Seriously, let's do this. Give me your ideas and I'll post them.
OK, I'll start: Every time a dude describes himself as "an alpha male" = 1 shot of tequila.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Sexual Harassment
UPDATE: I posted this yesterday. Today I read, via Pharyngula, about Karen Stollznow's plight. It appears that sexual harassment is alive and well in academia. I've sent a small amount to her legal fund, a token really. And ordered a couple of her books, which look fascinating. Maybe I should try writing a really crappy porn book, tailored to the rich sexual fantasies of your average manospherean reader, so I could afford to give more? Anyone care to collaborate on such a project?
______________________________________________________________________
I'm old enough to have experienced sexual harassment before "sexual harassment" was A Thing, much less a cause for legal action. When I was a graduate student I took a part time job taking dictation for a much respected and frequently cited law professor, renowned for his work in civil rights. I got the gig through the student job center. Although the work schedule was erratic and inconvenient -- the professor was most productive in the wee hours -- my small stipend as a TA (teaching assistant) wasn't quite enough to live on. So I felt lucky to have another small stream of income to make ends meet.
The job entailed the professor picking me up around midnight at the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, and driving me to his house across town. Our voices were hushed as we climbed the dark stairs to the upstairs bedroom he used as his study; his wife and children were sleeping in adjoining bedrooms. I settled myself in front of an IBM Selectric (this was a couple of years before personal computers had rendered typewriters obsolete). The professor stood behind me and... well, talked to himself. He was the kind of guy who needed to have an audience, to hear himself form his own ideas out loud, and the fact that I had little idea what he was talking about did not deter him in the least. I was a pretty fast typist, and I did my best to capture every word. Still, it took a lot of focus to follow the unrelenting stream of consciousness through the dark, unmeasured hours. Sometimes he would make sudden detours, backtracks, need to annotate. Sometimes he got annoyed (at himself? at me?) and raised his voice impatiently, or stomped about. These exhausting sessions usually lasted a few hours, sometimes only a couple, depending on the professor's inspiration and energy level. When he was finished for the night, he drove me back home as though I were the family babysitter (which in retrospect I might have been), and I fell into bed half-dressed, curled up against my boyfriend's bony back, and tried to catch a couple of hours of sleep before getting up to attend classes.
One evening the professor announced that he appreciated my work so much that he wanted to reward me with an excursion. He drove me to the town's only porn theater and invited me to attend a movie with him. I demurred. At that time, the notion of watching a "dirty movie" in a public venue was akin to parading down Main Street nude. The fact that a professor was encouraging me to do so made me dizzy with confusion and shame. Reluctantly, the professor turned the car around and we headed to his house where we resumed our work. However, about an hour in, his voice trailed off... He had another idea.
"You seem like an adventurous girl, Cynthia," he said. "Would you like to listen in on a phone call?" It was 1:00 am. I couldn't imagine who he might call at that hour. I obediently picked up the extension in the office while the professor disappeared downstairs. For the next twenty minutes or so, he engaged in what I would now describe as "phone sex" with an unknown but apparently willing woman in another state. I don't know if she was a former student or a colleague. I knew it was a long distance call, and I couldn't stop worrying about how expensive it was, and whether the professor's wife would be cross when she saw the bill, or whether these calls were itemized research expenses (like my services) that the university reimbursed him for. When the conversation had reached its conclusion, the professor returned, looking pleased with himself.
"Well, what did you think?" he asked. "It was interesting," I replied dully, my cheeks scorching. Nonplussed by my disappointing response, the professor continued to dictate and the evening proceeded as usual.
The next morning I called the student job center to tender my resignation. "I can't work with Prof. X," I said. "And I can't explain why." Of course, the job center director, a woman, knew exactly why, but she wasn't about to press for details. Yes, she conceded, they'd had similar reports before. She understood. She didn't offer me an alternative job, and I didn't ask for one.
And so the matter rested... but not quite.
A couple of weeks later, the professor's wife called me at home, imploring me to return. "My husband works so well with you," she told me. "You're not like the other girls." I fibbed, telling her a change in my teaching schedule made it, much to my regret, impossible.
The next day I took a job at a shopping mall kiosk, selling hot dogs. It was a little embarrassing when my students passed by and giggled at the sight of my silly orange plastic visor, but I preferred that variety of humiliation.
I didn't think about this incident for almost two decades because I didn't have the language to describe what had happened. And I knew, I just knew on some level, that it had all been my fault anyway. I must have been giving off some signal that convinced the professor I was receptive to that behavior. There was something dirty and damaged in me that he had picked up on... If only I could figure out what I had done! (Certainly my boyfriend at the time thought so.)
Not long ago, I looked up the professor. I figured he was retired by now, but I was curious if he had ever been implicated in sexually harassing other female students. I was shocked and saddened to learn he had committed suicide years before. I don't know if anyone understands why, but he apparently had fallen into a deep depression following a lawsuit brought, not by a woman, but by a group of African American students, charging him with -- of all things! -- racism. Given that he had devoted his career to civil rights legislation, the nature of this dishonor and his subsequent death seemed impossibly ironic and sad.
My little anecdote is common stuff, hardly to be remarked upon, for women my generation. I wonder if I shared it with younger women, they would dismiss it as part of a quaint and troublesome era, as irrelevant to their professional lives as a Mad Men episode. It would be rather pleasant to believe we have come so far.
And so...
Is the fact that there is a generation out there who don't recognize the name "Anita Hill" yet another reminder of how old I am? Fortunately, there's a new documentary that will familiarize younger people with her ordeal during the 1991 confirmation hearings of Supreme Justice Clarence Thomas.
It's comforting to learn that Hill prevailed, despite the dirt she was dragged through, with her sanity and dignity intact, and went on to establish the rewarding career she still enjoys.
______________________________________________________________________
I'm old enough to have experienced sexual harassment before "sexual harassment" was A Thing, much less a cause for legal action. When I was a graduate student I took a part time job taking dictation for a much respected and frequently cited law professor, renowned for his work in civil rights. I got the gig through the student job center. Although the work schedule was erratic and inconvenient -- the professor was most productive in the wee hours -- my small stipend as a TA (teaching assistant) wasn't quite enough to live on. So I felt lucky to have another small stream of income to make ends meet.
The job entailed the professor picking me up around midnight at the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, and driving me to his house across town. Our voices were hushed as we climbed the dark stairs to the upstairs bedroom he used as his study; his wife and children were sleeping in adjoining bedrooms. I settled myself in front of an IBM Selectric (this was a couple of years before personal computers had rendered typewriters obsolete). The professor stood behind me and... well, talked to himself. He was the kind of guy who needed to have an audience, to hear himself form his own ideas out loud, and the fact that I had little idea what he was talking about did not deter him in the least. I was a pretty fast typist, and I did my best to capture every word. Still, it took a lot of focus to follow the unrelenting stream of consciousness through the dark, unmeasured hours. Sometimes he would make sudden detours, backtracks, need to annotate. Sometimes he got annoyed (at himself? at me?) and raised his voice impatiently, or stomped about. These exhausting sessions usually lasted a few hours, sometimes only a couple, depending on the professor's inspiration and energy level. When he was finished for the night, he drove me back home as though I were the family babysitter (which in retrospect I might have been), and I fell into bed half-dressed, curled up against my boyfriend's bony back, and tried to catch a couple of hours of sleep before getting up to attend classes.
One evening the professor announced that he appreciated my work so much that he wanted to reward me with an excursion. He drove me to the town's only porn theater and invited me to attend a movie with him. I demurred. At that time, the notion of watching a "dirty movie" in a public venue was akin to parading down Main Street nude. The fact that a professor was encouraging me to do so made me dizzy with confusion and shame. Reluctantly, the professor turned the car around and we headed to his house where we resumed our work. However, about an hour in, his voice trailed off... He had another idea.
"You seem like an adventurous girl, Cynthia," he said. "Would you like to listen in on a phone call?" It was 1:00 am. I couldn't imagine who he might call at that hour. I obediently picked up the extension in the office while the professor disappeared downstairs. For the next twenty minutes or so, he engaged in what I would now describe as "phone sex" with an unknown but apparently willing woman in another state. I don't know if she was a former student or a colleague. I knew it was a long distance call, and I couldn't stop worrying about how expensive it was, and whether the professor's wife would be cross when she saw the bill, or whether these calls were itemized research expenses (like my services) that the university reimbursed him for. When the conversation had reached its conclusion, the professor returned, looking pleased with himself.
"Well, what did you think?" he asked. "It was interesting," I replied dully, my cheeks scorching. Nonplussed by my disappointing response, the professor continued to dictate and the evening proceeded as usual.
The next morning I called the student job center to tender my resignation. "I can't work with Prof. X," I said. "And I can't explain why." Of course, the job center director, a woman, knew exactly why, but she wasn't about to press for details. Yes, she conceded, they'd had similar reports before. She understood. She didn't offer me an alternative job, and I didn't ask for one.
And so the matter rested... but not quite.
A couple of weeks later, the professor's wife called me at home, imploring me to return. "My husband works so well with you," she told me. "You're not like the other girls." I fibbed, telling her a change in my teaching schedule made it, much to my regret, impossible.
The next day I took a job at a shopping mall kiosk, selling hot dogs. It was a little embarrassing when my students passed by and giggled at the sight of my silly orange plastic visor, but I preferred that variety of humiliation.
I didn't think about this incident for almost two decades because I didn't have the language to describe what had happened. And I knew, I just knew on some level, that it had all been my fault anyway. I must have been giving off some signal that convinced the professor I was receptive to that behavior. There was something dirty and damaged in me that he had picked up on... If only I could figure out what I had done! (Certainly my boyfriend at the time thought so.)
Not long ago, I looked up the professor. I figured he was retired by now, but I was curious if he had ever been implicated in sexually harassing other female students. I was shocked and saddened to learn he had committed suicide years before. I don't know if anyone understands why, but he apparently had fallen into a deep depression following a lawsuit brought, not by a woman, but by a group of African American students, charging him with -- of all things! -- racism. Given that he had devoted his career to civil rights legislation, the nature of this dishonor and his subsequent death seemed impossibly ironic and sad.
My little anecdote is common stuff, hardly to be remarked upon, for women my generation. I wonder if I shared it with younger women, they would dismiss it as part of a quaint and troublesome era, as irrelevant to their professional lives as a Mad Men episode. It would be rather pleasant to believe we have come so far.
And so...
Is the fact that there is a generation out there who don't recognize the name "Anita Hill" yet another reminder of how old I am? Fortunately, there's a new documentary that will familiarize younger people with her ordeal during the 1991 confirmation hearings of Supreme Justice Clarence Thomas.
It's comforting to learn that Hill prevailed, despite the dirt she was dragged through, with her sanity and dignity intact, and went on to establish the rewarding career she still enjoys.
Monday, March 24, 2014
If Only He'd Use His Powers For Good...
Today Matt Forney revealed he is the creator of Virginia's Secret Garden, the confessional blog of a sexually submissive Christian housewife that somehow never picked up much steam in the manosphere. Will we find out he is actually Femitheist Divine and Desiree Myers-Leibowitz next?
The past few weeks have seen quite a flurry of hoaxes exposed and identities doxxed in the manosphere. Their twitters and forums are buzzing with scandal and gossip. The blatant contempt figures like Roosh and Matt Forney have for their own readership is shocking and, on some level, very pathetic. I guess the good news is that it gives them less time to pick on women.
Matt explains his motivations here. That he boasts of generating a "three figure income" from a crappy porn book reminds us, once again, that he is still struggling to find a way to make a living as a writer. His claim that by writing porn (for men) he has mastered the feminine voice is debatable. And his criticism of a buddy's wife (who chronicles her wifely sexploits in her own embarrassing blog) reminds me of St. Theresa of Avila's scolding remark to the Lord, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few."
However, there is no doubt in my mind that his observation that most "Red Pill Women" are complete nut-burgers℠ is right on the money.
The past few weeks have seen quite a flurry of hoaxes exposed and identities doxxed in the manosphere. Their twitters and forums are buzzing with scandal and gossip. The blatant contempt figures like Roosh and Matt Forney have for their own readership is shocking and, on some level, very pathetic. I guess the good news is that it gives them less time to pick on women.
Matt explains his motivations here. That he boasts of generating a "three figure income" from a crappy porn book reminds us, once again, that he is still struggling to find a way to make a living as a writer. His claim that by writing porn (for men) he has mastered the feminine voice is debatable. And his criticism of a buddy's wife (who chronicles her wifely sexploits in her own embarrassing blog) reminds me of St. Theresa of Avila's scolding remark to the Lord, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few."
However, there is no doubt in my mind that his observation that most "Red Pill Women" are complete nut-burgers℠ is right on the money.
My Ethical Dilemma
This may be sacrilege coming from a community college instructor, but I couldn't agree with Michael J. Petrilli more. The college route is not for everyone, and sometimes it seems to me that encouraging kids to keep pursuing academic failure is downright cruel and exploitative. Why am I trying to teach that young man to write essays when he (and I and society in general) might be benefiting from his brilliant mechanical aptitude instead? What's wrong with working oneself up to a management position in a fast food franchise? We need to be offering these kids more pathways to self-sufficiency and "the good life" than joining the military.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
We Have To Talk
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I wish visual artist Malcolm McNeil had taken that wisdom to heart before he published this essay in Paraphelia. I've edited this passage not only to respect copyright law, but also because the bloody thing runs 1000 words long -- just to reiterate the same old tired evo psych bullshit in the windiest way possible. Judging from Mr. McNeil's prose style, and in direct opposition to his thesis, he seems to be the kind of guy that likes to hear himself natter on.
"We have to talk." To a man, the four most terrifying words in the English language... Women accept that men don’t talk as
much; men accept that women talk a lot more – a whole lot more
sometimes, often seemingly for no reason or the need to make sense... As hunter, the human male became
predator. His success was contingent on stealth and strategy. Only
essential information would be exchanged during the process and it would
be directed with specific intent. Unnecessary sound would not only be
contrary to the purpose but potentially life threatening... Verbal communication
among males therefore, would have inevitably become imbued with
characteristics of economy and efficiency. For human females [in contrast] Their inherently
compromised mobility definitely made them potential prey to other life
forms – including other, out-group, male-humans... ‘gathering’ is a more methodical activity
in which economy of sound is irrelevant to success... As Chris Rock points out, “…it’s
impossible for a man to win an argument with a woman, simply because
men…” – in keeping with the hunter paradigm – “are handicapped by the
need to make sense. Women aren’t going to let a little thing like sense get in the way of a good argument.” Women simply “have to talk”; it makes
them happy, it makes them feel secure. It’s been that way for a very
long time..."
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Howl
- I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
- dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
- Angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection
- to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
- ---Allen Ginsburg (1955)
I've seen the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by Twitter.
---Matt Forney (2014)
I hope this allusion is ironic.
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