…Into Shadow

“This is war, Peacock.” – Clue.

You know those old westerns, or those new space westerns, wherein the intrepid hero walks into a saloon or bar and all eyes turn to him? When everyone is waiting for the hero to do something stupid – such as order a glass of milk or fail to kiss the local gangster’s ass in a sufficiently enthusiastic fashion? Yeah, this is my life at the moment.

The cockroaches are waiting for me to do something stupid. Yesterday, they got their chance. I kept the light off in the hallway as I worked. I allowed myself to ignore a faint rustling noise. And I got a f*cking cockroach crawling up my leg.

I even suspect he was trying to hump it.

The only thing that saved my brain from overloading and powering off was the beer I had drunk half an hour before. Say what you want about alcohol, but it does have that certain dulling effect at times. Perhaps intrepid heroes everywhere should re-examine their relationship with it. I certainly have, in these last, dark weeks.

I’m not really sure what great lesson I am supposed to learn from this war of attrition. If it goes down in history books, it will be one of those wars that no one wants to learn about, featured heavily on essay questions in stuffy classrooms in the world over (Hundred Years’ War, Thirty Years’ War, the War of the Roses). For every strike, there is a measured counterstrike.

Perhaps the cockroaches don’t see it that way – perhaps killing roughly 100 by putting poison in the pipes between the garage and the stairs is seen, by them, as way, way worse than the single act of harassment last night. At least, I can only hope so. I want them to lament the terrors of my pesticide arsenal, goddamit. I want them to build remembrance museums. I want them to shoot documentaries about it, featuring the moody music of Phillip Glass and constant reminders that “viewer discretion is advised” between commercial breaks.

1,000 years from now, I want some pipe-smoking cockroach linguist to write an epic based in part on the legendary events of the stairwell. Half a century later, I want a blockbuster trilogy to be filmed, complete with stubble-chinned method actors.

What pesticide I spray in life – damn better echo in eternity. No just God could let all that stylized violence (*shriek* *flying shoe* *spurting pus* *another shriek*) go to waste.

A vanity picture post in which Natalia goes back to her roots

Blond roots, to be precise. I was born a platinum blonde, grew darker over the years, and have recently been dyeing my hair something called “mahogany brown” (with occasional forays into “auburn sunset”). Now I’ve decided that it’s time to reclaim my blonde ambition.

I like this picture because the computer screen is reflected in my glasses, so that instead of being an Ordinary Dork, I am an Ordinary Dork with Geordie La Forge Pretensions.

As you can tell, I streaked my hair instead of going for a uniform colour. It’s less high-maintenance when the roots start to come in. Roots can be as trendy as anything, but I don’t carry them off very well. Streaked hair also shows off texture, especially if you have some layers going. My hair is naturally streaked, with some strands being very dark, most a medium light brown to dark blond, and a few very blond ones, and I really like enhancing that quality of it.

Also, I like this picture because I’m wearing glasses. I am trying to reclaim glasses. This is because I’m always embarrassed by them. They make me feel as though they obscure me, which is one of the reasons why I prefer contacts. Being teased mercilessly in school probably didn’t help that. I once read, in a Konstantin Paustovsky autobiography, no less, that Slavs respond negatively to glasses because we still associate them with privilege and snobbery. He wrote this over half a century ago, but Ukraine of the early 1990’s wasn’t much different in this regard.

Of course, American schoolchildren make fun of kids and glasses all the time as well, except that there is a stronger “nerd” aspect to it. I don’t think it’s really a class thing. Or not…? What do you think?

And do you think that being blond automatically makes a woman seem less intelligent? A lot of my friends have reported that dyeing their hair blond meant that people treated them differently. I’ve personally never noticed anything like that in my daily life as a blonde, but I could merely be oblivious. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

The same Konstantin Paustovsky autobiography features a scene in which a train station attendant bemoans the invention of the telegraph: “Before, people knew nothing, and they were happy. Now you have the telegraph, saying that Bat’ka Makhno [a famous rebel leader during the civil war] is about to ride in and blow us all to hell.”

OK, that isn’t the actual translation, but it’s pretty close. My books are still a continent and an ocean away from me. And yes, I do feel like that train station attendant rather frequently.

Good writing, good times, good scandals, and (what else?) hot guys!

Before anything else, I have to give props to Renegade Evolution for celebrating Female Desire Week with such flair. If there is one thing the world needs, it is more pictures of gorgeous men set to White Zombie. We’ve got Meloni, Mortensen…

Where was I now?

OK, I’d also like to highlight the growing writing collections on the magazine: particularly, our section on election ’08, our humor section, our very quirky travel section, and our poetry corner. The website is in the middle of a major growth spurt, and I hope you (yes, you!) contribute to it. For details, see our submissions page.

Since I’m going around and promoting collections of great writing, I have to include Lina’s Feministisches Dogmatiks, BD’s coverage of all things sex positive, Slut Machine’s writing on Jezebel, Afronerd (I didn’t spot any tags, but just read the entire thing, you’ll enjoy), Secular Apostate’s media criticism, and (while it may seem redundant) check out Litlove on books.

Oh, and this film review, the accompanying picture, and male critics’ take on Sex & the City in general are being rightfully called out for what they are: creepy, sad, and just a tad on the sexist side. Remind me why we need cultural gate-keepers again? Oh, it’s because someone better keep those sexy older women in line (hmm, speaking of Madonna at 50…). You know, I was never a huge fan of “Sex & the City,” but I did enjoy it, and I hate the way it is used by women-bashers.

Oh dear, women enjoyed a fluffy show about f*cking and over-priced shoes, this is scientific proof that women are dumbasses! It’s funny how hardly anyone wishes to extend this logic to men who happen to enjoy pro-wrestling. Oh sure, the cultural gate-keepers might look down their nose at men (or women, for that matter) who do, but they’ll never use this to bash the entire gender, or bash presidential candidate supporters.

Women might complain about said “boys’ entertainment,” but men openly  and viciously despise anything branded as “girls’ entertainment.” It’s almost like you have to prove your masculinity by going out of your way to stomp on the throats of the “Sex & the City” crew. It’s insecure bullshit. It’s the “omigod, someone might think I’m gay” defense.

I didn’t like “The Golden Compass,” for example, but was dismayed to hear that little boys simply refused to see it on account of the girl being the hero. This is while women are encouraged to identify with boy-heros all the time – how many female Harry Potter fans are out there? How many women love The Lord of the Rings?

Just in case the drama is getting too much for you at the moment, here’s a hot picture of Ewan McGregor, being hot:

mcgregor for davidoff

Picture from Lipstick Bitches.

Do you make fun of men who use their charm and looks for personal gain?

Sweet Batman on a pogo-stick. Again? Someone must be an addict for snarky trackbacks from yours truly.

I guess there are worse things to be addicted to, but still. Come on. “Madonna isn’t welcome at our garden-party!” Or… something “She knows what she’s doing.” (This is an actual quote from the comments, courtesy of the ever affable Polly Styrene). Oh dear. You’d prefer that women did not know what they are doing? Or had no control over it? Perhaps if you found out that a big, hairy, cigar-chewing patriarch was putting a gun to Madonna’s head and telling her to shake her thing on MTV, you’d instantly be transformed into her biggest champion?

“Now, now, ladies, it’s OK to be sexxxay and charming, as long as you’re not enjoying it.”

Have you guys ever talked that way about Justin Timberlake? I’ve always liked him. And, it didn’t have a whole lot to do with his music. It’s entertaining, but it usually isn’t my cup of tea (unless I am in a mood – I don’t know what kind of mood, just a mood).

You know what is my cup of tea, though?

This.

Guys who manage to pull off white pants and tattoos. And believe me, he knows what he’s doing too.

Rape, Prevention, and Victimhood: Inspired by our Russian colleagues

A male member of the Russian LJ community – Feministki – recently tried to establish a line between victim-blaming and victim-advising. He said he was disturbed by discussions surrounding basic safety, and how they either degenerated into either victim-blaming or accusations thereof.

Of course, he later admitted that stereotypes got the best of him: his original posting concerned women in “short skirts” who “get drunk with strangers” or intentionally “walk around alone in the park at midnight.”

Leaving that aside, the discussion was interesting. In spite of the few trolls who inevitably show up in such settings to air out their misogyny, I was pleasantly surprised at the level of discourse. No one lost their temper, there was no name-calling, and the trolls were mostly ignored.

For me, the crux of the discussion was this: we accept that the responsibility for rape lies with the rapist, however, we also tell our children and our friends and loved ones things such as “don’t hang out with that guy, he tried to spike some girl’s drink last summer” or “take your cellphone with you and don’t get separated from our friends at that party.” For every feminist, basic safety is an important issue, and we should always find ways of talking about it that doesn’t implicate victims or potential victims.

What I also got from the discussion, however, is a reminder that no conversation about rape prevention and self-defense is complete without discussing the rapist himself. Keeping our focus exclusively on the victim is what causes even the most well-intentioned conversation to slide toward victim-blaming.

Life is not a video game with a set number of rules and known quantities. And a rapist is possibly one of the least predictable elements. Rapists thrive on opportunity, but the erasure of all opportunity is the negation of the female (or the male, if we look at male-on-male rape). It’s the negation of humanity.

It seems to me that criminals often set the standard, and we comply, wordlessly, afraid to stick our necks out, or else daunted by how difficult it is to stand up for the weak and how easy it is to side with the strong. Because of  this, rape remains one of the most normalized transgressions in many of the world’s cultures. Whereas a stolen wallet might inspire pity and perhaps a light admonishment, “come on, Pasha, you should have been more vigilant while riding that bus in that neighbourhood,” rape inspires an immediate need to exonerate, or, at the very least, excuse the rapist. And yet rape is much, much worse than a stolen wallet.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, we normalize rape because it helps us sleep better at night. Accepting the reality of it, its pervasiveness, and its lasting damage might just be too much for the fragile human brain.

Rape prevention will never be meaningful unless the social attitudes surrounding this crime are challenged. Yet the very act of thinking about one’s safety is important, as it reinforces our agency, gives us back a tiny slice of the world in which we can feel, if not safe, then at least somewhat sane.

To that end, and in the interest of the discussion I had previously mentioned, I would like to ask my readers about their own tactics of personal safety. I would like to list mine. They are by no means exhaustive. But perhaps someone out there may find them useful:

Acknowledging the problem. I talk about rape a lot, with my friends and family members. I bring up stories surrounding it, its normalization, its place in popular culture, etc. I hate the embarrassed silence that surrounds it. We are not Victorians. Silence allows rapists to thrive.

Trusting the right people. This method is never fool-proof. People turn on each other all the time. Yet some of us are lucky enough to have a clutch of friends and relatives who have, at the very least, stood the test of time.

Keeping my ear to the ground. I watch people. A lot. It’s not just something that writers do, it’s something that a lot of survivors of sexual abuse and assault do as well. I analyze the behaviour of others, and analyze my own responses to said behaviour. “Am I trusting this person for the wrong reason?” “Why does this guy treat his dog as if he’s five seconds away from beating the crap out of it? Does it tell me something about him?” This can be fun on occasion, but it’s essentially a survival tactic.

I do think that there are things that men can do as well, and that they’re just as important.

Guys, don’t let your friends get away with shit. How many times have I heard a variation on the following?: “So there was X, and he was with this girl, and she was passed out, and he told us to leave, and I don’t know what happened to her, and now I’m kind of like weirded out… I don’t want any drama or anything, but it was creepy.” Too many than I would like to admit. Here’s a thought,

YOUR FRIEND’S DESIRE TO GET LAID IS NOT SACRED. Many, many people still think that assaulting someone when they’re passed out is OK. “Hey, it’s just getting some.” No, no, NO.

Sometimes, a little “drama” is what a potential rapist needs. This may momentarily destroy your veneer of cool detachment and ironic nihilism, but it’s worth it. You can always get the cool detachment and ironic nihilism back. It’s not like losing your virginity, trust me.

Also, don’t let your female friends get away with shit either. Women do normalize rape. And they do turn their backs on it when it happens. Someone I used to know once drove across town suspecting, based on a mobile phone conversation, that her friend was inebriated and in trouble. When she got to the party, some of the other women there said, “oh, don’t worry about Y, she’s just passed out somewhere with some guy, hee hee, she’s going to have a bad morning, ha  ha. Anyway, let’s have a drink.”  Y was found by her faithful friend, slumped in the shrubbery where she was literally dumped by this immense creep. The immense creep was in the process of removing her dress.

One of the other women at that party actually had a text message from Y on her phone that was comprised of two little words, “help me.” The message was not merely ignored, it was laughed off.

Because of the weird gender politics around these issues, sometimes it really helps when a guy has the temerity to tell a woman, “guess what, rape isn’t funny.” So there.

Rape is a big problem, and it is daunting. But there are little steps that every individual can take to make a small difference somewhere. When you add those little differences together, you end up with something good. It’s important to remember this no matter how demoralized or dismayed you might feel.

Discussions on rape prevention should first and foremost focus on what we can all do to help. Isolating the victim or potential victim, dumping this burden on her (or his) shoulders, is not going to cut it.