Walls of Jericho

But my life turned out okay, didn’t it?

That’s the answer I’d expect from some people after I write the post I want to write. This wouldn’t be the response I’d get from the people who already “get it.” It would be from the ones who regularly refute the premise, but for some reason, they’d be more inclined to listen to me even if they’d continue to disagree with me.

And then they’d remind me that despite all that had happened my life turned out okay, didn’t it?

And to them, I’d just want to say that yes, it did. It turned out okay. And that still doesn’t make it right. That still doesn’t make it an acceptable loss.

It’s hard to imagine there are still people in the world who would ask the question “if it were true, why did they take so long to say anything about it?”

I keep waiting for my parents to ask the question so I can remind them what happened the two or three times I told them about it right after it happened.

You weren’t there, so I’ll tell you.

Nothing. I was told not to make a fuss. I was told not to make a scene. In one case I was told I was overreacting and exaggerating despite having a male family member corroborate my story. And when I refused to be near or friendly with the person that was making me uncomfortable, I was chided and accused of being rude.

It was happening right under their nose, not just once. Not twice, but THREE times. Though, one of those times I was all for it; but looking through the lens of maturity now, they should have said something. It was highly inappropriate.

But, of course, they didn’t want to make a scene.

Yes, my life turned out okay. Just like when my dad sold my car without talking to me about it first, and…well, I mean, I love my Prius now, so that turned out okay, right? Why would I still be upset with him for doing that without talking to me about it first if it all turned out okay?

For millions of others, that’s not the case. They don’t end up “okay.” And even if it were…even if everyone who ever got groped without consent, or raped, or had their personal space and personal agency violated in anyway turned out okay it would STILL not make it okay for that shit to have happened to them.

So, why don’t they speak up sooner?

Are you listening? Or did your wall go up as soon as you figured out what this post was about?

I guess I lost my sense of humor

I started paying attention to the news again.

About a year ago, I saw a friend of mine post a joke about Donald Trump running for president. Turns out, that wasn’t a joke.

And I thought, “Well, fuck…I sure have been out of touch.”

I had. On purpose. After my husband passed away, I really couldn’t deal with the world’s problems, so I shut them out. Stopped watching/listening/reading about what was happening in the world.

Managed to miss out on a lot of big stories – terrorist acts, big fires, crazy people running for president….

I went back in slowly. An article here or there; nothing crazy.

And now I’m full time listening to public radio in the car. I have Alexa read me the headlines every morning. I’m clicking on articles in my facebook feed that I would have scrolled right past before. It’s not just politics, either. All SORTS of things interest me. There was a story on NPR on the way home about gender testing in the Olympics. There was one earlier this week about athletes’ pay being comparable to actors, as they provide entertainment in a multi-billion dollar industry. And the one about rampant wage theft in the restaurant industry. And the story about the man sentenced for traveling to a Cambodian brothel dozens of times to sexually abuse children.

The result? I’m starting to identify in ways that I was brought up to disregard. The biggest one was feminist. Feminist was a pejorative term growing up. They were uptight women without a sense of humor. I’d forgotten that this was a thing I was raised to never become. To be a feminist was to be a punchline, a trope for unlikable….

AND ABOVE ALL ELSE, ONE MUST BE LIKED!

I’d not realized this until a few weeks ago when my mom used the word as an insult. Women’s rights are okay, she said, but feminists take it too far.

Look, I don’t know where this arbitrary line of “too far” is, but I’m pretty sure there are a lot of feminists (of all genders) that advocate on behalf of women’s rights on the relatively benign side of that line.

I mean, (arbitrarily speaking), there will be activists in any endeavor that take things “too far” – whether it’s animal rights, human rights, reproductive rights, or environmental causes.

I’m not the type that’s gonna chain myself to a tree, throw paint at a coat, or commit a felony on behalf of a cause I’m passionate about. That doesn’t mean I’m not part of that cause. But, to define any cause by the actions of the people who take it to an extreme (again…arbitrarily, because my extreme may not be your extreme, etc. etc.) has the effect of turning a word like “Feminist” into an insult passed from one generation to the next.

The first time I saw the abbreviation SJW (Social Justice Warrior) I didn’t know what it meant. For a long time, I thought it was the abbreviation of someone’s online handle. I didn’t know who this SJW person was, but I knew a lot of the popular folks on the internet REALLY hated them.

Took a while before I discovered it was just a label. Even then, the tone with which it was used was one of disdain and ridicule. Oh, those pesky, humorless, drama-mongering SJWs!

The people we label as “Feminist” or “Social Justice Warrior” are frequently speaking on behalf of those who are too afraid to speak for themselves. Those who feel that they must follow that one simple commandment: TO BE LIKED.

Which, of course, for women means to be docile, compliant, and agreeable.

Today I saw someone made a joke about SJWs. They were the punchline. The joke made a mockery of a type of person I care deeply about – a type of person whose voice is frequently erased in the din of activists clamoring for attention to their causes. A person in my life who has a name.

And it struck me…..

It’s cruel. It stings to be on the receiving end of a joke aimed at belittling or mocking something that is part of your identity. It’s not that I don’t see why the joke is funny, it’s that I see all the reasons why that joke is NOT funny in the tears of my friends who are good, kind, honorable people who have done nothing to hurt anybody else.

So there it is. I guess I’ve lost my sense of humor, because I’m drawing my arbitrary line at jokes that hurt people for the sake of belittling, undermining, or erasing their humanity, identity, intelligence, or to further the notion that to be a “Feminist” or a “Social Justice Warrior” is an insult.

Any “Status Quo Warriors” who step over that line have, in my eyes, gone “too far.”

How the #BlackLivesMatter and #LGBTQ Rights movements helped a straight white girl become a better person

I went to a frozen yogurt place today after work. A woman walked in with two young girls. I’m not good at guessing ages, but I’d guess they were somewhere between the ages of nine and twelve.

Here’s the part that I never would have mentioned in the story before. The woman and one of the girls were black.

My parents like to tell the story of the first time they met with my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. H. Mrs. H was a remarkable force in education. She was a no-nonsense educator with a dry sense of humor. I used to come home and talk about Mrs. H nonstop after school.

I never mentioned she was black. My parents didn’t know until they met her on Open House night for the first time. They tell this story with both a sense of surprise and pride. Surprised it didn’t occur to me to mention to them that my teacher was black, and proud that they’d managed to raise a kid in a whitewashed neighborhood that didn’t think her blackness was material information in response to “how was your day?”

As far as what happened in the frozen yogurt shop this afternoon, the color of their skin is not material. Except…maybe it was.

So, they walk in just ahead of me and we’re kind of moving around each other to take sample tastes of the different flavors. The girls were fond of Cake Batter while I was all over Peanut Butter Cup and Mudslide. I smiled and waited patiently as they made their selections.

One of the girls (the black one) went to try the special edition “Ice Age” flavor and the machine squirted out blue liquid. It got a little messy and she was a little shocked.

“All I did was pull the lever down and it splattered,” she said to nobody in particular. Her mom was a few machines down, filling up her cup with Vanilla Snow.

“Yeah, it sure did,” I responded to her. “Here, let me grab you some napkins.”

And I did. She thanked me.

Then she turned around again and, almost with a tone of surprise, added “You’re really nice.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“And really pretty,” she added.

Wasn’t expecting that. “Thank you,” I said.

The other girl turned around and nodded. “Yeah, I really like your shirt, too.”

“Wow,” I said to them both. “You’re both really nice, too!”

Took them a little longer to get rung up than me, so I was already sitting down and eating when they were heading out the door. I looked up and smiled and waved bye to the girls, and offered the mom that was with them a big smile.

“Have a great afternoon!” she told me. And it was sincere. Not just a bunch of words, but I felt like she was sincerely wishing me a great afternoon.

“You too!” and I meant it.


A few things to note. I grew up with a Mexican nanny who took care of my brother and me while our parents worked long retail hours in their furniture store. She lived with us, along with her two kids. Each of her kids had different fathers, so one was very dark skinned, one was lighter skinned, and my brother and I were both pale, blonde haired and blue-eyed.

She used to take us all out on errands or to McDonalds or to the movies, and whenever people would ask which ones were hers, she’d respond “All of them.”

We were raised as a family. They’re my two extra brothers. My parents paid their way through the same private school my brother and I went to. They had all the privileges of being raised in an upper-middle class suburban environment, but they still faced certain prejudices based on their names and the way they looked.

So, when I saw this woman with the two girls, I consciously made the decision to not assume ANYTHING about them. For all I knew, she could have adopted the two of them and they were sisters. The whiteness and blackness of the girls did not dictate their relationship to each other nor the woman who was with them.

However, during the time that she was paying for their yogurts, she talked to the white girl about whether her parents let her put that many toppings in her yogurt when they went out, so….y’know. Turns out the conclusion I might have jumped to would have been the correct one.


Ok, so I started thinking. I feel like the #BlackLivesMatter movement has made me more aware of my interactions with (the admittedly few) black people I run into. It’s not that I wouldn’t have offered any other little girl a napkin under the circumstances, but I do feel like I was making a conscious effort to smile and be friendly because of what I’ve been reading and seeing in the news lately.

Similarly, my understanding of trans and gender issues grew exponentially when I became close with a friend of mine who speaks eloquently on eir experience as a gender queer individual. I’ve found myself noticing when I’m using binary references to gender, and in my writing, have made a conscious effort to move away from saying “men and women” and toward saying “people.”

I’ve never really had a history of treating people differently because of their color, sexuality, or gender identification. I think, in fact, it’d be more accurate to say I treated them with indifference. No better and no worse than anybody else I’d run into during the course of a day. I treated them the same as I’d treat the next stranger who walked past me.

Something else I’ve managed to finally understand through many of the writings I’ve read and conversations I’ve had is the concept of “privilege.”

I’ve got lots of them. I’m white-looking. I’m educated. I come from a tight-knit nuclear family of means. Even being “pretty” is itself a privilege. I might even say I have geographical privilege, because where I live, people tend to be more liberal, multi-cultural, and accepting – so my latina/jewish background never really had much of a negative effect on me.

Sometimes people talk of privilege with disdain, so I understand why people feel defensive about their privileges. Like, it’s not my fault that I was born white(ish). Not my fault I was born into a successfully entrepreneurial family. I don’t like feeling guilty about my privileges.

But I do understand now that these same privileges inherently mean I do not fully comprehend what it’s like to be hungry, or poor, or disenfranchised. I don’t understand what it’s like to be hated for loving who you love or looking the way you look. I can sympathize. I can validate. I can try to understand.

But I don’t know.

What the #BlackLivesMatter movement has done is opened my eyes to how similar experiences differ from one person to the next. When I get pulled over for a traffic violation, I usually know exactly what I did and I’m not too concerned about my physical safety. I have the privilege to be annoyed, rather than frightened.

I think what #BlackLivesMatter and similar movements for LGBTQ rights has taught me is that my indifference is not a virtue. What happened this afternoon in the yogurt shop was that I made an extra effort to be kind to a fellow human being, because in my head all I could think was “her life matters.”

And her response? Telling me that I’m really nice? That really touched me.

She made me feel like my life mattered, too.