Hollaback

I generally try to stay out of the fray on hot-button topics, but sometimes I just can’t help myself…

Unless you live under a rock, you know that a young woman named Shoshana Roberts spent ten hours walking the streets of New York City while being filmed for a public service announcement for the anti-street harassment group Hollaback!  The resulting video - which pared the experience down to a two-minute glimpse at the catcalls and intimidating behavior - went viral.

And?

Ms. Roberts has been inundated with everything from messages of support to criticism to threats of rape and murder.  On Fox News, Bob Beckel said, “She got one hundred catcalls, let me add one hundred and one. Damn, baby, you’re a piece of woman.”

Way to underscore the point, buddy.

But look, the only thing that surprised me about the video was that people found it surprising.

Well, that, and the way a fair number of my male friends seemed to feel compelled to apologize for the behavior of the men in the video.

Some of the posts from guys on Facebook:

“Well, now I need a shower.  Is that really my species?”

“Wow.  Totally embarrassed by my gender.”

“Shocked and disgusted.”

There are so many ways these well-meaning comments miss the mark.  That the video went viral is telling - there are things we need to talk about, folks - but I’d hate to see it devolve into an exercise in man-shaming (or man-self-shaming, as the case may be).  Let’s discuss some important points, shall we?

I’ll start with the much-discussed race issue.  The Hollaback! video makes it look as though all the men harassing Ms. Roberts are black or Latino.  Whether this was a case of poor editing or something more sinister, I can’t say.  But any woman can tell you catcalling and street harassment know no racial boundaries.  It’s equal-opportunity ugliness, and yes, what you see in the Hollaback! video is actually pretty mild.  If you want to see a better, more well-rounded, and waaaaay funnier treatment of this issue, check out this video by Jessica Williams of the Daily Show.  The very end of it cracks me the hell up - and when you can do that on a serious issue, amen.

Next let’s talk location.  When I walk or jog around my little New England town, I smile and say hello to everyone - even the guys whose remarks may be cringeworthy or make me uncomfortable.  Maybe especially so in those cases.  I make eye contact in a way that could be saying, “I’m friendly and appreciate that you are, too” or “I can identify you in a police lineup.  Have a nice day!”

But when I go to the Big Apple?  Bitchface all the way.  Stone.  Cold.  Bitchface.  Why?  Because I’d prefer not to end up raped and dead in a gutter somewhere.

Which brings me to my next point.  Women have to move differently through the world, and we know it.  We are aware that, in some environments, ending up raped and dead in a gutter is a real possibility.  We have to wear the bitchface and screen out the catcalls while simultaneously calculating whether or not there is any real threat.  We have to be aware of our surroundings in a way men rarely do.  Is that right or fair?

Hell, no, but (here’s where I offer a little dose of tough love) welcome to life.  Suck it up, sisters.  Gender is but one of the lines along which unfairness and injustice occurs.  That deserves attention, yes, but personally, I feel that all the progress that’s already been made practically guarantees we will get to a better place.  The ball is rolling in the right direction.  There’s no stopping it.  I’m aware, I’m proactive, I am proudly feminist - but I hope I am never so busy being outraged at the crap I and my contemporaries endure that I miss the sweetness in life hard-earned by the women who came before me.

And men?  God, I love men, and I hope all the great men in my life know just how awesome they are.  Those men who make catcalls, who harass and intimidate women with their words and their body language - just like those trolls threatening Ms. Roberts in the wake of her video - those are not the men I know.  Those are small, ignorant creatures.  I suspect there’s a lot of pain and hurt going on in the world of any man who enjoys bullying women and making them uncomfortable in the public sphere.  Those are men who don’t know how to be real men.

To my guy-friends who feel compelled to apologize on their behalf, I say: don’t.  I am grateful that you are dismayed when you consider some of what women put up with in this world, but you’re already doing your part by empathizing, engaging in dialogue, raising your sons to be kinder, your daughters to be bolder.  Don’t apologize for lesser men.

Whatever your take on her video, Shoshana Roberts did something she clearly felt was important and hoped would help to make the world a better place.  Too often those are the very sorts of actions that are misunderstood.  I hope she’s not discouraged by the fallout.  I believe life is best lived by taking risks.  She did that.

And if she needs a laugh - or if you do - here’s one I’ve shared before and probably will again: Wanda Sykes’ ‘Detachable Pussy’ standup routine.  Because sometimes this world is so frigging crazy, the best we can do is just laugh at it.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Problem

"If you’re having girl problems, I feel bad for you, son.  I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one."  - Jay Z, 99 Problems

Beyonce is one of the most powerful, successful women in the world.  She could arguably wear the pants in any household.  Except for one problem.

She hasn’t got any.

Seriously.  Who took Beyonce’s pants?  Her hubby Jay Z, maybe?

A couple of months ago, I saw this video, in which a thoughtful young woman named Madiha Bhatti calls out Jay Z and others in the music industry for their dehumanization of women.

Sure, the objectification of women in the entertainment industry is certainly nothing new, but I couldn’t help but think recently that it seems to be getting worse - and some female artists seem compelled to participate in their own degradation.  Queen Bey and her ever-missing pants is actually a mild example.  And though Miley Cyrus seems to have taken a wrecking ball to her life (you see what I did there?  clever, huh?), I kinda feel grateful for the awesome Steve Kardynal parody that resulted.  But then there was the recent video for the song Booty, featuring Jennifer Lopez and Iggy Azalea.  They abandon all pretense of being serious artists and simply grind, slap, twerk and rub up against each other like porn stars.  (No, I won’t link to it here.  I still want to bleach my eyeballs.)

Look, I’m no prude.  You may recall my recent defense of nude pics.  I think sex is one of the coolest things about life on this planet, and I understand sexual expression invariably gets messy.  But there’s nothing sexy about objectifying or degrading women.

And lest it seem this is a racial, cultural or genre issue, check out this video by country music duo Maddie & Tae.  It seems these country girls grew tired of Daisy Dukes, bare feet and bikini tops.  A little bit of role reversal goes a long way toward making a point, hilariously.

I’m not condemning anyone.  I like Beyonce.  (Really - who doesn't like Beyonce?)  I myself have been known, on occasion, to be foul-mouthed, sexually inappropriate, and lacking pants.  My own son jokes that my novels are porn.  I’m sure I’ve rubbed a person or two the wrong way - if you’ll pardon the pun.  But as women gain more power and prominence in society, I’d like to see more discussion about the backlash.  And that’s exactly what I think is going on in some corners of the music industry.  It’s not about sex.  It’s about taking women down a peg.

That’s not OK.

We all begin forming our opinion about gender and our place in the world from Day One.  I wonder how Jay Z and Beyonce would like their daughter to see the world and understand her place in it.  I wonder if they would like to see Blue Ivy with a man who raps, “I’ve got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one?”

www.kcwilder50ways.com

The Size of It

It was like one of those nightmares where you wake up naked in public, only worse.

Because it was real.

I was in a department store fitting room.

Trying on swimsuits.

The first thought that came to me was the same one I have every time I enter a fitting room. What the hell is up with the fluorescent lighting?  Don’t they realize women would buy far more if they weren’t looking at themselves in the least-flattering light possible?  Why has no one in marketing figured out that soft lighting - and heck, maybe a drink or two - would make sales of women’s clothing (especially swim suits) positively soar?

Sadly, it was in the absence of such a marketing epiphany or kindness to shoppers that I found myself trying on tiny swaths of Spandex in a brightly-lit cubicle.  There was something called a “Miracle Suit,” which I decided was because it’s a miracle if you can breathe while wearing it.  There was a sports suit that gave me an alarming case of monoboob.  There were a half-dozen tankinis, each of which fit on either the bottom or the top, but never all over.

As I agonized over the way the latest suit failed to conceal my squishy middle, I heard a voice from the other side of the door, a fellow shopper in distress at the communal 3-way mirrors.

"I can’t possibly go out in this!" she cried.  "I’m so fat.  Look at these rolls!”

I admit it.  I left the safety of my fitting room and ventured out, pretending to want a look in the 3-way mirrors.  What I really wanted was to commiserate with this other poor soul, to have a laugh or two about how swimsuits are just not kind to women’s bodies.

What I found at the mirrors stopped me in my tracks.  A pretty girl of about 15 or 16, slim by anyone’s definition, grabbing at her middle and scowling at her reflection.  I was afraid she was going to remove skin, pulling on herself that way.  The “rolls” she spoke of were nonexistent.

I wanted to go over and tell her she’s beautiful just as she is.  I wanted to lift my tankini top and show her what rolls really look like.  Luckily, my brain kicked in and I realized pushing my bare flesh and compliments at a minor in a dressing room would likely end in arrest.  I slunk back to my fitting room.

But the incident stayed with me.  We females are so damn critical of our bodies.  Sure, we’re taught to be that way.  There’s no escaping the messages in society that tell us thin is better, sexy trumps smart.  But the bottom line is that we have to start being better to ourselves.  We have to stop beating ourselves up.

I was bulimic in my late teens and early twenties.  I have too many friends and relatives who have suffered from eating disorders, body dysmorphic disorder, and other body issues.  A very dear young friend of mine nearly lost her battle with anorexia, but has worked tirelessly to get well.

Ladies, we can end this bullshit one thought and one word at a time.

As you may know from earlier posts, I love being outdoors and active.  I “tortoise along” in road races and sprint triathlons.  One thing I’ve noticed at every race I’ve ever participated in is the wide variety of female body types competing.  I’ve seen every shape, size and age imaginable cross the finish line.  And you know what?  You truly cannot judge these books by their covers.  I’ve been left in the dust by women twice my size.

Which got me thinking: what if we measured our bodies not by how they compare to some airbrushed ideal, but by how much they do for us?  What if we thanked our bodies for the children they’ve carried, the miles they’ve run, the work they’ve accomplished?

What if we also made it our mission as women to support each other, no matter what?  At times, I’ve been called, “Skinny Minnie,” told I had no right to complain about body issues.  The intention may have been good, but I still felt the sting of judgment.  And that’s the sting that leads to trouble, no matter what the size tag on your jeans may say.

What if we made sure our daughters and granddaughters never heard us judge ourselves or one another on the basis of something as foolish and variable as our physical body?

Yeah, I’ve got a squishy middle.  I could change that.  More salads, less chardonnay.  More planks and push-ups, less hours at the computer.  More long runs, less time with toes in the sand and a beer in hand.

Or I could just find a swimsuit that gives my squishy middle a little more breathing room.

Which I did.

Via online order.

It looks great in the gentle, natural light at home.

And when I’m at the beach or on my SUP board?

I’m having too much damn fun to care what I look like.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Want to feel better about your body right now?  Check out the Love Your Body Now Project.

And for a fun little reminder about the most important things you can apply before leaving the house, watch this awesome video.

{And PLEASE - if you are suffering from an eating disorder or body issues that are greatly affecting your life, seek professional help.  It works.  Your happiness is worth it!}

A Girl With a Book

"I don’t get it.  What do kidnapped Nigerian girls have to do with chick lit?"

This was the comment from an acquaintance of mine when I told him I planned a blog post today dealing with the Nigerian school girls held captive by terrorists.  I had three distinct thoughts in response.

One:  This guy clearly doesn’t read my blog.  It’s not all Bridget Jones, chardonnay and stilettos.

Two:  This guy could very easily wind up with the heel of a stiletto between the eyes, as he’s apparently assumed chick lit is all I am qualified to discuss.

Three:  Girls abducted from their school, reportedly to be sold into slavery, really does have something to do with chick lit.  Everything, in fact.

Let me explain.

It’s been nearly one full month since more than 270 teenaged girls were abducted from their school in Chibok, Nigeria by the Islamic militant terror organization Boko Haram.  That’s a group whose name, roughly translated, means, “Western education is a sin.”

This situation is a clear case of backlash by small-minded people against the progress of both women and nonviolence in the world.  It is the last desperate gasp of a dying breed, an eerily pure display of the way violence is used not by the strongest among us, but by the weakest.  Boko Haram’s leader, Abubakar Shekau, has waffled tellingly in proclaiming the purpose of the abductions.  First he said Allah had instructed him to sell the girls into arranged marriages and sexual slavery.  Then he indicated he’d be willing to exchange their freedom for that of insurgents.  So much for Allah’s instructions, it seems.

For now, it’s a waiting game.  With a twist.  The only reason I am discussing this story today may be the social media hashtag #BringBackOurGirls.  While critics have derided the effort as “cheap hashtag activism,” the truth is that the world was not paying much attention to the plight of the kidnapped girls until the story began trending on Twitter and other social media sites.  A hashtag won’t bring anyone home, but global attention has spurred the Nigerian government to embarrassed action, which is a step in the right direction.  Mere hours ago, US surveillance planes began an air search of the remote areas where it’s believed the captives are being held.  Britain, France and China have sent teams to assist.

This is huge.  The world understands that the safety of female students in Nigeria has an impact on us all - and politicians, celebrities, and ordinary folks like you and me used social media to focus attention on a situation that might otherwise have remained on page three of a newspaper, soon to be forgotten.

And yes, I write chick lit - yet for better or for worse, social media gives me a voice equal to that of any political commentator.  I’ll use that voice here to argue that any writing by women and for women has value.  Chick lit is escapism, sure.  It’s a light aimed at the funny, sexy and irreverent aspects of life as a woman.  It’s a counterbalance to the harsher truths of female experience.  It’s a luxury, and we come to it the same way we come to any of the luxuries we earn in life: through education and personal empowerment.  The wingnuts in Boko Haram and other pseudo-religious terrorist groups know this.  In the words of Malala Yousafzai, “Extremists have shown what frightens them most: a girl with a book.”

Sylvia Plath.  Jennifer Weiner.  Erica Jong.  Candace Bushnell.  Eve Ensler.  Emily Giffin.  Adrienne Rich.  Anais Nin.  I wish all these authors, all their wonderful books depicting the dark and the light, into the hands of those Nigerian school girls.  I wish them the freedom to read what they choose, to dress as they please, to dance and laugh and grow.

The New York Times’ Nicholas Kristof has some excellent suggestions of ways to make a positive difference in the face of this brutal situation; click here to explore.  And if you don’t have money, give time: mentor a girl, donate books, find a way to show girls they are valued.

Find a way to demonstrate that no act of violence can halt the progress women and education bring to this world.

www.kcwilder50ways.com