Andrea

Last Saturday night, I planned on driving to my boyfriends place, for a surprise visit. But after I couldn’t find a parking spot, I gave into the fact that I had to walk. I don’t usually feel unsafe in the area where I live – I walk to school pretty much every day. But at night, the confidence that I feel walking alone in West Campus changes.

As I was walking the mile or so to his place, I passed by the porches of fraternities and other homes with groups of loud, drunk boys. Sometimes I would see other people, walking alone and in groups. Some people were waiting for the bus. Vans and SUVs drove near me, sometimes slower than I would have liked. The streets were darker and more empty than I would prefer. Several things that I remember while I’m walking don’t help this overwhelming anxiety that I’m feeling.

Herbert’s article, from my last post, was right when it said that media was so littered with violence and insult against women that people just aren’t recognizing it for what it is. People have become so immune to misogyny that we don’t even recognize it as insulting anymore. Today I came across probably one of the most nauseating articles that I’ve read in a while. I was linked to it from an article which reported the gruesome murder of Adrian “Addie” Hall – a woman in the midst of New Orleans during hurricane Katrina, who came up with a desperate way in which to assure that there was a regularly patrolling officer near her house – by flashing them when they came by.

This isn't going to be a commentary from me. I just wanted to forward an article that I just read to all of you. Written by Bob Herbert from the NY Times, I think it succinctly captures a lot of the things going through our heads since the shootings in PA. Enjoy.

Why Aren’t We Shocked?

By BOB HERBERT
Published: October 16, 2006

"Who needs a brain when you have these?"
— message on an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt for young women

"In the recent shootings at an Amish schoolhouse in rural Pennsylvania and a large public high school in Colorado, the killers went out of their way to separate the girls from the boys, and then deliberately attacked only the girls.

Wow. It really has been a long time. I guess lately I’ve just been so sick of writing for school that I convinced myself there wasn’t anything more to write about. One of those lethargic droughts where you’d rather nap for hours than do anything productive, or interesting even. But something really shook me up, recently.

This post is dedicated to somebody that I only briefly knew, who passed away this past week. It was a shock to me, only because she was one of my favorite people in the world – even though I didn’t know her too well on a personal level. But I think she was a lot of people’s favorite person. Ever since I lost touch with her, I would always wonder what amazing things she was up to, where she was in the world, if she was still happy. Devin Adams was one of the most spontaneous, caring, genuine people that I’d ever known. The type that would run up to people and give them hugs or kisses, just because. The type to wear rollerskates to a show. To make you feel better, just by being in the same room with her. The type to be proactive about everything and anything that she felt wasn’t right. One of those people that everybody aspires to be – completely free, aware of the worlds imperfections and yet still happy. Beaming, even. Always.

So my Philosophy class is requiring me to read Plato’s Republic. I’m enthusiastic about the idea of a Utopian novel, and actually being able to say that I’ve read it, but otherwise it has been a bore. Rich, bearded Greek men, sitting on a porch, probably drinking lemonade, and chatting until the sun comes up, is not very climactic. As a preface, these are Socrates’ words, through Plato’s writing. Socrates is a wise elder that likes to ask questions about the world. Sounds a little boring, I know.

But I’m suddenly intrigued by it. About halfway through the book, the topic of gender comes up. I’m going to share with you a couple of lines of dialogue that really perked up my ears.

It’s hard for me to believe, but last night was my first time to ever fully assert myself in public. I can agree with Daniella’s ‘Clean-up on Aisle Nine’ post when I say that I feel like I did it because of, and on behalf of you girls.

The night was fun, in general. A lot of parties got shut down, so we went to a smaller get-together at my friend’s house. There was a large mix of people there – people that had just been to the game, a couple of my friends, and so on. The mood is good.

So I go to use the bathroom, right? I press the lock on the door, and it’s shut. Somehow, one of the dumb&@*)’s that was there managed to undo the lock and open the door. There were people laughing, and trying to look in. Thinking it was just a mistake, I ask him to shut the door. But he doesn’t. He leaves it wide open. Feeling thoroughly humiliated, I get up and shut it myself, while they’re still laughing.

So. The first day of the first weekend at the (now official) #1 party school in the country, on labor day weekend, after our football team won a game. These stipulations might point to a wild, wild weekend for most people, but I was left feeling rather unaccomplished and disappointed.

I woke up, and my boyfriend and I decided to get a few of our extra school-things over and done with. I put on some short shorts and a red top and we headed out to get our Course Packets and return a book or two. Right when we left, we realized it was a game day because there wasn’t a single person not wearing a burnt orange shirt. It was only among a crowd of people that I realized my shorts might be too short to wear in public, so I spent a majority of my outing trying to pull them down while at the same time keeping a vast majority of my stomach covered. Hmm…and I thought I looked good before I went out.

Before I was a part of the AGA, I’d never been heavily involved in any community that was exclusively for women. I had always wanted to be, but never knew where I could find an outlet like that, outside of particular music genres, slumber parties, or girl-cliques in High School. Sororities were what I had to look forward to, if I wanted to be involved with a community specifically made for girls, and that was pretty much it.

But after moving last Friday to a new house, going to school with a new major, and enjoying new volunteer opportunities, I can tell that I’m going to have everything that I wanted for this year, and my ambition to find cool girl-communities is being fulfilled with a vengeance.

When I was little, I thought I would eventually grow into a size 5, be 6’0 (3 feet of which would be my legs,) and have long, thick hair – just like a supermodel. It was inevitable. Whether my genetics agreed or not, that was just the way it was gonna be. Nothing else was really an option, because I wanted to be somebody. And incidentally, the only bodies that I had to look up to were size 5’s.

The other day I was looking through a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and it made me so acutely aware of my failed figure. My body’s fully developed now, so there’s not much more to look forward to – no more fantasies of what it’ll look like in the future. And now that it’s final, I find myself noticing where I fall short – not just in a Victoria’s Secret catalog, but in advertisements, television programs, movies and bilboards.

There are very, very few things that make my blood rise to temperatures above 100 degrees, my face turn rosey and steam come out of my ears, but a while ago I found one. This was written by an old friend of mine from High School. When I knew her, she was an outspoken, left-wing, debate extraordinaire and she was one of my closest friends. I’m not entirely sure what prompted such a 180 in her personal agenda. A lot of my close friends have different values than me, but I’ve never felt directly attacked by them, like I was when she posted this in her blog:

“Feminists For Life

If you were a feminist, you wouldnt be suggesting that the way for a woman to assert herself is to hop on a table and allow an (unnecessary) invasive surgical procedure to violate the sanctity of her body in order to have larger instrumental value to society.

When I was in second grade, we learned abbreviations. Doctor goes to Dr., Boulevard goes to Blvd., and Mister goes to Mr. But then came a tricky part. Because well…there’s Miss, which stays Miss. There’s misses which goes to Mrs. And then there’s Miz, which goes to Ms. But how do you explain to second graders that, while they all inherently mean the same thing – the formal way to address a woman – they’re all different, in that while you’re addressing the woman, you’re also addressing the touchy subject of if she is “on the market.” Sure, you can sweeten it up with a quick “One means you’re married, the other means you’re not,” but this is nothing more than a cop-out. Webster’s New World Dictionary defines each as such:

I’m reading the ‘Sisterhood Is Forever’ anthology of essays by Robin Morgan…I’m not even a third way into the book, and I’m already super inspired – Pat Schroeder, an accidental congresswoman; Andrea Dworkin, Angry and Outspoken activist extraordinaire; Florence Howe, Feminist Press founder, professor, leader in the emerging Women’s Studies…

There’s something about art by women that makes me feel energized, like I’ve just drunk a huge cup of coffee – like I need to do something productive, or else the energy will fade and be worthless. When I had this feeling as a kid, I would play guitar or bass or piano or violin – practice for the multiple grrrl bands I was destined to be in. But right now, I think writing is working for me.

My roommate from college recently did some (very awesome) artwork for some band that she knew from High School. She felt like she should make an appearance at their CD release party, so out of the kindness of my heart (and the loneliness of my summer) I went along. Previous to last Saturday, and excluding Sonic Youth last month, I hadn’t been to a show in well over two years. My memories of “suburban subcultures” were pretty fond – small local punk shows, a generally forward-moving (and/or stagnant) political atmosphere where everybody cared and was genuinely interested in each other. There was even a slight feminist tinge to it. Even if it wasn’t apparent, you always knew that you could call people on their BS. Nobody was exclusively mean to girls, and beauty and adoration wasn’t really a goal. Despite the moderate lack of girls in bands (and the fact that I still had to be dropped off and picked up by my parents,) everything was relatively peachy.

The one definite plan that I had for this summer vacation, besides getting an hourly job (which, oddly enough, after 20 applications, didn’t happen) was to take a class at the local community college to get some credits out of the way. So I decided to take a History course just to get rid of one of my legislative requirements.

My first day was on Tuesday. I guess I’m at least semi-used to politically correct teachers that pay little to no attention to the inherent differences of their students – gender, race and so on – and if they do, it’s only to point out that we’re making strides, and that diversity is a positive indication. This one was a bit different, though.

I’m generally a peaceful person. Not much gets me angry enough to cartoonishly steam at the ears, and I hate putting people down. But a good friend and I were just chatting pro-choice, and he clued me into this sorry excuse of a website: www.dr-tiller.com

In the past 30 minutes, the time that it has taken me to traverse this website...I have been pissed the hell off. A while back, I went to a Roe anniversary at Bookwoman. They played a documentary of women’s abortion stories, and it briefly mentioned a secret society which would gather women’s information and alert their parents/relatives of their decision, by mail. I’m familiar with pro-life tactics. The same good friend that I was chatting with is an escort for a North Texas Planned Parenthood location, and along with his insight, I’ve tried to keep myself up to date. So yeah, I’m familiar with their tactics – bombing clinics, cold blooded murder, stalking, exploiting pictures of partial-birth aborted fetuses for the shock value, blatantly distorting facts in their favor, slandering good names, flyering Doctor’s neighborhoods, Flying banners of aborted fetuses above and around towns, and websites like this.