions are analogous to those of the KKK. I do not feel well versed enough in the issues surrounding the Middle East conflict to be able to state my case accurately and eloquently enough. I would hate to have to come face to face with an argument with Karen. I do not think I would do Israel justice. I would just get angry and frustrated and call her a crazy leftist bitch. I only know my feelings, and on this campus, and in the world in general, those aren’t usually enough.
The KKK! Wow. Just wow. You want to compare me to a group of terrorists who carry out hate crimes on African Americans and even Jews. IM JEWISH! You might at well just call me Hitler. So I guess, Karen, that you have it all figured out. You know all the facts. You live in Israel and see the conflict first-hand. Just like me, you have actually watched a rogue Arab construction worker drive his tractor through downtown Jerusalem, crushing everyone and everything in its path. You, like me, have a cousin who lost her best friend when a terrorist, strapped with a bomb full of nails, blew himself up in a crowded pizza store. And you, like me, have an aunt who lost her boss, an ER doctor who treated everyone who walked into his ER with respect and care despite their conflicting opinions, when he was sitting for coffee at a local cafe with his daughter on her wedding day, and another terrorist walked in, shouted that awful phrase, and blew himself, and the café, to pieces. My aunt felt the bomb’s aftershocks in her apartment 4 blocks away. You know it all. You have experienced it all. You are totally allowed to pass judgment even though you know that those terrorists burn Israeli flags and use their children as human shields.
In truth, I could have said a lot worse. A lot worse. If I wanted to say that all gay people are societal leeches who suck the virtue out of America with their destruction of the institution of marriage and their gay AIDS disease, I could. But I would never, because I don’t believe that at all, but mainly because my parents raised me well and I respect that value of difference. This university prides itself on its respect for diversity, so it really pains me that I encountered such ignorance here. My slide, my opinion, my passions are my prerogative and neither Karen, nor anyone else, has the right to take that away from me. Why? Because the constitution says so. So, God Bless America.
But, before you do, I would like to draw your attention to an issue that is a far cry from the feminist rants I usually go on. A rant all the same, this topic is equally, if not more, controversial than the stuff I usually talk about and if it offends you in any way, I am sorry. Actually, no I’m not. I have my opinions, you are the one reading my blog, and if it offends you, then go read Al Jezeera and leave me alone. So, reader be warned, this is touchy stuff, but it needs to be said.
Something happened to me yesterday that shook me to my core. I am not a very politically motivated person; there are very few public topics with which I actually take issue, very few national problems that I have actually formed an opinion on. With this in mind, the very few issues that I do care about, I care about passionately. I don’t care about the health care reform, weapons of mass destruction, or the national deficit; however, I do care very much about the Arab-Israeli Conflict in the Middle East. I have visited Israel at least once a year ever since I was old enough to withstand the flight (I was 6 months old), I lived there for a year, I might go to medical school there, and my entire family, grandmother included, lives there right now. Every one of my cousins, including the girls, has served in the Israeli Defense Forces in some capacity and my friends and family outside of Israel support the country to the best of their abilities. Attacking Israel means attacking me.
Accordingly, I have very strong pro-Israel opinions and I fully support all operations and efforts carried out by the IDF. I know the issues, I know the other side’s opinions, and I know the public’s opinion of it all, but Israel is my country and I would like to think that I would give my life for it and its citizens. So when I was personally confronted by an issue regarding my pro-Israel opinions yesterday, I immediately went on the defensive. Basically, in a nutshell, I have been suffering through my Women’s Studies senior seminar all semester. I need it to graduate and it has proven to be more painful than your average 3 hour-long social science lecture. Since the Women’s Studies department, in general, despite the feminist principle that we must be accepting of everyone, expresses predominantly liberal sentiments. Most of the professors and faculty are openly anti-war and pro-choice—expressing anything to the contrary would prove to be economic and social suicide for anyone involved with the department. It comes as no surprise, then, that my senior seminar, whose main topic of discussion SHOULD be Gender and Health, has been punctuated instead with moments of anti-Israel protest. The teachers and guest lecturers have referred to the problems in Israel as the “Israeli Apartheid” and have openly expressed their disdain for the Israeli army and its efforts to maintain peace in the region. Since none of these viewpoints were directly aimed at me and were only said in passing, I sat in my chair, and quietly fumed to myself. It wasn’t worth it to make a scene. But ever since yesterday’s drama, it is now very worth it to do so.
As part of our final project, we were told to make one PowerPoint slide featuring an “artifact”, or thing that represents a lesson we have learned throughout our Women’s Studies education that we had written a reflection paper about during the semester. Since we covered a section in class on militarism, I wrote a reflection paper about how my exposure to my family’s involvement in the Israeli army taught me what it means to fight for a cause. Accordingly, on the slide, I put a picture of my cousin and me, both dressed in her army greens, a picture of an Israeli flag, and a little blurb that explained how I had been taught a lesson in conviction. Pretty harmless. Or so I thought. We had to submit our slides to a girl in our class who had volunteered to compile the overall PowerPoint presentation and prepare it for presentation at the Women’s Studies graduation brunch. So, like everyone else, I finished my slide, and sent it to her. A friend on mine, innocently walking on campus, ran into said volunteer and struck up a conversation with her about the slides that we all had submitted. Keep in mind that this friend (who ran into the volunteer) is also Jewish, went on Birthright, and has expressed her dislike for the anti-Israel rhetoric expressed in the class to me in the past. Anyways, when my friend ran into the girl (we will call her Karen, because no body likes people named Karen. Just ask Dane Cook), Karen said that she had received my slide and was “completely offended” by it. She said that she intends on speaking to our professors (one of whom is Palestinian) and demanding that it be removed from the presentation because “putting up a picture of herself wearing the Israeli army uniform is the same thing as her putting up a picture of herself wearing a KKK uniform.” I kid you not. This is a true story.
No, I’m sorry Karen, now I am offended. The beauty of living in this country and attending a university like this one, where I am free to think and say ANYTHING I want, is that I can say and think what I feel. ANYTHING. Just because you align yourself with a line of thinking that loves censorship and hates dissenting opinions (shout out- you know who you are), doesn’t mean that you have the right to censor me. This is American, honey. For better or for worse, this IS the land of the free.
The worst part about this whole ordeal is that it’s all in limbo. The only way I can actually stand up for my opinions and myself in this case is if my teachers actually ask me to take it down (in order to save face, and their jobs). If they never say anything to me, then I have to endure this quietly and allow Karen to maintain her belief that my convictions are analogous to those of the KKK. I do not feel well versed enough in the issues surrounding the Middle East conflict to be able to state my case accurately and eloquently enough. I would hate to have to come face to face with an argument with Karen. I do not think I would do Israel justice. I would just get angry and frustrated and call her a crazy leftist bitch. I only know my feelings, and on this campus, and in the world in general, those aren’t usually enough.
The KKK! Wow. Just wow. You want to compare me to a group of terrorists who carry out hate crimes on African Americans and even Jews. IM JEWISH! You might at well just call me Hitler. So I guess, Karen, that you have it all figured out. You know all the facts. You live in Israel and see the conflict first-hand. Just like me, you have actually watched a rogue Arab construction worker drive his tractor through downtown Jerusalem, crushing everyone and everything in its path. You, like me, have a cousin who lost her best friend when a terrorist, strapped with a bomb full of nails, blew himself up in a crowded pizza store. And you, like me, have an aunt who lost her boss, an ER doctor who treated everyone who walked into his ER with respect and care despite their conflicting opinions, when he was sitting for coffee at a local cafe with his daughter on her wedding day, and another terrorist walked in, shouted that awful phrase, and blew himself, and the café, to pieces. My aunt felt the bomb’s aftershocks in her apartment 4 blocks away. You know it all. You have experienced it all. You are totally allowed to pass judgment even though you know that those terrorists burn Israeli flags and use their children as human shields.
In truth, I could have said a lot worse. A lot worse. If I wanted to say that all gay people are societal leeches who suck the virtue out of America with their destruction of the institution of marriage and their gay AIDS disease, I could. But I would never, because I don’t believe that at all, but mainly because my parents raised me well and I respect that value of difference. This university prides itself on its respect for diversity, so it really pains me that I encountered such ignorance here. My slide, my opinion, my passions are my prerogative and neither Karen, nor anyone else, has the right to take that away from me. Why? Because the constitution says so. So, God Bless America.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
He's a Stud, She's a Slut
As one of the hottest buzzwords ever dwelled on by feminists, the notion of the double standard has punctuated my women’s studies education. I had learned about the concept’s existence the hard way, but I had never known that it was academically recognized and analyzed until I started taking women’s studies classes. For those of you who don’t know it by its formal title, to put it plainly in the words of one of my favorite teeny-bopper train wrecks, a double standard, according to Christina Aguilera’s “Can’t Hold Us Down” is where “the guy gets all the glory, the more he can score, while a girl can do the same, and yet you call her a whore.” That about sums it up, X-tina. It’s perfectly acceptable for a guy to run around, bobbing his apple in anything with a pulse, and still come home and kiss his mamma with those lips, while we all know what would happen if a girl did the same. Whore! Slut! Skank! I became women’s studies major because I have been putting up with this double standard in one way or another ever since I bought my first bra from Limited Too and, frankly, it’s a getting a little old. You would think that with all the advances in society, that it would be a little passé by now, that everyone would just realize that, despite our differences (that I both recognize and accept), that girls can do pretty much anything as well as boys. So then what holds us back? What is preventing the double standard from disappearing?
Whenever I find myself pondering about these sorts of things, I always come back to the same problem: society is so concerned with organizing everyone and everything into neat little boxes, yet no one really fits precisely into those allotted categories. Thus, if the boxes that are designed as exemplars upon which we must map ourselves fail to incorporate that which we must map, then the problem, to me, isn’t the people who fall short of the boxes, but, rather, the boxes themselves. It’s not us, it’s the system. Patriarchy is what holds us back; the notion that we, as women, must be sexually constrained and naïve. Hence, those women who take pleasure in sex, who are in tune with their sexual needs and desires, and who—god forbid—act on them, are, as a result of their failure to fit into the pure, pious woman box, are labeled deviant—the girl that the guy would fuck, not the girl that he would take home to that very same mamma whose lips he kisses, still tasting of fornication and vodka.
I have experienced the ramifications of this double standard firsthand so many times it’s dizzying. As perhaps the most memorable of these experiences, my relationship with my previous boyfriend (for lack of a better word) serves as the quintessential example of all things contradictory. We were 20-years-old when we met. Not old, but not very young either; we had each had a sufficient amount of sexual experience under our belts (no pun intended). The only difference was that he had had a girlfriend throughout all of high school, whereas I did not. Qualitatively, we had each experienced an equal amount of sexual exposure, for we were on the same page sexually when we became involved. Quantitatively, however, I may have been ahead of the game. Even if I didn’t beat him in the numbers department (we never compared and that was probably the best move we ever made), I did beat him when it came to still keeping in touch, and even being good friends with the people with whom I had swapped spit. It was all a result of circumstances. I never had a high school boyfriend, so I experimented sexually with the people around me, those who I trusted. It just so happened (oh, my luck) that those people with whom I had experimented all went to the same school as my ex-boyfriend. He was lab partners with one of them. This killed him. This killed our relationship. He could not handle the fact that I had “hooked up with all of my friends”. It was unacceptable to him that I had been with other people before him. I tried to reason with him, to tell him that it was all a part of the past, a past he could not change. I tried to convince him, time and time again, that my sexual experiences prior to him should not matter. But, because I was trying so hard to make him see that he was all I wanted, I ended up claiming that I had regretted making out with all those people. I didn’t, and I don’t. I wanted to make him see the light so badly, so I tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze myself into the box. I could not fit. I didn’t have the heart to make myself fit.
What shocked me the most about this ordeal was that anytime I made the argument that he should not care about my past hook-ups because he too had his fair share of one night stands, he would have none of it. It was almost as if that didn’t matter. But, it does matter. I laid awake at night, after hours and hours of saying “I love you, why cant you see that” without ever really saying it, wondering why it was okay that he had hooked up with half of New York (including my sister’s roommate. If I ever get her alone, I will kill her. I swear it), but it was unforgivable that I had played strip poker one Friday night and ended up making out with his future lab partner when I was eleventh grade. It still boggles my mind.
But I know why he thought that way. I know why they all think that way. Because society says so. Because women are supposed to be demur and pure and modest and chaste and pious and innocent and…sexually available? Whoa! That’s one tall order, and that is so not me.
What do we do to stop this? How can we change the system? How do we eradicate the double standard so we all can be free to fuck who we want, when we want, without ever having to worry that our future boyfriends will use it against us? Become an activist? Burn our bras? Write a blog?
Can we change it at all? I don’t know. Taking on the age-old system would prove to be quite a daunting task I am sure. For now, I am content with recognizing that it exists and talking about it with as many people as I can so that they recognize it too. If we talk about it, write about it, sing about it enough, then maybe someone really capable of changing something will hear it. Until then…Sing it Christina!
Whenever I find myself pondering about these sorts of things, I always come back to the same problem: society is so concerned with organizing everyone and everything into neat little boxes, yet no one really fits precisely into those allotted categories. Thus, if the boxes that are designed as exemplars upon which we must map ourselves fail to incorporate that which we must map, then the problem, to me, isn’t the people who fall short of the boxes, but, rather, the boxes themselves. It’s not us, it’s the system. Patriarchy is what holds us back; the notion that we, as women, must be sexually constrained and naïve. Hence, those women who take pleasure in sex, who are in tune with their sexual needs and desires, and who—god forbid—act on them, are, as a result of their failure to fit into the pure, pious woman box, are labeled deviant—the girl that the guy would fuck, not the girl that he would take home to that very same mamma whose lips he kisses, still tasting of fornication and vodka.
I have experienced the ramifications of this double standard firsthand so many times it’s dizzying. As perhaps the most memorable of these experiences, my relationship with my previous boyfriend (for lack of a better word) serves as the quintessential example of all things contradictory. We were 20-years-old when we met. Not old, but not very young either; we had each had a sufficient amount of sexual experience under our belts (no pun intended). The only difference was that he had had a girlfriend throughout all of high school, whereas I did not. Qualitatively, we had each experienced an equal amount of sexual exposure, for we were on the same page sexually when we became involved. Quantitatively, however, I may have been ahead of the game. Even if I didn’t beat him in the numbers department (we never compared and that was probably the best move we ever made), I did beat him when it came to still keeping in touch, and even being good friends with the people with whom I had swapped spit. It was all a result of circumstances. I never had a high school boyfriend, so I experimented sexually with the people around me, those who I trusted. It just so happened (oh, my luck) that those people with whom I had experimented all went to the same school as my ex-boyfriend. He was lab partners with one of them. This killed him. This killed our relationship. He could not handle the fact that I had “hooked up with all of my friends”. It was unacceptable to him that I had been with other people before him. I tried to reason with him, to tell him that it was all a part of the past, a past he could not change. I tried to convince him, time and time again, that my sexual experiences prior to him should not matter. But, because I was trying so hard to make him see that he was all I wanted, I ended up claiming that I had regretted making out with all those people. I didn’t, and I don’t. I wanted to make him see the light so badly, so I tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze myself into the box. I could not fit. I didn’t have the heart to make myself fit.
What shocked me the most about this ordeal was that anytime I made the argument that he should not care about my past hook-ups because he too had his fair share of one night stands, he would have none of it. It was almost as if that didn’t matter. But, it does matter. I laid awake at night, after hours and hours of saying “I love you, why cant you see that” without ever really saying it, wondering why it was okay that he had hooked up with half of New York (including my sister’s roommate. If I ever get her alone, I will kill her. I swear it), but it was unforgivable that I had played strip poker one Friday night and ended up making out with his future lab partner when I was eleventh grade. It still boggles my mind.
But I know why he thought that way. I know why they all think that way. Because society says so. Because women are supposed to be demur and pure and modest and chaste and pious and innocent and…sexually available? Whoa! That’s one tall order, and that is so not me.
What do we do to stop this? How can we change the system? How do we eradicate the double standard so we all can be free to fuck who we want, when we want, without ever having to worry that our future boyfriends will use it against us? Become an activist? Burn our bras? Write a blog?
Can we change it at all? I don’t know. Taking on the age-old system would prove to be quite a daunting task I am sure. For now, I am content with recognizing that it exists and talking about it with as many people as I can so that they recognize it too. If we talk about it, write about it, sing about it enough, then maybe someone really capable of changing something will hear it. Until then…Sing it Christina!
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