Yesterday morning I was in a funk. I arrived at work and--for the first time in almost 3 years at my current location--had the dreaded feeling that I was headed into a day of work. My job doesn't usually feel like work. Yes, I get bored and occasionally unmotivated, but for the most part it's interesting, often inspiring...certainly never a grind.
Yesterday morning was different. I climbed out of my car and had the distinct feeling that quitting time--when I could get back to my home and family--was a long, long way away.
It was a combination of factors. I have some sadness about not being able to be more involved at my young son's school. And my favorite two coworkers both moved to other locations within a month of each other.
But the most salient issue, in that moment, was my ongoing seeming inability to get along with another coworker (one of a very small number of people on this earth I am experiencing this with, but the proximity makes it difficult to ignore). It irks me. It gets under my skin and STAYS. It's ever-present.
These things were on my mind when I got to work yesterday morning.
About 30 minutes into my day I got a little bit of perspective.
A woman I recognized as being a server in a nearby restaurant I'd eaten lunch at came in asking for bank statements. She said she realized she hasn't been getting paid minimum wage since it was raised last January and she wanted her transaction history to prove it.
In looking at her account, I saw that between $130-$170 was being deposited every two weeks. This woman told me she works 11-12 hour days. What. The. Fuck.
I mean, I know servers work primarily for tips (I've been a server in Ohio, where it's legal--or at least it was then--to pay servers $2.13/hour. Such was a server's dependence on tips), but here in California, servers also earn minimum wage. How the hell was this woman earning $150 in a two-week period?!
What's more, at the end of our interaction she threw out a humble yet frustrated, "I think they owe me about $200!" She planned to spend her day figuring out exactly how much she'd been cheated.
I was despondent. How could a person work so hard for so little? How could a person even live on those wages in the Bay Area, California?! The restaurant she works at is great, but it's not super busy and the plates are very cheap. I seriously doubt she's raking in thousands of dollars in tips during those two-week periods.
I was immediately grateful for my above-minimum wage earnings, my incentive bonuses, my 401K, my health care coverage, and the fact that I no longer have to work in a restaurant for 12 hours a day for shit wages and come home smelling like food.
Get over your First World Problems, this woman's request screamed at me. Shut your whiny fucking mouth.
But she wasn't even the half of it.
In the afternoon I took some people into my office from the lobby. The man used a walker and spoke with a very gravelly voice; he was somewhat difficult to understand. I came to understand that the woman he was with was his sister. She'd brought him from his care facility (he was only about 45-years old) to get a new debit card.
At one point he apologized for having a hard time punching in the numbers he was choosing for his new PIN. "I can hardly see," he said. "You'll have to forgive me. I was hit in the head with an aluminum baseball bat."
I wondered if I'd heard him right. I'm sure my face flashed all sorts of horror across it.
"Did you say you were hit in the head with a bat?" I asked.
His sister jumped in to hasten the telling of a story I'm sure she's heard enough for many lifetimes, watching people try to make sense of her brother's speech pattern, his confusion, his life state.
"He was attacked," she said. "He was hit on the back of the head with a baseball bat and set on fire."
"Set on FIRE?!" I asked, stupidly.
"Yes," she said.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, starting with WHY? I wondered if it was a hate crime (He was Black). I thought about the fact that he had a military account (survived armed service but permanently disabled because of something that happened here at home?!).
At a loss for a response and feeling like my real questions were far too personal, I asked how long ago it happened.
He said it'd been 12 years.
I was in tears but trying to keep them at bay as he described to me the shape of the burn on his back. I was suddenly sure that I'd never known a level of humanity like I came to know in looking into the eyes of a man who'd been set on fire. Set on FIRE!
And I was also sure the last thing this man wanted was my pity.
While they were incredibly friendly and kind, I doubted he and his sister wanted to sit in my office and talk about this horrific crime. I doubted they wanted to entertain my curiosity and my sadness. I resolved to simply treat them like any two people who'd walked into my office.
But with their visit, the last of my pathetic woe-is-me attitude wore off, and I was ashamed. Checked.
I hate that it took these customer interactions to shake some sense into me, but I am simultaneously thankful for them. It's good to be reminded that life is so much bigger than the insignificant things I might call problems in my life. It's also good to sit face-to-face with people more steadfast and resilient than I've even been challenged to be in my lifetime.
It's good to be inspired.
With that, I had a fresh take on the day and renewed appreciation for all that is well. And all is...well, that is.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Dinosaur in the Locker Room: On Trump, On Sisterhood, On Being "Grabbed by the Pussy"
By now, you've heard the recording of Donald Trump bragging about sexually assaulting women in a session of what he referred to as "locker room talk." (By the way, many professional athletes have come forward to question Trump's characterization of what goes on in locker rooms.) It's hard to imagine there's anything left to be said about what has to be the lowest point in the history of Presidential elections in this country.
And yet, here I go:
The other day some coworkers and I were talking about how how rapey, gross, and incredibly unsexy the act of "grabbing a woman by the pussy" is. Then we were talking about how pathetic it was that we were having that conversation because one of the two leading candidates for PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA had bragged about having done it.
I had to let that sink in a little bit. POTUS candidate. Major Party. Wow.
I told my coworkers about a story I'd read the day before. A Canadian writer by the name of Kelly Oxford, after commenting on Trump's remarks, encouraged women to come forward with their first experience of having been sexually assaulted. Thousands of women responded using the hashtag #notokay. At one point Oxford tweeted that she was receiving 2 stories per second.
In letting that sink in, I thought about my own first experience of sexual assault.
I was 12-years-old and in my 8th grade HomeEc class. We were working in groups in the little mini-kitchens, baking something that would turn out disgusting, no doubt. I turned around and suddenly a boy in my group named J.J.--quite out of nowhere and without a word--grabbed me by the pussy. No joke. It's an actual thing (in case any of you respectable men out there heard Trump's words and doubted any person would really do this).
It was the first time a male had ever touched me there, and I was shocked...not least because I'd had no kind of sexual or even remotely flirtatious interaction or even conversation with this boy before. We'd scarcely spoken at all.
I felt frozen in place. I did nothing in response other than to try and shrink away into some kind of invisible version of myself; I remember feeling grateful that this, my last-period class, was almost over and that I could soon go home.
I thought about it for weeks, wondering why he'd done it and feeling a deep sense of shame about the whole thing. I told nobody. I couldn't look at the boy. I barely wanted to go to the class at all.
It's plausible that to J.J. it was nothing more than a spontaneous (though inappropriate) action in response to whatever hormonal whatever he had going on at the moment. It's plausible that J.J. didn't go on to rape and otherwise abuse women. And I'd even believe it if he claimed no memory of this event at all (this is not to excuse the action whatsoever). But (obviously) it made a strong impression upon me.
And as is the case for most if not all my fellow women, an example from my childhood was just the first in what would be many such experiences in the years to follow (three more come to mind from that year alone, though I'm happy to report that by the following year I'd learned a thing or two. When I was a freshman, a sophomore friend of mine grabbed my ass while I was getting something out of my locker. I turned around and slapped him across the face without a moment's hesitation--he immediately apologized and said he'd deserved the slap).
If you're a woman, you have plenty such stories to share.
And you know what, Donald Trump? It truly is not okay. It's not locker room talk. It's fucking bullshit, in fact.
First Lady Michelle Obama had some things to say about Trumps remarks, and she expressed her thoughts a bit more eloquently than I have. She spoke for us all, decent men and women alike.
In her speech, First Lady Obama implored us to work together as teams, united in a stand against Trump's so-called good-ole-boy brand of sexism and sexual harassment.
It was those remarks that came to mind when, just two nights ago, I was on the receiving end of a creeper maneuver all-too-familiar to any woman who's ever been alive in a dance club.
I was dancing by myself (one girlfriend was dancing with a guy, a couple were in the restroom, and one was taking a break off to the side), when a man came up right behind me, rubbing up against my backside, his hand suddenly on my hip.
I glanced backward to see a very drunken looking person, hardly able to stand, let alone dance. I brushed his hand off me and took a step forward.
And then suddenly appeared a young woman in front of me, motioning for me to lean in. "Let's get this dude away from you," she said, and she switched places with me so that she was closer to Grabby Man...a kind of buffer zone. "That's my boyfriend right behind you," she said, "Is that okay?"
Let me just say that there was nothing untoward or creepy about this newfound friend. It wasn't the opening to a three-way porn proposal, haha. The young woman's dude was not dancing very near to me; I think she just wanted me to know that the closest man at that point did not pose any danger.
I wanted to cry for this moment of sisterhood, this caring gesture of goodwill. I danced for a little while with the young woman and then went off to rejoin my friends. But I continued to think about her and how she and her boyfriend together represented one way in which we can counter the culture that seems to think a woman's body is simply there for the taking. That unless a woman actively rebukes him after the fact, a man is welcome to whatever he can grab.
Hers was a little message to Grabby Man and all the Grabby Men out there: I've seen you, and it's not okay.
And it's not that I needed a third party to protect or defend me--not in that particular moment, in a public setting. But I appreciated it anyway. I appreciated the reassurance that we have not resolved ourselves into complacency about sexual assault. About Trump's chicken shit concept of "locker room talk," which really amounts to nothing more or less than a grown-ass men refusing to take responsibility for his abusive actions.
We women have been groped too many times. We've heard too many indecent proposals coming in the form of lame jokes. We have experienced too many "accidental" and opportunistic brush ups. We've heard too many drunken excuses and half-hearted apologies for sexually aggressive behaviors.
From this moment on, I vow to join my sisters and brothers who have had enough. In a way I have to thank Donald Trump for shedding a light on this issue, lest we in our progressed states think we've come as far as we needed to come.
Thank you, Donald Trump, for reminding us there are still plenty of assholes out there to be wary of. Thank you for reminding us to be vigilant on our own behalves and on behalf of other women.
And thank you for reminding me that we know all too well from personal experience the lasting effects of what you claim to be banal "locker room talk." If this is your locker room talk, yours is a sport for the dinosaurs of old. Your kind is dying off and making room for a more evolved version.
Thank you for reminding us all of how far we've come, and where we need to go.
And yet, here I go:
The other day some coworkers and I were talking about how how rapey, gross, and incredibly unsexy the act of "grabbing a woman by the pussy" is. Then we were talking about how pathetic it was that we were having that conversation because one of the two leading candidates for PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA had bragged about having done it.
I had to let that sink in a little bit. POTUS candidate. Major Party. Wow.
I told my coworkers about a story I'd read the day before. A Canadian writer by the name of Kelly Oxford, after commenting on Trump's remarks, encouraged women to come forward with their first experience of having been sexually assaulted. Thousands of women responded using the hashtag #notokay. At one point Oxford tweeted that she was receiving 2 stories per second.
In letting that sink in, I thought about my own first experience of sexual assault.
I was 12-years-old and in my 8th grade HomeEc class. We were working in groups in the little mini-kitchens, baking something that would turn out disgusting, no doubt. I turned around and suddenly a boy in my group named J.J.--quite out of nowhere and without a word--grabbed me by the pussy. No joke. It's an actual thing (in case any of you respectable men out there heard Trump's words and doubted any person would really do this).
It was the first time a male had ever touched me there, and I was shocked...not least because I'd had no kind of sexual or even remotely flirtatious interaction or even conversation with this boy before. We'd scarcely spoken at all.
I felt frozen in place. I did nothing in response other than to try and shrink away into some kind of invisible version of myself; I remember feeling grateful that this, my last-period class, was almost over and that I could soon go home.
I thought about it for weeks, wondering why he'd done it and feeling a deep sense of shame about the whole thing. I told nobody. I couldn't look at the boy. I barely wanted to go to the class at all.
It's plausible that to J.J. it was nothing more than a spontaneous (though inappropriate) action in response to whatever hormonal whatever he had going on at the moment. It's plausible that J.J. didn't go on to rape and otherwise abuse women. And I'd even believe it if he claimed no memory of this event at all (this is not to excuse the action whatsoever). But (obviously) it made a strong impression upon me.
And as is the case for most if not all my fellow women, an example from my childhood was just the first in what would be many such experiences in the years to follow (three more come to mind from that year alone, though I'm happy to report that by the following year I'd learned a thing or two. When I was a freshman, a sophomore friend of mine grabbed my ass while I was getting something out of my locker. I turned around and slapped him across the face without a moment's hesitation--he immediately apologized and said he'd deserved the slap).
If you're a woman, you have plenty such stories to share.
And you know what, Donald Trump? It truly is not okay. It's not locker room talk. It's fucking bullshit, in fact.
First Lady Michelle Obama had some things to say about Trumps remarks, and she expressed her thoughts a bit more eloquently than I have. She spoke for us all, decent men and women alike.
In her speech, First Lady Obama implored us to work together as teams, united in a stand against Trump's so-called good-ole-boy brand of sexism and sexual harassment.
It was those remarks that came to mind when, just two nights ago, I was on the receiving end of a creeper maneuver all-too-familiar to any woman who's ever been alive in a dance club.
I was dancing by myself (one girlfriend was dancing with a guy, a couple were in the restroom, and one was taking a break off to the side), when a man came up right behind me, rubbing up against my backside, his hand suddenly on my hip.
I glanced backward to see a very drunken looking person, hardly able to stand, let alone dance. I brushed his hand off me and took a step forward.
And then suddenly appeared a young woman in front of me, motioning for me to lean in. "Let's get this dude away from you," she said, and she switched places with me so that she was closer to Grabby Man...a kind of buffer zone. "That's my boyfriend right behind you," she said, "Is that okay?"
Let me just say that there was nothing untoward or creepy about this newfound friend. It wasn't the opening to a three-way porn proposal, haha. The young woman's dude was not dancing very near to me; I think she just wanted me to know that the closest man at that point did not pose any danger.
I wanted to cry for this moment of sisterhood, this caring gesture of goodwill. I danced for a little while with the young woman and then went off to rejoin my friends. But I continued to think about her and how she and her boyfriend together represented one way in which we can counter the culture that seems to think a woman's body is simply there for the taking. That unless a woman actively rebukes him after the fact, a man is welcome to whatever he can grab.
Hers was a little message to Grabby Man and all the Grabby Men out there: I've seen you, and it's not okay.
And it's not that I needed a third party to protect or defend me--not in that particular moment, in a public setting. But I appreciated it anyway. I appreciated the reassurance that we have not resolved ourselves into complacency about sexual assault. About Trump's chicken shit concept of "locker room talk," which really amounts to nothing more or less than a grown-ass men refusing to take responsibility for his abusive actions.
We women have been groped too many times. We've heard too many indecent proposals coming in the form of lame jokes. We have experienced too many "accidental" and opportunistic brush ups. We've heard too many drunken excuses and half-hearted apologies for sexually aggressive behaviors.
From this moment on, I vow to join my sisters and brothers who have had enough. In a way I have to thank Donald Trump for shedding a light on this issue, lest we in our progressed states think we've come as far as we needed to come.
Thank you, Donald Trump, for reminding us there are still plenty of assholes out there to be wary of. Thank you for reminding us to be vigilant on our own behalves and on behalf of other women.
And thank you for reminding me that we know all too well from personal experience the lasting effects of what you claim to be banal "locker room talk." If this is your locker room talk, yours is a sport for the dinosaurs of old. Your kind is dying off and making room for a more evolved version.
Thank you for reminding us all of how far we've come, and where we need to go.
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