Friday, November 17, 2006

Flea Bitten

I am a fan of cheap. I like garage sales and swap meets. When I was a little punker in college I dressed exclusively in thrift store chic. Our favorite place to hit was a clothes-by-the-pound place in east LA. Today I couldn’t find the place if you paid me. I’m more of an Anthropologie/Urban Outfitters girl but I’m still up for the odd vintage find. And with my current struggling-writer negative income, cheap is my best friend.

With this in mind, Mr. Wonderful and I went to the Pasadena Flea Market this weekend. Specifically I was on a mission for old chandelier bits that I wanted for earrings. Kidding. I was planning on making them into gifts; ornaments for the old tannenbaum. We walked from one end of the place to the other before I finally found her: the Recycled Door Knob Lady.

I cruised purposefully past her selection of knobs, pulls and brass hinges until I got to the chandelier bits. I selected a group of old sparkly cut glass. I was trying to envision just how I’d put them together since I really didn’t have an actual plan when I noticed a short woman had drifted up next to me and had her back to me. When I had ready what I hoped would be my purchase, I asked her if she knew where the Door Knob Lady was and she curtly informed me that she was said Lady. It turned out my selection was far beyond the paltry sum yet at my disposal so I began paring down. Then I asked what the new total was. Still beyond my reach.

I began making new cuts. She was facing me now, scrutinizing my fingers’ every move. I felt myself start sweating. I had to choose the exact right bits of trashed glass or she wouldn’t approve. Was she growling at me? When my final cut was still more money than I had, she flared her nostrils at me. I decided a different approach. How about we work from what I do have?

When I showed her my money she grabbed the glass bits and threw them back in their respective bins. I protested that I did want to buy some. From what she’d said I thought I had enough for one, maybe two. She snorted that I’d made her wait too long. I wasn’t worth her time. I held my bills out to her and asked her to take them for at least one strand. I could make that work.

“Get away from my stand,” she said with a thick accent. “Keep your bad money.”

Stunned I stood there for a moment before it sank in: The junk dealer was kicking me out because I’m poor. I would leave without my intended Christmas project in hand. There was no changing her mind. So, clearly, there was no reason to behave like a reasonable adult.

“You keep your bad attitude then.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and starting complaining to her other customers that I had wasted her precious time and was trying to take advantage of her. Mind you, the whole thing had taken all of three minutes. Clearly she was a little light on the whole American customer service ethic. But she was now muttering epithets at me in a foreign language which shall go unnamed. Rude hand gestures followed.

In that weird tunnel vision that happens at times of trauma, I can’t tell you if other customers were paying attention, or even if she was looking at me when I turned back to her.

“You’re a cruel bitch,” I said as calmly as my shaking fists would allow. And I walked away to find Mr. Wonderful several stands away.

In his sweet, fix-it way, he offered to buy the things for me but I protested that now it was a matter of principle. The Evil Door Knob Lady would never ever have any money of mine or his. I couldn’t believe it had gone so wonky.

It took me a few minutes more to realize it wasn’t about me. Perhaps she’d had day of disappointing sales. Maybe she’d lost some knobs to theft. I’ll never know what set her off. But I do know that when we get upset it’s almost never about the immediate event that appears to be upsetting us. If I were Zen I’d have been able to come to an understanding with her; get her world point of view and maybe even make it better for her with a little focus shift.

But I’m at times tragically unevolved. It was easier to meet bitch with bitch. I’m not proud of my response although I think she earned it. I know what set me off in reaction was old feelings of being rejected. At least that’s the closest thing it felt like. Here I am scraping to make ends meet until the fabled script sale happens, I’m trying to do a nice thing for a few people who matter to me and I’m being kicked to the curb. Oh the chandelier injustice! My upset was in anticipating my friends’ disappointment at not getting a trinket they didn’t even know about and feeling powerless to do anything about it. Last time I checked my friends weren’t gift psychics.

So there you have it. I’ve been rejected by the Pasadena Flea Market Door Knob Lady. For a nice girl, I find myself on an inordinate amount of blacklists. Ah well. I’ll live. Although, a few friends may be getting cookies this year instead of funky homemade ornaments.

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Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Defense of Self, Part Two

I recently visited my father. He happens to be one of the kindest, most chivalrous people I’ve ever met. He’s that old school guy we don’t have enough of these days who holds the door for you and helps strangers and believes the handshake should be as binding as a legal contract. Yet like so many men he too is entrenched in gender behavior to such an extent that he is unaware of its influence. And coming from him, I know it’s not malicious or meant to harm. But it is just as insidious.

On a recent hike we met two women on their descent. We chatted briefly about the nice day before my dad joked that he would join them since they had the easier job of going downhill. I felt them recoil. Not from my dad as a bad guy but in the internal alert all women have that tells us an uninvited male is asserting claim on our space. Joking or not, it makes us instantly assess our safety and wonder if we will need to defend ourselves.

In the past, I would have brought this to my dad’s attention later with a “don’t say things like that to women,” or “do you know how uncomfortable you made them?” But I don’t bother anymore because the answer is he truly doesn’t know. He thinks I’m just being reactionary and ridiculous when I bring it up. But I saw the ice that flashed across their faces. I don’t think men can see it. They are, and I’m generalizing, not attuned to read subtle energy changes the way we are -- the way we’ve had to be to keep our wits about us and our bodies safe.

Later that day my dad and I went to dinner. A man at the bar wouldn’t stop staring at me. After a good half hour of this I mentioned to my dad how uncomfortable it made me. He shrugged and said “Take it as a compliment. He just doesn’t know how to communicate it in a tactful way.”

Hmmm. A compliment. I saw his point and I tried to let it go as I squirmed in my seat. I thought about my options. I could get up and say something to the man about how rude he was being but then I’d be the asshole. Why is that? Why am I the bad guy if I set a boundary for myself? Big secret answer: because society doesn’t want women to have boundaries. They are to be objects. Property.

My stomach knotted. I was sitting there with the chief protector of my well-being and yet feeling like a rabbit dangling before a wolf. My kind and upstanding dad could never understand the upset and injustice of the moment. He could never get the experience of being a woman under a male gaze.

A compliment? I couldn’t get it out of my head for weeks: should my friend who was raped take that as a compliment too? Poor guy just didn’t know how to properly express his admiration or desire for her? I know this is an extreme leap but, f**k NO! Unwelcome male attention is never complimentary. It is disrespectful and invasive and damaging. But what can we do? Not much until society shifts to value women and their right to feel safe and comfortable in their own skins. Given two thousand years of patriarchy, that’s not likely to happen in the next week or so.

So what do we do in the meantime? Mothers, train your sons to respect all women as yourselves. Train your daughters to take pride in themselves and stand up for themselves. Girls, get your butts into a boundary setting self defense class.

Now that I’ve had my amazing self defense training which included a huge amount of verbal boundary setting things would go differently. Now I’d walk up to the staring man and say “Sorry to disturb you but when you stare at me it makes me feel uncomfortable. Would you please stop.” If he squirmed in discomfort, so be it. Why should I work to make him comfortable when he’s making me uncomfortable? So ingrained in us girls is that useless response! Most likely, he’d be so surprised he’d acquiesce. I’d thank him and be able to enjoy my dinner with my dad.

And if he kicked up a fuss, so be it. When men start to realize that women aren’t afraid to cause a scene to stand up for ourselves maybe even strangers will treat us with the same respect they’d accord their mothers or sisters. Now that would be a compliment.

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Saturday, November 11, 2006

Defense of Self, Part One

I consider myself a fairly bad-ass chick. Six feet tall and a life-long athlete filled with a hearty streak of warrior woman and Leo, I can be physically intimidating when I want to be. I’ve always felt relatively safe.

“I traveled alone in Croatia during the war,” I say cavalierly. One of many self-sufficient accomplishments in a litany of “look how bad-ass I am” facts. But the truth is I’ve never been in a fight. In fact, until recently the only physical scuffle I’d ever been in left me feeling quite ineffectual. About fifteen years ago, feeling faint in the hot crush of a concert in a small club, I tried to push my way out of the front row and was groped by a guy I passed. I turned and hit at his back as best I could. He and his girlfriend laughed at me.

On some level, I long for the opportunity to crush them. Not that I wish for bloodshed. I suppose I just want to feel like the victor for once. But am I so victimized in our society? It’s a hard question to answer. The social norms of being a Western woman are so quiet we don’t even notice most of the time. But ask any woman what it’s like to feel like prey and chances are she’ll be able to tell you a story of being followed down a dark street or stared at on the subway. Sadly, she may tell you a story of an actual assault. One in three women will be assaulted in their lives. We don’t defend our selves because we’re taught that would invite violence and after all the offending male is stronger … because he’s male, right?

My problem isn’t so much with these physiological facts. It’s that everyone’s response is to make it OK.

Longing for a toehold of personal power I enrolled in a self defense course. Impact Personal Safety trains women to repel an attacker who is fully padded so you can and must use your full power. You learn to work past the natural fear/freeze response and function in a fully adrenalized state. I took it because I wanted to actually be as bad-ass as I feel. I wanted to know I could beat the shit out of some guy if I had to. I took it because they claim a woman’s chances of being assaulted drop to one in twenty after the class.

During the class fueled by nerves, fear, and years of rage I craved my turn in the fight line. The sensation of physical power. The knowledge that it was, in here at least, OK to unleash anger, to even feel hate for these men. And after one session I felt exhilarated. Focusing all those past frustrations on our mock muggers, I thrilled to the adrenaline sensation of finally fighting back; pounding a guy into submission, mock though it may be.

And even as I did, I was surprised to note how much apologizing we all did for a mislanded or over-hard blow. So ingrained in us is the submissive woman. So hard is it to grapple with the idea of ourselves as women asserting ourselves and maybe even hurting someone. We are trained to accommodate and care-take. Not injure and stand our ground. It is totally normal for women to apologize for hurting someone who is hurting them. Are you not wigged out yet?

As I drove home from class that first day, I felt like a noodle. But a powerful noodle. I understood the basic 1 in 20 statistic now: a woman who carries herself with confidence makes a much less appealing target. I know how much force I can pack in a punch or kick now. I know that the boundaries I choose to set for myself are valid because I choose them. And then a surprising thing happened. Instead of behaving like a puffed-up bad-ass, I found myself full of peace as I drove. I let other drivers in, I smiled at people. I felt relaxed and powerful. And instead of craving some kind of test that could serve as retribution for all those past starers and gropers. I found myself hoping I would never have to prove myself.

Now, having completed the Basics course, I feel more peaceful and powerful than ever. That rage I used to feel has ebbed into determination. My producing partner took the course with me and we’ve incorporated a significant amount of the IMPACT training in the girl power film we’re producing. Anything to get the message out there to the young women of the world: your lives are worth fighting for. Ladies, if that statement strikes a doubtful note in you, get your ass in this class.

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