Apathy and Ellen Page

Like so much of the queer world, I freaked the fuck out when Ellen Page came out this past Friday.  And not because I was in any way surprised that Ellen Page is gay.  I wasn't.  Like so many other people, gay or straight (or anywhere else on any spectrum), I was about 99.999% sure that Ellen Page is gay.  And yet, as much as there may be a decent sized list of people who the queer community (especially the online queer feminist community to which I belong) "knows" is queer, every single time one of them actually takes their own affirmative steps to come out of their closets, to declare their own truths, we all cheer and freak out so loud and for so long that we start to forget there was ever a time when that person actually wasn't out.

For days after I saw the internet explode with Ellen Page's announcement, I carried on my life with a huge, probably incredibly goofy-looking grin on my face.  And at first I couldn't figure out why this one person's coming out was making me so incredibly happy.  I mean, I cheered and celebrated when Raven-Symone and Michelle Rodriguez came out last year.  I was happy.  But neither Raven's gay marriage celebrating tweet nor M-Rod's bisexual rumour confirming interview made me this ecstatic for days on end.  At first I thought it was just because of how much I love Ellen Page's movies or how much I crush on her, but, let's be honest, Michelle Rodriguez definitely falls more into the latter category for me than Ellen Page does.

And then I thought maybe it's because Raven and Michelle Rodriguez both have histories of awkwardly, defensively, and at times destructively denying rumours of their respective queerness.  And Ellen Page just avoided the subject (or even tongue-in-cheek poked fun at in that 2008 SNL skit).  Or it could be because Ellen Page is still a huge, and likely still rising star, while M-Rod has a long-term and at times messy career of always playing the same bad-ass type of character and Raven's claim to fame rises mostly out her career as a kid on the "Cosby Show" and a teen in Disney's "That's So Raven."

But I think the real reason behind my joyous reaction to Ellen Page coming out is simply because of the way that she came out.  As the icon of gay Ellens would put it, she owned her own truth.  Ellen Page got on that stage and didn't just say, "hey world, I'm gay, now explode!" (even though that's pretty much all that got reported/tweeted in the immediate aftermath).  Instead, she stood up there and slowly built up to her announcement through an exposition of Hollywood culture and societal pressure, both on gender presentation and sexuality.  And, yeah, Ellen Page said those three words "I am gay," and those may forever be the most memorable words from her speech (and after those seemingly simple words, you could see her entire body sigh).  But I truly hope that those words are not the only ones remembered from her speech on Friday.  Because that wasn't the pinnacle of her speech, not by a long shot.  Instead, she went on to explain her own coming out (and why she hadn't until this point), acknowledged her own privilege in being able to come out in such an accepting setting, and ended by saying "thank you" to everyone who enables young people to find the strength to claim their own truth.

Now, while most of the response to Ellen Page coming out was positive and supportive, and I honestly didn't see much hateful or negative backlash, I did see way too many dismissive comments, as Riese over at Autostraddle so beautifully dissects:

Ellen Page said she’d been scared to reveal her truth, and in response way too many people responded with, ”In other news, the sky is blue.” The fact that so many felt comfortable being that rude to someone who’d just publicly shared a private struggle speaks volumes about how important they consider the issues of gay women to be. We should be wary of these people. People like them are why so many believe this country is post-racial or post-feminist when this country is racist as fuck and hates women. This country loves to pass a few laws and then declare everything officially fixed forever. This country has a short memory.

When people respond to a high profile celebrity coming out with some variation of "so what?" or "well duh! who cares?" they perpetuate the notion that the fight is over.  That gay youth don't still face rejection, homelessness, drug addictions, depression, and suicide at exponentially higher rates than non-queer youth.  And the vast majority of these issues stem from familial or communal rejection of them once they come out or are outed.

It can be soul-crushing for a queer person who is struggling with the possibility of coming out of the closet to less than supportive family and friends to see those types of responses to the beautifully eloquent coming out of someone like Ellen Page.  When you are sitting in the darkness of your own closet, having just felt a little bit of warmth and light shine on you because of the encouragement of Ellen Page, and then you see so many self-proclaimed "allies" shun the idea that there is any bravery at all (or even any point for that matter) in someone like Ellen Page ever publicly declaring her label, her truth, you want to slam yourself so tightly back into that closet, nearly forgetting to take note of the incredible support that Ellen Page and her true supporters and community have to offer.

I know what it's like to live for years in a closet.  I've been there.  I spent so much of my life refusing to even let myself face my own truth, the reality of my own attractions and desires.  I wouldn't even acknowledge it in my head because I knew (or thought I knew) that as long as I never faced it myself, I would never have to face even the slightest possibility of sharing that truth with anyone around me.  And I had the vast majority of these frightened and denial-ridden conversations with myself while attending American University, a place so imbued with support and pride for LGBT issues that Westboro Baptist Church (ahem...cult, not church) came to protest us.  And while I felt (and still feel) so much pride at how incredible my school was at embracing and encouraging queers, I still engaged in this circular, internalized-homophobic thought process.  I didn't come out to myself until a good year after I left American.  And, yes, there are many other personal reasons behind the timing of my own journey, but what I know is this: having an immediately supportive community doesn't make it somehow magically easy to come out of the closet.  Sure, on some surface level, would it have been easier for me to face my own truth, to come out as queer, while still at AU?  Of course, without a doubt.  But I also know that if I had come out publicly while at AU, chances are I never would've moved home, never would've put in the work, the sweat and tears, to rebuild my relationship with my family.  Instead, I waited until my family and I were on solid ground for the first time in years before I felt I could even face my own truth for myself.  And then I came out to my family.  And then to the rest of my world.  Now, from a distance, this might seem like I waited until my family and I were on solid ground only to rip the metaphorical rug out from under us by coming out.  I've had people, family members even, say this very thing to me.  But what I know is that I put far too much blood, sweat, and tears into rebuilding my relationship with my parents to allow even a portion of that relationship to be built on the lie that I was perpetuating, by omission if nothing else, that I was straight.  I needed to rebuild that relationship, and then I had to reveal my whole truth, before we could ever be on truly solid ground.  That's my journey.  That's my story.

So when people try to make the argument that coming out in front of an overwhelmingly supportive community like the Human Rights Campaign isn't brave at all, they are flat out wrong.  Because coming out, declaring the truth of your queerness, involves so much more than just needing an immediate pat on the back by those in close proximity to you.  Coming out is a process of finally facing yourself, acknowledging your own truth, and then figuring out where that leaves you in the many different worlds that you navigate.

Some people think that, because they aren't actively spewing hate at a gay person, they don't pull the trigger when a black person makes them nervous (or do but justify it by claiming stand-your-ground), and they don't intentionally try to treat the women in their workplace as less important/intelligent/etc. than their male colleagues, they are not in any way perpetuating the institutions of homophobia, racism, and sexism, respectively.  But for anyone who really takes the time to dig into any of these issues, they have to at some point come to the realization that these oppressive institutions are still very much alive and well.  And once you reach that conclusion, but look around and don't see public lynchings, anti-sodomy laws, or lack of women's suffrage, at some point you also have to realize that it's not just the faceless, nameless "other" that perpetuates these institutions.  It's us.  It's you and me.  Every day we let our own apathy lull us into contentment, every time we let ourselves believe that we don't play a role in perpetuating these oppressive institutions, we are, by that very act of apathy, perpetuating them.

 For the past couple months I've been wrestling with the idea of how to fight against the pull of my own apathy, to truly fight for the things for which my heart breaks.  There's this poem, "Etiquette Leash," by the amazing queer spoken word artist and activist, Andrea Gibson, that has opened my eyes and challenged me so much that I find myself repeating it to myself over and over again each day.  As I was editing this post, I kept trying to figure out which section of the poem I wanted to include, but I don't think it carries nearly the same weight in snippets.  So here's the whole thing:

I want a good heart

I want it to be made of good stuff

I want the stain glass window builder to be my drinking buddy

I want to drink only the punch

of a million genderqueer school kids

taking free martial arts lessons to survive recess

I stopped calling myself a pacifist

when I heard Gandhi told women

they should not physically fight of their rapists

I believe there is such a think as a non-violent fist

I believe the earth is a woman muzzled

beaten, tied to the coal slinging tracks

I believe the muzzled have every right

to rip of the Bible Belt and take it to the patriarchy's ass

I know these words are going to get me in trouble

It is never polite to throw back the tear gas

Just like it's never polite to bring enough life rafts

They crowd the balcony where the wealthy shine their jewels

But sometimes love

sometimes real love

is fucking rude

It's interrupting a wedding mid-vow

just as the congregation is about to cry

to stand up your pew to say

"Is everyone here clear on how diamonds are mined?"

Hallelujah 

to every drag queen at Stonewall

who made weapons out of her stiletto shoes

Hallelujah 

to the Blues keeping the neighbourhood awake

To the activist standing in the snow outside of the circus

holding a ten foot photograph of a baby elephant in chains

when it's probably some little kid's birthday

Hallelujah 

to making everyone uncomfortable

To the terrible manners of truth

To refusing to clean the blood off the plate

Bend this spine into a bow

I can pull across the cello of my "Speak up!"

Love readies its heart's teeth

Chews through the etiquette leash

Takes down the cellphone tower

after millions of people die in wars in the Congo

fighting for the minerals that make our cellphones

Love blows up the dam

Chains itself to the redwood tree, to the Capitol building

when a trailer of Mexican immigrants 

are found dead on a south Texas roadside

Love insists well-intentioned white people

officially, stop calling themselves colour-blind

Insists hope lace its fucking boots

Always calls out the misogynist, racist, homophobic joke

refuses to be a welcome mate where hate wipes its feet

Love asks questions at the most inappropriate times

Overturns the Defense of Marriage Act

then walks the Pride Parade 

asking when the plight of poor, single mothers

will ignite our hearts into action like that

Love is not polite

deadlocks rush hour traffic 

with a hundred stubborn, screaming bikes

Hallelujah

to every suffrage movement hunger strike

Hallelujah

to insisting they get your pronouns right

Hallelujah

to tact never winning our spines

To taking our power all the way back

to that first glacier that had to learn how to swim

To never turning our heads from a single ugly truth

To knowing we live in a time when beauty

recruits its models outside the doors of eating disorder clinics

That is not a metaphor

This is not a line to a poem

An Indian farmer walks into a crowd of people 

and stabs himself in the chest

to protest the poisoning of his lands

A Buddhist monk burns himself alive 

on the crowded streets of Saigon

A U.S. soldier hangs himself

with his enemy's dog tags around his holy neck

May my heart be as heavy as a tuba

in the front row of the Mardi Gras parade five months after Katrina

May it weigh the weight of the world

so it might anchor the sun

so it might hold me to my own light

till I am willing to sweat as much as I cry

till I am willing to press into the clay of our precious lives

A window

Might our grace riot the walls down

May the drought howl us awake

May we rush into the streets

to do the work of opening each other's eyes

May our good hearts forever be too loud

to let the neighbours sleep

It's so very easy for me to rest in my own privileged apathy, to not do that hard work of opening the eyes of those around me.  To know and feel the pain and the heartache caused by so many different problems in the world, but to justify my own silence, my own lack of action by claiming that I'm not actively perpetuating any of these institutions (at least not purposefully).  But this shuffling of blame and responsibility is precisely what allows these institutions to remain so active.

Every time a celebrity comes our or there's a story of a young gay kid committing suicide, and so many self-proclaimed "allies" respond with "so what?" to the former and "I would never bully a gay kid" to the latter, the institution of homophobia rolls on.  Every time we see stories of black boys like Trayvon Martin and Jordan Davis being killed and either refuse to acknowledge the role racism plays in their deaths or separate ourselves from it by saying that we don't shoot every black kid we see walking down the street in a hoodie, we are turning our eyes from the overwhelming racism that is ravaging this supposedly great nation.

How do we not see that I, a cisgender, upper class, well-educated white woman, will never have to justify wearing a hoodie, listening to headphones and walking home alone at night to the man with a gun.  That man with a gun isn't going to assume that I'm casing every house I walk by trying to figure out which one I should break into.  But if I were a young black man walking home alone with my hood up and my headphones in, that's what people assume.  That's what George Zimmerman assumed.

I drive around in my economy car blaring my music, mostly alternative but sometimes hip hop, and even at gas stations, sometimes I'll let it blare while I run inside to grab a snack.  I have never once had to worry that if I don't turn my music down when someone asks, that person may pull a gun on me because my music in combination with my skin tone made him "justifiably" afraid.  But that's exactly what happened when Michael Dunn saw Jordan Davis blaring his music at a gas station.  I'll never have to face that.

My parents have never once had to instruct me on how to act when I'm around a police officer.  They've never had to tell me to be constantly aware of how fast my hands move to my pocket for ID in connection with how quickly the cop's hand can move to unbuckle his gun holster.  I've never had those conversations.  I never will.  Because I am white.

My criminal procedure professor from last semester told us that her African-American husband, an Ivy-educated, powerful attorney, would never feel comfortable saying "no" to a cop who asks to search his car.  Not because of the law.  This man knows the law and knows he has every right to deny a consent-search.  But because his skin colour immediately makes most cops suspicious.  It doesn't matter that this man drives a really nice car, is well-educated, articulate and upper class.  His skin is black, so he does not feel safe exercising his full Constitutional rights.

That is the world that we live in.  That is a society that we perpetuate.

For years, I've wanted to be a prosecutor.  I still do.  I clerk at a local State's Attorney's Office and I'm earning my Criminal Litigation certificate along with my J.D.  But increasingly I find myself wondering how I'm going to operate within the modern criminal justice system when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the modern criminal justice system operates as a new slave system, a modern Jim Crow.  Is it my own apathy towards these heart-wrenching truths that keeps me on this path?  Or am I simply allowing myself to prioritize the feminist struggle over the anti-racist struggle?  Is that prioritization in itself a form of apathy?

These are my digressions, my internal struggles.  And I will likely wrestle with these issues for years to come.  Finding intersectional answers to the intertwining problems of this worlds is never easy.  But what I do know is that I refuse to remain silent about these issues.  I won't stand by and let people claim that Ellen Page's courage doesn't matter.  I won't stand still when I hear those around me, subtly or otherwise, perpetuating racism and sexism.  I have to speak up.  I have to give voice to the screams inside my chest.

Right before Ellen Page uttered those simple words "I'm here today because I am gay," those words that shattered the internet for a little while, she said that she drew on the "strength and support" of the people at the conference.  Likewise, people like me and other queer youth, whether out or still in the closet, draw on the strength of high profile and courageous people like Ellen Page.  And like Ellen Page, "maybe I can make a difference.  To help others have an easier and more hopeful time.  Regardless, for me, I feel a personal obligation and a social responsibility."  This blog is a part of that speaking up and fighting back.  But I know that I have to do more.  I'm constantly learning and trying to figure out how to keep fighting, to figure out the balance.  What I've realized over the last couple years though, what has become increasingly clear to me, is that I cannot afford, this world cannot afford, for me or anyone else to remain politely silent, waiting our turn to speak or holding our tongues to allow those around us to remain apathetic and comfortable.  We must speak up.  We must fight back.  We must do the work to make each other see, to not rest, to not be afraid.

To end, I will quote Andrea Gibson once more:

I don't believe we're hateful
I think mostly we're just asleep
But the math adds up the same
You can't call up the dead and say,
"Sorry, we were looking the other way."

There are names and faces behind our apathy
eulogies beneath our choices
There are voices deep as roots
thundering unquestionable truth
through the white noise that pacifies our ears.
Don't tell me we don't hear
Don't tell me we don't hear
When the moon is slain
when the constellations disperse like shrapnel
don't you think it's time
something changed?

Facing Slavery

I watch in horror as the images splay across the big screen.  The kidnappers not caring about the man and family they were destroying.  The sadistic slaveholder forcing Solomon to whip Patsy, a fellow slave, until her back is ravaged beyond repair.  The slaver with, seemingly, some semblance of a heart admitting to Solomon that he doesn't want to know the truth because simply knowing would cost too much.

I could go on and explain just how deeply the movie 12 Years a Slave affected me.  It's one of those movies that was so incredibly painful to watch that, although I will never regret seeing it, I doubt I'll ever watch it again.  It makes me question humanity and God and everything I know and love about the world, about humanity, about myself.

It's easy for me to attempt to relieve myself, my culture, the only world that I have ever lived in, of the guilt of these horrible historical wrongs.  And as much as the scourge of slavery and racism and hate have seeped into and stained this country for eternity, it is easy to try and separate ourselves from it.

So very easy.

It's easy to say that this doesn't happen now, not here.  That we're somehow better than them.  More evolved.  More compassionate.  More willing to see the image of God in every person, no matter our demographic differences.

But there are more slaves in the world today than ever existed throughout the history of the "legal" slave trade.

And again, it's easy to imagine and believe that the modern slave trade is a "third world" problem.  I follow and love and support organizations like IJM and the A21 campaign whose entire mission is to rescue people from the international slave trade.

It's so easy to just donate money to organizations such as these, and still remain blissfully and willfully ignorant.

Here's the truth: the slave trade is alive and well in America.

Here's an even harder truth: the slave trade exists in America because there is a demand for it, here and now.

Every year in every city that hosts the Superbowl or any other major sporting event, the rates of sex trafficking skyrockets in the days before and after the event.  There are always women and children being trafficked blocks from the White House and the Capital, especially during national events such as the a Presidential Inauguration.  Florida has some of the highest rates of child sex slavery due, at least in part, to the perpetual interstate tourist demand.  Demand is especially high during Spring Break season.

 This is the stinging indictment that a former child prostitute laid at the feet of Georgetown Law School:

"With conviction and irreverence, Frundt tells the story her staff told her she shouldn’t — one she agreed not to tell — about the time she was walking the streets at night near D.C. She was approached by two johns who mistook her for a prostitute. Frundt told the men they had the wrong idea. She asked where they were from. 'They said Georgetown Law,' Frundt says. 'Yeah, they go to Georgetown Law.' She doesn’t let it sink in. She jams it in. 'That’s right. They’re right next to you.'  In the crowd, there is a look these speakers know well. It’s not fear, nor compassion, nor grief.  It is shame."

So, no, those who keep up the demand for the slave trade in America are not some faceless monsters.  Sex slavery isn't perpetrated by clusters of evil people in far away places devoid of human connections and emotions.  It's an economy trafficked in by our friends, our acquaintances, our classmates, our neighbours.  It's us.

It's the good looking guy not much older than me in a downtown Naperville bar.  The one with the flash of recognition and the gall to say "hello." A nonchalant greeting from a "client" she wished was long forgotten.

I have lived in Naperville, IL nearly my entire life.  It's known as a great place to raise kids, as the home of a fantastic library, and as a bustling, friendly, and fun downtown.

It's also the home to that john who said "hello" like he was bumping into an old high school classmate.  And it's the home to former and current slaves.  I don't know how many.  So often, it's easier for me to just not think about them at all.  To pretend that Naperville is just this privileged, elite home to so many things about the capitalist society that I hate.

It's also easy for my feelings to flash towards revulsion when I see a prostitute crossing the street in the shitty part of Chicago that I drove through, not realizing that this more "direct" route to the airport would bring me face-to-face with my own privileged assumptions I thought I had long rejected.

As much as I know that I'm going to spend the rest of my life actively fighting the horrors of sex crimes, I have no clue how I will survive.  I don't know how I'll muster the courage to not break down and lash out, not just against the men I will try to convict, but against the society that, with blissful, conceited, and too often willful ignorance, allows the demand for sex slaves to continue.

How am I supposed to live in a world where the horrors depicted so brutally in 12 Years a Slave have not ended?  How do I keep my faith in the beauty of humanity when humanity is so damn good at justifying and perpetuating and, perhaps more heartwrenchingly, ignoring its own brutality.

How will I face this brutality day in and day out for the rest of my life and still keep my faith?

Living Through The Violence

"What I’m trying to tell you is that violence against girls and women is in every move we make, whether it is big violence or small, explicit or hidden behind the word father. Priest. Lover. Teacher. Coach. Friend. I’m trying to explain how you can be a girl and a woman and travel through male violence like it’s part of what living a life means. Getting into or out of a car. A plane. Going through a door to your own home. A church. School. Pool. It can seem normal. It can seem like just the way things are."

I don't know how to write this.

I've been reading a lot of first person stories recently of women, powerful, warrior women, who have survived and thrived through horrible experiences of trauma and assault and brutal violence. So much violence.  And I've read about how women live their entire lives perpetually facing explicit violence.  Violence perpetrated by the hands, feet, mouths and bodies of other humans and violence in the form of the constant triggers the victims, the survivors, the warriors face every goddamn day of their lives.

Violence in the form of the invasion of women's bodies by States that perpetually refuse to recognize and acknowledge women's privacy, women's humanity, women's agency.  I know so many people who have lived through so many of these things and more.  I've devoted my life over and over again to fighting against this pervasive and explicit sexual violence.

Yet I've never personally felt that it was right to call myself a "victim," a "survivor," or a "warrior."  I've never faced the type of violence that threatens and injures and maims my physical body.

So I don't know how to write about the type of violence that I've faced my entire life.  I'm not sure how to claim my place in this worldwide narrative of women warriors when I don't have a quintessential "survivor" story.  And I don't know how to write about any of this without in some way diminishing the many heart wrenching, brutally painful, and exquisitely beautiful narratives of these warriors.  I refuse to do that, and if I hear even a single comment that I am, in fact, diminishing those narratives, or claiming a place in this narrative of violence against women that I cannot or should not claim, this post will come down.  In a heartbeat.  These survivors and warriors and victims have faced enough minimization and dismissal and excuses.  I won't perpetuate that.  So please, call me out if this whole thing is out of line.

So how do I explain facing a lifetime of violence that never once invaded my physical body?

I could try and write about how certain States subject me to the potential for violence if I ever chose to even consider an abortion or even go on certain forms of birth control.  I could talk about how my rights to control my own body depend entirely upon my zip code and financial status.  I could write about the constant, pervasive, and seemingly amorphous threat of sexual violence that every woman faces her entire life.  Or I could talk about how, as a member of the female community, I am injured every time one of my warrior sisters is triggered in any way.

And all of these things are true to a certain extent.

I could talk about how much women's lives and narratives and art and abilities and talents are erased because they are placed in a little box.  I could explain that those issues stereotypically labelled "women's issues" aren't special interests at all. They are human rights, not women's rights.  And every time these rights are denied, an act of violence is committed against every woman.  Against me, against you, against your mother, your sister, your professor, your friend, your lover.

I could ask how to move forward in a world where over fifty percent of the population are prized far more for their subjective levels of physical attractiveness than for what they have to offer to this world.

I could ask how a Christian can believe that all human beings are made in God's image and still view one class of people as somehow "better than," or in any way innately superior to another entire class of people.  I could talk about how we're fed this language, these beliefs, that man is to be the "head" of women just as Christ is the head of the Church.  Men are justified in requiring submission from the women in their lives by this religious cover, and that attitude spreads throughout so much of society.  I could discuss how much I hate that so many amazing women throughout history and presently have had their stories, talents, and entire lives stolen from them under this same religious cover.  I think about the amazingly talented and gifted women that I know who have devoted their entire lives to standing behind the men in their lives, feeling that it is their duty as women to be perpetually hidden, only existing to pray for and serve their husbands.  How do we not see this as the injustice and the travesty that it is?  I could dig into and explain why we should view this erasure of women as the genocide that it is.

I could talk about the violence I feel every time I'm harassed on the street or even on the internet.  I could explain how I feel stripped bare and objectified and victimized every time a stranger rakes his eyes across my body and leers and tells me he wants me.

But how do I explain the intimate violence felt every time a professor, classmate, or even friend or family member fails to even grasp the existence (never mind the extent) of the oppression that I (and every other woman) face every day of my life?  How do I talk about the feeling of having part of myself cut from me every time I hear myself or other women talked about as less than complete humans, but instead referred to as receptacles, incubators, or sexual objects?  How do I talk about the violence I feel every time my agency is denied?  I'm not even sure how to adequately explain the concept of agency...

I've lived with this feeling, with this knowledge, that, because I am woman, I am "less than" my entire life.  I've talked about that before, but the violence that I feel, the pain that cuts me open on a daily basis is so much deeper than just the abstract concept of women as somehow lesser because of their sex.  How do you explain wounds and scars and pain that no one ever sees?  Because we've been taught that this is simply life.  That we have to live with this violence, because "boys will be boys."  Or, worse, we're told that it's our fault.

I've spend so much of my life basing my own value and worth on the external: on my body, and, more than that, on the ability of my body to be sexualized, objectified, and desired by the men around me.  As much as I've learned about and studied and, yes, experienced sexual harassment on the street, there is always this dualistic reaction that I have and that I hear about from other women.  When I am harassed, yes, I feel disgusted and ashamed and embarrassed and naked and so many other emotions.  But I also have always felt a certain amount of vindication.  Because I wasn't just harassed: I was also seen as worthy.  More explicitly, my ability as a woman to sexually arouse men has been vindicated.

It has taken every one of my nearly 23 years on this earth to in any way convince myself that my worth is not based upon my ability to attract and arouse men.  As much as I may have verbally claimed that truth all of my life, I still struggle against it to this very day.  This is the violence that I face most often: the inward voice placed there by this world telling me that I am only worthy insofar as a man deems me sexually appealing.  In the past, this belief ripped me open and exposed me and terrorized me in ways that I can't even admit out loud, never mind on this public blog.  I feel shame and disgust and filth because of what this violence reduced me to.  In so many ways, this world convinced me that I was the one inflicting this violence, because I was perpetuating and enabling it.  And I will likely always feel compelled to seek that same type of violent vindication of my value and worth.

These wounds run so deep, but they are so very hidden and are only beginning to be exposed.  So, again, I ask, how am I supposed to heal from a life of violence that can hardly be explained, never mind seen or heard?  How am I supposed to do something so seemingly simple as sit in a class when the professor nonchalantly claims that women are no longer discriminated against because...Diane Feinstein, Nancy Pelosi, and Hillary Clinton...

I don't even know how to sit here and listen to this, never mind try and explain to him the violent oppression that women still face every single day.  It's not always in the form of a fist or a gun.  It can be triggered by something so seemingly simple as a text message or a song or look.  And we have to live with and through this violence and oppression every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.

I could (and have and do) rant against the "patriarchy" or the ignorance or the blatant inaccuracies in this professor's claim.  Or I could spend hours trying to calmly explain every tangible way that statements such as these obscure real economic and political disparities.  But how do I explain to someone who has never felt it the violence that women face every day?  Especially when the violence has become so fucking "normal" that half the time it's hard to even recognize each time that it happens.  But we feel it.  Every day.  And every day we have to live through it.

So maybe I don't know exactly how to write about this.  Maybe none of what I've just said makes much sense.  But I will keep writing and keep fighting and keep ranting and keep exposing the violence women, myself included, face every day.   Women's silence and acquiescence has been our prison, the violent and hidden cage placed on us throughout history.  So even if I don't know how to write this, I won't be silent anymore.

She Said, He's Dead

When Sandy Hook happened this past December, it broke the nation's heart, it kick started a movement to actually get something of significance done on gun safety for the first time in over a decade, and it also brought out all of the fervent gun rights advocates, those with legitimate rights and concerns as well as the crazies who are just convinced that a gun will solve every problem and/or Obama is imminently planning on personally busting down their doors to take their arsenals.

I'm not even going to try and touch on the latter group of crazies, because, as was so eloquently pointed out on MSNBC the other day, it's just inane circular logic wherein these people feel the need to amass huge amounts of guns to stop Obama or the liberals or whoever from taking their guns and they think those people will take away their guns because they have these huge arsenals to protect themselves from the liberal takeover and so they buy lots of guns to stop said takeover...and on and on the crazy merri-go-round spins.

But I've been wanting to write a blog post to/about that other group of crazies, the ones who think a gun will solve every problem, for a long time now.  See, a few months back, I idiotically got into this Twitter argument with a bunch of trolls who were convinced that if every woman just owned and constantly carried a gun, rapes and sexual assaults would somehow cease to exist.  In their mind, every situation of attempted and completed rape, assault, or abuse is cut and dry, the woman can totally see it coming, and will have the time and wherewithal to get to her gun and take out her attacker.

And, sure, in some situations, that could probably work.  The stereotypical story of the creepy trench coat dude jumping out of the bushes in front of the woman could maybe be halted by a well-armed and well-trained woman.  But even in that situation (which is actually fairly rare as most sexual assaults are perpetrated by acquaintances), if the woman successfully takes out the guy, the cops would show up, and what would they find?  A woman with a concealed-carry weapon, evidence that she's just fired it, the bullet having killed her attacker.  Depending on how early in the attack she fired, the woman may not even have the slightest scratch on her.  So instead of the oh-so-common 'he said, she said' situation, all the cops will see is 'she said, he's dead.'  And while, in some cases, the cops might believe the woman or she might be able to successfully be acquitted because the jury believes she acted in self-defense, in all likelihood, there would be far too many cases where the woman would end up in jail.  It's hard enough for women to convince a cop, a judge, or a jury that she was attacked when the guy is alive and well and there is at least some evidence that an assault occurred.  But when all that you have is a woman, alive and well, and a dead body, chances are that the woman would end up in jail more often than not.

And that's just the fairly unrealistic, cut-and-dry, relatively uncommon stranger rape situation.  What about the far too frequent situations where the woman knows her attacker?  Whether it's a current or former paramour, a father, a grandfather, a pimp, or a 'john.'

And I personally know someone who has been in every one of the situations that I've just listed.

And I can promise you, a gun would not have helped.  In fact, it would've made it far, far worse.

One of my family members was in a domestic violence relationship for years.  And the statistics are clear: you put a firearm in the middle of a domestic violence situation and the mortality rate of the woman (not the man) skyrockets.  But even putting that aside, say my family member had just had enough one day, obtained a gun somehow, and put an end to the whole thing.  In this situation, up until the very end, there was no documentation to back up the violent nature of the relationship.  No hospital records, no police reports.  The only thing that is on this guy's record even today, multiple years after my family member got out of the situation, is a record of verbal and emotional abuse.  So, no, a gun would not have helped.  Sure, if my family member had been able to obtain and use a gun on this guy, the situation would have ended.  But, more than likely she would have just ended up in jail.

Another family member was abused for years by her adopted father.  After years of bouncing back and forth between bad foster homes and an even worse home with her birth mom, she had finally found safety and security in a adopted family.  Or so she thought.  Her adopted father started abusing her when she was just 11 years old.  And she knew where his gun was.  But all she felt was shame and disgust and worthlessness.  Not towards him.  Towards herself.  So if she had ever gotten and used that gun, it wouldn't have been on him.  It would have been on herself.  And I'm not just guessing here.  Those are her words, not mine.

Another friend was raped by her ex-boyfriend.  She cared for him.  But then he got drunk.  And he got violent.  What girl takes a gun to a party with an ex (who was still her friend at this point)?   How on earth could a gun have helped?  Very few people can use a gun on someone that they know and care about, no matter the self-defense justifications.

And then there's my friend who went on a trip with her grandfather to visit an aunt on the west coast.  He was her grandfather.  And he assaulted her.  Again, very few, if any people would be able to pull a gun on their own grandfather, especially if, up to that point, they had a decent relationship.  Never mind the logistics of this friend actually feeling the need to have a gun with her while on a family vacation!  So, again, I ask, how could a gun have helped?

And what about the friend who was forced into the sex trade and had a gun shoved in her mouth by one of her 'johns'?  Would her having her own gun have helped her?  No.  It wouldn't.  She would've just killed herself.  Again, her words, not mine.

I'm not saying all of these things to try and argue that no woman can or should own or carry a gun.  Or even that no woman should use a gun against an attacker should the situation arise in such a way that it's even possible.  Women have every right to own a gun to feel safer and even to use it to defend themselves.

But the truth of the matter is that, in most situations, you mix a gun in with an attempted or completed sexual assault and either the girl will end up dead, whether by her own hands or her abuser's, or the guy will end up dead and she'll end up in jail.

So, no, guns don't answer the problem of sexual assault.

And there's a broader problem at issue here: the notion that women should have to carry weapons to stop sexual assaults once again puts the onus completely on women to stop the assault.  I'm just so sick and tired of people thinking that if women just carried a gun, screamed, whistled, peed on themselves during an assault (yes, that's a real suggestion often given), didn't wear skimpy clothing, didn't walk alone at night, didn't drink, didn't have sex (like, ever), didn't go anywhere alone with male friends, didn't go to parties, didn't do this, didn't do that...didn't...exist.

Rape culture is everywhere.  And it's sickening to me, but beyond that, it forces us to continually fight and argue our way through and out of these idiotic 'rules' that are thrown at us before we can ever get to the actual issue, the actual problem, the true cause of sexual assaults.

Do you want to know how to stop rapes? It's actually pretty simple: get rapists to STOP RAPING PEOPLE!!!

Ok, so getting that to actually happen isn't simple.  I know that.  But my point remains: we have got to stop putting all of the onus on women to magically get men to stop raping them and instead place the blame, the shame, and the rules on the rapists!

Rapes don't happen because women walk home alone, drink too much, have sexual histories, don't carry or use guns, don't pee themselves during an assault, or any of the other idiotic things that are shouted at us on a nearly daily basis to get rapes to stop happening.

Rapes happen because rapists rape.  And rapes happen because this culture says it's ok.

No, people don't come right out and say it, but every time one of those idiotic rules is repeated, whether it's by teachers, parents, friends, the media, police officers or anyone else at all, it tells rapists and potential rapists that it's not their fault.  If they see a woman doing any of those things that she's not "supposed" to do, it's ok.  Go ahead.  It's not your fault.  You can rape her.  We won't shame or blame you.  We'll shame and blame her.

Yeah, I know, culture still puts blame on rapists.  But that's usually only once they're actually accused and convicted.  And only a relatively small portion of accused rapists are actually convicted.  And only a tiny fraction of rapists are even accused.

And part of that is because the judicial system in this country is rigorous, has numerous road blocks and hurdles, and I get that.  Hell, I'm insanely grateful for it, even though I know it'll make my life hell as a sex crimes prosecutor.

But that's not why so few rapists are ever brought to justice.  It's because we, as a culture, place the onus on women to stop rapes from happening and puts the majority of the shame and blame on survivors once the rape has happened.

And that brings me back to why the notion of all women carrying guns to stop rapes is so freaking idiotic: if the culture already places so much shame and blame and rules on women, why would that same culture ever believe that a woman who's in a car, a hotel room, a house, or even in a dark alley next to a scary bush when she says that she had to kill the guy because he was going to rape her.

She said.

He's dead.

The Real Reason

I just got a new tattoo, and I know that throughout my life people will ask for an explanation to these pain-stricken words: “I’m standing on the mouth of hell and it’s going to swallow me whole.  And it’ll choke on me.”

When people ask this question I know what I will tell them.  I’ll say that fighting for justice for survivors of sex crimes will place me square on the mouth of hell.  But I will beat it back.  I will stand firm.  And hell will choke on me.

And all of that’s true.  But to be honest, that’s the kosher answer.  That’s the one fit for public consumption.

I know that I won’t go into the details of the hell I stand on every day, the hell that is so much more personal.  It’s a hell that I keep hidden from all but a few.

My hell involves living every day with the knowledge that my limits will be stretched,and beaten down, and broken.  Until there’s nothing left.  Whether it’s the physical pain that I’ve dealt with every fucking day for nearly two years now; the perpetual desire to lose myself in the nothingness and numbness of self-injury, depression, and suicide; or the completely hidden parts of myself that I’m still afraid to show to all but a few.

These things are my hell.  And all of these things threaten to swallow me every fucking day.  And every day I must beat them back.  Every day I must force hell to choke on me.

And I’m not that strong.  But I do have faith.  I do know that one day I will break free.

 So I have these words perpetually etched onto my body.  Because I will stay in this fight.  I will stand firm.  And whether it’s the public battle against sex crime that will consume the rest of my life or the private wars that threaten me every day, I will triumph.  And hell will choke.

Is Imago Dei Enough?

I think I finally realized something...

Over the past several months, I've been pondering and complaining about the fact that I'm reaching my limits.  I feel like I'm being stretched, and broken down, and utterly swallowed by all of the shit flying my way.

For the longest time, it was mostly just my legs that were perpetually plagued by unsufferable bouts of nerve pain.  And I knew that God was stretching and testing my long-standing fear of paralysis.  He was definitely also testing my endurance and my overall faith, but a large part of it has just been Him asking me if I'm truly willing to give up my physical mobility for Him.  And, as painful on so many levels as it has been, I have kept saying to Him, "Here I am. Send me."  That and telling Him that I'm "All in."

As scary as all of that has been, I'm currently dealing with something that terrifies me far more than the loss of my functioning legs.  I am writer.  It's how I process the world around me and everything that I'm struggling with (hence, this blog).  Furthermore, I'm an academic.  I'm just finishing my last week of classes for my first semester of law school, and I start finals in a week and a half.  I have three 4+ hour long type-written exams.  Because I've missed so much school due to medical issues, I have a ton of reading, notes, and outlining to do to get ready for these finals.

And it's all I can do to type a half-hour worth of notes during a review session.  Taking notes on or highlighting my reading is out of the question.  I can only work on my outlines, on paper or my laptop, for maybe a half hour at a time.

I've been working on this one goddamn blog post off an on for days now.  Not because of writer's block or anything like that, but simply because typing for any length of time is excruciatingly painful.

Every flinch of every joint and muscle throughout both of my hands aches and screams in pain.  Just touching an elevator button shoots daggers up my arm.  Driving, my only real escape other than writing, is painful, and I'm getting to the point where I'm questioning the safety of me being behind the wheel when it kills to grip the steering wheel.

My entire fucking life is resting on my successful completion of this semester.  It's not like I can just delay my exams.  The day after my final exam, I go into the hospital to start the month long process to take care of these ridiculous medical issues relatively permanently (in theory).

So I just have to get through.  If I don't, how can I pursue my passion, chase my calling, and fulfill my life's mission to help bring justice and compassion to survivors of sex crimes?

Without the simple use of my hands, it could all fall apart.

And as much as I'm trying to trust and have faith and believe that it will all work out, that somehow God will pull me through this, my mind still races through the possibilities...the what ifs.

So I've been asking myself, who am I without my passion and goals?  Why would I want to remain here, on this horribly painful earth, if I literally and physically can't fight back.  If I can't stay in this fight, if I can't pursue my passion for justice, for compassion, what then?  What use am I to this world?  And, far more painful a question, who am I without this fight?

I know that, no matter what, I am imago Dei.  I am made in the very image of God, and there is no doubt intrinsic value in that fact.  But my imago Dei, the way Christ lives out through me, is in this fight!  My raison d'etre, my reason for being, my very identity rests entirely in my passion, in my life's goals, in the fight that has already consumed my heart and mind and will consume my very life.

Or is it?  Is there more to me, my identity, my imago Dei than this fight?

Is the simple intrinsic value of me, as a human, enough of a reason to keep me from giving in to the desires inside of me, perpetually bubbling just under the surface, to end my life?

In the very first post on this blog, one of the questions that served as a catalyst for these musings of mine was the idea from my philosophy class that it is morally justifiable for a person with no capacity to act in furtherance of their own life and desires to take that life (the context here was a person in a vegetative coma, or a situation similar to Million Dollar Baby).  I mused at the time that, because my value comes not from myself but from my desire to live for Christ, I would never want anyone to pull the plug on me.  I am still imago Dei and my God can and does perform miracles.

I still logically believe that same thing.  But it's a very different question when facing the possibility of total loss of functionality in all of your limbs.  When your life's work and desires, your mission from God himself rests on a certain degree of manual mobility.  Then that question of the value of life and when it is understandable to end it becomes so much more complex and painful.

On a small scale, I've realized that, even without the mobility needed to pursue all of these things, I am still loyal and compassionate.  And people need me.  And I need them.  And, for now at least, that's keeping me going.  That and the tiny scrap of faith and idea of hope that I'm still desperately clinging to.

I long to get back the conviction, drive, and utter courage in these words: "I'm standing on the mouth of hell and it's gonna swallow me whole.  And it'll choke on me."

How do they parents do this?

How do people bring children into such a hurt and broken world? We live in a world where between 1 in 3 and 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. And perhaps more shockingly, 1 in 6 men will be molested or sexually assaulted at some point in their lives. So often, young kids are not safe in their own homes. Even if the kids themselves are not getting abused, they witness oh so much. 90 percent of kids living in domestic violence situations know about the violence between their parents. The kids see mom and dad fighting. They catch the bruises and the angry looks and the shame. They feel the tension and internalize the pain.
Even if the household isn't physically or emotionally abusive, every home, every parent, every family member gives off signs and signals of their personal problems and troubles and hurts and pains. Parents can try their hardest, be incredibly patient and loving and attentive, yet every child still grows up with his/her own issues. They can have physical pains and ailments and emotional problems. They can misinterpret their parents' loving admonishions as demands for perfection (as in my case). Or even the youngest child, like my 3 year old nephew, can take a weeklong absence from a parent to mean an oncoming abandonment. My brother and sister-in-law are incredibly loving parents, yet their son is nearly constantly asking his daddy if he'll be here tomorrow. My heart broke for this little boy when I saw him feel compelled to climb into his parents' bed the first night they were home and fell asleep there just to be sure they they were staying.
We live in a world where violence is literally everywhere. Boys are taught that having the biggest "guns" (meaning both muscles and firearms) somehow makes them more manly.
Depression and sickness and disease are rampant. A congresswoman can no longer feel safe greeting constituents at a local grocery store for fear of being gunned down (like Gabby Giffords). Kids, no matter how young or old, cannot go to school without at least a cursory fear of gun violence as a result of schoolyard bullying or problems at home.
Even the most loving and seemingly non-violent families often use corporal punishment (i.e. physical violence), albeit well-intentioned (hopefully) as a form of "love.". This concept baffles me. How could physical violence and inflicting physical pain ever be loving? No matter how much the parent says, "Oh, it hurts me more than it hurts you" or "I'm only doing this because I love you so much," all the kid feels and knows is an association between physical violence and pain with "love."
If you truly love someone, how could you knowingly inflict pain on him/her? And with this in mind, I come back to the original question: "How could people choose to bring children into this world?".
This world, without fail, offers so much pain. If I ever had a child, I know that I would love him/her so much it brings me to tears. I cry because even the thought of these future children breaks my heart because I know that, at one point or another, their hearts (and bodies and minds) will be shattered and broken and bruised.
I could never do this to them.
And I have no clue how anyone else could either.

"I'll never know till I try"

That was what the first man I ever kissed said to me after I had to tell him multiple times to stop as he tried to escalate our first kiss very quickly into areas that I was in no way ready for or comfortable with. I immediately wanted to retort: "No, actually, you'll never know until you ask!"

Achieving consent is not trying something and seeing if your partner protests.  It's asking.  It's communicating your desires and requesting permission to proceed.  And I have no problem sounding like a SlutWalk poster when I proclaim: "My dress is not a yes!" and "Consent is sexy!"

But here's the thing: as much as I may proudly proclaim these concepts at a rally or in my classes or on my blog, when it comes down to actually living it out, I failed.

As I listened to the multiple feminist badasses at the sexual assault meeting at AU tonight, I really have to wonder if the only reason why I'm not another statistic, another victim, another survivor, is simply because my college social life has never leaned towards the partying side of life.

I've been passionate about these issues of sexual and dating violence for over six years, and an activist for at least two years now.  I've even been "trained" to stop guys from going to far since junior high.  Yet at my first opportunity to assert my beliefs, my confidence, and my sense of personal control and safety, I chose to timidly say no a few times until finally just backing away and saying that it wasn't ok.  I never communicated though.  I never explained (at least not at the time).

This has got to change.  I can't go in to another situation like that without clearly explaining who I am, what I believe, and where my boundaries lie.

So I've done the SlutWalk; now let's talk modesty

I always grew up hearing lecture upon lecture about the importance for young women to be 'modest.'  I will (somewhat shamefully) admit that I've even given a lecture or two on the topic myself.  Modesty was hashed and rehashed at home, at school, at youth group, during Bible studies, during worship sessions, during meals, during shopping trips, and during pretty much any and every other opportunity possible.  And even back in my semi-brainwashed-by-religion phase, I always knew that the arguments given were crap.  

Why on earthy would it be my job by nature of my being female to somehow control or even just affect how guys may or may not look at me?  

That was always the first question that popped into my head any time the topic of modesty was broached.  Why would the onus be on me to control how another autonomous human being thinks or acts?  I simply can't control another person’s thoughts or actions.

Now I guess I've always kind of known this, but it wasn't until this past weekend's SlutWalk that it dawned on me the reason why this logic is so very wrong.  It's because it is just another one of the many symptoms of this horrible rape culture that permeates our entire society.  I could never come anywhere close to explaining rape culture as well as Melissa McEwan at Shakesville does here:

Rape culture is the way in which the constant threat of sexual assault affects women's daily movements. Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you're alone, if you're with a stranger, if you're in a group, if you're in a group of strangers, if it's dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you're carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you're wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who's around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who's at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn't follow all the rules it's your fault.

Telling girls that they must dress (or not dress) a certain way to somehow try and control how someone else thinks or acts is a direct extension of this culture.

But even beyond the injustice of placing this burden, blame, and shame on women for when guys think or act a certain way, it dawned on me the other night that there’s a bigger (or at least equally big) problem with this lesson being taught to young girls: it places the entire focus of the discussion on how girl’s choices affect guys.  Instead of being an empowering discussion about how the way a young woman dresses and acts affects and reflects her self-confidence and self-worth, it does the exact opposite: it places the entire discussion in terms of boys.  And this all happens most frequently during a time when young women are trying desperately hard to figure themselves out.

But here’s the thing: for girls who have somehow managed to grow into women with at least some degree of self-worth, self-confidence, and self-respect, the way they dress (most of the time) has very little to do with how it is perceived by the rest of the world.  Instead, confident and empowered women wear clothing that expresses who they are, what they are comfortable in, and what makes them feel beautiful and strong.

A woman who is assured of her own worth doesn’t wear a low-cut top or a short skirt to try and attract a guy’s attention.  If she chooses to wear these things, it is because she feels comfortable and empowered in these clothes.  It will have nothing to do with the reactions she receives from others.

When I was growing up and trying to develop my own sense of style and fashion (and self-worth), I was never told to look for clothing that makes me feel beautiful and confident and powerful and loved and respected.  I was simply told that certain clothes were too tight or too short or too low-cut or too little or too much or too…  I was lectured about how to pick clothing that wouldn’t “force” guy’s minds to wander or lust or desire or even simply to guess.

Now, quick disclaimer here: I’m not writing this as (another) angry rant against how I was raised.  Really, I’m over it.  And I really don’t blame any of the many people who lectured me about modesty.  How girl’s clothing affects a guy’s mind has been the only way that the issue has been framed for so long that’s it’s in no way surprising that the people I grew up with didn’t know any better.  So, no, that's not the point.

I’m writing this because there has got to be a shift in focus.  The only way to change the rape culture is to continually combat it, and so this is one thing that has to change.  The discussion needs to be shifted off of the term “modesty” (because, really, it’s such a fucking ambiguous term anyways that’s it’s already pretty much useless), and instead focus on fostering confidence, self-worth, and self-respect in young women.  And then let them make their own choices about what types of clothing they are truly comfortable wearing.  And even if their motives have nothing to do with their own confidence and empowerment, we must always remember that, no matter what a girl/woman wears, it is never her fault if a guy chooses to think or act improperly.

I might actually be good at this...

I know I said a couple weeks ago that I'd write a post updating you all on what has happened with my medical situation, and I really have been trying to...for the past two weeks...  And it's just become this long, rambling, and fairly incoherent post with no actual point.  I'd be happy to give actual details to anyone who really wants to know, just Facebook me or email me or whatever.  But suffice it to say that I went back to my old doctor at the University of Chicago and he had a solution...a solution that scared the shit out of me (due to a horrendous past experience), but by the power of Jehovah alone, I was able to get through it.  And for the past two weeks, I've been relatively pain free...for the first time in about three months (except for the fact that I'm going through major narcotic withdrawal, which is never fun).

But that's not the reason I'm writing this.  I'm writing this because, yesterday, I went on my second hospital advocacy call with the DC Rape Crisis Center.  And it was...intense, to say the least, but it also served as an amazing reminder of where I'm going and what I need to be doing with my life.  And it re-confirmed that I might actually be good at this...

Since school ended I've been focusing pretty much all my attention (with the exception of studying for and taking the LSAT) on my political interests.  I've been interning at EMILY's List, an organization that works at all levels, (national, state and local) to elect pro-choice democratic women.  Furthermore, working at this incredible (and remarkably influential) organization, I've begun to believe that my next step after graduation (this coming December) may be working on a campaign.  And this place can get me there  After asking some former interns if they had any specific advice regarding how to get onto a campaign, the thing which stuck out in my mind the most was one of the former interns saying, "Think about and write down the five names of the people on whose campaigns you would most like to work.  Then talk to people here [at EMILY's List].  They'll make it happen."

 My jaw is still kind of on the floor after that one.

See, when I applied for this internship, I knew that I loved EL and that it had a great mission and had done some cool things.  I had absolutely zero conception of their reach.  I didn't know that the President of EMILY's List, Stephanie Schriock, was the campaign manager for Al Franken.  Yeah, that campaign.  I had no clue that Denise Feriozzi, the director of the WOMEN VOTE! department (basically, EL's Get Out The Vote arm) was the Field Director for Hillary Clinton's Iowa Caucus race.

This place is incredible, and there are so many people here that I can learn from and so much to do that I agree with and love doing.  But...

There's that little thing in the back of my head that I know: This just isn't my passion.  Yeah, I love it, and in so many ways I'm obsessed with it, but it's not my calling.  It intrigues me, amuses me, and excites me, but I don't have that guttural need to do this.  Not like when I'm touching on anything to do with combating sexual violence.

That's where this past weekend comes in.  As many of you probably know, I'm a volunteer at the DC Rape Crisis Center, and I take both crisis hotline calls and hospital advocacy shifts.  Well, on Saturday I had an advocacy shift and, for only the second time since starting, I got called in.  Now, as usual, I can't actually talk about details, but needless to say it was a very intense call.  But beyond all that, for me, it was a remarkable affirmation of who I'm meant to be, of everything I'm meant to do.  Because this was my second time going on an advo call, I was confident enough about where I was going and what I was doing that I could actually just settle in and trust my instincts.  And as I've seen many times in the past, that's when I actually can do a good job.  After the major portion of the call was over, I had a moment alone with the SANE (Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner), and even though throughout the call I thought I had been getting very mixed signals from her, she actually told me that I had done a really good job, and she was shocked that it was only my second call.  Later, as I was spending a few final minutes with the survivor, she told me that I had made the whole process much easier for her and that she thought I would do a great job as a sex crimes prosecutor.

I'm not repeating all of this to try and toot my own horn or brag or whatever.  It's just that as I'm getting deeper and deeper into the political world, I love remembering what my true calling is.  And I need to remind myself that politics isn't it, as much as I may love this crazy world of American politics.

Oh, and by the way: I'm an American citizen now.  It's very weird...