My Goat? Oh, It’s Been Gotten.

There’s a rug that’s really getting my goat right now.

No matter how many times I wash the damn thing, someone steps on it immediately, making it a dingy, repulsive shade of gray. I know, I know… rugs exist to be stepped on. They live on the ground, after all.

But, still, I go round and round with this rug. I wash it. The dog leaves a muddy paw print on it. I wash it again. Jane steps on it with a dirty boot. And her boots are elementary-school-dirty, which is it’s own special brand of funky. So, I wash it again. Rinse. Repeat. Literally.

I’d throw the rug away. But Jane swears she loves the rug. She acts as if baby Jesus himself gave her that rug. I could just dispose of it while she’s at school. Then it would just be gone. But that’s not really how we roll over here. The rug technically belongs to her. It’s in her bathroom. She picked it out to match her shower curtain. And I don’t throw her stuff away (if I can help it). It feels… sneaky. And like it might breed some justifiable mistrust.

BUT I HAD NO IDEA HOW AWFUL THIS RUG WOULD LOOK ALL THE TIME. It makes me feel dirty, just to look at it. And, let’s be honest, I’m not the best housekeeper in the world anyway–so this rug is just mocking my inadequacies.

I’m sure there’s some larger lesson here about how we allow small, easily changeable issues to become seemingly insurmountable thorns in our sides. Or about how sometimes we get so bogged down in our own reality we don’t see the simplest, most freeing solutions even when they stare us in the face.

But I can’t focus on any of those lessons now, because THIS RUG HAS ABSCONDED WITH MY GOAT.

 

Reading Wonder

I’ve long been a fan of Mondays. New beginnings and all. But THIS Monday felt extra-special shiny and new because I got to read this morning. With kids. And we read a super-funny book to boot.

Let me back up a bit:

I recently volunteered to read with two sixth grade students at our neighborhood middle school. I meet them on Monday mornings. They are, in fact, my first appointment of the day. Together, the 3 of us are reading Wonder. And it is hysterical.

I don’t know how this book escaped my attention, given my love for & devotion to middle grades novels. (Well, I kinda know… it seemed like everyone was reading it… so then I wasn’t sure I wanted to… you know how the tired trope goes…womp.womp.) Anyway, the young kings & I made it through the first few chapters today. At one point, during my turn to read, I was laughing so hard that I had to take a minute to collect myself. Which made king #1 crack up. king #2 smiled (which, trust me, was a VERY big win). But, seriously: Mr. Tushman?!? Miss Butt!?! That kind of stuff can get actual laughter out of sixth grade boys. Witnessed it myself today. Surely did.

I know I get all book nerd about reading. But reading changes LIVES. And, when you’re a middle school kid who doesn’t really know where you fit (and, let’s face it–no middle school kid really knows where they fit, regardless of their bravado), books mean that you never have to be alone. You can be in some far flung corner of the world, instead of waiting out the bell in seventh period. Or, even if you don’t have any actual friends at school,  you can find a friend in a character that feels the same way you do–even if your life experiences aren’t even remotely the same.

I’m so enthused about books that I can’t even pretend to hide my book nerdiness, not even for a minute. As soon as king #1 volunteered that he hated Language Arts because his teacher made him write so much he thought his hand was gonna fall off, I immediately sympathized. Because, yeah, my hand totally fell off in sixth grade from the very same affliction. And I told him so.

“You know what I do now?” I asked him.

“No. What?” he replied. He actually looked a tiny bit interested.

“I write. Know why?”

He grinned. I think he knew where this was going. “Why?”

“Because of that Language Arts teacher who put goofy questions up on the board every day and made me write in my journal ’til my hand fell off.”

Look, if you’re going to hang out every week with two young kings, you might as well be up front about who you are. That’s what I think, at least. And I am a wildly unapologetic book nerd. And I think Wonder may be just the book to make them book nerds, too. (Okay. Okay. That may be a reach. But I bet it’ll make them not hate reading anymore. Which is alright by me.)

Adventures of Puptastic (& Me)

I don’t want to brag, but Delilah the Boxer & I are kind of a big deal in our neighborhood. Or, at the very least, we’re real conspicuous… That’s the same thing, right?

Our walk this morning perfectly illustrates who we are, as dog & owner:

In Atlanta, the past 3 days have been snow days. THREE DAYS. Snow in Atlanta means a complete shutdown. No school. No going anywhere (at least for the first 24 hours–then it’s a matter of playing chicken with the ice). So, this morning, I decided to take Li on a nice, long walk. She’s been trapped in the house too, after all.

I head out in my incredibly stylish aqua & black baja, some jeggings, and my high top Vans. I threw on a red puffer jacket for good measure, which ended up being a stellar move because it was still below freezing outside. Also, I had on a black yarn hat, flecked with a rainbow smattering of other yarn, with a puffy ball on top. None of this matched. And not in a cool, mismatched way, either. In an I’m-finding-adulting-overwhelming-right-now kind of way. Also, I never took off yesterday’s make-up. So it looks like I’m doing some wonky walk of shame through the neighborhood (which, incidentally, I haven’t done since the summer of 2003. Just for the record. But that summer was pretty shameful).

So, obviously, I’m looking awesome.

Delilah & I are almost through one of the intersections when she starts flipping out. Seriously. Standing on her hind legs. Swatting at her nose with both her paws. I’m both a little frightened and incredibly amused. So I’m laughing, trying to tug a dog (who is still on her hind legs swatting at her nose) across the street.

Turns out there was a leaf stuck to her nose. God deliver us from Boxers.

Then, I spy a dog across the street. Delilah spies it, too. All the hair on her back stands up immediately. A tough guy, she is. She growls slightly. To avoid a scene (and trust me, there have been many, many scenes), I start talking to her in a slightly. high-pitched, way-too-cheery voice: “Who’s a good girl?!? Who isn’t going to bark? That’s right! What a good girl! You’re okay, girl! Yes, you are!” Meanwhile, Delilah has let loose one loud and proud bark, has pulled on the leash enough to be on her back legs for a few steps… and then carried on walking next to me, as if nothing happened. Nothing to see here, folks. Because who’s a good girl? It’s Li.

After all that excitement, we carry on mostly without incident. We’re chatting, as we do. I’m narrating things for her. But, when we get close to home, she gets a little eager. She’s pulling on the leash a little–which I DO NOT LIKE. So, I decide to make her walk beside me. As I’m reeling her in, I step on a patch of ice… and land square on my ass. Delilah thinks this is great. We’ve never sat down in the middle of the sidewalk before! So, she climbs right on top of me. Now I’m sitting in the middle of the sidewalk with my 50 pound boxer in my lap.

So, yeah, I think we’re probably neighborhood famous, Me & Puptastic. We’re trying not to let the stardom go to our heads.

 

Reckoning

All my life, I was taught to curry favor with men. That’s the honest to God truth.

What men thought of me, how they perceived me, needed to remain top of mind if I hoped to be happy (and happy always involved a man). Men were not to be offended. Or led on. They would expect things, if I behaved a certain way. So, I should be ever-mindful of signals I sent.

I got the message. Oh, I got it. And I internalized it (as one does).

But here’s what happens: the messages we internalize find a way of manifesting themselves in our daily lives. The be-ever-subservient-to-men message showed up as a giggle.

Yep. A giggle.

What the hell?

But it’s true: when faced with an uncomfortable situation involving a man (or boy, as it first began), I would simply giggle. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe I thought it seemed carefree. Or maybe I hoped it would be dismissive without being offensive. Who really knows? It wasn’t a conscious decision, the giggle. It was a coping mechanism.

You know what that giggle protected me against?

Not a damn thing.

I giggled in fifth grade when a boy told me he liked me but I didn’t like him back. What was wrong with him liking me? Nothing at all. What was wrong was my utter lack of understanding that it was okay to say “Thank you, but no,” even at 10 years old.

I giggled when, as I was standing outside my middle school sucking on a Blow Pop, some crude ass boy asked if I was “practicing.” I had no idea what he meant. But from the way his friends let loose peals of laughter, I immediately got that sexual innuendo was likely. Did I tell him to fuck off? That word was CERTAINLY in my vocabulary as a seventh grader (I had tried it out as all different parts of speech, in fact). Nope. I giggled. Because? I don’t know. Maybe I thought I should be glad he considered “cute” enough to make sex jokes with.

I liked a boy in eighth grade—a boy I believed had been having sex with his older, high school girlfriend. He and I engaged in a make-out session, during which he climbed on top of me. My thought? “Well, I guess this will be how I lose my virginity.” Casual. Detached. Like one considers the weather: “Well, I guess it is going to rain today.” I don’t remember giggling that time. Maybe I didn’t think I had the right to be dismissive. I’d let him climb on top of me, after all.

I hardly think my experience navigating interacting with boys qualifies as unique. What galls me now, as an adult—and as a mother—is the belief system that I whole-heartedly subscribed to as a child. A child with no sense of control over her own body. A child with no belief that she had the right to say no.

The past few days, the article about Aziz Ansari and the subsequent social media flurry of response made me a little spinny. Every time I tried to talk about why I wanted to push back against categorizing this truly common interaction between men and women as assault, I felt like I was grasping at air. And the I read this brilliant piece. And I found my footing again. It was this quote in particular that gave me a place to land my thoughts:

“People are quick to label sex crimes as deviant or aberrant, but the truth is that sexual violence is socialized into us. Men are socialized to fuck hard and often, and women are socialized to get fucked, look happy, and keep quiet about it. 

 Aziz Ansari has been socialized. And if we don’t like the way socialized men do sex, then we need to take a hard look at our society, friend.”

I don’t like the way socialized men do sex. But I don’t like way socialized women do sex, either. That giggling I was doing all the time as a kid? Yeah, by 10 I already knew about the looking happy and keeping quiet.

This isn’t about victim blaming. And it isn’t about silencing women. On the contrary, for me, this is about agency. A lot of really solid thought already exists about the way young girls are socialized—especially when it comes to beauty, sex, and power. But my reading of these pieces was disassociative at best. Oh, of course we don’t want girls growing up feeling powerless and  preyed upon—without ever admitting that I grew up feeling precisely that way. And it didn’t even occur to me that this worldview might be flawed. Wrong even.

I grew up accepting the basic tenet that I had to be pleasing to men in the world to have worth.

To have worth.

So, I didn’t stand up and say no. I didn’t tell Blow Pop boy to fuck off. I didn’t speak up for myself because I thought I wasn’t worth it. Because without the male gaze, what was I?

That’s a pretty painful truth to have to reckon with.