Friday, October 23, 2009

An Equalist's Nightmare

This is a warning to all those who may be sensitive to a stronger use of words. I’m not saying I intend to bombard you with vulgarity, but I am anticipating on using some blunt terms (we’ll call them) to get my point across.

I’ve sworn up and down that I’m not a sexist. I do not believe in “the battle of sexes” on any level. Men are not better than women, and women are not better than men. I’m an equalist, that is a certainty. But every once and awhile an extremely annoying feminist or an extremely annoying sexist spews out a few things about the opposite gender that ruins it for every other equalist out there trying desperately to keep things balanced. It pisses us off. It pisses us off because now we can’t just stand by without standing up in defense of either our own gender, or our own personal selves. Tonight, folks, it was a comedian who pissed me off. And comedians are most difficult to confront, because: “Hey! It’s a joke! It’s an act! Don’t be so uptight!”. No no. I don’t care what joke, or who’s act, if it’s creating false stereotypes and condemning a certain group of people into a false reputation, then someone has to take a stand.

A friend of mine posted a YouTube audio clip of this comedian, Bill Burr, explaining his ever ingeneous, comedic views on the women’s liberation movement and what it means for the modern woman. He joked how the reason men make a dollar an hour more than women do is because women get first dibs off the Titanic….(okay, sort of funny….) or if a burglar breaks in, the man’s off to endanger himself to check it out….or, if there’s a rabid dog coming their way, the man steps in front…
You get the idea. At first, I thought, “Heh…”. And I gave it a chuckle. I get it. I saw where he was going with it. Sort of funny. But he sort of went on and on about it. You see, the whole thing began with him trying to explain how feminists want to be equal to men, but only when it’s convenient. The funny thing is, I’ve seen that before too so I was intrigued with where he was going with it. But then it sort of morphed into “all feminists” and “all women”, and when he spewed out his description of a feminist having a butch haircut that turns into pigtails when she wants to have a man do the dirty work, I cringed. Bristled, actually. I think my eyes may have actually turned red, and I’m pretty sure I was close to breathing fire.

To begin with, the first thing I wanted to say to him when he talked about how it wasn’t fair for him to have to put himself in harm’s way should a burglar come into the house was, “What an effing pussy. Give me the damn gun, and I’ll go sacrifice myself for you, you flipping coward.” Really? Not all women are going to cower at the sound of breaking glass in the middle of the night and expect the man to go check it out. But truth be told? So what if they do. Here’s what women have to fear from a break in: kidnap, rape, then murder. How fun for us! I would much rather have to only risk getting shot in the head, like a man. Raped by a psycho? No thanks! When I’m home alone? It can be absolutely terrifying to hear bumps in the night, you have no idea. But when I know there’s a man in the house (father/brother)? Different. And for a reason. It’s not because we’re unequal to men. It’s not because we’re weaker, or less intelligent, or inferior. It’s because we’re more vulnerable. We’re more vulnerable because of the mere fact that we have vaginas that are always, constantly, in the danger of being violated by…who? By….what? Men! Bad men, sure. Rapists, psycho serial killers and the like. Creepy perverts. You know. Et cetera, et cetera. Oddly enough, our only absolute guarantee from these predators, are….well, men. Sure, we can learn a defense move or two. ‘Carry our pepper spray. I don’t doubt that there’s an olympian or two who doesn’t have to worry about getting raped…. And sure, we know not to drink from a glass that’s been left unattended, and sure we know not to get in the car with a stranger no matter how cute he is…. And sure there’s enough of us who fight when we have to and make it out okay. Sure. But the unrelenting, horrible dependence on another man to protect us is something we will never, ever be able to escape (unless you’re one of the said olympians, or some crazy street fighter or something….). I’ve met my share of wimpy men, I have. There’s a few choice ones that I would not want fighting my battles for me, no doubt about it. But tell me again: how is it going against feminism, a woman’s equal rights, to have a man defending her? ‘Not quite getting that part of the joke.

I’m an equalist, as I previously stated. I believe both men and women are equally human. Neither is superior over the other. However, we’re still very, very different. And those differences are supposed to play a part in balancing us out, not turning us against each other. Women have a certain purpose to men, and men have a certain purpose to women. ‘Generally speaking, of course. It’s pretty much as simple as this: men protect us, and we give them babies. Lovely, isn’t it?

“HOLD ON!” you say.

Isn’t it true, though? You want to know why women get to leave sinking boats first? We have one thing men don’t have that gives us first dibs on life. It’s called: a uterus. To expand a little, it’s also called: going through nine months of hell to create the fruit of a man’s loins. It’s called: he gets the fun part in pro-creating while we have to suffer through almost a whole year of gestation. Puking, swelling, pimples, hormone rages, swings of temporary insanity, leakages, unbelievable gas (which could also fall into the "leakages" catagory), weight gain, painful shape-shifting, zero sleep, aching boobs, being stripped of all sexiness entirely, constant exhaustion…..
Now, wait. Wait. Now it sounds like I’m complaining about being a woman. I’m not. I couldn’t be more proud to be one. I love the fact that I’ve been built strong enough to endure these things. But that’s just it. This, is the exact reason why men should not only respect women, but take care of us and keep us safe. It’s not because we’re lesser beings. It’s not because we’re inferior. It’s because we’re valuable. We’re valuable to men because without us we cannot give them life. And men are valuable to us because we need them to protect the family they’ve created. I really don’t see any reason either sex should find any shame in this arrangement. It’s degrading to neither party, so why is it always such a controversy of sexism? I’m more than willing to go through those nine months of agony to create a family with a man I love, if he’s willing to protect us emotionally and physically.

Am I taking this all a little too personally? Should I have really just laughed or not laughed at some stupid comedian’s jokes, gone to bed, and forgot about all of this the next morning? Most people would have. But it gave me a good excuse to express something that bothers me on a constant basis, and something that I am always, extremely passionate about. I am going to make no apologies for being offended. Change never comes from those who are too afraid to speak against their offenses. I, my dear audience, have spoken against it.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Purpose

I woke up this morning blissful, cheerful,and ridiculously giddy. I had wanted to give credit to the brisk, sunny morning, or the plenty of hours of sleep I had, or the wonderful clean smell of my sweater, but I then remembered that I had taken my anti-depressant before I went to bed the night before. Was that it? I'm not really on the pill to make me happy, but rather to keep me from returning to a certain addiction I have proudly conquered recently. I drove on, thinking, "Maybe I need this pill more than I realized..."

Depression is difficult to anylize. They say it's anger turned inward. They say it's a chemical imbalance. They say it's genetic. But what most choose to avoid talking about is the very sadness itself, the hopelessness, and the spiritual despair. Doctors don't want to say, "You're sad because you don't feel loved. You're sad because you have no hope. You're sad because you have no purpose." Depression is a powerful darkness. It can consume the strongest of souls, and it can be undeniably sneaky and undeniably deniable. But I seem to have discovered a fairly simple, accessible light that, I believe, can save even the most seemingly un-savable.

The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt the least needed. The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt completely and utterly purposeless. Futureless, pathetic, and unwanted. Useless, un-respected, and futile. Perception plays a role, no doubt. So does that chemical imbalance thing. But there's a way out. And it's not with a pill.

As I drove on I realized how inconsistant the pill had been. I haven't woken up this cheerful every single morning I've taken it the night before. So, why was this morning different?
The autumn air was different.
It smelled sweet, crisp, as if it was its own life. It made me remember the goodness of change.
It woke me.
I was alert and aware that the breath of something good was blowing through my soul. After years and years of pursueing the end of a rainbow that I would never reach, I realized that the meaning of living and breathing and dieing is entirely summed up by what we ourselves give selflessly back to life. Everything is designed by cycles and circles, and giving out is the only way we'll gain inwardly.

I thought of all the people in my life that I love. I thought of the children I teach and care for. I thought of strangers, and enemies, and criminals. If I could only figure out how to give selflessly to my community, the entirety of it, not just the ones that are safe and easy, then I could surely find my simple light, my simple salvation.
Purpose.
For once, in a very, very long time, I feel like I have a purpose for living, for breathing, and for dieing without regret. The morning sun looks very different when you know you're headed toward a horizon of promise, and a place where people need and want you. The road is a much happier place to be when you have a direction. People in your life become much less oppressive when you give to them without expecting anything in return. It is a great feat, and a great joy to make others feel loved.
Purpose.
It truly is, as simple as that.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Tree

June 8, 2006

Wait, wait for it. Words will come, they always do...

I was not suppose to be here, tonight. Tonight is another end to another dead day, and I grieve about where life has brought me. Melancholy is a dreadful thing to be redundant with, but an artist knows no other way. I am tormented by simple things, and strengthened by the terrible. It is a mystery, dear Reader, a mystery.
I wait for new growth. I wait for a new stature. I try to love the simple life that has been given me, but I grieve for its simplicity instead. I want suffering, and hardship, and turmoil. A fool! I know. But without challenge there is no purpose, and I feel purposeless. I feel like I have nothing to show for bravery, and strength, and virtue. I have nothing to show for wisdom, growth, and accomplishment. None have come to challenge me, but I don’t even know if I could meet up to them anyway if they were to even come at all. In all frankness, I fear the outcome. I fear the mirror of inevitable truth, the evidence that I am nothing but weak, fragile, sinful, and failing.
My good childhood has cursed me. I have been sheltered from the darknesses of the world, and I know nothing about it. I relate to no one because everyone has not been kept up in a shell like I have. Men don’t want me because I have no strength or wisdom to carry their burdens. Friends don’t want me because I have nothing to offer but desperate melancholy. Is it good to have a good life? Not if you feel spoiled by it.
I realize my fragility when I confront the reasoning to why I have been so safe. For years upon years, I did nothing but hide from the world. I hid in the secret caverns of my poetry and stories, creating safe worlds that were familiar to me, and I never came out of my hiding to find out what truly lay beyond the veil of fantasy. I have been shut up in a prison of safety, and it has maimed me. It has turned my own self against itself, and the battle is tiresome and cruel. I hate the unwanted person that I’ve become. I give illusion to myself that I have so much to offer to the world, and to people, and more intimately, to men. But I then come to realize that I am so shut up in selfishness and safety, and I am so stunted in worldly knowledge, and I have no challenger to give me reason to grow, and I am so virgin to all the ways of true goodness and virtue that I have absolutely nothing at all to give. I am empty. The void is falling into decay as the age of uselessness consumes it. A rotten, fallen tree. Hollow, and purposeless. But then I say to myself, if only I had been but a tree! A fallen tree would’ve been much more elegant than what I’ve become. I envy the tree.
I hope with all hope that I’ll find reason, or a path, that will lead me out of this terrible fate. Instead of waiting for life to challenge me, I should rise above it and challenge life itself. But, in truth, I am a coward indeed. This speech is redundant, and still I have not changed. I have written this melancholy many a time, and I always draw the end to a “new beginning”, or a “new hope.” But the new beginning never comes, and hope becomes foolish. I am a coward. I speak of coming out of my hiding veil, but I never do. What will become of me tomorrow? All that I know, is the world inside my head. I will be blind with never the hope of seeing simply because I am too afraid to open my eyes. A fool’s way, but it is the only way I know.
If I remember how to listen to the trees again, I just might find my way to certainty and purpose. They beckon to me, wanting a better life for me. They seem to be the only ones to know why life is said to be so beautiful. Maybe, tomorrow, I will rise to the heavens with them.