On Crying

We tend to turn our heads is and when we feel ourselves about to cry; often, we may even obscure the situation to hide the fact that we are crying…to hide the fact that we are experiencing emotions that have an effect on us. Why? Now, “why?” as in “gee, why does this shit happen?” I know why we do it-so knowing that, why do we still do it?

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Why haven’t we started to rebel more, to look our friends, partners, spouses, lovers, co-workers, or random people we’re near, straight in the eyes while we’re crying, as if to say, “hey-I am having some deep feels right now, pardon the fuck out of those & the fact that I choose to experience those” or, hell, what if we actually said something to that degree? Crying, experiencing emotions, reacting to life as it happens around us, shouldn’t be restrictive or restricted; and if people near us are made uncomfortable by how we experience the world, and our emotional reactions to it, if any of them can’t abide our crying…that’s their issue. 

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I’m an adult, I will cry if I want to. I am an adult, I all cry if I need to. I’m not going to let anyone else’s exportations police how I experience this world, or how I experience my own emotions. Fuck that. Flow tears, flow.

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Luckily, I have found friends who fully encourage this & push me to accept who I feel need to be, regardless of how watery my eyes may get. Without them, I fear I would be very dry, and very, very sad.

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I accept that my lived experience do not=the lived experiences of all. Bc-well, obviously.

The past week was been par the course for the world we live in. Denials of experience, refusals to accept perceptions, and vile hatred thrown out at women, and the men who speak for the same efforts, in the most misogynistic, racist, and thus disgusting ways.

#/YouOkSis, started & sustained by @/FeministaJones (through what has to be the most epic level of patient zen ever developed in a person), saw both moving revelations/explanations/narrations of a multitude of user’s experiences, as well as a bridge brigade’s trolling. The entire point of the hashtag was thoroughly explained back in June, when @FeministaJones recapped an specific incident of street harassment & intervention. From my view, no TW she sent, or Retweeted, nor those sent by the vast majority of users utilizing the hashtag, called out any one group of people, and neither were men alone held accountable for street harassment. Oddly, the entire notion that we as bystanders (yes-as a women who has experiences street harassment regularly, I still consider myself a bystander in this & any situation–as I have the potential to intervene in situations–[a document on my ‘sources’ page that speaks to this], so I am still included in the “we”) cannot ignore the abuse we see, hear, or perceive to be happening around us, as is something we all too often do, seemed to generate a tidal wave of anger from actual people & trolls looking to oppress. So when I pulled apart the messages, what I was left with were demands to accept Street Harassment because it’s normalized, and because people all too often do not want to involve themselves in the comings and goings of other people. Innocent bystanders will rally behind their innocence in situations, & ignore what makes them retain any culpability… When we intervene, we stage bystander interventions, doing what we can to diffuse the situation away from the harassed so that they may find a level of solidarity, comfort, and simply, support in a fucking uncomfortable, and potentially worse still, situation. Yet to ask anyone to do this in a situation they accept as normal, they don’t see as wrong, was too much–because who wants to learn that maybe what we accept as reality isn’t really how it is for everyone? ♦In asking that we see ourselves as accountable for questioning the standards governing us, & intervening when we notice moments when those standards clearly allow for the abuse of one person by another, you’d think we were asking people creeping in on this hashtag to not hug sloths asking for hugs or to make sure all sloths alive were forbidden from ever hugging again (I don’t want to compare this to an issue likened to or beyond Street Harassment & therefor make it linked to some scaffolded ‘worse, worse still, much worse’ way-because that’s not how accounting for individual personal experiences work for me).

Ignoring the lies & misinformation, this hashtag was started by @/FeministaJones, an active TW users, who is an African American, sex positive, not *CIA placed, feminist woman (*the user to suggest this gave me, and others I suspect, a true case of the WTF giggles…but looking past that-we have to see the divisiveness embedded in that suggestion); it was not started by anyone else. “The person who began the fight against Street Harassment” isn’t something I think can be ascribed to any one person, though I repeatedly note that I am not expertly versed on the beginning history of this, or others movements, where I could say with certainty who began a movement…

The Internet is neat-& does neat things when we let it–we can see who started a hashtag, & haters fuck off-she did. In my view, the push to take her efforts away from this, to say she is a CIA operative, to accuse her of being a white, non-intersectional minded, feminist, to…fuck-all the things said to her in those TWs meld together into a big ball of irrationality, & I couldn’t keep up! Suffice to say-as the bridge brigade trolled on in with TW-after-Troll-account-TW, & as user who refused to see our communal work on the hashtag as real, relevant & vital, she was questioned, her fellow hashtag users were denounced as man-hating sluts (& worse still…which I won’t make accessible with key word searches by putting them here…), & whatever could be said in an attempt to negate the lived experiences of these users TWing histories with a very real opponent (Street Harassment–no one person or group). In doing this, these defensive groups did 2 direct things: 1. The users who were harassing those using this hashtag proved the very point of the hashtag-so, way to go trolls. 2. They did what people do day after day, on & off the Internet-they sought to diminish the agency & voice of these users–these specific users. 

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(Unsafe and Harassed in Public Spaces: A National Street Harassment Report; Stop Street Harassment 2014).

As a bystander in this hashtag conversation, one intervening as much as I know how (I am learning more & more each day–I advocate always learning–accepting that we must always have more to gain!), I wasn’t the target of the vile & dangerous harassment it’s users experienced. This is easily, as infuriating as it is, explained by the fact that my demographic doesn’t fit these troll’s overall aims–the continued degradation of African American Women’s agency & voice.

These issues will continue on, & if we chose to ignore them or obfuscate the truth with denials, lies, ignorance, or full acceptance of the indoctrination of hate we’re given since birth, nothing significant can change. Using Twitter has at least shown me that a lot is changing…too much changes back for the worse, too much remains stagnant and stale in complacency. Yet powerful people, from users I talk to daily (I won’t be all huggy-lovey-dovey here too and name them), to some I directly interact with occasionally, or others I just learn from by reading through as their thoughts unfold onto my time line, have shown me that for all the wrong I see & feel, we are doing something to positively affect this world. I haven’t felt this so clearly, or seen it enacted so passionately, in a long time.

♦The one message that I felt the most resistance to, again, was the notion that individuals be expected & encouraged to accept anyone else’s reality as equally important to their own, regardless of shared experiences or shared knowledge. The refusal shown by some users to do this is as troubling as it is startling, as it forces me to reevaluate the assumptions I embed into what I teach–having accounted for a basic level of empathy being initially developed in each of my students, & simply, people I interact with. I was never so naive to think all persons developed higher or even high levels of empathetic thinking, as I do recognize & account for the standards & systems that govern us, but to realize how pervasive a lack of empathetic thinking is…that requires I pause and think about my own assumptions & styles of interacting. Because fuck-I must be willing to always think these issues through, or what the shit is the point of me or my work?

Life Experience empathy

 

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Things & stuff

A. people seem to be super pissed that I am developing self-esteem & self-confidence. Sorry…not sorry. More on this to follow…

B. My main goal w/this blog is to advocate & disseminate ideas…tonights a test for that. Check Democratizing Knowledge…Let me know what you’d like to see up there. My research is wide but has a very distinct focus…

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@TimzyHasAnEgo & His Pedo-Like Tweets

It’s odd that I started my WordPress blog years ago in an attempt to find a release from all that haunted me as a result of the abuse I endured as a child…I gave it up because it felt useless to write what I couldn’t even bring myself to read. Yet know I engage a community of people who actually care-and in coming back to this blog, I am reading something very painful in what I was writing back in 2012. That pain remains-but it’s morphed into more of a motivating force than a dull reminder. And I am actually okay with this direction.
More people need to become engaged with this issue. The taboo shouldn’t be talking about this disgusting issue-the taboo should be the actual disgusting issue. Take this actual person, posting these actual Twitter posts advocating child rape. This is real life, any old day ending in -Y, and too few people are fight back against it…in fact-many are joining in and accepting in, agreeing that it’s “okay when described a different way” and they are prone to just laugh it all off. None of these reactions is acceptable. Rape in any situation is a crime; raping a child is still a criminal, regardless of how the rapists climaxes, how the rape unfolds, or how the rape is semantically described. Until “some men & some women” stop finding this acceptable and funny, all people will not move forward.

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Is it over yet?

Jk…Jk…It’s only day two tomorrow. Only 15 weeks to go…

Teaching is a odd sort of activity. It’s not that it’s all difficult-it is, but it’s not simply that which makes it odd. It’s not just that is time consuming-it is that, but there is also so much more that makes it odd.

No one taught, trained, gave me the “experience” needed to be a college instructor, well, at least not directly. My 3 week long “Teaching College..” course really did so much for my confidence, my abilities, my expertise, in such a short THREE WEEKS. In all truth, it did none of those things. The class was a joke. I did meet nice people, who shared in my disdain of the joke we were forced to live for three long weeks, but other than that, it’s didn’t teach me how to teach college…in fact, it didn’t teach me much of anything at all.

So you go into it with a blind “how the fuck is this going to work” attitude. You bring dry erase markers to classrooms with smart boards you were not trained to use and can’t taint with markers. You try to demonstrate to the students how to utilize the digital components of the course, but batteries for the projector remote are rotted into the remote, so no projector for you. By this point, you’re sweating like a nun in a whore house…confused, frustrated, annoyed, you just start to ramble. I am just dragging “you” into this-in part because only I read this-and for the fun of letting you DEAR READER (read: me), know what it feels like to do what I do. I ramble. At least the first day. You ramble. These are the books. You hold up the syllabus to demonstrate where the required texts section is, since you can’t project it out for them to see….You then try to remember which point to hit next, because it’s simply not logical to follow the logical order, the comprehensive order arranged in a syllabus you fussed over for a month. You look out, making sure these 50 wandering eyes are on the same page, and you notice, them. They’re here again.

There is always that one student. No matter how witty, engaging, charming, strict, educated, enlightened, whimsical you are…there they sit…staring in disdain of ever word you say, waiting with harsh breath until that clock tick-tocks to “escape!” time…You always causually look behind you to make sure a prankster didn’t draw a dozen penises on the wall behind you-nope…it’s you. That or they are sucking on the sourest thing ever created…or defecating through pantaloons onto University property. Maybe all at once. And that look…that look is so distracting. So you pause, loose your place, and ramble on…”Pencils are better than pens because you can erase”…why the hell did you say that? Moving promptly on…

It’s only ever one student who occupies that role. Some 70% are indifferent to be there; so they twitch, fiddle, look and relook at the syllabus simply because it’s there. 16% don’t know where they are anyway. It’s a Liberal Arts college, with a itty bitty boozy reputation. They register, show up sometimes, do what the have to, and move along if they’re able. but roughly 13% wants to be there. Not because it’s their area of study, or even because they like the topic. This precious 13% seems to get what I am doing, seems to understand that it is okay to laugh when your instructor say’s something so funny, comedy central would take it and write a RomCom script about it. These students look at me, and I look to them. They acknowledge me with small head tilts, sheepish smiles, and sometimes if I am lucky, an actual verbalized response.

Teaching is odd. You never know what to do to “get it right” so you can simply keep keepin’ on. I am very dedicated to what I do; not because it’s a job, but because I promised myself as an educator, I would impact lives in the way education, and some educators, impacted my life. Awkward at first, we eventually gel into a more stabilized group. You still ramble. I still loose track of my thoughts. The damn board still can’t be written on, and when the fuck is IT going to replace this remote…but it all, oddly enough, falls away, and the tasks at hand take center stage. The curtain moves aside…it knows, learning is about to happen here. Shhhhhhhh.

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Is it really a lie if you just say nothing?

I love my husband with all my heart. He makes me smile when no one else can. He looks at me as no one else ever will. He makes me feel loved, safe, and cherished. But I think I lie to him all the time…

When he asks if anything is wrong, I always so nothing, by literally saying nothing or saying, “no, nothing is wrong.” But that’s a lie…there is always something wrong. My brain is like a watch…a very powerful watch…it ticks, on and on and on and on and on, always ticking onto something new…sometimes it gets stuck, and ticks backwards instead of forward…but then it get’s set and ticks forward again, on and on and on and on…I am always thinking; of the present, the tasks at hand, my insecurities relating to what I am doing or what I’ve got to do, silly little things like when can I find time to go grocery shopping. If I am not fixated on the present, I am locked in the on and on and on and on of the past…relegated to the hazy field of nightmares and daydreams of things, people, places, times that would be best serve falling away into some dimly lit abyss. I don’t like to bother him with these things, so I say nothing…”no, nothing is wrong.”

The worst part has to be that he knows I am lying. He knows I just want to shield him from this hurt inside me. He knows…and I just don’t know what that does to him. But why should I share these things with him? What good could possibly come from that? “Babe, I hate you mustache because my father had a mustache…and I have to think about that 76% of the time that we kiss…” No-I don’t need to share that with him…it’s my own issue that I need to work out. Besides, he looks like a fucking idiot without his mustache (we found that out the hard way…). All of these things are minor issues taking refuge inside my head. I have no desire to bring them out into the world by putting them in his head.

So I find things to shut me up, make it feel like nothing is really wrong. I guess I am like a typical American in that regard. But then those things become part of the nothing. It really is a never ending story. The nothing chases me, it eats up everything I say, I do, I think, or I feel…and sooner or later, he’s going to get sick and fucking tired of it. But for now, I just I will skirt the lie by saying nothing…

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Creating a new course shouldn’t be this hard

Trying to develop, categorize, and create a syllabus for a new course is literally defeating my soul. I know that I know what I am doing…but reading this “teachers guide” and trying to create this newness, out of nothing, is harder than it should be.

Am I making myself fail by taking the hardest possible path? I am most prevented by the difference in “ability” that perceptions around me note. I don’t agree with these perceived differences…so I am roadblocking myself again and again as I try to decide which course path to take…Shit.

Okay…deep breathing…I will read this entire book today and come up with some middle ground.

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Legitimate Rape

My own Grandmother hates to talk about this issue. I only see her once a year, if I am lucky, and regardless of her feelings, her anxiety, her guilt and apprehension, the topic always get’s brought up, in some way or another. I’ve never told her everything; I will never tell her more than she knows. I don’t like thinking about it, let alone talking to my Grandmother about it.

But sometimes…sometimes…the pain wells up and I want to scream: “YOU, of all people, called me a liar.” But I never will. I think when she looks in my eyes, she hears that anyway, and that guilt eats at her heart.

I love my Granny more than silly little words can describe. She did call me a liar, she did grab a broom and she swept, diligently and with purpose, all of our lives and their twisted mishaps  under a heavy and frequently stained rug. But she also built a life for me atop that rug. She sent me school clothes, new sneakers so I could play sports, she sent me cards with personalized letters asking how I was, and what she could do to help. In her, I found my love for words. Weekly correspondences dating back to my preteen years instilled in me a love for writing, for communicating in a special, personalized ways…but it never did improve my spelling. She looked out for us as best she could, as best she knew how, as best as time and situations would allow her.

She regrets so much. I know she does. She let us down, she knows it. But I can’t blame her, nor can I hold it against her. In her mind, way back when, saying “things like this happen” was an easy response-because we live in a sick fucking world where things like this happen. I guess she’d seen it before; growing up in West Virginia must have brought her a fucked-up situation or two (I am openly mean about the South-not sure why…but I am). It was a different time, and she was still very young for a Grandmother…she just didn’t know how to handle it.

We’re very close now. As close as two people can be who are separated by thousands of miles and a few very dramatically different generations. But I know she’s a democrat that supports President Obama and his administrations social agenda-we share that her and I. We can talk about politics normally. We can discuss the batshit crazy shit the Grand Ol’ Party does…but not this election season. Nope. Not happening. Our letters are bone dry on political discussions. We don’t want to go down that painful road…so we just don’t mention it; instead, we write a lot about the weather, my teaching load, the groundhogs leaving her grass alone, ants in our houses, yard sales, friends, family, and other fun things. But we won’t talk about these issues…but that’s okay-other Granny’s have stepped forward and voiced a very loud and resounding FUCK YOU to all mention of “legitimate rape” and the wonders of the female body. Thanks Grannys. If my Granny knew how to use a computer, I’m sure she’d enjoy this.

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August 24, 2012 · 6:11 pm

39 million out of 311 million

I am one of 39 million.

million is a vast amount….39 million is staggering. I don’t do math-but an idiot could see that 39 out of 311, in this case, is an icky %.

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California Dreaming

We’re exploring California in October when we go there for a friends wedding. Starting out in LA, we’ll find ourselves adventuring to Palm Springs, Big Sur, Southern Sacramento, Yosemite, and back down to fly home from LA.

I love California. Born there, I always considered myself a California girl. The song detailing why California girls are better never really said because they swear a lot and have glorious tattoos, but I’ve still always felt a kinship to the song, and place. But for as much as I love it, I hate it. Trying to figure out our itinerary forced me to look at a map. The state is big, but when you’re moving the curses around, pulling a coast in and out, trying to find the beach beach hotel on highway 1, your eyes pull east, in land, and see names of places blurred by hazy memories of traumas must sooner forgotten than relived. As big as the state is, those names, even for small cities so few people have heard of, seem to be a central point of every search. It’s unavoidable I guess.

I’ve lived in too many places to remember. Before I turned 11, I had never attended one school for a full school year. From 11 to 15, I stayed in one state, but attended at least three different schools. For a few wonderful years, I has a stability I never knew in a small town in New York. I made friends, I made a place for myself in the world. I began to realize I had individual interests. I began to realize I has an individual power, both internally and externally with my words, spoken and written. I guess I began to develop into the person I would become. Yet for as stable as it seemed, there was no true stability in a life such as ours. As soon as the comfort set it, a promise wrapped around a firm lie lead us away from the small heaven we were fortunate to call home, at least, for a time.

I should have gone back to California. Back to my Grandmother and Grandfather, back to beaches, back to a sunshine that didn’t dull my hair. I was supposed to ride that Uhaul all the way across the country until we reached the place I always longed for. I was also supposed to grow to 6 feet tall so I could play college basketball. I was also supposed to be a super model on the side. I was supposed to ride a god damn horse for my eight birthday. I was supposed to be beautiful on the inside and out. I was supposed to be a trooper. I was supposed to do a lot of shit, but that wasn’t the time for me to take the reigns on any of it.

I didn’t see that ocean again until my Grandfather died. By that time, I was already a women; I was no longer the girl dreaming of all that was supposed to be, I was a person resentful of all that wasn’t and would never be. I was an eighteen year old delinquent who had dropped out of school to work at taco bell-the open schedule gave me more of a chance to have sexual relations with dudes way too old to be dating me. I was a person who could no longer see unicorns prancing on the waves of the Pacific. I was just me the…whatever or whoever I was supposed to be was gone.

Now I go back when it suits me-and in truth-it never really suits me. The glean of what it, that gigantic state with so much to offer, was supposed to be to me, has faded. My Grandmother is there, and for her I will go. Friends have moved there and have begun their own lives, and for them I will go. My husband has never seen mountains such as those, nor an ocean so bristling with a secret sadness, and for him I will go. But I never go for me. The home I thought it always would be washed away with all that was supposed to be. The names of cities, full of hate, disrepair, anguish, torment, and a hell I still haven’t escaped, haunt me when I look at a map…when I am there, the very thought of them scares the bejesus out of me. A city can’t hurt you. A city can’t torment a frail mind. But the memories of a time, in that place, those can hurt even the strongest person.

So I avoid those places. I don’t need hills when I can climb mountains. One valley is as good as the next, and I don’t need to see the ones that stretch the very fabric of my sanity. I will travel highways I have no memories of, I will create adventures all our own, with no attachment present of past lifetimes and past people. I will go for all those I love, and find a California specially made for me.

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