Janessa

This is an article I published in my school paper November 11, 2005:

Women bleed. Let’s reiterate that. Women naturally shed their lifeblood every 28 days or so. If this is such a natural, recurring thing, why do we as Americans find it so grotesque? Back in the day, American women were hidden away for one week each month. The general understanding was that menses was unclean. By the time people came to their senses, it was too late. Today, we know that menstruating women can take baths and enjoy sports. They can go out in public. They don’t have to be ashamed.

So why, then, do companies such as Tampax, Kotex, or Stayfree make such a huge profit off of women’s desire to be hide their menses? It’s a proven fact; commercial tampons and pads are not healthy. These products can cause Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS), a potentially life-threatening illness. However, there is a reason these products cause TSS. Didn’t you ever wonder how they got the things so white, and so absorbent? It’s simple: companies use unhealthy synthetics, such as the commonly-used rayon, to soak up as much as possible. Then they bleach it, furthering the harm on the body.

This is a story I published in my local school paper January 14, 2005:

“We were worried . . . about vaginas.” This begins The Vagina Monologues, a play first staged in New York but now performed around the world. Independent groups of women put on the play to raise money for local women’s and humanitarian causes, and also to raise awareness. The play covers a broad range of topics, from genital mutilation in Africa to acid burning in Pakistan. Removing the stigma around female sexuality, and celebrating womanhood in all its forms are other topics covered. There is a piece about domestic violence among Native American men, and one about being a transgendered woman. Fierce expression of being female is a general theme throughout the Monologues.

When school started yesterday, I had one, very selfish, goal in mind: get myself a relationship column in my newspaper. This is a paper that I've written for full-time for 4 quarters (3 consecutive), and I'm second-in-command on as far as staff goes (we also have an advisor who has ultimate say). A sort of Sex and the City-esque column, but from my perspective.

I will admit, I really like to get published. Especially when it comes to stuff like this. I'm ferociously selfish when it comes to getting my pieces in, especially when it has anything to do with womens' issues or anything that personally concerns me.

Recently, I landed what many consider my "first real job" in the payday loan field, where, as Matt so cunningly put it, I'm a "register jockey." It's a "step up" in the "real world," or so I'm told. But here's the thing: I have to dress up, I have to answer the phone exactly how they want me to, I have to deal with people who are rude, belligerent, and sometimes crazy, all with a smile on my face and a "customer service" mindset.

You know what I have to say to that? Eff this. Seriously, I am 18 and for the last two years every job like this that's come along I've tried for two weeks tops and said screw this, I'm going back to minimum wage because I won't ever have to grow up.

Three years ago, our summer of 15, we didn't really have boyfriends. We went to shows with bad music and survived by checking out the not-so-bad-looking guitarists, singers, bassists, Cheez, and sometimes just boys in tight pants. Sure, we had to get rides from our parents and never had any money, but we were a unit and even though I fell in that fountain it was still The Girls.

At 16 we did have boyfriends, but I'll be damned if they were (always) our central preoccupation. We did stuff together, and vented about our stupid boys to one another. Girlfriends were as important then as they are now, however...

I'm doing ok after my grandpa's death. This weekend, after a two-day romantic hiatus with my boyfriend, I will read a yet-to-be-written tribute at his service.

But remember that dirty old man at work? Who I talked to my manager about? He's yet to cease and desist. So I just composed this to corporate:

August 16, 2006
[address of office here]

Dear Sir or Madam:

Hello, I am a supervisor at the Downtown store. For the past two months, I have been intermittently working day shifts as well as at night, as I’ve been out of school. While working lunches, I have noticed some truly disturbing behavior from [dirty old man].

Death is cold. Death is hard. Death is so final.

This morning, at 6:30 am, I was woken from a light sleep that I had just fallen back into at my boyfriend's house by a phone call from my mom.

He was gone.

When I walked into the house I'd spent a good half of my formative years in, my grandma was holding my grandpa's hand. That hand wouldn't squeeze hers back anymore; the only warmth in it was that which was transferred from hers.

That was surreal to me.

When the funeral home came for his body, we were given time to say goodbye. My grandma kissed his forehead and spoke to him; my aunt said her peace; my mom held back while I said my tear-filled goodbyes. My head above his, my forehead fell onto his. I jumped back, startled. Death is so cold.

I think I am falling in love.
And it feels like getting sucked into a whirlpool.
When he looks at me like that, I feel like I am melting.

I don't know what to do with this. I have told a number of boys in the past that I love them, and as it turns out, I didn't. Because, as my last ex would be quick to remind me, love just doesn't end one day. True, you can fall out of love; however, looking back I know with all my heart that they didn't have all my heart.

This time, it's different. As a longtime friend, I'd tried not to have feelings for him. But those 2 am phone conversations quickly gave me feelings, and what could I really do about how I felt?

"Regret is useless," The Sounds sang from my car stereo as I drove home this afternoon, feeling completely contented and constantly thinking of how I absolutely melt when he looks at me in that way, and hoping that this delicate balancing act doesn't fall.

I get home to a myspace message from Brian, a guy who works at the local porn store. I met him on my 18th birthday last January, and he was cute and was hitting on me when I felt less than. The only reason I gave him my number (I met him at his job) was because my friend works with him, and I thought she's know if he was bad news and warn me.

As a worker in the great vast world of fast food, I'm used to being underappreciated and very often being the brunt of anger that human error on how a burrito was made just ruined someone's day. This is nothing unusual, and although it takes some getting used to, you get used to it and it generally makes for great anecdotes later.

However, there are some ocassions where I was made to feel sick by the behavior of two customers. Both of these instances happened last winter when I worked at a different location than I do now.

I worked primarily with guys, which was fine with me because I get along better with guys my own age than high school girls, sadly enough. Anyway, at night it was usually me and 2-4 other guys who I got on with as if they were my brothers. One of these guys was on front register one night as I was just coming on shift.

I'm still not quite sure what to make of this.

Saturday got a late start, as my friend Emma and I'd planned to leave at 8, but after a 4 am fight with her less-than-good-enough-for-her boyfriend, I called her back (after she woke me up) and said we should leave at 10. We were going halfway across the state for the Vans Warped Tour. For the first time in two years, it was just the two of us--no boys. Girls' road trip sounded so awesome, and it was.

The show was fantastic--Joan freakin' Jett rocked my socks off--but that's really only half of the Warped Tour. The other half is the massive afterparty in the campground.

As a feminist, I feel like there are so many things that are Un-Feminist, or that make me A Bad Feminist if I do/enjoy/partake in them.

To save sanity, I have made a list:

--Watching and enjoying things like Sex and the City, Bridget Jones' Diary, Gilmore Girls
--Listening to and enjoying artists like The Pussycat Dolls, Marilyn Manson, Sean Paul, and so many others
--Desiring a committed, long-term partnership with a male
--Having gone to a strip club
--Wearing makeup
--Buying girlie clothes
--Getting my nails done
--Letting (and enjoying having) my date pay
--Wearing low-cut shirts

My grandma was a housewife. But to say that she wasn't a feminist in her own right is to discredit much of what she's taught me over the years.

Before she married at 30 (gasp! in 1950, 30 meant old maid-hood), she'd served in the Womens Army Corp during World War II, gottten a Bachelor's and a Master's, and moved across the states alone, without her family, to seek her own life. Although her degrees were in teaching, she started out her life here as a Resident Advisor in the dorms at Eastern Washington College (now University). Here, she met my grandpa. They began a courtship because--wonder of wonders!--he had a car. Well, that's how the joke goes anyway.

So, I'm hanging out right now at my good guy friend's new pad. He lives with two other guys, who I believe (although I have just met both said males) to consider themselves to be very Alpha male.

X (my friend) told me not to say "the V word," and I looked at him, perplexed. "Vagina?" I uttered, not being able to think of any other V words.

One of his roommates ran away like I'd just graphically described embalming, or some other procedure that sounds like it'd be gross.

Um, excuse me? He's straight. He has experienced Vagina on many an occasion, as he considers himself to be a "playa" as well as an Alpha male.

Too many men, and even many ladies, think that equality has been, or at least very nearly been, established.

Except for the fact that women still make less, single mothers are often punished for caring for their children, insurances cover Viagra but not The Pill, and oh yeah, that little gem of pharmacists can refuse to fill contraception/EC prescriptions.

So why is it that when sexism is so apparent, and inequality so blatantly obvious, that I'm the bad guy for pointing it out? Why do I "care too much," as one guy who was trying to date me said, when I speak on the behalf of women?

I'm so sick of feeling like I have to be apathetic, or at least muted in my exasperation.