The Mumbling Mindset of Melanie

Six months ago today my dad passed away.

Prior to his death, the past several years I’ve watched as my father’s health diminished. His physical state transformed into a man I barely recognized. I cried looking at pictures I saw online as I wondered what happened to the man brimming with energy and sass. How could it be that the man I spoke to on the phone, sounding like he always did, lived inside this ailing figure? This is how it feels to live far away from your family.

Part of me knew it was a short matter of time before he would pass, and a tightness in my chest developed that I felt daily. When he was still alive I would find myself anxious, and as I searched my mind it would reveal to me, as if a secret, that his death was eminent. A part of me wondered if waiting was the worst part, knowing it was coming. Sometimes I’d think it was better for it to happen so then I could start the path to recovery. How stupid that was. How selfish.

Deep down and childishly I thought somehow his death may bring me closer to him. I’d imagined that suddenly his presence would be felt all around me. I created these scenarios where I wouldn’t know what life decision to make and magically he would guide me. Although I am not religious I envisioned he would become my guardian angel and instead of missing him he would always be there when I needed him most. Perhaps it was a lie I needed to tell myself in order to prepare for the worst. I do not feel him with me though, and I hate that this is my truth.

A month ago I had a horrible nightmare. In it my father was still alive, it had all been a terrible error, but he did not understand how desperately I needed to see him, and he hid from me. He considered it a game. When I thought I would find him, at his home, at his favorite Chinese restaurant, at my sister’s house, he would have just left, or ran away, each time falling through the cracks between my fingers like cold air. Once I awoke my day was filled with a deep dread. My sister and my mother have both seen my father in their dreams, and it hurts in a way I wouldn’t have thought. I haven’t had one dream with him in it. Maybe that doesn’t make sense to most, but how badly I want to see him again, alive, smiling, the nagging want, is unbearable some days.

I have one voicemail from him that I hadn’t deleted in the past and sometimes I listen to it. I have it memorized. He doesn’t say anything sweet, just telling me to call him back when I get the chance, and even if he’s out he will pick up the phone. I’m afraid to delete any voicemails from members of my family now because every iota feels sacred. I’ve scoured my old pictures, my emails, everything I could think of to get another scrap of my father’s life and bring it into my mind. Discovering something to elicit a new memory is like bringing him to life for one amazing and fleeting moment. When I’d sat in his hospital room the day before he passed, the machines beeping, his swollen hand in mine, I’d begged him to wake up to tell me one more story about his life that I didn’t know. Just one. And then he could go back to sleep, back to a place where he wasn’t in pain.

Some say death makes you realize how short life is, but the death of my father has made me realize how long it is. I grapple with the realization that it’s not just a few months that I won’t hear his voice again. The rest of my life will be void of him. Decades will go by and he will be more gone then than he is right now. There is no fixing it.

Before I lost him I didn’t think I wanted children. The thought that as I age I will lose the family I spend my holidays and celebrate my accomplishments with never occurred to me. I’d been living in the now and enjoying it. Recognizing that I should build a family of my own to have that same feeling of warmth, love, and comfort, in my future, was very far off my radar. He even joked about it with me once. Around two years ago he asked me if I wanted to have kids. I’d told him I wasn’t sure because I didn’t really think about it. He smiled and said, okay well let me put it this way, do you ever think about hunting? And I said no. He asked, and why is that? I said because I don’t want to go hunting. He said, well there’s your answer, a playful smile on his face. These types of interactions were very common with my father. I’d often tell him he was the ultimate troll.

What’s most surprising and perhaps the most difficult is how these moments of pain sneak up on me in unsuspecting moments. Some things will suddenly trigger the void. It’s a darkness that is always there, but at times I forget how deep it goes, and something will remind me. Last week I went to a friend’s graduation who is part of the same MFA program as me. His father watched him read from a novel he’s worked on for the past year, and I could see the pride he felt for his son. Suddenly the void shook, reminding me that my father had never read any of my work, and never would. He will not be there when I graduate, and although I know other members of my family will be and I am so grateful for that, it still aches. It’s in these moments that I say nothing and do not ask for help. I marinate in the sorrow. I don’t know why I do it, and I know there are so many people who would talk to me if I needed it, but I don’t want to talk about it, it’s something I need to wrestle with alone. Sometimes the best way for me to feel better is to just be with other people, not talking about what has happened, but just having the energy of another human that I love in the same space as me.

I have started a project I call “Dear Blank Friend” where people from around the US write to a close friend that is unlike them – be it a woman and a man, a Jewish person and a Muslim person, black and white, etc. During this project one friend will write the other friend and ask them those really difficult and uncomfortable questions that can come off as antagonizing if it weren’t for the trust between the two friends that already exists. It’s through this trust and understanding that these conversations can build, without being offended, to make headway and speak honestly. The names can be anonymous if anyone feels uncomfortable, but these conversations are meant to be both intimate and at the highest point of our intellect.

When person 1 asks their questions (in letter/email) to person 2, person 2 responds to the questions, then writes to a new person/friend and asks questions. Then that person responds, and writes new questions to another person/friend, and thus the project moves forward. The point of each letter is not to “win” an argument, but to have a conversation. Our perspective is shaped by experience.

We would name each section with the “labeling” and focus of the letter. For example if I was writing a friend that was transgendered, I would write “Dear Transgendered Friend,” which would be the title of that exchange. The label is to acknowledge that recognizing diversity can deepen a friendship, and should not be ignored or brushed over. Talking about our differences doesn’t need to separate us, but may strengthen us. 

Overall I’d like to have 50 people involved, resulted in 100 letters. I would need to be involved with each exchange to curate the overarching goal of the project, which is to reach a wide variety of people. Would you be interested in participating? Do you have any questions or thoughts? If so please email me at [email protected].

Below is an example of a real exchange:

Letter one: Dear Black Friend

Relationship: These are two friends who have known each other since elementary school, and also attended middle school and high school together. They were in each other’s classes, on multiple sports teams together, and also rode their bikes to school together every day. Their parents were friendly with each other, if not friends. They’ve always thought highly of the other. The pair grew up in Plantation, Florida, which is a diverse community in both ethnicity and financial means. Both happen to currently live in Chicago, Illinois. Meisha is a white straight female, and Skylar is a black straight female.

Dear Black Friend,

It took me 27 years to realize I was part of the problem. Overt racism was never in my vernacular, but microaggressions certainly existed within me, and I’m sure some remain undetected. My family is very open and accepting of all walks of life. They instilled these beliefs within me to the point that I assumed all people felt that way. I believed it so strongly that when I read about police brutality I had trouble accepting it was real. The actuality that someone would kill another human for being black seemed so impossible to me that I denied it for years. While I didn’t blame the victim I told myself there must be more to the story, or there was something that I didn’t understand. Now I realize when any minority, or marginalized person says, “Something discriminatory happened to me,” one of the best things I can say is, “I believe you.”

I come from Jewish ancestry, and while the persecution of any person is not comparable, I often think of the slurs used on my family to replace slurs used on other minorities to help me understand how it feels. People often accuse others of being too sensitive or being obsessed with political correctness. At times it seems as though the line between taking oneself too seriously and feeling disrespected are blurred. That’s how I can tell the difference. When someone calls a black person a “nigger” (It’s hard for me to even type that word.) I replace it with “kike.” I imagine my great grandma being called that by a group of cackling adolescents in Poland, while they walked to school in the snow. I let it sink into my heart. I feel the pain and know this isn’t a matter of humor. That’s how I can tell the difference. The pain. Yet, I ask myself, what slur can a white man replace these words with and feel that pain? Honkey? Cracker? These words aren’t jaded with violence and death and persecution. Do you think it’s possible for them to even begin to understand if they have nothing to haunt them? Further do they have to understand in order to deeply sympathize?

My goal in all of this is to be an advocate, and yet at some points I find myself being attacked for being white when it comes to conversations about racism. There is no doubt that no matter how many articles a white person reads or conversations a white person has with a black person, they can never replicate the innumerable slights black people face daily. I am not challenging that. However, in some cases I see a person who is rightfully angry and devastated with the current climate, but that anger is so great that it blinds them from seeing who is an enemy and who is an ally, based on skin color. Do you ever feel that way towards white people?

When working on something this large together, it’s impossible to agree on every iota, but if I disagree on a matter and then I am told my white fragility needs to be checked, it’s disheartening. It doesn’t mean I am going to stop advocating equal rights and fair treatment, but it’s something I struggle to understand. If I am not doubting the struggle, but engaging a conversation on ways to prevent it, are my own thoughts invalid because they are bleached with white privilege?

One of the debates at hand was the glamorizing of violence. My argument was that while the system is rigged against people who are black, racists in power use the pro-violence approach as a reason to dehumanize black people. I don’t question that black persons have turned to illegal acts because they don’t feel like real members of an imbalanced society, and further that the system is so overwhelmingly against their success that in many cases it feels like (and maybe it is) the only choice. What I am saying is if powerful black figures promote these activities, it only makes it harder for the forward motion of this movement. My logic is that, in this case, I hear what racist people say when they think other white people are on their side. Doesn’t it help to hear how the enemy thinks? Do you think that’s victim blaming? If it is, is it inaccurate? Is this now a never ending cycle of cause and effect?

I read a status on social media that said, “As a black woman, I am so tired of explaining. It’s not my job to explain how things are to white people. Figure it out yourself.” The anger is valid. Ignorance is rampant and no one was listening for a long time, but is it possible that people asking stupid questions is better than when white people didn’t even stop to ask questions in the first place?    

Is it possible for a white person to have an opinion and valuable input when it comes to this race war or is the only way to be a true advocate to agree and support? From a “black perspective” what is a white ally’s place?

Thank you for agreeing to have this conversation with me. I believe discussing things that are uncomfortable to admit is a step forward. We are trying to undo years of nothing short of systemic brainwashing.

Your friend,

Meisha

 Response

Dear White Friend,

Before I answer each of your questions, I feel like there are certain points to be addressed that encompass a large amount of my general thought process. I will also say that my viewpoints tend to align with many of my other black friends, professional colleagues, and family members:

This concept that it is difficult to believe police brutality is, “actually happening,” or “really that bad,” does not exist to the black American.  It’s not a surprise or a secret, even. This is because being raised in a black household teaches you very early in life the very strict rules of society, even before you want to learn them. Your parents teach you about slavery and the disenfranchisement of your people yeeeeears before the school systems teach you (if your school system even covers it at all) and parents make a point to convey how you (as a people) have ended up where you are today. More importantly, your parents instill these values within you for one main reason: they want their children to survive. And by survive, I mean literally not get killed. Every parent fears their son becoming a “Trayvon Martin,” which is why there is very little surprise from the black community when tragic events do occur. Once you, as a black child, understand the spectrum of how white Americans can view you, then you also understand how to conduct yourself. For example, a black male teenager and a white male teenager are viewed completely different especially in the eyes of the police. But in the black household, you’re taught this already. You’re taught to conduct yourself in the most non-threatening manner because at baseline, there are many white Americans that already find you to be intimidating, dangerous, unpredictable, uneducated, or worse. Parents teach their children the same values they were taught in order to ensure that, for one, you don’t forget your history, and for two, you live to see another day, and three, you can hopefully learn to navigate this system well enough to possibly be successful in the future.

Next.

Generally speaking, black people as a whole are not looking for white America’s sympathy, at least not usually. What we want is for white Americans to acknowledge their privilege and recognize that black individuals in the same country are treated as second class citizens namely in the eyes of politicians, law enforcement, and even their employers. It is general knowledge in the black community that if you have an interaction with a police officer while not committing a crime, you probably have a 50% chance of walking away safely, and a 25% chance of being shot, depending on your neighborhood.  And, of course, if you are committing a crime then you should know better. Because they will definitely shoot you, petty theft or not. Historically, police officers have never valued black lives, so we’re cautious at baseline, and if you’re committing an actual crime, then good luck buddy because you’re probably a goner. We know this isn’t how it is for white people.

Also, I don’t think white Americans need a past filled with death and despair (slavery or Holocaust) in order to have a sense of decency and a proper moral compass, but I will say, many white Americans do find it difficult to understand what it feels like to live in a society where your best interest has never been taken into account. They have a hard time coming to terms with this mainly because many tend to ignore the facts presented to them or feel as if the facts presented don’t have an impact on their lives personally, so they choose to not acknowledge or address it. “Why rock the boat when the issue doesn’t even pertain me?” Valid question. The answer? Because if this is really “One nation, under God,” and all that jazz, then my problems are your problems. We are all Americans, right? Rich/poor/black/white/doctor/teacher/creator/immigrant/military/gay/straight, all of it. So, I don’t think asking for equality is “too much” to ask for.

Anyway, onto the question of what we want from white allies, right?    

One of the MOST important things a white ally needs to understand is that all black people do NOT view how to tackle racism in America in the same way, at all. This is where it gets really tricky. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll try to break it down. There’s three main attitudes of blacks towards racism in America. The sooner you understand this, the sooner you’ll realize that the white ally plays a different role to each black friend.

1) The “I’m Not Part of This” black friend

Generally has a large group of white friends, does not like to talk about racism with anyone, ever. Likes to pretend no one in America is slighted by anyone. Kind of has a hippie-esque peace, love, and happiness vibe about them, but overall doesn’t like to discuss controversial topics. Would rather play beer-pong with you than talk about current events.

Role of white ally: Just play beer pong with this black person. If you attempt to ask a racial/political question you’ll either get, “I don’t really have feelings on that,” or “Can we not talk about racism? Is that still a thing?”

2) The “Martin Luther King Jr.” black friend (I, Skyler, am in this group)

Generally follows political/racial events happening in the nation and has a factual based opinion on the matter. This group is open to discussing racial topics in order to learn from all parties involved. (Exceptions: we do not talk about racial, political, or religious differences while at work, because duh.)  This group overall wants the world to be a better place. Unlike black person number one, black person number two recognizes the work that needs to be done and is willing to also work with others to make a positive change across the board.

Role of white ally: Have open discussions with this friend about the thoughts, feelings, and emotions of blacks in America. As long as you don’t say anything too outlandish, the conversation will go well. The main thing this friend wants from you is for you to listen, learn, and spread the knowledge you gain. Oh! And for you to shut down your racist white coworkers, friends, family members when they say dumb Trumpy things. Yes. Thanks in advance.

 3) The “Malcolm X” black friend  

Generally, this group of blacks are also very knowledgeable, follows the news/politics, but are of the Malcolm X, “by any means necessary,” mentality. Meaning, they are mainly driven by anger and passion, but also have a desire to see change equal to black person number two. They are angry that there are still white Americans that don’t “get it,” angry that the government is built to keep black people, men in particular, from prospering, angry that the black community has been torn apart by the mass incarceration of black men in the 80’s and 90’s resulting in the dysfunction of the black family structure. Girl, basically everything blacks have ever been slighted by. I’m not saying these statements aren’t cause for anger, but this group dwells on these facts, turns them into rage, resulting in riots, damaged property, and the killing of police officers. They then justify their actions as it all being in the name of “We will achieve equality by any means necessary.” They seldom listen, act very quickly, and tend to think after the situation has ended.

Role for the white ally: There is no role for you here. This black person will feel as if you do not understand them at all. They don’t want to hear how much you think you know about the black struggle. To them, you are a product of privilege, not necessarily the problem, but they will not work with you to find a solution to their BLACK problem, because you’re not black, and in their eyes you don’t get it and never will.

I just hit you with a lot of information, and you probably have even more questions now, but hopefully this helps move the conversation along.

It’s a difficult thing to reconcile within myself that I am an empowered woman but that I am also a victim of sexual assault. This is a thought that is often latent, but resurfaces every now and again with a new story about rape or sexual harassment in the news. I read about the series of events that lead to the act and then I read the comments that say, “She should have done this,” or “She chose to go back to his place, what did she think was going to happen?” The latest one is Aziz Ansari, and the uncertainty and confusion of what seems to be an ambiguous scenario.

This gets back to the feeling of balancing being empowered, but also being a victim. I like to think that the women that say She Chose This, think they are empowering themselves and other women to say no flat out, and taking back control. That’s a great concept, but the reality isn’t so simple. Of course I can only speak for myself, so what follows is my own opinion based on my own experiences and comprehension, but I will say I think my experience is a shared one.

I believe that I have been raised in a climate that defaults to men being in charge; they are the boss. This doesn’t just mean in the work place, but in every interaction, even when I’m technically on equal or higher footing than a man. It’s also my belief that men believe they are the boss in situations with women and it is their role to take the lead (and even that this is what it is to be manly). While I don’t think these are necessarily our natural roles I believe it’s so embedded in our culture that we don’t even stop to question this phenomenon and accept it automatically.

Keeping this perception in mind, when a woman and a man are on the brink of some type of sexual act, and the woman doesn’t want it, it doesn’t feel like she is in control of the situation, it feels like she is about to do a bold thing by saying no and because the man is the boss, that there are consequences to disappointing him. The fear is not in taking control, but the backlash that may follow. This means that women often do sexual acts with a man not because they want to but because they are afraid of what not doing it will mean. As strange as it sounds, I’ve actually feared getting into trouble for saying no.

When I read the story about Ansari and Grace I knew people would say she should have known better, and if she wasn’t interested why would she even go back to his place. The audacity of this thought process isn’t just upsetting it’s damaging. Ansari is famous, and I think it’s fair to say that most people would say yes to seeing his home. Perhaps Grace did expect some type of physical act to take place. Maybe she thought they would go back to his place, make out, drink some wine, and watch a movie, but that doesn’t mean she wanted to have sex.

Once she realized that sex was his motivation I believe she too was trying to balance something within. She wanted to stay true to her desires and her moral code while also trying to please him and be likeable. She probably feared flat-out saying no would make him mad or that he would be mean to her, and she was actually afraid of upsetting him. Not only is he a man, but he is older, and he is famous, and they are in his home.

The question becomes, if she didn’t say anything how could he know? Overall I believe this question is a cop-out. I think men know they are more so in control than women in most situations. I hate to say that because I do see myself as an outspoken and strong woman, but it would be untrue for me to say otherwise. I do believe this is something our culture instills and not the flaw of a woman specifically, or a weakness. I think this is one of the many fractures in the faulty construction of our society. It’s my belief that we as humans are responsible for this mentality and it’s my hope that women who are speaking up, not only themselves but for other women, (and in some cases men because this isn’t just a women’s issue) will help future generations see that a woman can take control of a situation just as much as a man without fear of a consequence for simply standing up for themselves in a real way. Yet, we aren’t there yet and I believe that Ansari did know better, but ignored the hints because he felt like he was allowed to or thought that if he kept on going she would change her mind.

“She didn’t say no,” isn’t the same as “She said yes.” I believe blaming Grace is punishing a person who lived by the unspoken rules of our society. It’s similar to training a person to do something one way, and then without warning, damning them for continuing to do what they were trained to do.

Men overall are baseline in a position of power, and as we’ve heard before, power comes with responsibility, and I think Ansari had a responsibility not only as a man, not only as the older man, but also as a public figure, to recognize his position and not take advantage of it. I believe he knew that Grace didn’t want to be treated like a sexual object and that she had hopes of forming a connection with him. Ansari set out to take what he wanted from Grace and he felt he had that right. I think that’s evident in his continued aggression after she asked to take in slow. Yes, she went back to performing sexual acts, but I can’t emphasize enough that it wasn’t because she wanted to, but because she was afraid not to.

I have no trouble admitting that this is me projecting my own assumptions about the traits of humanity and the way we socialize, but I feel safe that for many cases this is accurate.

The act of painting another woman as a victim is not something I like to do, but I feel Grace is a victim of our own culture. Yes, she could have spoken up and flat out said no, but I believe we live in a climate that tells a woman she isn’t supposed to say no to the person in charge, and be a good girl and do what she is told. And in this, on some level, I think Ansari is also swept into this idea. He is also a product of this society where men are treasured and told how much they deserve, how much they own, and they are limitless.

Whelp, it’s about that time again. I wrote another rebuttal to some idiot on TotalFratMove.com. Below is his article as well as my response. Enjoy my anger.

Chicks Love Elevated Surfaces

By: The Lemon Pledge (his contributor name on TFM)

I believe it was Socrates who once said “bitches love elevated surfaces,” but I can’t find a source for that. The man was right. If there’s one thing these sorority girls love more than not coming home with me, it’s standing on a platform of some kind and hoping they don’t fall off. Which they inevitably will do.

Drunk girls need elevated surfaces to feel important, to stand out. Who’s going to see them in a flock of forty dudes after they obviously spent three hours doing their makeup just to have it wash away when they cry over spilled pizza? Whether it be heels, stages, tables, or keg-stands, girls just wanna have fun.

Through my research into why this might be the case, I’ve concluded that there are two very specific types of girls who are magnetically drawn to party above the rest of us, and they couldn’t be more polar opposite.

“Leave Me Alone” Girls

They just walked into the party 10 minutes ago and have already gotten borderline sexually harassed enough times to call it quits on the male species for the night, so they meet up with their other hot friends to hop up on the stage and ignore everyone around them.

They’re probably not dancing because they’re too cool for that, but they’re also not really drinking or socializing either so you’re not even sure why these girls are here at this point. You’ve already lost your chance to approach from your now low ground position of inferiority, so you’ll just gaze across the room every few minutes telling yourself your time will come.

Regardless, she’ll make a beeline for the door soon enough, killing your dreams, and making way for round two of stage clinging girls in the process.

“Look at Me” Girls

As the party gets into full swing and reaches the ’90s bangers section of the playlist, these girls will quickly make their way to the elevated surface that has been graciously vacated by every girl at the party you actually cared about. These girls need the stage, because face it, the night probably didn’t go their way.

They’ve already drowned their sorrows in jungle juice and regained the confidence to go dance like Carlton in front of the whole party, like a female peacock desperately craving attention as the males realize that mating season is probably over. The stage makes these girls feel important, and that’s really all they want in life is validation.

Speaking of validation, there’s technically a third class of girls who love elevated surfaces: girls with daddy issues. But they’re called strippers and that’s for another day.

Chicks Love Not Being Touched By Human Garbage: A Rebuttal to Chicks Love Elevated Surfaces

By: Mel Jones

             I believe it was Nietzsche who said, “Why did I just waste brain cells by reading that?” No wait, that was me after reading this article. You can’t find a source? I’m surprised you can even find your own asshole, but I suppose when your head is stuck so far up your own ass, it’s hard to miss. You know what “bitches” really love? – When they are recognized as individuals with different tastes and desires, and lastly, when they aren’t called bitches by a self-involved dummy with a laptop. I know, it’s cray.

           If women need to stand on elevated surfaces to feel important, does that mean you need to write bullshit articles that degrade women to make you feel important? I’m assuming you were drunk while you wrote this, otherwise what’s your excuse?

           So, let’s dive into what you refer to as the two types of women (not bitches) who dance on elevated surfaces, and we can explore how problematic your explanations are and how your psyche contributes to rape culture.

           First you refer to, “Leave Me Alone” girls. You say that they’ve been borderline sexually harassed multiple times after being at an event for only 10 minutes. Saying borderline sexually harassed is like saying I borderline stabbed you because you’re only bleeding a little. If a guy says something inappropriate to a woman, or grabs on her, that’s full blown sexual harassment. End of story. It’s not a compliment, and it’s not flattering, it’s invasive and violates a woman. For you to later refer to her dancing above everyone because she’s too cool after you’ve acknowledged that she’s trying to escape being harassed is disgusting.

           If only your dick had the girth of your thick skull.

           A woman who did her makeup and dressed sexy to go to an event owes you nothing. Not a dance. Not a handshake. Not even a smile. Just because she doesn’t want to dance with you or bang you doesn’t make her a tease or full of herself. It does, however, make you insecure and apparently inspired you to write the poorly worded article you’ve submitted to TFM, and then pat yourself on your probably narrow shoulders for it. In short, get over yourself.

           There’s a fallacy that exists among men, which is that only other men sexually harass women. They believe they are different, that their specific action was just a joke, or because they think they are attractive that a woman welcomes their touch. You are not different. You are the man that a woman doesn’t want to be touched by; look in the mirror every morning and repeat that to yourself like a mantra.

           The second group of women you refer to are the “Look at Me” girls. You suggest women that fall into this category are ones who want to be noticed because they need a confidence booster and are desperate for attention, but to the men “mating season” is over. Your hypocrisy is so overwhelming that if it was a smell, it’d be fresh dog shit.

           So the women who want attention are desperate, and the ones who don’t want attention think they are too cool? You have some major psychological issues if those are the two categories women fall under in your head because they dance on a stage. Do you have a seizure at a Britney Spears’ concert?

           This categorization of women says more about your lack of maturity and the way you see women than it does about actual women. And yes, females in college are women.

AND ALSO HOLY FUCK. A woman dancing on an elevated platform doesn’t mean she’s looking to fuck or not be fucked. JESUS. She can want to dance on a stage for a thousand reasons, and all thousand of them have nothing to do with you or where you want to stick your penis.

           Do men really think every decision a woman makes is about how fuckable she will appear to men? Spare me the answer to this.

           You end your essay by referring to women with daddy issues and say those women are called strippers. I can only imagine your shit-eating grin when you came up with that, but it’s so unoriginal that Nicholas Cage may as well star in it.

           So, to wrap this up in a neat summary, the only stages you need to worry about are your stages of grief after a smart woman turns you down.

Since many young women are going off to college for the first time I thought I’d write about some of the things I wish I knew in college. These are lessons learned over time that are so obvious to me now, and would have helped me so much then, that I just wanted to share them.

1) Think of other women first as your allies and not as your competition. Often women try to outdo each other in the hopes of winning a guy. Don’t put your fellow ladies down in front of men, and when men talk badly about another woman speak up for her. If men talk badly about other women in front of you and you let them do it, or join it, you are only empowering them to speak about women as if they have a right to judge them. Also, if they are doing it about another girl, you can be darn sure there’s another group of guys also talking badly about you. Break the cycle. Give other women the benefit of the doubt. Assume they are not catty or clicky, this will open yourself up to unsuspecting friendships. 

2) Concentrate on the things you love and don’t get distracted by peer pressure. While I’m outgoing I have never been a big drinker or partier. I often felt like I had to go out to clubs and dress up in tiny outfits to fit in since that was the culture of my school. This left me feeling uncomfortable and insecure. If I had invested in the things I loved I would have met other people like me and connected with other students in an environment that furthered my interests. The great thing about college is popularity is irrelevant, there are enough people on campus to find your own niche.

3) Your professors are there to help. Remember, you’re paying a hefty fee to learn and receive a degree. Make it worth EVERY penny. Ask your professor for help when you need it, and exhaust every resource you can. Your university is full of free outreach. After I graduated I realized many of my professors had the same interests as me and I could have benefited from trying to know them better while still at the university. Also, when a teacher corrects you or is hard on you don’t be upset, like I said before you are paying for this type of feedback, you are paying to be corrected.

4) Don’t look for a boyfriend, let your life fall into place. According to studies (that I am too lazy to cite), the average age at which people marry is getting higher and higher. Remember that you are young and have plenty of time to find the one. Being on the hunt for a man while you’re in college is a waste of time. Instead fill up your schedule with things that will better the life you want to have long-term, like internships or doing a study abroad program. Most college relationships will end with a breakup and there are much better things you could be doing with your time.

5) Take advantage of the diversity around you. Many college campuses are full of people from across the globe with different ideas and experiences. Use college as an opportunity to learn more about other people which also empowers you to learn more about yourself. College gifts the ability to gain greater global perspective and it’s not something you should let slip by you.

Today we’ve lost a great man. Elie Wiesel is known for his painfully honest memoir, Night, a book that portrays his experience during the terrifying Nazi reign. Slowly the population that was subjected to the horrors of the Holocaust is diminishing. This applies to soldiers in WWII and Vietnam.

We have an awful saying that “history repeats itself.” We wonder how it is possible. Have we learned nothing? It is almost impossible to capture the pain that is caused by war. How can one inflict the emotional scarring that is caused from seeing someone you love murdered before your eyes?—From receiving a simple letter alerting you that your child is dead, but he did his “duty.”

As generations age and new generations become the majority we forget.

Those that were subjected to war, the draft, and unspeakable acts of violence understand just how important it is to have acceptance in the name of peace. The younger generation doesn’t have the time to listen to this message. They are consumed by keeping up appearances, trying the latest restaurants, and watching the season finale of their favorite show. They don’t want to hear sad stories that make them uncomfortable. But it is imperative that we listen to the messages of our elders before history repeats itself because we do forget.

America is in a dangerous time, and it may only get worse. With a presidential election on the forefront and racial unrest in the streets every day, can we look back for just a moment to help us move forward?

While we are looking back, let’s look way back. Let’s look at a time when America was a safe haven for outcastes. Remember our ancestors were once refugees looking for a place where it was safe to simply be themselves. It’s contradictory to the foundation of our nation that keeping people in need out would make us ‘great.’

Most women consider themselves strong individuals, and I am no different. The other day I realized that I’ve never talked about how many times men have taken advantage of me because I thought it made me look weak and I was also ashamed. I was embarrassed of the bad things these men did to me and even more so mortified that I let them get away with it.

Often men complain about women being “bitchy” or “cold.” What they don’t know is that women feel like we must act that way to protect ourselves from a man misreading a signal and then taking unwanted action. This is not an apology to men, it’s telling men that women have a right to behave this way.

Below are three stories that skim the surface of the things I’ve dealt with as a single woman in Miami. I have worse stories that I haven’t been able to face yet and ones not as bad, but I feel like these give a glimpse of what it’s like to be a woman in a world where every day we must make a decision to trust a man and hope they do not betray that trust.

The Basketball player

While attending the University of Miami I was quite surprised to have gained the affections of one of the basketball players. He was living in the same residential hall as me over the summer where I also worked. It started out so simply. He would come to talk to me when I worked at the front desk, and he seemed sweet and sincere.

Eventually we exchanged numbers and would text back and forth. While I went out of town to visit my family he continued to text me and tell me he missed me. At this point we’d been “talking” for about two weeks, but nothing physical had happened yet.

Once I was back in town, he texted me an hour after my flight had landed and was upset that I didn’t text him to let him know I was back, and then accused me of playing him. He questioned if I was seeing someone else. I told him no, I was just settling into my room and nothing more. That night he suggested I come to his room so he could give me a proper welcome home present. I wasn’t ready for that yet, and I passed.

After that point he continued to be more and more aggressive with his texts. Since we lived in the same building I worried how to tell him I was no longer interested. He was much stronger than me and I was afraid of upsetting him. This should have been an indicator to tell someone what was going on, but in my victim-blaming brain I told myself it was a problem I created and I needed to handle it myself. I told myself that I had lead him on.

About a week after those initial accusatory texts I was doing my rounds as a Resident Assistant. This consisted of walking floor by floor to make sure everything was okay in the building. For the brief few seconds that I was alone on his floor he rounded the corner and saw me. He told he had been looking for me because he wanted to kiss me.

Before I knew it he forced me up against the wall and kissed me, then let me go and walked away like nothing had happened. Even then the thought to report him never occurred to me. I thought since it wasn’t rape that it didn’t matter. Even worse, after the fact, he messaged my best friend and told her happily that we finally had our first kiss, without even realizing he did anything wrong.

The J-Date

I was a single Jewish girl living in Miami. I thought trying out JDate would be fun, so I went for it. After a series of awkward dates I began exchanging messages with a tall attractive guy. We talked on the phone for hours for a few weeks before deciding to go on a date.

For our first date I opted for a place nearby my apartment where a friend of mine worked so if anything went wrong I had a friend on call. The date was great. We had lively conversation and he made me laugh. Finally someone who actually looked like his profile picture! I was excited about the potential of this blooming relationship. Despite my short time of knowing him I felt connected to him.

For our second date he offered to make us dinner at his place and watch a movie. It sounded like a nice romantic night in, so I agreed to come over to his apartment. He lived in a beautiful high-rise and his apartment was well-decorated. I was impressed by how well put together this man was, and wondered how he could possibly be single.

He made us dinner and we drank several glasses of wine. We watched two movies and talked into the night out on his balcony. Eventually it was 2 or 3 in the morning, and because I was still drunk he suggested I just sleep over. I trusted him and agreed to it.

We were in his bed and I was on the verge of falling asleep when I felt his erection poke me in the back. At first I thought it was an accident and that he would be embarrassed but he did it repeatedly. Eventually he said, “Let’s fuck baby. I’m so hard. Do you feel it?” My stomach dropped. I considered doing what he wanted so that I could avoid the awkwardness of turning him down. My first thought was protecting his feelings instead of my own.

I told him I wasn’t ready for that. He continued to try to talk me into it, and I continued to say no thank you. He got on top of me and began kissing me, and then in one swift move he pinned my arms down with his legs and exposed himself. He begged me to “kiss” his penis over and over again. I squirmed and told him I wasn’t ready and to please stop.

Once I said “stop” he did, as if I’d hit a panic button. He got off of me and chuckled to himself, then said, “You can’t blame me for trying.”

For an hour of so I laid there wide awake and silent while he slept. Eventually it was 6a so I told him I had to go because the garage where I parked would make me pay for another day if I didn’t get my car soon. I didn’t tell him I wanted to leave because he’s a disgusting pig or because he violated me and was unworthy of any woman’s company. He asked me for a kiss goodbye and it’s still beyond me why I obliged.

Later that day I told one of my closest girlfriends what happened and her response was, “Well what did you expect?” I couldn’t believe she said that to me, and after telling her off, our friendship never recovered. WOMEN WE MUST ADVOCATE EACH OTHER. We all need to recognize that every time we go on a date, or let a man give us a ride to or from any place, we are taking the chance that this person could attack us but trusting that he won’t.

That night he texted me saying how much fun he had and asked me out on another date. He thought what he did was okay, and I never told him otherwise. This isn’t me blaming myself, this is me realizing how ingrained it was in my brain to save a man’s feelings over my own. I never responded, and although he texted me a few more times I continued to ignore him until he stopped trying.

The Improviser 

While on an improv team in Miami I became close with one of my fellow cast-members. We hung out often and I genuinely enjoyed his company. From the jump he knew I was seeing someone and that I was just looking for a friendship with him. He expressed he had feelings for me and I told him I didn’t feel the same. We discussed if he would be able to continue being friends with me knowing that there wouldn’t be anything more and he said he could.

After a night out of playing pool he tried to kiss me. I turned my face, and he apologized. I forgave him and assumed it would be the end of that.

The next week at a show I was in a scene with him. I initiated the scene with, “Honey the baked ham is finished.” He entered the scene and, unprovoked, slapped my ass so hard it felt like I was being punished in front of a decent size audience. “Yummy, can’t wait to dig in sugar.” He responded.

Without skipping a beat I continued on in the scene but felt deeply saddened by what just happened. The scene didn’t call for that type of physical contact, and it felt wrong to be subjected to it, especially knowing how he felt about me.

When I confronted him he told me I needed to trust him in scenes and that he knows what he’s doing. He told me we are a team. I explained to him that he doesn’t get to tell me how I feel about being touched. He pressed on that he was in the right and finally I said if this was going to continue to happen I would quit the team. He did apologize for making me feel uncomfortable but thought it was ridiculous that I didn’t “trust him” enough.

More Than Me

I cannot stress to the men who are reading this that I am not “special.” Every woman you’ve ever talked to has at least one story where they felt so uncomfortable in a situation with a man that they were afraid. To the women, let’s not judge each other when these bad things happen to a friend and pretend like our situation was different or that we are better than the other. We are only making it easier for the bad men to keep being bad.

Women are not powerless in this, and I hope no woman thinks that we are.

Not All Men Are Bad

After a few dates with my boyfriend I remember things were getting hot and heavy in my room but I still didn’t feel ready to go the next step. I remember as I prepared myself to say no to him I had flashbacks of men before telling me, “I won’t tell anyone don’t worry” and “I know you want it too,” or “Come on, don’t do this to me.”

This past Tuesday I stopped in a Subway to grab food before an improv show. I sat down to eat my meatball sub with pepperoni and mentally prep for my show. The place was empty aside from myself and two Subway employees.

A black man dressed in dirty sweats staggered into Subway. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked confused. I watched him as he stumbled over to me. I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if he was homeless or not and didn’t know what he wanted with me.

“Excuse me,” he said, “if I buy you a sandwich will you just sit and talk with me?” I explained I already had a sandwich but that I could talk to him.

As he began speaking I could see there was blood in his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said, “I just need a second to talk and chill out for a second….I bought something to eat.” The man motioned to the bag he was holding. He took a gyro out of it and put it on the table, where he sat across from me. “Do you want some of this?” he offered.

The Subway employees watched closely, waiting for me to signal for help.

“No thank you, I have my sandwich.”

“Yea, so I’m bleedin’” he said matter-of-factly.

“I can see that,” I said, “What happened?”

“Someone just tried to kill me. They tried to slit my throat—and for what? I don’t even know this person. I’m a stranger.” The man looked up to the ceiling and pointed to a gash on his neck. There was bright red blood against his dark skin.

“You think I need stitches?” he asked me. I told him it was hard to tell how deep it was because of the blood.

“I—I’m so sad. I’m really sad. I can’t believe someone just tried to kill me. I should go to the hospital. Why would someone do that to me? I’m a stranger……Why aren’t you eating? I’m scaring you?”

I picked up my sandwich and started to eat again. After swallowing I said, “You need to go to the hospital, you’re bleeding in your mouth too.”

“Hey, I fought that man off, I’m a strong black man, and I got my cellphone still though.” He said and gave me a thumbs up.

We continued to talk for over 30 minutes. He was adamant about not going to the hospital just yet because he wanted food in his stomach. The man was worried that the hospital was going to see the slit on his throat and think he was a crazy person. He said, “I know how I look and I know what they think.”

Eventually he told me his name was Darien. I told him it doesn’t matter if the hospital thinks he’s crazy or not, they’ll treat the wound and make sure it doesn’t get infected. Darien said after he was done eating he wanted to get a beer and then go to the hospital. I told him it was a bad idea. I said if he wanted to fill out a police report it will look strange that he stopped to get food and a beer before going to the hospital.

“Police report? Ha—What happened to me don’t matter. I’m not filing no police report.” Darien said. I pressed that if he was afraid that the hospital would think he was crazy imagine what they’d think if he came in smelling like beer.

Darien insisted I was a nurse even though I told him I wasn’t. He said I was too nice not to be a nurse or a counselor and asked me why I was being nice to him. I told him he’s given me no reason not to be nice.

“What do you do?” he asked. Without thinking about what my profession truly was I said, “I am a writer.” He asked if I would write about him, and I said yes. He said, “I hope you don’t say anything bad.”

Darien got up and took out a worn out picture of Jesus from his wallet and handed it to me. He said, “I want you to have this. Thank you for making me feel better.”

I cannot tell you how deeply touched I was. It’s apparent he was carrying this image with him for a long time.

I handed it back to him and I said, “I think you should keep it. I want you to keep it.” Darien smiled and said, “Yea you probably don’t have shit like this happening to you. You think I need it more than you huh?” He took back the picture and put it in his wallet. I thanked him for the offer.

After we ate I walked with him to the bus stop he needed to get to the hospital. Darien promised me he would go to the hospital and he wouldn’t stop for beer even though he really wanted to.

I went to my show and tried to do improv as my mind was elsewhere, attempting to process what just happened.

After my show I got on the train to go home. A young black child giggled as his father tickled him. I imagined the kind of world this father wanted for his child, and I knew it wasn’t the one Darien was living in. Darien had no faith in the hospital or the police and that broke my heart. I couldn’t blame him. He’s not entirely wrong.

Often I harp on how wrong racism is and how we need to overcome our prejudices, and yet I know when Darien first approached me my initial reaction was to pretend like I didn’t see him. Like I didn’t see a human being standing before me, in need. I am ashamed of that reaction but so happy I ignored it because I know better.

Before we parted Darien didn’t ask me for money. He said, “Hey, can you do me a favor. Can you pray for me?” and I promised I would.

After my show I called the hospital he said he was going to and asked if he checked in, but the nurse said she couldn’t tell me.

As my alma mater prepares to play their toughest opponent this season, I reflect upon the history that is Miami Football. Its fans have seen glory and they have seen shame. We’ve cried over major wins and heart breaking losses. We patiently await the return of the unique Miami-brand ferociousness first seen in the 80s, forged in the Orange Bowl, to berth again in our new home in Fort Lauderdale at SunLife Stadium.

Our greatest opponents have called us many names, and we have returned the favor, resulting in a passionate rivalry among the ACC. But out of the name calling, one in particular makes my eye twitch, and that’s being called “Thug U.”

That nickname is a result of when Coach Howard Schnellenberger (1979-1983) began recruiting “the State of Miami” to make up the University of Miami’s roster.  Instead of going to well-to-do areas where top players enjoyed the latest equipment and best amenities, Schnellenberger ventured into the grit of Miami. He found himself in areas that most people wouldn’t dare to venture because they were afraid of the “bad neighborhood.” He sat in the homes of what some considered uncoachable high school football players with bad attitudes.

Yet, what Schnellenberger (and his successors) never took for granted was the heart of these players. He knew what other college coaches ignored. These kids had raw talent, they really knew what it was like to struggle, and how much it meant to them to succeed. They weren’t picked up in an air-conditioned car right after practice ended, but walked home in the brutal August Miami heat. They didn’t come from schools with highly educated counselors telling them what move was best for them.

In every college game they played these homegrown Miamians knew their future was on the line. Each player felt they had something to prove and given the opportunity they would shock the world.  

When inner-city kids that thought they had no chance at a real future of breaking the mold they were born into, saw that a university may be interested in them, the University of Miami became a beacon of hope. It was a chance for many of these high school students to be the first of their family to attend college and to get a degree. Thus, UM became a dream come true.

Instead of seeing the Cinderella story in front of them and being respectful, opponents made snide comments about being afraid of having their jewelry stolen, or getting mugged on the field—and people wondered why Miami fought so many teams.

Yea, UM was intimidating as hell. They had attitude and played with a chip on their shoulder. You didn’t want to get hit by a defensive tackle, you didn’t want a one-on-one situation with our running back, and that’s what made the team so damn special.

Of course there are two sides to every story, and the truth falls somewhere in between. Miami, like many other collegiate teams has been the spectacle of multiple scandalous investigations, but I also don’t see other colleges damned with this despicable slur. Players who don’t speak the way mainstream society wants them to doesn’t mean they are thugs or even uneducated. It means their experience is different than most and it should be celebrated not shunned.

The city of Miami, black and white, bonded over the success of Schnellenberger’s recruitment strategy, and it even helped quell racial tension throughout Miami for years to come.

When I hear someone call my school “Thug U” it demeans all of that. It diminishes the hard work honest players like Miami-born Wide Receiver, Eddie Brown and Cornerback, Reggie Sutton, who both went on to play in the NFL, did.

Some who are reading this maybe thinking, stop living in the past, your team hasn’t been great in years, and I acknowledge that.—But I am still proud of the way my school revolutionized the recruitment process and restored humanity in the city where I was born.

I believe my school is surrounded by first class local talent.  One day the wind will pick up, the rain will fall, and something will be born of a great storm.

A cold morning turned into a warm afternoon. My comfortable jacket turned cumbersome as beads of sweat met at the nape of my neck and raced down my back. I waited for the bus with my hands full of responsibilities. The day was unexpectedly long and my stomach was unsatisfied with two cups of coffee and a protein bar. Sleepless nights had gotten the best of me. Taking this bus was step two of a four step process before I could reunite with a dark room and silence.

The bus arrived and I clumsily found my way to a seat as my balance was tested when the bus jolted into the intersection. I stacked my laptop, water bottle, plastic bag full of paper work, and purse precariously on top of my lap. I had the urge to put in my headphones but they were in my purse at the very bottom of my self-made mountain.

The woman across from me, in her early 40s, held a small well-made purse on her lap. She wore dark sunglasses and moved her arms about her freely as she spoke animatedly on the phone with a friend. The woman was explaining how wonderful her trip home to her family had been, and that the lake was beautiful. She was on the bus and would be home in less than 10. I wondered what she did for a living as she called her friend “darling.”

“Oh darling! Sorry that’s my mom on the other line, let me let you go.”

“Hi Mom!” She shifted in her seat as she said, “I’m on the bus, why?” There was a long pause and I no longer wished for silence. “What’s going on? Just tell me, I’m almost home,” she said frantically. I looked away.

“He what? He-He..How?” I listened to her stutter and didn’t dare to look at her face. I could hear her take deep, choppy drags of air. Despite my fear, I looked up and saw a woman whose life was now water slipping through the cracks between her fingers. She held a shaky hand to her mouth and managed, “I’m here, I’m just trying to catch my breath.”

I looked at the other bus patrons. Some had headphones in and were blissfully unaware of the travesty taking place at the front of the bus. They bobbed their heads, nodding along to the cycle of life. Those without headphones darted their eyes. Some looked uncomfortable and others looked towards the woman, concerned.

“Okay, I’ll call you right back..I have to let the office know. Just stay where you are, I’ll call right back okay? Just..okay” She said. She hung up and held her head in her hands and steadied her breathing.

In my own desperation to comfort her I examined my pile of useless items. I tried to think if I had any contents within to offer her. After thinking I realized I didn’t have so much as a tissue to give, all I had were my words. I tried to think of something poignant to say to her. I thought maybe I can write a note on a piece of paper to give to her.--Something inspiring and light, “You’re strong. You’ve got this!” but I’m not the wrapper of a cough drop. I wondered if it was acceptable to embrace a complete stranger.

Before I could come up with anything she was on the phone with someone else. “Hi..” she said, and then, “My Dad’s dead.” She sobbed for the first time, as her words betrayed her heart.

“I said, my..oh my God, my Dad, he’s dead.” She repeated. She shook her head and I could see the corners of her eyes carve paths as she squeezed them closed. A tear escaped out from under her sunglasses.

I wanted to cry.—Not because I imagined how it would feel to receive the news that my father had died. I wanted to cry because she was spending one of the most intimate and saddest moments of her entire life on a beautiful day with silent strangers.

“Less than 30 minutes ago…………..a heart attack we think……..No he’s gone, no resuscitation, nothing like that…..I’d just left……….It’s like he knew…”

More tears scaled her face and she quickly wiped them away. “Thank you…” she said, “I will…” She put her hand over her heart and pressed it. I imagined her heart beating wildly under the weight of her palm. She continued listening to the voice on the phone but concentrated on breathing in and out slowly. She wanted so badly to remain composed.

The bus stopped and opened its doors. She made her way out with purpose. “I’m getting off the bus now,” she explained. She exited the bus and another lady with short curly hair got off behind her. As the bus began again I saw the curly haired lady, with sad eyes, watch the woman. The curly haired lady looked over her as she walked all the way down the block and she didn’t start for her destination until the woman turned the corner.

Now that I’ve had time to think, I know what I would have said to that woman. I would have told her not to worry about the other passengers. I would have said, screw etiquette, if you want to cry until snot covers your face because that’s what makes you feel better for a moment then do it.  If you want to scream curse words at the top of your lungs, scream away.

In a moment like this we are not strangers, we are the patches of a quilt to cover you. 

We’ve all done this before. We look at a girl in full makeup at the gym and roll our eyes. We tell ourselves we “feel sorry for her.” We feel superior to her because we believe we are more confident than her. We think, “thank goodness I’m not that vain.”--But isn’t thinking we are better than someone else based on looks still vanity?

At times when I am walking down the bustling streets of Chicago I see many people going about their day. There are times when a woman or a man walk by, and I have a moment where I think to myself, “What are you wearing?…what were you thinking?”—and then I pause. Why the fiddlesticks do I care? Don’t I have more important things to worry about? Am I so shallow that I want to judge a complete stranger on whatever outfit they put on at 7a on a Monday morning? I know you’re thinking, “we’re human, we can’t help it”…but can’t we?

Today I was on the train and an overweight man was sitting across from me. His body took up one and a half chairs. As the train became more and more packed a skinny man sat on the outside edge of the half taken chair. The slender man and I briefly exchanged eye contact and he rolled his eyes (the same way we do at the girl in full makeup at the gym) and motioned towards the heavy man who was looking blankly forward. For half a second I agreed with the skinny man, but then my heart sank and I felt guilty. I wondered if the overweight man knew what people thought as they squeezed next to him. I wondered if in his head he could hear someone think, “Great now I have to sit next to this fat ass.”

I studied the overweight man’s face. I looked for signs of sadness. I imagined him looking at himself in the mirror and feeling disappointed, depressed and maybe even helpless. I hoped he was happy with his body and didn’t give a damn what others thought, but overall I thought, “it’s not my place to judge you.”

In the past few weeks I’ve caught slack or push back for what some perceive as “political statements” on my social media pages. I am not referring to the people who debate with me, but people who are close to me and agree with my stance. They question why I “have” to put “stuff” like that up there. Some even tell me, “facebook is not the place for that.”

Although I agree that I don’t need to put out my opinion ad nauseam and force it down the throats of people who are looking for funny cat videos, I don’t entirely agree with them. I know it comes from a place of love, and they don’t like me dealing with “people like that,” who oppose my opinion. I am told that what I’m saying falls on deaf ears and it’s not as if my opposition will suddenly change their minds.

The reality is I don’t argue with people on social media because I want to change the minds of those who disagree in a carefully crafted paragraph. I’ve learned a lot from these debates. I’ve learned why people don’t agree with my views, and it makes me think deeper, be more considerate, and furthermore open-minded. I feel uncomfortable reading these responses because I know they might say something philosophical or give hard facts that might disprove my predisposed notions, or at the very least change the way I’ve arrived at my conclusion. No one enjoys admitting they’re wrong.

Although rarely is my mind changed, I think it’s a dangerous thing to go through life assuming everyone thinks the same as you.

Beyond what I take away from these discussions, when it comes to matters of human rights and equality, I do it to show my support. I want every friend of mine who is experiencing inequality that I don’t think it’s okay, that I am not turning a blind eye.

Why do we safeguard our beliefs that everyone deserves equality? Are we afraid that someone will sarcastically comment, “dislike” if we say, “So happy Gay Marriage is now legal!” Are we all so fragile that we don’t stand up for what we know is right?

The scariest part of posting something like that is not that someone will disagree but that the thought process will be so backwards and upsetting in my opinion that I feel I can no longer see them as a friend. You may ask yourself, “is this thing (equal pay, gay rights, black rights, mental health, etc.) worth losing a friend?”--and to that I say, yes.

I don’t want to stay silent. I don’t want a person who is happy with an unjust system to feel comfortable, and confuse my silence for support.

Martin Niemöller, a Protestant Pastor during Nazi Germany wrote:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

                                                 * * *

It certainly is a tough world out there. Everything is a competition. I’m no better than anyone else. I am competitive. I like to win.

I like to win but no longer at the cost of a friend’s feelings. Sometimes I think we get too caught up in being the best, and when we feel like we’ve made it we turn around and realize there’s no one there to celebrate with anymore.

I played soccer my entire upbringing. It was my life and everything centered around it. My best friends played with me and I thought I was going to play D1 soccer in college. I never imagined a world where I wasn’t giving up a social life to play.

There were so many girls that also played, and I knew I was more skilled than them. They loved the game just as much as me and every day they were out there trying to improve.  I thought I was better than them because I was better at soccer. I wasn’t necessarily cocky, but I never complimented a “less skilled” player when they made an improvement. In my immaturity it never occurred to me that just because I was better than them at one thing didn’t mean I was better than them at everything.

My Senior year I tore every ligament in my knee during a soccer game which meant knee surgery and no soccer in college, for at least that first year. About two years after that I had a small stroke, and I had problems with reading for a while and I still have memory issues to this day. About 8 months after that I tore three ligaments in my knee during a soccer game and had another knee surgery. 3 months after that I had another knee surgery due to issues with the prior knee surgery.

With all that has happened I am grateful that I can still exercise. I can no longer play soccer at the level I wish I could play because of knee pain and a fear of injury. I miss soccer every day. I now play 2s Beach Volleyball because it’s easier on my knees. I started playing two years ago. Volleyball is a sport I enjoy playing but I have no formal training in whatsoever. I love being able to play something competitively but I am going up against girls where volleyball is to them what soccer was to me. I know most of these girls are significantly better than me. I know they don’t want me as their teammate because I am not as good. They want to win. I am learning, but I am not the best.

It hurts and is humbling when I see girls purposely skip over my turn to play or avoid asking me if I’d like to play pick up when we both know that’s why I am there at the beach. I see women around me organize playing but never extend an invitation to me. I wonder to myself how I made girls feel during my soccer days, and hope that I never made anyone feel so worthless. As athletes we often forget that first we are people.

Competition veils our own human decency. We are all different people on the court in the heat of play than we are sitting in a coffee shop thinking about life. I know when I play any sport I want a competitive and encouraging teammate, and I am not suggesting anyone lose that hungry edge.--I just hope we all remember we are out there for the love of the game. For the rush we feel when we make a good play. We are all struggling in our own ways, and some have more things to overcome than others, but we are all there for the same reason, so give each other a chance.  

This morning on my way to work a young woman stepped onto the bus.  She was wearing an ill fitting heavy jacket with faux cheetah fur, and a mismatched shirt and sweatpants. She exchanged muddled words with the bus driver that I did not hear, but it was clear there was some type of disagreement going on between them.  I listened more closely..

The woman said, "I only have enough money for the train..Come on!" and the bus driver responded, "You're not riding this bus for free...why don't you ask someone for change?"

Right then a man walked on to the idle bus and put money into the machine and walked to the back of the bus where he seated himself.  The woman watched him walk away.  The bus driver said,"You coulda asked him..I don't hear you asking no one."

The entire bus sat in silence for several moments until the woman finally asked another woman, "Got any change? Got a quarter?" Without even making eye contact she shook her head no. The woman looked around and everyone busied themselves on their phone, or took sudden great interest in the pattern of their pants.

I often pay for other's fare, and I was curious if anyone would offer before me.  

Silence.

Finally I said, "I have it.." and I paid her fare.

The woman didn't say thank you. In fact she laughed at me. 

Most of the people on the bus watched her as she danced in discordance at the front of the bus, listening to music in her headphones.  The rest of the people stared at me. I pretended not to notice. 

I saw her stay on the bus as we passed the train station.  I saw her get off the bus and say to the bus driver, "thank you." The bus driver retorted, "Don't thank me, you didn't even thank the young lady that helped you.."

The woman got off the bus where there was not a train station, and I knew I'd been scammed by her story.

I waited for anger to wash over me, but it never did.

Most people would be mad, and perhaps regret helping, but I don't,  I didn't do it because I thought she needed help just this one time.  I did it because if she had to ask people to help her pay for bus fare, she's clearly not in a good place anyway. I know some people may think, she was listening to music, probably on an iPhone or iPod, she can sell it and have bus fare..

What if music is the one thing that she has left? What if that phone is the only way she can keep in contact with her mom? Plus--where would she sell it? We can't safely assume she has regular access to the internet, or can just sell it on the street.

I did it because I hate how people treat others in need. I did it because I know what it feels like to be in need and be terrified to ask for help, not because of pride, but the fear of realizing others inhumanity when they say no.

There is no way we can tell the difference between a homeless person that is homeless because of a drug problem, or because he is mentally ill, or he's just lazy.  When I looked at that young woman asking for bus fare human decency took over me.  So what if her story was bullshit, and maybe she does it every day.--Do I really think she just does that for a rush and secretly has stacks of money that she swims through like Scrooge McDuck? Nope.

I never want to see the day that I don't feel a pang of sadness when I walk by a homeless person or someone begging in the streets.  

If soccer was a subject in school, perhaps it would be art.  Some people don’t get it, and to others it is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen.  I want to take a moment to talk about the beauty of soccer and what it seems Americans don’t understand about it.

There Isn’t Enough Scoring

Let me state the obvious, basketball, football, and baseball, all have a hell of a lot more scoring than soccer.  A goal in soccer is what scoring should be.  It is a reward.  It is a culmination of hard work.  Have you ever cried when Ray Allen hits a three pointer with 20 minutes left in a game?—No.  Have you when he hits a three pointer with 5 seconds left in the game to put the Heat up by 1? Yes.  That situation is rare and it is beautiful.  That’s how each goal in soccer feels.

Everyone Is Just Standing Around

HAHAHAHAHAHA.  Sorry, that’s just not true.  The entire game is composed of constant jogging and interspersed with 100 yard sprints, with an occasional three second break of walking when the ball is passed deep to the goalie, and even then a forward is expected to sprint back to challenge the goalie.  Why do you think soccer players have ripped legs? For those of you who really think that, have you ever watched baseball? Please find me ONE overweight soccer player playing in the World Cup.  If a person were to make a map tracking each soccer player’s runs throughout a game it would like the freakin’  flight tracker of every plane in and out of LGA.

Only Underdeveloped Countries Like Soccer Because They are Uneducated

Holy stupid American alert batman. –And we wonder why other countries think we are rude.  You think as a country we are above a sport?  You think that other places are composed of stupid monkeys who are so easily entertained that soccer will do, but Americans need a sport that is more complex than that to keep our brilliant minds stimulated? I’m willing to bet the average person from most other countries will know more about our country than we know about theirs.

Now don’t misread this as unpatriotic.  I am very thankful to be an American, I just want to put this into perspective a little.

  There Are No Heroes In Soccer

Oh okay.  With that theory then the few commercials there are about soccer would always feature the whole team.  There would be no stand out player and just as many people would know who Pele is as Alejando Bedoya.   For those of you who said “Who is Bedoya”…exactly, for those of you who said “who is Pele” something bad happened to Justin Beiber, so you should probably go cry.

In conclusion…

The real reason soccer is not as successful in the US as in other places is because it is not profit-centric, and the US is.  There are not enough opportunities to put in commercials and promote a product.  I’d argue that the only reason the World Cup is so big here is because Fifa (although a nonprofit) is a power house financially, and can afford to promote the event.  Do you really think Budlight sponsors one sport over another for the love of a specific sport? Puh-lease.  It’s targeted marketing and demographics.

The charmed circle of sexuality is a term referring to what society as a whole considers “normal.”  At the bull’s-eye of this circle would be heterosexual, missionary, married sex.  Is this turning you on? From there it branches out to things like heterosexual, non-married, (dare I say it?) doggy-style sex.  This is something that, although is less accepted, is still considered normal. 

  Further from the center are things like lesbian/gay sex, promiscuity, gang bangs, etc.  As time goes on, more and more sexual styles and preferences are allowed within this charmed circle.  Things like inter-racial sex are no longer considered taboo, and most of society is accepting of it. 

  I think it’s great that as time goes on we are more and more accepting of others.  My issue is that it seems that once a group is accepted into the circle, the majority of the group no longer cares to stand up for what’s outside of the circle.

  I was taking a gender studies class in college, and my professor who happened to be a lesbian was talking about how her and her partner were not in the charmed circle and she said, “It’s not like we’re out there having sex with everyone, we are in a loving monogamous relationship”

  ::CAR BRAKES::

  I raised my hand and said, “But what if you weren’t in a loving monogamous relationship? What if your sexual preference was having multiple partners and it was all consensual and safe?”

My professor froze, so I continued.

“My point is this is kind of like free speech since sexuality is how people express themselves.  If gay and lesbian people want to be allowed to express themselves sexually without being judged or discriminated against, then it should be allowed for all…whether that’s consensual S&M or multiple partners.”

Let me tell you, my professor did NOT like that—but it’s the truth.  Yes, I recognize that not all gay/lesbian persons think the way my professor did but they should be the most accepting and open-minded of them all considering the harsh and daily struggle they have to go through in order to just be them.

Some people may think that if having multiple consensual partners becomes accepted then everyone will just run around banging each other and we will no longer rely on each other and it will ruin the institute of marriage, and kids will grow up with no parents, blah blah blah.  To that I say bullshit.  Sexuality is a way to express yourself, and I don’t want to express myself by having multiple partners.  It’s not what makes me, and a lot of other people, happy.

If you take away anything from reading this, it should be that just because you were lucky enough to be born into the type of person society accepts doesn't mean you should shun those who were not.  You should not only accept that person, but support them.  For those of you who fight hard to become accepted, don’t think the battle is over just because it’s over for your interests.  You don’t have to go to great lengths to show support if you don’t want to, simple gestures are enough.