Stripper Names?

Do parents really need guidance regarding what not to name their baby girls so that they don't grow up to be strippers? Apparently, this site thinks they do. Sage advice from the site includes this gem:

"Baby Girl Names to Avoid: One of the biggest mistakes parents make when naming a baby girl is giving her a name that points her toward the pole. Avoid using car names. Mercedes isn't classy, it just sounds like someone trying to sound classy. Mercedes is, however, and excellent name for a stripper. Be careful naming your baby girl after some characteristics like Chastity. When you name your girl Chastity you are only making her a target and a challenge to dozens of high school boys in the future. "

Reading this, I feel like I'm listening to a spin-off of Chris Rock's HBO comedy special, which was hilarious. But he was making jokes. This appears to be serious. Strippers do not become strippers because of their names. It's not an accident. There are causes like abuse, exploitation, parental neglect, poverty, low self esteem, and a lack of other options. There is something really wrong about stumbling across cautionary information about strippers while innocently searching for a baby name.

Also, who made this site an expert on stripper names? And how sick is the world if naming a girl "Chastity" makes her a target for dozens of high school boys? If parents taught their sons to respect women, then women would not have to worry about whether they might one day be perceived as sexual targets, regardless of their dress, past sexual practices, current sexual practices, or their name.

No Grazing

While having coffee after church today, I met a fascinating woman who does work with women's and children's health in South Africa. She's Swedish and moved to South Africa because she married a South African. Her work in Capetown started off focusing on children's health, but lead her to women's health - because unless the mothers are healthy it's unlikely that the children are. Interestingly, she said that working on women's health leads inevitably to programs to increase the economic self-sufficiency of women.

The starkest example is the AIDs crisis in Africa. One of the highest risk factors for women in Africa is whether they are married. Married women are at an extraordinary risk of contracting HIV because their husbands are using prostitutes or sleeping with other women outside of the marriage and then bringing back sexually transmitted diseases to their wives (and children). Where women are not economically self-sufficient - which is most places in the world - they are trapped. They're dependent on their husbands and feel that they have to stay, even if there's abuse or adultery.

While I was in Cambodia, I saw the same thing. Women from different social classes are separated from one another. The men move between the different classes of women, sleeping with one class outside of marriage, and the other inside of marriage, and passing diseases between them. It's incredible that prostitutes continue to be blamed for the spread of diseases, because it's not them that are spreading it to the wives of the men who buy them. Prostitutes, like wives (and of course they're often both), have limited power over the men that they sleep with. Often times, for example, they are not in a position to insist that a client wears a condom.

Apparently the only country in Africa which has seen a drop in the rate of HIV transmission is Uganda (hopefully Pas, who has done work there, will chime in). My new friend told me that this was because Uganda started a massive public health campaign aimed at curbing concurrent sexual relationships - something which my friend said was more common in Africa than the West (in the West you have lots of sexual partners but their more often one after another, instead of all at the same time). The issue with having multiple concurrent sexual relationships is that if one person in that chain contracts HIV, suddenly you have 4, or 6, or 10 others who contract it almost at the same time. It makes sense that it would spread rapidly under those conditions.

I honestly don't know if this is true, and if you're interested this theory is discussed in depth in a new book called The Invisible Cure, which I plan to get. The slogan of the Ugandan campaign was "No Grazing," as in, if you're eating one dish, don't nibble from others. It was successful because it resonated with both the health workers in Uganda and the population at large.

It's just so shocking that becoming a wife could be the most dangerous thing you could do in terms of your health. But on the other hand, it's not at all surprising that becoming a wife in an unequal partnership could be risky. I think it was Abigail Adams who said that all men would be tyrants if they could. Women have to come together and support one another in becoming economically independent. As the AIDs epidemic demonstrates, women's rights are quite literally a life or death matter.

Rape Conviction Leaves Polygamy Unchallenged

The polygamist Warren S. Jeffs, a prophet for fundamentalist Mormons, was convicted of being an accomplice to the rape of a 14-year old girl for "orchestrating the marriage of the young girl under duress" back in 2001. The victim testified that she had been forced into a "celestial marriage" (plural marriage) that she did not want, to a cousin that she did not like. Prosecutors argued that Jeffs knew that the forced marriage would lead to "nonconsensual sex," i.e. rape, and the jury agreed.

What's most interesting to me about this case is that it was not about polygamy. Instead of charging Jeffs with polygamy per se, prosecutors went after Jeffs for statutory rape. The conviction is unquestionably positive with respect to its definition of rape. Though the article mentions no allegations of physical force, the jury still found that a rape had occurred based on a lack of consent and/or sex that occurred under duress. Of course, we're dealing with the rape of a minor, and the whole premise of statutory rape assumes a lack of consent on behalf of the minor, so perhaps I'm being too optimistic in terms of applauding the jury for their progressive definition of rape. Not knowing the applicable state law, I don't know whether an adult woman would have received the same level of justice had she been forced into non-consensual sex, i.e. rape.

That's one of the most fascinating aspects of rape law: Young women under a certain age are presumed not to consent - in fact, they are legally not allowed to consent - while women over a certain age are presumed to always consent, unless proven otherwise. If your below a certain age, the assumption is that you kept your legs closed; if your over a certain age, the assumption is that you willingly opened them. That's why so much of rape law - which continues to be quite antiquated - focuses on the issue of force. Instead of assuming that it's rape unless there is affirmative evidence of consent, our legal system assumes that it was consensual sex unless there was evidence of force. (Not all states, but many continue to have this assumption at the core of their rape law).

The problem with that is that sex continues to happen in our society in the context of inequality, and the reality of sex for many girls and women is not always, or even usually, an experience of equality. Set against the backdrop of inequality - gender, economic, age etc. - it's ridiculous for our legal system to assume consent when sex happens. At least in the case of minors - who are protected by statutory rape but also denied the ability to consent by that same law - our legal system approaches sex from a more realistic perspective that recognizes at least some of the power issues involved.

The conviction of Jeffs is a victory for the victim and a general victory for women's rights advocates. However, I'm disturbed that Jeffs was not also convicted under the anti-polygamy laws for polygamy. Although there are enclaves of fundamentalist Mormons spread out through the country flagrantly practicing polygamy and its attendant forced, child marriages against the law, the authorities consistently fail to take a stand against polygamy. Instead, the enclaves are allowed to exist relatively unmolested, despite the molestation and abuse that - by many accounts - goes on within those communities.

In America, we don't have to look to Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan to find examples of female oppression. It's right here in our own country and appears in many different forms, one of the most blatant examples of which are the fundamentalist Mormon enclaves led by men like Jeffs. In convicting him as an accomplice to statutory rape, our society has taken a step towards protecting the rights of children growing up within those enclaves. However, his conviction for rape leaves the broader issue of polygamy and its implications for the rights of women (in a patriarchal society) unexamined and unchallenged, and offers no clear protection for adult women within those enclaves. To offer protection to all women within those communities, in addition to enforcing the law of statutory rape, the authorities would also need to enforce the laws against polygamy, something which they have thus far been reluctant to do.

Issues Galore

BC: Hi, My name is Buttercup and this is not a cry for help.

Peanut Gallery: Hi Buttercup!

BC: Today, I went to an after-work cocktail event and I had two glasses of wine and lots of green jelly beans (they were free and lying around everywhere). Immediately after downing my second glass of wine, I jumped into a cab and headed uptown for therapy.

Peanut Gallery: Ohhh...

BC: I was buzzed which was bad enough, but what was even worse was that at the event I had played a game and won a huge bottle of organic vodka. It was organic! So, not only did I show up at therapy buzzed, but I was also carrying a large bottle of vodka with me. My therapist asked whether it was a cry for help.

Peanut Gallery: Was it?

BC: No! I told Therapist that of course it wasn't a cry for help; my issue is food, not alcohol. Duh. But, then a few minutes later I started to cry and Therapist asked me whether I was going to remember our discussion tomorrow. I reminded her that I had only had two glasses of wine and told her that I was way less inebriated than she seemed to think I was. The problem is that in those situations any attempts at denial just make you look worse.

Peanut Gallery: *collectively nodding sagely*

BC: Therapist tried to get me back on track by asking me what had been kicked up for me related to food during the past few weeks that had made me start rebelling. I summoned all my powers of focus and tried to think of all the things I had been thinking I should tell Therapist during the last few days. I ended up telling therapist that I felt sad and like I had no one in the universe who was there for just me. *glaring at Peanut Gallery*

Peanut Gallery: What? Continue.

BC: I told Therapist, after warning her several times that I was about to tell her the most corny thing she had ever heard, about a story I had read somewhere - perhaps some Buddhist script or possibly some random piece of internet trash - that explains the struggle of human existence like this: Each soul is born with half of a heart and spends their life longing for and seeking their other half. I said -

Peanut Gallery: Yes?

BC: I said that sometimes that theory on human existence, suffering, and love made sense to me. Sometimes, I feel like I'm missing something. Sometimes, I feel more powerfully than other times that I would like someone to be there just for me, and I would like to be that someone for someone else.

Peanut Gallery: Um hmm...

BC: We talked some more about dating, and food issues, and how at the moment - possibly exacerbated by the fact that alcohol is a depressant - I felt sad and wanted to binge on chocolate. Therapist suggested that perhaps I could weigh whether the value I would get from binging was worth it to me. She also suggested that I consider calling someone I love as I had just talked about the importance of connecting with those I care about, and how relationships are the most important things in life.

Peanut Gallery: And?

BC: So, I muttered that I would think about it, gathered my resolve, felt ridiculous for contemplating a drunken binge immediately after therapy, left the building cradling my enormous bottle of vodka, and called Bean. We talked for 40 minutes, and it was good and we laughed a lot, and then my phone died. Then, I had some frozen grapes which made my teeth hurt. But, I didn't have chocolate because I didn't need it because Bean had made me feel better.

Peanut Gallery: Good work.

BC: Eh.

Skater Chick

When asked when it was that I first met her, I couldn't say at first. I couldn't think of a time when she hadn't been present in my life, but I couldn't remember when she had first entered it. I don't really remember her in elementary school, but I'm sure she was there, somewhere lurking, perhaps waiting to pull me outside to play. Or maybe not? I was a relatively serious kid, mature for my age, and very focused. I didn't really have space in between school, after-school activities, baby-sitting, and hanging out with my friends for a punk, teen-aged skater-chick with short spiky hair and baggy pants who just wanted to have fun, chill out and relax. She would have been very different from the girl I was back then.

My earliest memories of her are from middle school. I spent lazy afternoons watching soaps, making meringues, and devouring books one after the next, when I should have been working on papers, reading "assigned" books, or studying for tests. I did things last minute, and I did them well, and she helped me.

It was her idea to stand out in the snow in bare feet early in the morning to get a chill, so that I would have an excuse to stay home from school for just a few extra hours on the days that papers were due. She convinced me that I didn't need to start writing until midnight, and she was proved right when I got one good grade after the next after staying up all night. She brought me packs of spearmint trident gum, smarties, neccos, M&Ms, diet cokes, pizza, coffee, and anything else I needed to stay motivated; anything else I needed to make the final push - the only push - bearable. She made cramming fun, and I did well at the cramming, so the system worked.

Through middle school, high school, and college, she was an unquestionable ally. Infrequently seen amidst my schedule of studying, waiting tables, and (in college) partying, she pulled me away from my work when I needed her to. She was resourceful, imaginative, and very persuasive, and she came up with amazingly creative ways to buy me more time to do the things she and I both wanted to do.

The relationship worked so well for so many years. I was grounded, focused and (felt) very much in control (of everything). Giving in to her whims was something I could easily afford. Sometimes, following her lead brought me temporary moments of stress, but I worked well under pressure, always got everything done, always did well, and with her also had time to experience life and have fun. It seemed like a perfect, balanced match, and for the longest time I never questioned it. She was just a part of my experience, someone who forced me to carve out space to enjoy life when I was least able to do that.

If I'm completely honest, I think the relationship worked as well as it did because she had less influence back then. She was a constant presence, an always willing partner in crime. But, back then I wasn't all that into rebelling against what was expected of me, because I expected it of myself. I was my own worst task master. Back then, she provided a welcome respite. She was the bad influence that was good for me, because I was so focused and in control that the risk of me falling prey to any influence, bad or good, in more than a passing fashion was such a remote possibility.

Back then, I felt so in control that the idea of being "out of control" never crossed my mind. Granted, that was before I turned 30, before ice cream started stick to my body, before a series of relationships self-combusted, before two dream jobs turned nightmarish, before I had really loved, and before I had lost anything precious to me. It was before I grew up and realized how much of life is completely out of my control.

I had goals, dreams, an unswerving belief in myself and the future, insulating walls around my heart and body, and a clear path that I followed unerringly. I was disciplined, diligent, and wholly determined to succeed. It would have taken far more then one teen-aged skater chick to lead me astray. At 12 and 18, I was so much more together than her.

Now, not so much.

I Rock!

Starrlight just honored me with a Rockin' Girl Blogger Award! Wow! I'm truly honored. When I started this blog, I did it mainly to provide a creative outlet for myself. I was also motivated by a subversive desire to throw a little more feminist pixie dust out into the ether. If anyone had asked me at that time how I wanted my non-existent readers to view me, even if I wouldn't have said it out loud, and even though I didn't necessarily believe it totally of myself at the time, secretly, on the inside, I would have wished that at least a few of them would think that I rock. Apparently, my wish came true. Thanks Starrlight!!

There are many Girl Bloggers that I read who unquestionably also deserve this award. Allow me to pass the Rockin' Girl Blogger Award along to five of my all-time faves. The following Girl Bloggers are fierce, funny, compassionate, witty, inspiring, supportive, introspective, wise, whimsical, sassy women, and they all totally ROCK:

1) Wood: I love this girl like a sister. She's been there for me during the last 6 1/2 years in ways that I could never repay, mainly because she's so freakin' strong, put together, and balanced that she hardly ever needs any support from me. She's a wonderful mom, and a loving and supportive partner to her husband Dutch, who works outside of the home, and, among other things, teaches gymnastics in her spare time. Basically, she is Superwoman. Thank god she's on my side.

2) Gypsy: This sultry, fire-cracker recently opened up a restaurant with her love, Lancelot, and has been working her fingers to the bone, in between other activities, to make the place a success. She also has the honor of being the person who gave me the metaphor that I needed in order to make the decision to leave my heinous Old Firm for my lovely new one. Gypsy, who knew that a 5 story building could be oh so much better than a 10 story one?

3) Wordnerd: I'm grateful for the many occasions on which she has shared her deep, compassionate, penetrating insight with me. She once asked me, after I had written a post about why I hated Old Firm, why my sense of personal self-worth was tied to my success or failure at Old Firm. That's the type of penetrating question that will make a girl think, and it did.

4) Starshine: My first official "blog buddy," Starshine is one of the warmest, kindest, most bubbly individuals that I have ever met. She's going to be married in less than two weeks to an absolutely wonderful man that I've also had the pleasure of meeting. I'm so excited for both of them and I wish them a lifetime of love, health, and happiness.

5) Interstellar Lass: Lass is also someone I put on the "super woman" list. She's the mother of two incredibly active children, she works outside of the home, and she and her husband just decided to to take in her Dad to live with them. That is such a generous, beautiful, and right thing to do, and I applaud her for taking care of her Dad like that.

Congrats Ladies! You all rock!

A Feminist, Not A Man-Hater

I did this little blogthing that I found on Sparky's blog and was at first amused by the unsurprising results. I'm a woman and I believe in equality. Of course I'm a feminist! Frankly, I was shocked I was only 98% feminist. I even voted in favor of women picking up checks on dates on occasion, but I picked "agree" instead of "strongly agree," so that may have been where I lost those two percentage points. No matter. I know that I'm 100% feminist.

Then I read the text under the picture of the woman with the boxing gloves, where she explained that even though I was a feminist I was not necessarily a man hater. She helpfully pointed out that I might even be a man, even though I was a feminist. Was that really necessary?

Do we really still have so far to go that a Blogthing has to remind people who might be identified as feminists that feminism does not mean that you hate men? We still have so far to go that we have to explain that feminism does NOT equal man-hater? Every woman alive has or had a father. Many of them also have brothers, sons, uncles, nephews, and male lovers. Of course being a feminist does not mean that you are a man hater - that would be hating a part of who you are. That is just plain silly. If there's a critical mass of people who are still operating under the delusion that feminists are bra-burning, man haters, we are a long way off from the cultural gender revolution that we have to have if we are ever going to attain true gender equality.

I was in a better mood, but that just made me grumpy all over again. People, you can be a feminist, appreciate the history of women and the reality of women's historically, socially, politically, and economically oppressed status, and believe that there should be change such that women and men attain a level of actual equality without hating men.

The trick is that we need more men to become feminists. Whether they identify as feminists or not, we need men to stand up with us, not for us but for themselves, and to demand change. If women and men continue to identify seeking equality with hating men, we're never going to get there.

Usually when I meet men, at some point they generally end up asking me if I'm a feminist. I don't know what it is. I've taken to responding, "Yes, aren't you?" Usually, they guffaw, chuckle, or look bemused. Unless they're completely intimidated, they usually become more interested. The bad, though tempting, ones because they see a challenge and something they think would be fun to tame. The cool ones because they're either already aware or intrigued or both. Either way, it works to a woman's advantage. Strong, sassy, and independent (i.e feminist) usually does.

Start spreading the word: Feminism means equality, not man-hater, and it's HOT.

You Are 98% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn't mean you're a man hater (in fact, you may be a man). You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It's a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

Neina's Story

The shelter is a narrow two-story, cement building on a crowded street in the middle of one of Kolkata's red light districts, Khidderpore. The dirt road in front of it is littered with crumpled water bottles, the rotted remains of food, and other garbage. A river of brown water snakes through the dust, pooling in stagnant, foul-smelling puddles on the edge of the road. Men lounge along the sides of buildings dressed in lungis, some of them soiled, while groups of young women stand in the shade, decked out in brightly colored saris. The women on average look to be between the ages of 13 and 20, while the men range in age from young children to old men in their 50s or 60s.

I follow my new friend, a woman who has been doing community outreach to women in the red light district for the past three years, down a narrow alley to the door of the shelter. It's covered with a steel grate and pad locked for good measure. My friend explains that the area is very dangerous, both for the young girls living in the shelter and for the community workers. Threats from pimps and brothel owners against her and her organization are common, but they don't dissuade her from her work. She calls up through the grate to another woman, the field worker who resides in the shelter and cares for the young women staying there. I hear delighted cries from up above and the sound of footsteps tripping down the stairs. The women of the shelter are happy that my friend has come to visit.

Upstairs, I enter a small room, dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through the half-covered, and also barred, windows. A ceiling fan turns lazily in the heat, sending a gentle breeze through the room. The room is furnished simply with a woven carpet that covers about half of the floor space. A pile of cooking pots is set up in a corner, the preparations of the midday meal well underway.

On the carpet sits the young girl my friend has come to visit, a girl recently rescued from a brothel in Bihar, India. She's coloring in a coloring book. Colored pencils and crayons are spread out around her. She's coloring a picture of a family with a mom, dad, and two children. She's made the faces neon yellow, and has stayed within the lines of the picture. She's slight of build with very thin arms and legs, and looks to be abut the age of 12. Her skin is light brown and smooth, her eyes large and beautiful. Two of her front teeth are broken. When we enter the room, she greets us with a huge smile and a barrage of questions about the new "Auntie," me, who has come to visit. She tells me her name is Neina*, and insists that food should be brought for me even though I tell her several times that I'm not hungry or thirsty. Her smile is infectious, she's bubbling with happy energy, and she won't take no for an answer regarding her offer of food. The woman in the shelter obliges her requests, and plates of white rice, egg curry, and dahl are brought for my friend and me.

As my friend and I enjoy our meal, using our fingers to shape the rice into bite-sized balls, the young girl continues a steady stream of animated chatter with my friend. She wants to know where I'm from, whether I'm married, and if I have any sisters and brothers. She's worried the food will be too spicy for me but I assure her that it's delicious. She says repeatedly that I'm beautiful and I tell her that she's the one who is beautiful. Our exchanges are in bits of broken English and Hindi translated by my friend, and peppered with frequent smiles. Naina tells my friend that the other girls staying in the shelter have been talking to some of the neighborhood boys on the phone. She's concerned because she knows what the boys of the red light district can do. She has seen it and she has experienced it first hand. The other girls living in the shelter have also grown up in a red light district, but as Neina explains, they have not yet been forced into prostitution so they do not fully understand the risks. She's tattling on the girls, and my friend says she will place more limits on the phone. My friend says to me, "In addition to everything else, we also have to struggle with these things - the behaviors and needs of teenagers - like parents."

After we've finished our food and talked with Neina for a little while longer, we take our leave. Neina is dissapointed to see us go, but says it's ok. She knows that she will see my friend again soon. She follows us down the steps and says to me in English, "Thank you Auntie for come." I look back and catch a glimpse of her radiant smile through the bars shutting behind us and say in Hindi, "Shukriya," one word of thanks for her hospitality and warmth.

In the taxi ride away from the shelter to my hotel, I hear from my friend the details of Neina's life. Her mother was kidnapped and sold to a brothel at the age of 9, where she worked as a domestic servant for several years. At the age of 12, Neina's mother was forcibly raped by a client who had bought the right to do so. Subsequently, she was forced to have sex with men every day. When she was 15 or 16, she gave birth do Neina. The brothel owners separated mother from daughter, fearing that the mother would make trouble for them and speak up on her daughter's behalf, if she was allowed to stay close to her daughter. Over the course of the next 10 years, Neina's mother was repeatedly tortured and raped while forced to prostitute herself. Finally, no longer being able to stand the torture, and having learned of my friend's organization's efforts to reach out to the women of the red light district, she escaped from the brothel and sought the help of my friend's organization. It took her almost a year to be rehabilitated, so deep were the effects of the trauma that she had been forced to endure. Eventually, she began working for my friend's organization, advocating for the rights of women in the red light district.

Once she had freed herself, she asked my friend's organization if rescue could be arranged for her daughter, Neina. She begged the organization to get Neina out. She said that she did not want Neina to suffer as she had, and said that she would not feel like a mother until she had saved her daughter. It took months of planning to arrange the rescue, most of which was spent convincing the police to assist in the raid. Corruption is a huge problem; brothel owners and pimps pay a lot of money to the police so that they will not interfere in the red light district. The organization pressured the police by bringing the mother before them and forcing them to hear her story, and involving the media to raise awareness about Neina's plight. On the day of the raid, members of the police and my friend's organization, along with a cameraman to document the raid, entered the brothel.

Inside the brothel, they found Neina just where her mother had told them she would be, in a small dark room in the back of the brothel. Two other young girls were in the room with her. Neina's mother pointed her out, but Neina, afraid of the brothel owners refused to recognize her mother. She appeared to be in a state of shock, she was withdrawn, fearful, and did not speak. When tested by medical staff later on, it was found that all three of the girls had traces of drugs in their systems. It wasn't until a week later, once Neina began to realize that she was safe and that the brothel owners would not be able to get to her, that she started speaking, recognized her mother, and admitted that she had been forced to work as a prostitute for the past year.

Neina told her rescuers that while growing up in the brothel, she and other young girls had been forced to watch the brothel owners and pimps brutally beat prostitutes who had refused to have sex. That was how the brothel owners trained the young girls to accept their fate to become prostitutes, by making them understand what the consequences would be if they refused. Neina said that the brothel owners would beat the prostitutes with bamboo rods and steel pipes all over their body. The would beat the women's vaginas until their vaginas bled.

When Neina was 12, the brothel owners drugged her and gave her to a man in his 50s who raped her. Neina struggled and cried out, but she could do nothing to stop it. She felt helpless. During the next year, brothel owners, pimps, and men repeatedly raped and beat her. Neina considered killing herself, but then thought why should she kill herself when she knew that it was not her who had done something wrong. Neina was rescued two months ago, at the age of 14. She was malnourished, sick with tuberculosis, and drugged, and had to spend almost two months in a hospital in order to heal. My friend picked Neina up from the hospital and brought her to the shelter only two days before I first met Neina.

After Neina's rescue the brothel owners filed a court case demanding her return. One of them alleges that Neina is his daughter and that she has been stolen from him. My friend' organization suspects that large sums of money have been given to the police and the judge involved in the case to persuade them to return Neina to the brothel. My friend's organization is currently battling the brothel owners in court. On their side they have the testimony of Neina and her mother, and the video footage of the raid. My friend believes they have a strong case and says allowing Neina to be forced to go back to the brothel is not an option. Instead, they are going to keep Neina safe, provide her with medical treatment, education, and some life and skills training so that she will be able to earn a livelihood outside of the walls of the brothel.

* Name changed to protect her identity.

Impressions of Kolkata

I'm sitting in a tiny booth with four computers and a small fan, just 20 feet away from Park Road in Kolkata, India. I'm so relieved to be off of the street, away from the incessant honking, smells, dust, putrefying piles of garbage, constant stares, and the frequent heart-wrenching begging. Kolkata is nothing if not intense. I've been here for 2 1/2 days and it's been a constant assault on all of my senses. Frequently, I find myself walking down the street, silently thinking to myself, "Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap..." It's not fear, it's that it doesn't stop. All the time, every where I look, there's something I've never seen before, and it's overwhelming. Neither good nor bad, just overwhelming.

Then there's also the squalor. The buildings are scared by black stains, many of them covered by layers of dirt, dust and grime that look like they've been building up for the last 1,000 years. The streets are lined with gutters, filled with brown, toxic-looking liquid (much of it probably pee) and choked with debris, garbage, and human feces. I've been wearing flip flops, but I'm very careful where I step. There's no where to sit except amidst the dust and the crowds of people. In comparison, New York is a pristine oasis of neatly organized calm. After wandering around the streets of Kolkata, I have a new found appreciating for the glass-covered, urban jungle, and I think I might just have to go kiss the ground in Central Park - in desparate gratitude for its existence - upon my return.

I arrived in Kolkata after a 14 hour flight from JFK to Mumbai (Bombay), a six hour layover (from 12:00 to 6:00 am Mumbai time) in Mumbai Airport, and a two hour flight to Kolkata. From Kolkata airport I took a taxi to the organization for whom I will be volunteering through the end of next week. The cabs here are kind of awesome. They're bright yellow cars in the style of 1920s Rolls Royce's and they're everywhere. There are also tuk-tuks, but I've stuck to the more reliable, quicker, cabs so far.

The people I'll be volunteering with are amazing. From the moment I met them, they greeted me with warmth, excitement, and genuine pleasure to have me here. The organization itself is focused upon stopping another generation of young girls from entering prostitution. To that end, they have reached out to adolescent girls living in the red light districts of Kolkata and in a few other areas in India, and have provided them alternative housing in shelters, education, health care, and skills training - all aimed to give them a viable alternative, other than prostitution, for supporting themselves. Because their mothers are prostitutes, and because they themselves have grown up in the red light districts, they are a high risk group in terms of the likelihood that they will be pressured into prostitution.

A word on the red light districts. Never have I seen such intense poverty. People are living on top of each other, crowded into decaying stone buildings or under lean-tos, with only ragged cloth as a roof covering or door. There's garbage everywhere, as there is in most of the places I've seen so far in Kolkata. Some houses seem to literally rise up out of the garbage, almost as if they are part of the garbage heap upon which they are situated. The girls who live in the red light districts are stigmatized and treated with disdain. Some go to school, but other girls who are not from the red light district are told not to speak with them because they are "bad girls." I'm talking not about the prostitutes, but their children.

I learned a little about some of the children's lives when I met 5 teenage girls yesterday at a shelter, ranging in age from 13-16. They were amazing! Smart, funny, open, and bubbling with questions for me. The girls reside in a shelter run by the organization I'm volunteering with. All of the girls said their mothers support them living outside of the red light district; they don't want their daughters forced into prostitution, they want them to have a different life. During our conversation (in Bengali and Hindi but translated into English for my benefit), the subject turned to violence against women. When I asked whether they had seen violence in their community they described in vivid detail the death of a woman who had been burned a live by her John just a few days earlier. The girls said "husband," because in the red light district that is how the Johns are referred to. It's less shameful then admitting that your mom is a prostitute.

Apparently, her John became angry with her and, after dousing her with alcohol, set her and her sari on fire. Just before dying, she lunged at her attacker, saying that if she died he would go on to do this to other women and that he should die to. She hugged her John and they both ended up being burned alive. The five girls had seen the whole altercation happen inside the cramped quarters where their mothers live. I can't imagine growing up in that reality. I was stunned and inspired by their resilience. They've grown up with abuse and unspeakable horror, such as seeing people burned alive before them, yet they could animatedly discuss their love of dancing, talking to new people, carpentry, and their hopes for their future. One girl wants to be a math teacher, another wants to be a doctor. It's overwhelming to me how many girls there are just like them who deserve so much better than the reality that they were born into.

Speaking of injustice and clashes between worlds, out of necessity, I walk past mothers with children, children alone, the elderly, and the crippled, staring fixedly ahead, ignoring their pleas for money or food. A fellow traveler that I met my first night here, Sarah from Scotland, told me how guilty she feels when she does the same thing and refuses the pleas for help. Having just arrived, I waxed philosophical, and said I didn't feel guilty because supporting begging runs the risk of supporting the trafficking of persons for begging, and suggested that a better route would be donating to a local organization. Ha! That was after only 3 hours in the city.

Two days and many, many poor souls later, of course I feel guilty. I'm sickened by the poverty, not by the people who are poor, and not by their way of life, but by the fact that they have so little. In comparison, I have so much. I come from a world so different, and so filled with privileges it's incomprehensible. Walking on the garbage covered side walk, navigating between skeletal bodies huddled against the sides of the path, many of them without even a piece of cloth to cover them, I feel sick to my stomach at the injustice. But, what can I do? Giving out rupees would accomplish two things: First, it would get me mobbed, and second, it would in fact support the trafficking of people for begging - a practice which results in, among other things, the forced maiming of children for sympathy points. As I don't want either, I'm holding on to my rupees, but, yes, I feel guilty, but mostly I just feel sad. I feel sad that I have so much where they have so little, and guilty for giving them nothing. It feels cruel to walk past them without even a glance. I try to be firm and gentle, and to treat each person I encounter with dignity and respect. But, it's not enough. People should not be living like this. It's horribly sad.

Another School Shooting

I just saw this horrific news. A gunman shot 22 people to death at Virginia Tech this morning. It's the deadliest school shooting to have happened in the United States. I am deeply saddened on behalf of the students and others killed and their families.

This is not the Revolutionary War and we do not need standing militias to defend ourselves against the English. How many people have to die before we get rid of the guns?

Put Your Girls First

I try to follow one major rule with respect to my girl friends: I try my best not to choose boys, or the distant possibility of a relationship with them, or the certain chance of a meaningless though possibly fun tumble with them, over my girls.

Why is this? Because during the last fifteen years of dating, while a lot of men have come and gone, the relationships that have lasted are the ones that I have developed with my girl friends. I love them, I'm fiercely loyal to them, and I want them to know that with me they come first.

But, I'm weak sometimes. I make mistakes. For example, the last time I flew to Detroit I had plans to see one of my closest friends, Wood. Unfortunately, that trip happened to be just at the time that my relationship with EXBF was self-combusting. I was a distraught, confused, sobbing mess for big chunks of the weekend. And, when the subject of breaking up was raised, I chose to stay in the car with EXBF to try to once and for all sort out our stuff instead of visiting with Wood. That whole time still makes me feel sad to think about. It makes me sad to think how sad I was. It makes me sad to think that though I loved EXBF it didn't work out with him, and it makes me sad that I chose not to see a friend for a boy that became dead to me just a month later.

After EXBF and I broke up, I became stronger. Or, more accurately, I rediscovered through the haze of pain surrounding me how strong I actually was. Somehow, during the three years of my tumultuous interaction with EXBF, I had forgotten some of my strengths. I had forgotten that I do not in fact need a boy to give my life purpose. I can't believe I just wrote that sentence, because the flip of it is that I had come to feel that I needed him and our relationship to give my life purpose. Oh, Buttercup, how low you had fallen! But, remember, I was in love, depressed, worn down by months and months of having my heart stomped to pieces, and stressed out beyond belief by my toxic job. I was not in a good place. My future was horribly uncertain. Sometimes in the midst of things, it's hard to see them for how destructive they actually are.

Flash forward to just recently. I had been out to dinner with Tapas Boy once and we were trying to set up another date but were having some scheduling issues. He could only do a Thursday and was saying that he really wanted to see me and since our first date had been so great I really wanted to see him, so I decided against my better judgment to forego my weekly Thursday night ANTM viewing with Lakshmi and agreed to go out with him. There, I said it, once again, I chose a boy over spending time with one of my girls. A week after that decision, guess who was still around and guess who had become MIA?

As you all know, Tapas Boy and I ended up going out last minute on Wednesday instead of Thursday, because he couldn't break his plans with his friend on Thursday night, and after a decent Date #2, I didn't hear from the boy for 8 days. Although I ended up not cancelling with Lakshmi for Thursday, the part that bothers me is that I was ready to cancel on her for a boy that I had been on only one date with that I thought I might like. I didn't even like him. I just thought I might like him. The other reason I was ready to cancel was that I knew Lakshmi would understand, and also that she would enjoy herself without me watching ANTM. My close girl friends are all like that. They understand my weaknesses, yet they love and support me. They forgive me when I make mistakes, which just makes me want to try even harder not to make them. But still, I didn't behave like the type of woman I aspire to be.

Well, not this week, brother. This week, I am being the woman I want to be. I am being a woman worthy of my amazingly wonderful girl friends. I'm putting me first and I'm putting them first.

Exhibit #1: After spending Friday night with River, I spent parts of Saturday thinking that I liked him. I was a little bubbly inside and a flicker of hope was unfurling inside of me. I thought for a second wistfully and a tad regretfully that I had made my trip to Mexico so long. By 3:00 am Saturday night, after he had texted me and I had texted him the location at which I was drinking and after he had texted me back that he was in a different location drinking and that we would "be in touch," and after he had failed to materialize, the flicker of hope died, I felt the stab of vulnerability striking again, and I decided that he was a player and that it was impossible to have sex without becoming emotionally attached. Don't worry, I also flirted at the bar with a bunch of very cute boys, so it wasn't like I let me evening be ruined, but I still felt a tiny bit let down.

I could have (easily) spent the remainder of the weekend obsessing, berating myself for getting involved on any level with River, or feeling bad that I had made myself vulnerable. But, guess what? I didn't do that. I decided that the past was the past and I wasn't going to worry about it. If River just wanted to take me on dates, call me, and text me to sleep with me, fine. It was a nice cleansing experience. He's gorgeous and I most certainly do not regret being that close to his beautifully smooth, perfectly muscled, chocolate brown body. What's done is done. Instead, I just pushed him out of my mind and started getting excited for my trip. I didn't even worry about it! Go me! (Update: He called and wants to see me before I go. I'll keep you posted).

Exhibit #2: After Tapas Boy emailed me last Thursday to tell me that he was unavailable, I waited five days, until late last night, to email him back and let him know that I was going on vacation this Friday. Wouldn't you know that Tapas Boy immediately emailed me back and wanted to know if I was available tonight for a drink. I don't think so. a) I have plans with Lakshmi. b) Even if I didn't have plans, I most certainly would not make myself available to a boy who had waited 8 days after our last date to make contact. I mean, puh-leeeeeeze.

So, there you have it. I chose me over one boy and my girl friend over the other one. Two excellent choices in one excellent week. I'm proud of me.

Hamptonian Ignorance

While out in the Hamptons this past weekend, I went out to dinner with Rumi and her bf, DWB. We went to a casual little seafood restaurant on the edge of town - nothing fancy or hip - that had stuffed lobster for about half the price you would pay downtown. DWB's version of slumming it. It reminded me of a nautically themed restaurant I used to go to in the small town in Connecticut in which I grew up; a place where I once bit into a cherry tomato, after stabbing it inartfully with my fork, causing all of the juicy tomato seeds to spray out across the table, while my boyfriend and his parents looked on. I am nothing if not graceful.

While we were munching on oyster crackers and sipping some wine that DWB had ordered, DWB said what a shame it was that the restaurant had been doing so poorly that it had had to expand it's customer base, and nodded towards the bar area where a small group of people sat drinking and laughing loudly with one another. The group was fairly boisterous, and the noise alone made them stand out from the rest of the restaurant patrons, a reserved and stuffy bunch of mostly families and older customers. The group happened to be black, and the rest of the restaurant patrons happened to be white.

Not wanting to assume that DWB was a racist, but not capable of letting that pass, I asked him what he meant by his comment. He explained that it was rare to see a black person in the Hamptons, and it was clear by the presence of this group of African Americans that the restaurant had had to expand its customer base by providing "special" deals. Clearly, he was assuming that the group of African Americans had less money than your typical Hamptons customer. I said that it sounded like he meant that the restaurant was expanding it's customer base by class, and not necessarily by race, in order to bring in more business. I was trying to throw DWB a bone (not that being classist is any better than being racist, mind you, but at least classism has an economic reality that could have made sense in the context of discussing a restaurant's efforts to bring in more business by lowering its prices on certain dinner specials).

Picking up on his other comment, I said that it was hard for me to believe that the presence of a black person in the Hamptons would be a rare thing. The Hamptons are a place where the wealthy go to escape the crush of the city, no question about it, and for a very long time (i.e. Slavery, Segregation, Pre-Civil Rights Movement) "wealthy" meant "white," or more accurately, "not people of color." But, times have changed. There are tons of extremely successful, highly educated, wealthy black people, and the idea that they wouldn't be making their way to the Hamptons just like all the other rich people in New York seems more than a little bit incredible. Maybe DWB doesn't see people of color in his circle, but I have no doubt that they frequent the Hamptons, just like their wealthy white cohorts. When I brought this up to DWB, he commented that there were probably some wealthy black people in the Hamptons, but it was rare to see a group of "fat" black people, and then nodded again in the direction of the group sitting at the bar.

By "fat," he meant "not stick thin" (which is what most of the women I saw looked like in the Hamptons), but he also meant "lower class." Apparently, in DWB's circle, all the women are supposed to be perfectly fit, focused on their figures, and pretty. Fat women - even white women - are not appreciated. Men, on the other hand, can look like this, as long as they're loaded. It's despicable.

Several times now, when I've spent any time with DWB, I've noticed how judgmental he is of the women around him. I've also started to see how it affects Rumi, who just the other day commented that "It's so easy to get fat." My roommate is about 5'6" and just over 100 pounds. She exercises almost every day and watches what she eats. It would take force-feeding her buckets of lard to make her fat. Me, I've been eating chocolate, marshmallows, ice cream, and all manner of other comfort/junk food, and it's made me unhappy and a bit squishier than I would like, but it's not made me fat. As my friend Pele said about ten years ago when we were both studying at UVA, "your body wants to stay at the weight that it's comfortable with." I'm beginning to think Rumi might have some body issues, and that DWB might be contributing to them, and I don't like it.

While I'm on this topic, Rumi also said that tofu is fattening and that I had been eating "a lot" of ice cream. For the record, since moving into this apartment two months ago, I have consumed exactly two pints of ice cream. One pint of Sharon's chocolate sorbet and one point of Chocolate Chip Mint ice cream. I can't believe she's been watching what I eat and I can't believe she thinks 2 pints is a lot! And, what of this business about tofu being fattening. I've heard of tofu not being as good as animal protein (a common argument of my brother's), but fattening? I don't think so. Comments?

Getting back to the issue of race, DWB's comments made me uncomfortable for a variety of reasons. First, I don't like racists and I don't like racism. Second, I believe in equality of all women and I'm certainly not going to watch any of my sisters getting sold down the river, especially not for an old, rich white man, who at the age of 71 is making his 34-year old girlfriend feel self-conscious about her body. Third, half of my family are black. Fourth, about half of my friends are people of color. Fifth, prejudice on the basis of any reason, whether it be race, class, or sexuality, is wrong, close-minded, and ignorant, and I have no time or patience for any of that. Sixth, as a women living in this still male-dominated society, I often feel that I have a lot more in common with people of color than I do with white men, or at the very least that there is a common shared experience between women and people of color (noting that women of color are tagged twice in this) to which white men are excluded unless they take the time to learn and understand, which thankfully, many of them do.

That night, after we got back from dinner, I took the earliest opportunity to let DWB know that my Dad was married to a black woman, that my step-family was black, and that I had an adorable niece and nephew by my black step-sister and her white husband. While DWB was processing this information, I also informed him that my last boyfriend was Indian, and that I had recently gone on dates with a black lawyer, an Indian lawyer, and a finance guy of Indian, Chinese, and Jamaican descent. I was seeking to make DWB question some of his assumptions, and I think I succeeded, albeit only marginally. DWB found it somewhat interesting that my father had married a black woman, but he found it absolutely remarkable that I would entertain, as he put it, marrying into a "minority" group. It aggravated me when he used that term because he obviously meant it in a pejorative sense. I emphasized that I had been brought up in a family where who the person is, not the color of their skin or their cultural background, is what's important (color and culture can be incredibly attractive, but it's never a negative). Obviously, DWB was raised in a very different environment.

From DWB's perspective, women generally seek to "marry up" (keep in mind he's really old, which is not an excuse but it provides some explanation for his antiquated notions of dating, if not his lack of social awareness) and he was surprised that a woman like me (white, educated, smart, attractive) would be willing to marry "down" by putting herself into a minority group. I'm not making that up. He actually said that a white woman would be marrying down by marrying into a minority group. I had never heard that before, and was frankly shocked that anyone educated still thought along those lines.

God, did that piss me off. It didn't piss me off for me, and it didn't piss me off on behalf of my possibly brown or black future husband, because I'm sure he'll be tough enough to laugh off the absurdity and idiocy of those types of comments, like EXBF once did. However, it did piss me off on behalf of my friends and family, and it really pissed me off on behalf of the future brown or black children I might one day have. It pissed me off on behalf of all the beautiful multiracial children - including my sweet niece and nephew - born into this fucked up society that still persists in viewing the races as divided from one another, with whites as the privileged race, and everyone else as the "other." That perspective is fucked up.

I don't think DWB is racist. If I had thought that, I wouldn't have stayed the weekend, and I certainly wouldn't have made small talk with him while helping him in the kitchen. I think he's a privileged white male from an older generation who is ignorant on a host of issues relating to gender and race. When I made my points countering his statements, he listened to me with a seemingly open mind, and said nothing which lead me to believe that he thought that whites and people of color were not inherently equal. He's a Jew for god's sake; he should know about prejudice and be sensitive to the evils that come from it. I don't think DWB is a racist, but he should know better.

If playing rich girl means more of this ignorance, in the future I'll pass.

President's Day

In 1776, Abigail Smith Adams (November 11, 1744-October 28, 1818) the second First Lady of the United States, and wife of John Adams, the second President of the United States, wrote to her husband requesting that he and the Continental Congress:

"...remember the ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation."

On this day of remembering two men who shaped the history of America, let's also remember that there were women working alongside them, though perhaps unseen or obscured in history, to build this country and to keep the male powers in check.

Women may have a history of being subordinated to the whims of men, yet they also have a history of being active agents, fiercely fighting to shape their own destiny. For every man that has ruled or lead a revolution, there has been a woman next to him, whether it be his mother, sister, daughter, lover, or wife. We have always been there, and we will continue to be. Men would do well to stop underestimating us on all levels, including our ability to be the next President of the United States.

Thursday Thirteen #28

Thirteen Things Stolen From Me

1) Black Kenneth Cole purse ($100).

2) Purple Hobo International wallet ($100).

3) Eye glasses and case ($400).

4) Digital Camera ($400-500).

5) Memory stick containing months of pictures that I hadn't yet downloaded, including pictures of Bean's baby shower.

6) My social security card.

7) Assorted make-up including this, this, this, and this (approximately $75).

8) All of my credit cards and my ATM card.

9) My expired MI license, frequent flyer cards, health insurance cards, gift cards to Pottery Barn and Bed Bath & Beyond, and an unused merchandise credit.

10) Recently purchased unlimited rides monthly metro pass ($76).

11) My journal, which thankfully contained only two entries.

12) Approximately $60 in cash ($60).

13) House keys, mail key, Legoland wizard key chain, Tar Heels bottle opener key chain, NYSC pass, and assorted other keys.

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It's easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

To The Scum Of The Earth That Robbed Me

Dear Scum-of-the-Earth,

Until our paths crossed on Sunday evening, I had been having a really spectacular weekend. I had gone out with friends on Friday and Saturday night and had had a great time. I'd made out with a cute boy on Friday night, and then met the same boy for brunch down in Soho on Sunday afternoon. I had enjoyed myself at brunch, and then had a delightful time walking around Soho with the boy window shopping and stopping at random chocolate shops. I know this is of no interest to you because you're a junkie who, until you stole my purse, probably didn't have any money to shop at chocolate stores in Soho. But, since you're not pointing a knife at me right now, I really don't care whether you're interested or not.

I had been to the fragrance shop on East 7th Street, between 2nd and 3rd, many times before, and I had always had a lovely time. The owner of the store and the women who work there are wonderful women, filled with positive, calming energy. The first time I went to the store, my little sister, Bean, and I discovered it together. She's pregnant now, and I'm about to be an Auntie. Since Sunday night, I've thought at least 1000 times how grateful I am that Bean wasn't with me on Sunday. The thought of you putting her in danger makes me nauseous, and it also makes me want to kill you. I would have done my best to kill you, even though you were holding that knife, if you had done anything threatening towards her.

Before I found the store on Sunday, I had been wandering around trying to remember it's address, talking on my cell phone and not paying terribly close attention to my surroundings. If I had paid close attention, I would have seen that it appeared to be a normal, chilly, sunny winter afternoon in the city. People were moving quickly through the streets, bundled up in great big puffy coats, scarves, and mittens. I didn't have my mittens on because I had been holding my phone, and my hand was red and chapped from the cold wind.

I had had an argument with my Dad about an hour before I met you. I was telling my Dad how happy I was, and how much fun I had been having the last couple of months. I also told him that I was excited about quitting my job and that I was looking forward to going on a trip for a couple of weeks. I got frustrated with him because he said that maybe I was having too much fun, and that I should settle down first and then go on a trip together with someone. You probably don't think that's annoying, because as you so eloquently conveyed, you care nothing for me, my personal safety, or the sanctity of my things, but I thought it was super annoying. Listening to him tell me that I should settle down made me feel like I had demon claws scratching down the surface of my eyeballs like nails on a chalkboard.

It was offensive and it made me angry. You don't know this, but just a few short months ago I got out of a bad relationship, where the boy in it didn't treat me well. He made me sad a lot of the time and prioritized everyone and everything else above me. Since the break-up, I've been awesome, though. I've been so strong. I've been letting myself heal, giving myself space to deal with my emotions, making positive changes in my life, and even dating. I have not been drinking too heavily, I have not been having destructive meaningless sex with boys, and I have not been trying to rush into another relationship just for the sake of having a relationship. My Dad should be proud of me for everything I am doing and for everything that I'm choosing not to do. And, when I'm fucking happy, he should be happy for me. He certainly should not crush down my happiness by telling me that I'm doing everything wrong, that I'll regret my life "passing me by" because of all the boyfriend-less-fun I'm having right now, and he sure as fuck should not do everything possible to remind me that there are negatives to being single and 32. Not when I'm so god-damned happy about it.

Newsflash: I know what it means to be a woman. I know that fertility rates go down after 35. I'm aware that, ideally, I would like to fall madly in love with someone and have a crop of babies with them; preferably beautiful little girls with long braids in their hair, but I'll also take boys, just as long as their healthy, happy, and open to feminism. But, guess what, try as I might, I can't just snap my fingers and make Mr. Amazing appear before my eyes. And, guess what - and this is what I think my Dad just doesn't quite get - even if I could, I wouldn't do that right now because I don't want a freaking boyfriend right now. I just got out of a fucking relationship. What is so god-damned wrong with having fun being an independent, happy woman?? Frankly, unless you're a cute, sweet boy-toy with no strings that doesn't make me cry, I'm just not that in to you at the moment.

After I got off the phone with my Dad, I called my brother but he wasn't at his computer, and then my mom so that she could look up the address of the fragrance shop. I was really proud of her because she looked it up on Google with no problem, and in just a few minutes I was only blocks away. During the ten minutes of our interaction, you didn't know this, but I have a lot of people in my life who love me, and who I love. I have a mom, a dad, two brothers, a little sister, an Aunt, cousins, and some of the most amazing friends, all of whom would have been hurt if you had hurt me. I'm about to have a nephew. You could have deprived him of one of the coolest Aunts ever, and for what? Because you wanted enough cash to get another hit? You're pathetic and you make me sick. You had a mom and dad once. What happened to them? Where were they and while you were threatening me with a knife and your partner was rifling through my purse?

I had been in the fragrance shop for about a half hour before you and your partner came along. It was just chance that I was still there when you arrived. I might not have been there at 6:00 pm on a Sunday afternoon if I hadn't gone to brunch in Soho that day, if I had gone to only one chocolate store with River instead of two, or if I hadn't been feeling so happy and energized that day and been in such a mood to walk around the city, despite the cold. I had been chatting with the salesgirl about what scent to get, and then another customer came in and I let her go ahead of me. She was a small woman who loved the scent of roses. I was in no rush, so I browsed while the salesgirl helped the other woman. She left the store about two minutes before you arrived. I'm glad she wasn't there when you got there.

As you saw, probably from casing out the place prior to deciding to hold it up, the fragrance store is a tiny boutique filled with pretty things. The walk space in front of the door, between the wall and the cash register is only about two fee wide, and the store in its entirety is only about 12 feet deep. There's not a lot of room in there. Because of all the delicate perfume bottles and sparkly lights blocking the windows, it's hard to see into the store from the street if you're just passing by. But, you weren't passing by. You were there for a reason.

I was standing right in front of the door when you buzzed to be let inside. I had been leaning on the glass in front of the cash register, letting my eyes wander around the store as the salesgirl mixed up my scents. Your partner, the short one, passed by behind me and I glanced to my right at him. He seemed out of place in a fragrance shop. He was dressed in a big, black puffy jacket that looked a little shabby, and he looked poor. I told myself not to stereotype. I thought to myself that he was probably getting something little for his girlfriend. He was looking away, and he said "We don't want any trouble," just as the salesgirl said, "Can I help you?"

Then I heard you say, "We're not gonna kill you," and turned to look at you. You were standing right next to me, with your back against the door, blocking it, and you were holding a knife out in front of you pointed at me and the salesgirl. The knife wasn't that big; it only had about a three-inch blade, but you were still pointing it at me, and you had brought up the subject of my death. That wasn't nice of you. You were calm and serious, and your eyes looked flat and vacant to me. Your face was light-skinned and you were Hispanic, like your partner, and you looked gaunt and weathered. I feel like you had something rough on your face, like salt and pepper scruff or maybe a scar, but even 15 minutes after you were gone, I couldn't remember exactly what you looked like. I remember the emptiness of your eyes, I remember the knife, and I remember how big you were.

My first thought when I realized what was happening was "you've got to be kidding me," but I obviously didn't say that. Instead, I backed away slowly until I was out of range of the knife and kept my eye on you. When you told your partner to take my bag, I felt like crying, mainly because it had my digital camera in it and it had tons of pictures on it that I hadn't downloaded yet. I just bought that camera a few months ago! For a second, I thought about resisting. I thought about grabbing one of the perfume bottles and smashing it across your face. I calculated the few feet that separated us and considered what the chances were that you would be able to slash me with the knife before I could smash you in the face. Then I realized that my eyes were level with the middle of your chest. I was wearing 2 1/2 inch heels, which means that you were at least 6'4". Your arms were longer than mine, and you were too tall. You would have likely killed me, if I had lunged at you, so I didn't resist. I told myself not to be stupid and let your partner take my bag from me. It made me sad.

You're partner was a dick, by the way. He grabbed my purse and started rifling through it and obviously saw that there was a lot of stuff in there that wasn't worth anything to you, but he took it all anyway. I asked him a couple of times not to take my camera, but he just replied, "Sorry, mamie." Please tell him when you see him next that I'm not his fucking "mamie," and that he can go fuck himself.

I can understand that you took my cash and my digital camera (even though you could have left the memory card for me), and I can even understand that you took my wallet with all of my credit cards in it. But, I'm really fucking pissed that you took my entire bag. I liked my Kenneth Cole black bag with the silver buckles, and I really liked my cute little purple Hobo wallet. In addition, I can't fucking see long distance without my glasses. Do you have any idea of how expensive glasses are? Mine cost about $400, and you're not going to be able to sell them for anything. They were my first pair and they came in a really cute half purple and half yellow case. You're also not going to be able to get any money for my half-used bottle of origins eye cream, my lip-fusion lip gloss, my chocolate flavored lip gloss, my journal (that thank god I had been remiss in writing in since I started blogging, so ha!), or any of the other random things that I had thrown into my purse as I rushed to get ready to go meet River that day for brunch.

And, what about my keys? What kind of a sick fuck are you that you had to steal my fucking keys. We're you trying to terrify me further? We'll, you'll be disappointed to know that I changed the locks to my apartment late Sunday night, so even if you do crawl out of your drug-infested hole down in the East Village and scrape together enough of my cash to come all the way up to the Upper East Side you're not going to be able to get into my apartment. You would be able to check my mail - which I currently can't since you have the fucking mail key - but that's going to be fixed shortly, so don't get too excited.

The keys are replaceable. What's not replaceable is the Lego wizard key chain that I bought in Legoland ten years ago while visiting my relatives in Sweden, or the big orange tar heel bottle opener that my brother got me several years ago. I really loved that wizard, and I liked my bottle opener. And, what about my gym card? You were big, but you didn't look like the New York Sports Club type. You could have left that and saved me a little bit of the effort I've had to go through to replace everything that you took.

While your friend was going through my bag, I felt helpless, but very calm. All I could think of was my camera, and all of the pictures I hadn't downloaded. There were pictures of Bean's baby shower where she looked radiant and beautiful. While I was watching your friend handle my things, I could see you talking to the salesgirl, telling her to open up the register and give you the money. You were only four feet away, but I don't remember the sound of you speaking, except for a few bits and pieces. I was concentrating so hard on the knife, and on my stuff. I heard the salesgirl say, "Sir, I don't understand Spanish," which didn't make any sense to me because when you had come inside the first thing you did was tell us, in English, that you weren't going to kill us. The salesgirl told me later that you told her to give you her cell phone and she told you she didn't have one. Then you told her, "If I go back there and I find a phone, we're going to have a problem." That wasn't nice to threaten her like that. She was 5'5" and sweet, and you scared her badly. By the way, she did have a cell phone. It was in her pocket, and as soon as you and your asshole friend left, we used it to call the cops.

During the time that you were in the store, the only time I felt a flicker of fear was when you told us to go to the back of the store and get down on our knees. When you said that, it was the first time I thought that this might get ugly, that I might actually have to fight for my life. I was still calm. I knew I was going to fight, and I knew there was no way in hell I was going to the back of the store or getting down on my knees. I felt vulnerable enough as it was, thank you very much. Neither the salesgirl nor I moved to do what you had said, which was the first time we had resisted in any way. We acted like we didn't understand, moved farther away from you, and kept watching you.

When you and your friend moved to the door, I realized that you had wanted us to go to the back, not to kill us, but so that you and your friend could get a head start. When you pushed against the door and it wouldn't open, things could have gotten dangerous, because I don't think you realized that when you rob boutiques with buzzers, someone will have to buzz you out in order for you to escape. Maybe that will make you think twice about robbing little boutiques in the future. I'll tell you candidly that after this experience, I think the whole buzzer system is completely fucked up. When the salesgirl buzzed you and your friend in, we were all basically locked in there together. God forbid you had forced us to go the back and we had started to scuffle. God forbid I had tried to run away from you, had made it to the door with you behind me, and then couldn't get out because there was no one there to work the buzzer. These are some of the thoughts that are going through my head three days later thanks to you.

When you and your buddy ran out of the store, the salesgirl and I stayed frozen for a few seconds. You left the door swinging wide open, and by then it was dark so I couldn't see what was happening outside. I couldn't see where you were, and I was scared that you were going to come back. I didn't want to move because, though I don't remember you saying anything, you had made it clear that we were not supposed to call the cops. I didn't want to give you a reason to come back inside and hurt me.

After only a second though, I yelled to the salesgirl to call the cops, and she yelled at me to shut the door. I ran to the door and slammed it shut, shouting to the salesgirl, "Is it locked? Is it locked?" My body was suddenly shaking. I still had my cell phone in my coat pocket, and I got it out and looked at it for a second feeling dazed. I didn't know who to call because the salesgirl was calling the cops. I called River, because I had just seen him, and then I called my brother Frey. They were the closest big, strong boys that came to mind.

The cops arrived in a matter of minutes. They were on top of things, trying to get my information and all of the details of what had transpired. One of them made me tea. I tried to hold the cup but my hand was shaking too badly. I started to cry a couple of times. I remember Frey telling me over the phone that the important thing was that I was OK. I dutifully told the cops everything I could remember, while other cops talked to the salesgirl. She was freaking out and crying, and telling me how sorry she was. I kept telling her that it wasn't her fault. The cops put me in a squad car and searched the neighborhood. They know your type. They're pretty sure that you're a junkie from the area that was either living in one of the homeless shelters or the projects farther down on the East Side. Unfortunately, we didn't see you. Later, I walked with another cop around the neighborhood trying to find my purse that the cops were sure you ditched shortly after leaving the store, but again, we had no luck.

The rest of that night I was detached and disoriented, but on top of things. I looked at mug shots, filled out paperwork, cancelled all my credit cards, and arranged with my room mate to have the locks to our apartment changed that night. I kept thinking that it could have been worse and that the important thing was that the salesgirl and I were OK.

The next day, Monday, I felt fine, but very disconnected from what had happened. I also felt exhausted. I emailed my friends to let them know what had happened and where, to remind them to be cautious. I'd lived in this city for over two years with nothing like this happening to me or my friends; I had gotten very comfortable and felt very safe. My friends start calling and emailing me back right away, wanting to know how I was doing, and I told them all the same thing: I'm OK, I'm shaken up, but it could have been a lot worse. I must have told thirty people on Monday that it could have been a lot worse.

On Tuesday, I went to an interview at a law firm. Unlike you, who believes in stealing, I have a work ethic, and I've been working at a job that I hate for over 2 years. However, in January, I started looking for a different position, and because I'm smart, educated, confident, and about 100,000 other things that you're not, I quickly discovered that I had options. By the way, since we're on the subject of our differing backgrounds, I'd like to point out how ironic it is that you chose to rob me. I'm a liberal. I actually buy into all that shit you hear about the sociological causes of crime. I feel sympathy for people like you who were maybe abused growing up, who might be addicted to drugs, who, for whatever reason, have not had the privileges and opportunities that I've had in my life. I should say, I felt sympathy for people like you, because now, not so much. I'm aware that I'm stereotyping, but guess what, I don't fucking care.

Poverty, drugs, and a lack of choices are not excuses to take what's not yours. There are good people and there are bad people, and you're a bad one. I don't care if you're poor. I don't care if you're addicted, and I don't care if you were abused as a child. You are a fucked up individual how had no right to do what you did on Sunday. You had no right to rob a store, to take my purse, or two threaten two people smaller than you with a knife. You probably aren't aware of this, but you're going to have really, really bad karma for what you did, and I'm glad. Maybe that will make me have bad karma, for being so unforgiving of you at the moment, but right now I don't give a shit. You are dangerous, you are violent, you do not abide by the laws of a civil society, you could have seriously hurt me or the salegirl, and I hope the cops nail your fucking ass. This whole experience makes me realize once again how I could never be a public defender. Public defenders play an important role in our justice system, but it's not the role I'm meant to play.

In terms of how I'm doing now, the last two days have been rough. After my interview yesterday, I went to the bank and changed all of my accounts. Good luck using those cards, Asshole. In between my interview and going to the bank, I stopped at a Starbuck's to get a coffee. I've been in Starbuck's probably thousands of times in my life, and before yesterday I've never been afraid in a single one. Yesterday, though, I felt anxious the minute I stepped inside the store. I looked at everyone in the store for a few seconds, staring many of them in the eye until they looked away. I'm sure I looked mean, but what they don't understand is that I have no intention of having more pieces of me stolen away. There was one man in particular, a shortish, heavyset Hispanic man in workclothes and a thick coat, that made me nervous. He was standing right behind me in line, and I kept looking at him. When I ordered my coffee, I stood on an angle so that I could watch him. I have no intention of letting another psycho with a knife or gun sneak up behind me.

The sense of anxiety and hypervigiliance stayed with me throughout the day. It was hard walking through the crowds, and it was very difficult to take the subway. People made me nervous when they walked up quickly behind me, as every single New Yorker does in their rush to get to where they need to go. It's winter and everyone in the city, including me, are wearing big puffy black coats. A few times, I saw men that matched your build and stopped dead in the street to watch them, trying to see if they were you, or if they were up to something bad. One guy stopped suddenly in front of me on the sideway and I nearly jumped out of my skin. On the subway, I started feeling nauseos because I was standing next to a big guy who kept looking at me. By the end of the ride, I was pushed up as close to the glass as I could get. My entire body was clenched tightly, ready to punch him in the face if he made a move against me.

I don't like this. I don't like that because of you, I felt scared walking around the city yesterday. I don't like that I'm watching myself act like a stereotypical trauma victim. Yesterday, when I started crying in Grand Central, the rational part of my brain was telling me that I had been in shock and that the experience was finally hitting me. The logical part of me was saying that it would be ok, and that I would feel better as soon as I processed the experience. But, the other part of me, the part of me that's actually somewhat traumatized - if I can even say that word - doesn't give a shit about rationality or logic. That part just feels scared, upset, and wants someone to come hold me while I lie curled up in my bed crying.

Today was a tiny bit better. I spent most of the day in my bed, crying in the morning, and then sleeping in the afternoon. I'm not worried about myself because I know that I'm just processing what happened and that I have to give myself space to do that - even if I do end up looking to myself like a stereotypical trauma victim. I'm not sure if I'm going to go to work tomorrow, but I'm going to see my therapist. I don't want to be outside at night, so I'm going to a morning appointment.

Here's what I don't understand: You didn't do anything to me. You threatened my life, you pointed a knife at me, you stole everything of value that I had on me, and you made me feel scared, but you didn't do anything to me, at least not physically. Nothing really happened. You didn't physically hurt me. You didn't even touch me. So why am I upset? I could understand anger because you are a fucking asshole, you made me feel scared, and you took all my stuff, but I can't understand feeling afraid when I walk into a store, or worried that someone else is going to do the same thing that you did. It seems to my judgmental mind like I'm having a somewhat illogical reaction to all of this. Logically, I know that your are abnormal, and that most people are not like you. Most people I see on the streets of New York are not planning to hold up a store or steal someone's purse. But, nonetheless, you've made me afraid.

I feel scared. I don't want to walk on the sidewalk and have to wonder about the person walking behind me. I don't want to have to eye the escape routes in a store before going into them, and I don't want to know that I would be trapped in a store that had a buzzer on the door if another pair of men one day decided to rob it while I was inside.

I don't think I have anything else to say to you at the moment. I think you are a worthless human being, and I'm really angry that you stole my stuff and made me feel afraid. You're a total fucking asshole for taking my camera and for robbing me of my pictures, and you're a total dick for taking my glasses. I mean, who robs someone of their glasses? Could you be more of a of pathetic bully if you tried? I have no doubt that you already have a miserable life, and from the looks of things, you deserve it. I hope that the cops catch you, and throw your ass in jail. I really hope that they catch you before you try to pull something like this again. You made the wrong choice when you decided to rob that store and me, and you will suffer for it. Even if you don't believe in Karma, I do.

Sincerely,
Buttercup

P.S. Thank you to the universe for protecting me and the salesgirl. Even though these dicks have made me afraid, temporarily, I am extremely grateful that we were not hurt and I know that I will feel better eventually. I also know that in time I will get over being pissed and sad that my purse and all of my cute little belongings are probably lying in some snow-covered ditch right now. ASSHOLES. Thank you also for the NYPD. They did a great job and they were all quite sweet and attentive.

Spider Solitaire Will Be The Death Of Me

About a year and a half ago, around the time that I had just gotten back together with EXBF (Part II), when I was really struggling with my job and feeling depressed, I decided to go on the anti-depressant Lexipro. I didn't notice anything at first, but after a few weeks I realized that I had gotten into the habit of playing spider solitaire. I don't mean just a few games. I mean playing games and games of spider solitaire for hours at a time. I remember one night where I played almost 4 hours. I kept losing and trying again, or winning and trying to beat my score. This was before blogging and knitting, and before I understood how to identify when I was feeling anxious.

After a couple of weeks, I happened to mention to CG what had been going on. She was immediately interested in my sudden change of behavior, a change that had corresponded with going on the medication. Prior to Lexipro, I had played spider solitaire on occasion, but usually only when I was visiting my Dad in Texas. It's an addictive and competitive game and he loves it. During that time, when I got totally hooked, I was really anxious. I was so stressed out about work that I couldn't really work. I was overwhelmed and instead of tackling each piece step by step, I played spider solitaire and ate up hours of my days. I'm not sure if it was the stress or the Lexipro that was responsible for all the solitaire playing, but I do know that the Lexipro didn't help matters. Soon after discussing it with CG, I went off of it and my solitaire playing calmed down.

Since then, I've been off and on another low-dose anti-depressant from time to time. I'm not a fan of taking pills, and I believe firmly in the idea of working through problems in therapy, as opposed to drugging oneself, as a long-term solution. However, after trying medication this past year, I now understand the benefits of medication. Not as a long-term solution, but as a temporary solution that can help you work through all of the junk you need to in order to get to a better psychological and emotional place.

One of my friends recently said, while we were discussing the topic of medication, that she would not want to be drugged in order to deal with her problems. Her view of medication, I think, is that it temporarily eliminates feelings, and creates an alternate, less stressful or less painful, make-believe reality. From that perspective, medication is not something that helps one deal with reality, but rather something that hides truth under a layer of artifice.

I was afraid of something similar when I first tried medication, and in the early months I questioned how I was experiencing being on medication all the time. For example, when I felt less anxious and less sad, I doubted my feelings and talked to CG about my fears that what I was feeling was not real. I worried that I was "not sad" not because I was actually happy, but because I was on drugs. It was a scary thought because I don't want to live my life in a delusional la-la land, and I certainly didn't want to be figuring out serious life issues like the fate of my relationship and my career with emotional blinders on.

When EXBF and I broke up, I had just recently gone back on an anti-depressant. Between all of my problems with him, and all of the stress from my job, I had been in a bad place and I had been crying on an almost weekly basis - usually because of things he had done that made me feel insignificant and unimportant. One of the things I'm still angry about is that he kept hurting me, even though he saw what his actions were doing to me. He was so selfish and unkind. But that's a different subject. I'm glad I was on an anti-depressant during the break-up because, looking back on it now, I realize how fragile and vulnerable I was at the time. Thankfully, I had a lot of support, mainly from my family and friends. But, therapy and medication were also a part of that support.

At no point have I felt like being on medication has dulled or obscured any of my true feelings. It hasn't irrevocably changed me, turned me into someone else, or blinded me to things in my life that are a source of happiness or pain. I was on medication when EXBF and I broke up but I still cried for weeks. I still felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest when I thought about losing the future I had thought we would share. The medication also didn't stop me from getting annoyed and angry with my brothers over Christmas when they drank too much, getting sad for one of my friend's recent losses, or feeling a ton of anxiety about work. Nor has it stopped me from feeling incredibly happy about all of the positive changes going on in my life, and all of the wonderful people I'm lucky enough to have in my corner.

The medication helps me muddle through my emotions, and helps me keep my anxiety in check, but it doesn't eliminate anything. Everything I would feel were I not on medication is still there, and I still feel it. That's why, on occasion, I find myself picking up my mouse and starting up another marathon game of spider solitaire, as I did tonight.

This afternoon, I learned that I had received an offer from the law firm that I liked the best (Bachelor #1). The firm will want an answer by 3 weeks at the latest, so suddenly I'm back to having a countdown. If I decide to go with this firm, I will give my two weeks notice in less than 21 days. I could give my two-weeks notice next week if I wanted to. Initially, when I got the call, I treated it like I usually do really good news: I felt relieved. A few minutes later, I felt a rush of elation and started thinking, I'm almost free!!! Then, a few hours later, the feelings of panic and uncertainty set in.

In addition, I have to admit that the dating thing is also making me feel a little anxious. What about if I actually end up liking someone? Do you understand that my heart is still crushed? Although in practice (so far) dating has been fun, no one knows what's going to happen. Likewise, no one knows what's going to happen in this new job, in the event that I decide to take it. It could be a wise choice, or it could be a stupid one, but there's no way to know except to just do it. It's intensely nerve wracking. Where are the spinners of my destiny when I need them to drop me a few hints?

So there you have it. I'm slightly anxious about the idea of dating, and I'm really anxious about making a change at my job, even though a part of me has wanted to leave for over 2 years. Even though everything is going well, and I'm making great progress, I'm so anxious that I've been playing spider solitaire, in my chilly bedroom, for over an hour and a half while the TV is playing downstairs. Clearly, I need to be more heavily medicated. That, or I need to start going to yoga on a regular basis, get a new book, buy those 7-sized knitting needles so that I can start my new project, or go to the gym instead of waiting for the handymen who don't show up to repair my skylight.

I know what CG is going to say already. She's going say, "Change is very stressful; even good changes bring stress. Don't you think it makes sense that you were feeling a little anxious once you found out that you were going to have to make a decision about a new firm?" She's so smart.

For tomorrow: Pilates, running, another interview, a NEW LOST (!!!!!), and no spider solitaire.