Archive | July, 2012

I’d like to register a complaint…

18 Jul

First things first.  For those boys out there who tell themselves that women don’t fart or poop and tell their friends that oft repeated “joke” about women being the only things that bleed for 7 days and don’t die — not funny, by the way, never was and never will be — this is not the blog post for you.  For the rest, read on.

I would like to register a complaint with New York City for a severe lack of public restrooms.  Seriously, it’s crazy.  As a woman in the midst of my menstruating years, I do not enjoy having to keep track of all usable restrooms in the city during those few blessed days.  And, furthermore, as a woman with a relatively heavy flow, I do not enjoy being tethered to my house during the more, er, active days.  When in India I was not overly shocked by my need to attend to my situation in a dark, dank, roach and rat infested back room of a YMCA in a small town wearing a headlamp.  That is not, however, something I wish to stoop to in my home city.  Of course, having access to a dark, dank, roach and rat infested back room of a YMCA in a big city, with or without headlamp, would be preferable to tense moments spent sitting on the subway, wishing the train would move faster and hoping against hope that I make it home before the dreaded leak.  And, while I am at it, I would like to register a few more complaints, if I may.  First, to the Johnson & Johnson Company, owner of my beloved OBs, who pulled the product off the shelves for months in late 2010 through early 2011.  When the OBs finally returned (although they still are not stocked by my local CVS, another complaint I would like to register at this time) one of the crucial sizes was decidedly missing:  the purple-colored Ultra.  By now I am sure you understand that as a woman plagued both by a heavy flow and a city devoid of public restroom, these Ultras were my life blood, no pun intended.  And I am not the only one who feels the sting of loss!  A quick search on ebay revealed that a single 40 count box of OB Ultras, previously $9 at my neighborhood pharmacy, are now selling for $40.  (Anyone previously unsure what to buy me for my birthday this year, consider yourself informed.)    Why, oh why did they discontinue such a necessary item for the comfort, both physical and mental, of so many women?  Maybe we can gather some insight through a quote from this Jezebel article:

…if you check out information about OB Super Plus (AKA Ultra), you are greeted with a box asking the question, “Heavy Periods?” Clicking this box sends you to a site called Pelvic Health Solutions, which in turn suggests that if you have heavy periods, you may have menorrhagia, in which case you should find a doctor, go on the some kind of birth control or get a hysterectomy.

As the woman who penned the petition asking for OB Ultra to return writes: “I did find it pretty upsetting that O.B. chose to explain no longer carrying the Ultra tampons by posting a link that implies there is something wrong with those of us who prefer using them.”

There is nothing wrong with me, despite a severe lack of access to public restrooms at semi-regular intervals which, as you know, I have already registered a complaint about.  So, until OB Ultra is returned to the shelves, which I hear will be happening sometime in the near future, I suppose I will throw a headlamp in my bag and go about my day as usual while listening to this Johnson&Johnson song (on repeat) which apologizes to all of us OB Ultra loyalists for the discontinuation of our trusty cotton insert.

Rant over.

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When is it safe to be outspoken?

16 Jul

I.

This past weekend I had one of those experiences that goes into the negative column of my pluses and minuses analysis of being a bartender in New York City.  It was my second night working until 4am in a row and, if you know me, you know I am not at my best on little sleep.  Around 9:30pm, about 1.5 hours into my 8 hour shift, these two guys walk in.  One of them orders a vodka soda, the other an orange juice.  I serve them and go about my business.  Every time I look over, the one with the alcoholic beverage is looking at me expectantly, despite the fact that his drink is almost full.  I walk over to see what he wants (a glass of water, perhaps?) and he looks me up and down and says, in a thick Russian accent while simultaneously miming squeezing someone’s ass cheeks,

Those shorts look nice but they could be tighter.

Cue Rebekah’s Blind Rage.  I do a few quick deep-breathing exercises, turn to the asshole sitting across the bar from me and say

Yea, this isn’t going to go like that.  Mind your manners or leave.

I continue doing my job, hoping that the many shades of anger have drained from my cheeks.  Whenever I look up, however, the man is still staring and I vaguely hear him asking me questions.  Do I work out?  What’s my name?  Where do I hang out?  Okay, that is it. I grab the man’s credit card from where I had placed it behind me, run it through the machine, and slap his card and receipt down in front of him.  He gently takes it, signs it, and pushes it back towards me.  Good, I think, he got it.  But that would be too easy.

Can I get another drink?

No.  There are plenty of other bars around here that you can go to but, just a word to the wise… keep your opinions about your bartender’s wardrobe to yourself if you want to be welcome anywhere for more than 5 minutes.

And then the fun really begins.  He stares across the bar at me with this awful little smirk on his face, arms folded in front of him while his friend looks on with knowing silence.  Clearly this wasn’t his first rodeo.  I stand there, staring back, blood pressure rising.  I tell him to leave, he seems to think his comment was completely acceptable.  I get more and more annoyed.  He isn’t going anywhere and I’ve decided neither am I.  I am fully aware that as long as I am standing in front of him, he is going to try and stay in control of the situation but I just can’t allow it to happen.  I have to prove a point, even though I know the point will be completely drowned in his misogyny.  He tells me I am harassing him.  Clearly he needs a dictionary.  Finally, I’ve had it and I say, calmly with my arm pointing towards the exit,

Get the fuck out of my bar.

And, all hell breaks loose.

What did you say to me?  You wouldn’t say that to me on the street, bitch!

I absolutely would, actually.

You whore!  I will kill you!  When I see you out of here I will fucking kill you!  I will knock you down and spill your blood on the street!*

At this point, standing up to achieve the highest possible level of intimidation and still yelling his head off, his accent getting thicker with each spat threat, he reaches a pointed finger across the bar and, unintentionally I think, pokes me violently in the bottom lip.  His face registers just the tiniest bit of shock and he turns on his heel and walks out of the bar, friend silently following behind.  My anger goes through the roof.  I storm down the length of the bar, and out the front door, screaming at him as he retreats down the street.  Some friends and regulars of the bar, looking an even mixture of confused and concerned, pursue the man down the street and I retreat to the office to catch my breath, leaving the fate of the bar to my bar back who was of relatively little help during the whole altercation.  My boss and I check the business name on the card, a garbage and carting business.  Great.  As usual I get into it with the wrong guy.

*This is not a word-for-word quotation but I’m pretty sure I got all the key phrases down.

II.

There was, of course, the inevitable moment when I retraced the build-up to the blow-out, thought about all the things I did and what I could have done differently.  Did I overreact?  Should I have just ignored him?  Could the whole thing have been completely avoided?  Could I have calmed this man down rather than riling him up?  The list of questions amassed, relating to ways that I, the victim of sexism, verbal abuse and assault had actually been the instigator.  How classic.  This then led me, the next day, to a downward-thought spiral about what it means to be female.  It means that, to many, my body is public property there to be ogled, critiqued and touched.  It means I have to think about when it is safe for me to stand up for myself and when it is best to put my head down and walk faster.  It means that, as much as I disagree with this, I feel compelled to contemplate my outfit before I leave the house lest it lead to additional attention that I don’t want, am not looking for, did not ask for.  I know that me calling this man out on his behavior was not the most productive use of my time, anger, righteousness, but behind the bar, for the most part, I am safe and, for once, powerful.  I have something that he wants and cannot just take.

On the other side, though, his over-sized reaction got me thinking about issues of power, powerlessness and safety.  I know what my capacity for violence and reaction is.  I can assume where that line lies for most of the people I come across but there are some, mostly male, oftentimes white, who have never had their privilege questioned by someone they see as lesser than they whose actions I cannot predict.  It was at that moment when I realized I was not safe.  As a woman, I am not safe.  The power dynamic between genders that flourishes, oftentimes unchallenged, in everyday life is one that puts me at an express disadvantage.  I am worth less, I have less ownership of my body and because of these things it is my responsibility to pick my battles wisely because, in asserting my own equality, in demanding respect, my body can easily become the battleground and that is a battle that, sadly, I would lose.

I do not regret what I did and, if placed in the same situation tomorrow, I would handle it the same way.  But I will take the experience as a teaching moment in which I got a glimpse into the depth of violent anger possessed by, and uncontrolled by, someone else.  It’s a scary thing to face.  I was (relatively) safe where I stood and I had plenty of people there to back me up.  But if I came up against that guy on the street, alone, and hurled my favorite choice words in response to his degrading comments, I might not have been so lucky.  It’s an unfortunate reality.  What we as women face is not only violent language, it’s violent actions and in the latter case we are largely disadvantaged, we will oftentimes lose.  It’s something to keep in mind.  For me, for all of us.

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Was that you kissing my boyfriend last night?

12 Jul

Yesterday I received the following message on Facebook:

Hi,

I really hope this is the same Rebekah I met last night. If not than this message will be even more awkward than it already is. I first would like to apologize for how rude I was last evening. But to be fair I did think I walked in on you and my boyfriend making out. I know that this does not concern you at all this is between him and I, but he swears i’m seeing shit and that it’s not true. And while I do trust him, it’s really easy to believe things you want to hear. I’m sure you understand what i’m saying because most girls go through this situation. So the purpose of this letter is to find out what really happened. Because I don’t want to be made a fool of or be with someone who is going to lie and cheat on me. I’ve been down that road one two many times. But I would really just appreciate the truth. And i’m sorry to have been a rude bitch last night and now to be messaging you about it. I’m sure you think i’m one whacky one.

Anyways sorry to have gotten off on the wrong foot, i’m sure your a lovely person.

And my response:

This actually isn’t the same Rebekah, unless I was somewhere I don’t remember being doing something I don’t remember doing which would be highly problematic. Anyway, good luck figuring everything out.

So there are three things that I am curious about after having read this message and done the most cursory of background checks on the sender, ie I looked at as much of her page as was allowed without us being “friends.”  One, how in the world did she find me on Facebook because all of my privacy settings make it so I am unsearchable unless you are either friends with a friend of mine or super crafty.  Two, did she actually walk in on this other Rebekah making out with her boyfriend?  Three, how did she graduate from college with such…creative…. spelling and grammar?

Also, I would just like to say I feel a little bit like an asshole for posting this because the sender was rather embarrassed by her misidentification of me as the boyfriend kisser but I couldn’t help myself.  It was just too awesome.

Proclaimed Busyness

5 Jul

Busyness.  Or supposed busyness.  Claimed busyness.  It is something that has driven me crazy for years and something I could never quite articulate.  Why do people compete with one another to see who is the busyiest?  Who is so put upon that they don’t have time to do any of the enjoyable things in life?  Who is so awkwardly proud about that?  And, why do I care about how much more packed your day is than mine?  Well, finally someone has done it.  Tim Kreider of the New York Times wrote this article about the boastful complaint of busyness and I think in a lot of ways he hits the nail on the head.  He points out that

it isn’t generally people pulling back-to-back shifts in the I.C.U. or commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs who tell you how busy they are; what those people are is not busy but tired. Exhausted. Dead on their feet. It’s almost always people whose lamented busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve ‘encouraged’ their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and dread what they might have to face in its absence.

He then continues.

The present hysteria is not a necessary or inevitable condition of life; it’s something we’ve chosen, if only by our acquiescence to it…. It’s not as if any of us wants to live like this, any more than any one person wants to be part of a traffic jam or stadium trampling or the hierarchy of cruelty in high school — it’s something we collectively force one another to do.

It’s true.  And, I’ve noticed, it is largely though the guilt attributed to the feeling of having free time.  There are plenty of things I do, like watching The 15 Biggest Tear-Jerking Moments in Summer Olympic History*, that I don’t necessarily tell people about because I can’t stand to hear the retort of “Oh, I’m just too busy to watch something like that.”  Talk about making someone feel useless and indulgent, you know?  But maybe Kreider’s existentialist musings can add a little insight.

I can’t help but wonder whether all this histrionic exhaustion isn’t a way of covering up the fact that most of what we do doesn’t matter.

And then in the conclusion Kreider addresses the issue that might have popped up a bit throughout his piece.  That it is a luxury for one to choose a life that allows for long bike rides in the middle of the day and routine drinks with friends at night.

My own resolute idleness has mostly been a luxury rather than a virtue, but I did make a conscious decision, a long time ago, to choose time over money, since I’ve always understood that the best investment of my limited time on earth was to spend it with people I love.

For some people, due to their skill set, the impacts of institutionalized sexism and racism and a myriad other isms, their time, unfortunately, is not worth enough monetarily to allow them to invest quite as much of it with loved ones as Kreider claims to.  And that’s a shame.  But those of us who do have the ability to spend time with friends and family should make an effort to do so, and we shouldn’t have to schedule it in or make people feel like burden on us.  Those of us who aren’t so busy as to be tired to the bone should feel proud, not ashamed, and we should hope that some day everyone will be so lucky.
* Definitely watch the one about Derek Redmond, a real tear-jerker.  That is, if you aren’t too busy.

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