You Can Call Me, Al

I'm feeling naked tonight. Naked, isolated, and alone. You see, in my hurry to get out of the office (finally) this evening, I left my cell phone at my desk and didn't realize it till I was on the bus.

Sitting on the bus, weighing the pros and cons of going back to get my cell, I realized what a true test of my own sense of self-importance this situation is. Do I really think I am so important that the world will collapse if I can't be reached by phone for one evening? Is there any message I could miss that would be so dire that it couldn't wait till 8:30am tomorrow? Am I so reliant on being connected that I simply can't deal with being unconnected for one night?

Just a few years ago, I was using a landline and an answering machine. If you wanted to reach me, email was the safest bet -- because even if I wasn't home all day to check my messages, I would surely check my email a couple of times a day. A few years ago, I wouldn't have worried in the slightest if someone couldn't call me and reach me instantly. Hardly anyone had cell phones; no one expected me to be instantly accessible, and I expected it of no one.

Cell phones have insidiously caught us in a trap of expectations. It is expected that we are (generally) pretty reachable. Oh, sure, we may be in a meeting or on a date or in some other situation where we can't answer our phone right away. But if you really need to reach someone, you can call them a few times in a row to signal it's important or send them a text or something. If you leave a voicemail at 7pm, you can be pretty sure they'll at least get it before they go to bed. If it's important, you can reach them.

And if you can't, you get concerned. Or irritated. Or both. Why aren't they available? Why aren't they returning your phone call? Who gets to be unreachable for a whole night these days?

And so sitting on the bus, cell phoneless, I started to thinking about who might want to reach me tonight. Do I send them an email, letting them know my phone is at work? Is it or is it not the height of assumption to email someone to let them know "just in case they wanted to reach you," that they would have to do it via email? Who gets an email, and who do you assume you can just call back tomorrow?

I thought about the people I was supposed to call tonight. I thought about the people who I figured would probably call me, either because we talk every night or I thought we has something to discuss, or what have you. I thought about people who might call me for time sensitive work-related matters. (Political campaigns are unpredictable; just because you aren't normally needed ASAP doesn't mean you won't be tonight.) I thought about a person or two I have been hoping would call but don't expect to. (Though I'm sure tonight will be the night they do.) I thought about people I was hoping would not call, yet whose call I would not want to miss if they did.

And I don't even talk to people all that much at night.

Occasionally, just occasionally, I turn my phone off for the night. I turn it off, and I decide not to care who may call. Not because I'm in a meeting, not because I'm out with friends, but simply because I don't feel like being reachable. I want to be unavailable.

It's a little terrifying, actually. Terrifying, and freeing at the same time. To be a little selfish, to claim your time for you, to be available when and if you feel like it (and only when and if you feel like it). To take yourself out of the loop, just a little.

I can be, well, a bit of an anxious person from time to time. I worry about many a thing, and inconveniencing others unnecessarily or not being available when a friend needs me are two things I worry about a fair amount. (I mean, relatively speaking.) What I'm saying is that I am well aware that I perhaps have overanalyzed this cell phone situation a wee bit. (But seriously, what would I blog about tonight if I didn't have something to overanalyze?)

But if you think I'm totally nuts, here's a test for you: turn your phone off. Right now. Turn it off (and I don't mean on vibrate), put it in your bag, don't look at it until, say, noon tomorrow. And then tell me if you don't start thinking, just a little bit, about whose call you may miss.

A little terrifying, right? Just a little. But also a little freeing.

Drinking the Kool-Aid, Part II

You know something is a little out of the ordinary when I find myself agreeing (generally) with a Boston Herald columnist.

Oh, I love the Herald (much to the surprise and perhaps consternation of my friends in the progressive community.) Yep, they're brash, they're noisy, they're decidedly conservative, they run some bigoted, awful editorials and op-eds, their headlines often distort the theme of the story, and they specialize in god-awful pictures of politicians.

But they also do some of the best investigative journalism in town. You can count on them for news (and views) you won't find in that other big paper in town. They call politicians to task when it needs to happen...and they're particularly friendly to the anti-incumbent insurgency candidacies I tend to support. Plus, the Herald reporters and columnists I've interacted with have all been friendly, down-to-earth, easy to work with, and trustworthy.

And the Herald is kinda fun. Admit it - if the Herald and the Globe were newspapers, who would you rather grab a beer with?

That said...that said. It's still a rare day I find myself nodding my head when I read a Herald column.

But today, I think Margery Eagan (generally) got it right. And she said it a lot more eloquently than I managed to in my previous post the other day....

The money quote?

"Which does more harm to rape survivors: An admittedly exploitative ad intended to play on all women’ fears? Or a bigwig civil rights lawyer doing what rape survivors will tell you is almost unbearable - doubting and disbelieving them, even after a court conviction? It’s a toss up, I’d say.

The truth here is that Kerry Healey should never have run her parking garage ad. It demeans her entire candidacy. But Deval Patrick should never have said what he said, either, or asked the parole board to free a convicted rapist he’d never even met.

They both screwed up. And organized women’s groups should have said so, or said nothing."

You Don't Have to Drink the Kool-Aid

Those of you who are following the Mass. gubernatorial race closely (or at all) are probably aware of Kerry Healey's latest bombdrop of an ad, a dark, fear-inducing ad attacking Patrick's support of convicted rapist Ben LaGuer.

It depicts a woman walking alone through a dark, deserted parking garage at night, with ominous music and horror-film green lighting. The exact sort of situation that makes most women a little frightened. The type of situation where I'd grab my pepper spray - back when i used to own it - or, these days, hold my key in between my fingers like I was taught in self-defense classes. In other word, the type of situation where any smart woman is on her guard against a possible unexpected assailant.

The Transcript:

Voiceover: Here’s a question. If a teacher at your kid’s school, or a friend, or a co-worker, if anyone you knew actually praised a convicted rapist, what would you think?

Voiceover: Deval Patrick did. Here’s what he said about brutal rapist Ben LaGuer.Deval Patrick: He is eloquent, and he is thoughtful, there’s no doubt about that. (Fox 25 Morning News, 10/6/06)

Voiceover: Here’s another question, have you ever heard a woman compliment a rapist?

Voiceover: Deval Patrick, he should be ashamed…not governor.

As has been remarked upon in other forums and in numerous papers, the ad pretty blantantly promotes the mesage that if Deval Patrick is elected Governor, women should be more afraid of rape.

It's worse than that, though. As many sexual assault victims' advocacy groups have pointed out, the ad plays up incorrect assumptions that most rapes are perpetrated by a guy hiding with a knife in the bushes (they aren't; most rapists know their victims).

Perhaps worst of all, of course the ad plays on racist cultural stereotypes of black men raping white women. Elect a black man to be governor? Prepare to be raped, ladies.

I'm horrified and deeply disturbed that Healey would run such an ad...though not surprised. But what has disturbed me and surprised me and even angered me more, however, has been the reaction within the liberal community to the ad, and the way in which sexual assualt is being discussed.

The reaction was instant anger at Healey (understandable), instant denouciation of such extremely negative attacks (no suprise there), and, of course, the fact checking. Turns out, some women did defend LaGuer, which skewers Healey's line about having never heard a woman praise a rapist.

Then there was the ridicule. Postings on the liberal blogs calling for "Write Your Own Kerry Healey Ad" contests, inviting bloggers to come up with the most awful, offensive ads they could to mock Healey's efforts.

And oh did they. All sorts of ads involving Patrick fucking dogs, or pictures of black men raping women, or all sorts of other ludicrous and awful things.

Here's the thing that bothers me about all of this: I haven't seen a single person acknowledge that it is disturbing that Patrick praised a rapist after it was very, very clear that the man was guilty. (There was some question on that issue for years, and some clear evidence that the man did not get a fair trial...but in the end, DNA tests conclusively proved his guilt.)

It's disturbing. Why can't we all say this and admit it? It is disturbing. I say this as someone who supports Patrick 110%. Who wouldn't think twice of voting for anyone else. Who finds Patrick to be incredibly inspiring, the type of person who is going to change politics, change government for the better. Who is so excited by the opportunity to vote for a different sort of politician.

And yet I am troubled. I am bothered. I am upset. Frankly, I'd like to know what the hell he was thinking. I want to know why he said those things. I want to know how he ever thought it was a good idea to go on camera and say nice things about a man who brutally raped an elderly woman.

Healey's ad is awful...but it's not ineffective, folks.

I know Patrick was trying to justify his years of letter correspondence with LaGuer (before his guilt was clear). I'm sure that LaGuer really is thoughtful and eloquent. Whatever. I DON'T CARE. You're running for Governor. You don't go around talking up a rapist. I don't care if there were women who also praised LaGuer. I disagree with them for doing so, too.

I know all the liberal blogger types were trying to rally the troops. I know that if we want Patrick to win, that's what we have to do. We circle 'round our leader, warts and all, and defend him to the death.

But the character of the discourse around this issue is embarrassing. It's offensive. It's not worthy of the progressive community. Those discussing this issue seem to ignore entirely the fact that sexual assault is a serious issue that affects many, many women. They seem to think that mocking an ad that raises a real issue (albeit in an inappropriate and borderline racist way) makes us better.

It doesn't. It makes us no better than Kerry Healey, and that isn't saying much these days.

The Perfect Black Cardigan, of sorts

I've been obsessing lately over a black cardigan. Namely, the Perfect Black Cardigan.

The black cardigan, you see, is the anchor of my wardrobe. It goes with everything. It allows me to get extra mileage out of all my summer sleeveless tops. It dresses up a shirt for work. It keeps me warm. It is the go-to item, the throw-it-on-to-complete-an-outfit piece that I can always rely on.

I actually own many black cardigans, mainly because I am obsessed with finding and possessing the perfect one. But one is too stretched out; the other is nice, but short-sleeved; one is a little itchy; another got ruined when I washed it instead of taking it to the dry cleaners (oops.)

I had a Perfect Black Cardigan once (perfectly fitted, soft and finely knit, unobtrusive buttons, v-neck shaped, stops at the hips...oh yes, I've thought about this a lot.) Nominally, still do, but it's been left somewhere and I'm losing hope of getting it back anytime soon, if ever. (More on this later.)

As I've hinted at a bit on this blog, I've been going through a break-up, of sorts, lately. Of sorts, in the same way that Friendster allows you to label your relationship status as "it's complicated." (As if there are relationships that aren't complicated.) Of sorts, in the way that if you were never officially together, it's not quite clear if you can officially not be together. Of sorts, in that I'm not even totally sure if the person on the other end of this complicated relationship (of sorts) would even realize or acknowledge or agree that what has happened is a break-up. But whatever. I don't know the terminology to describe what I'm going through, so a break-up it is.

(Isn't it the eskimos who have seven different words for love? How woefully inadequate our language is, in comparison, in describing matters of the heart.)

So the cardigan, the Perfect Black one, is in the possession of my ex-something (of sorts), and getting it back is not working so well.

And so I've become obsessed with this cardigan. Every day, it's the item I want to wear. I have become increasingly aware of the inadequacy of all my other black cardigans. I have scoured stores across Boston, looking for a replacement. It's taking up a lot of my mental energy (and yes, I *do* realize just how pathetic this sounds.)

I was telling my roommate about the Saga of the Perfect Black Cardigan this morning (because all I seem capable of talking about these days are black cardigans and the of sorts breakup) and I joked that I was (almost) more upset over the loss of this cardigan than of the relationship.

She looked at me for a second, and then she said, "You realize that's called displacement, right?"

No, I didn't.

For some reason, I find this oddly hilarious. Deeply insightful and very likely true, but funny none the less. It's become a great running metaphor. For example, I'm learning to accept that I may not be able to find the exact same Perfect Black Cardigan in a store, but that doesn't mean I can't find an equally good or better one. Or that even though it seems like it could be so easy, I will probably never be able to get my original Perfect Black Cardigan back. Or today, when I bought a Slightly Less than Perfect Black Cardigan at the mall, I pointed out that, while I normally think one should not buy any old black cardigan just for the sake of owning one, that when one really needs a black cardigan, a less than perfect one will do in a pinch.

Thing is this: when you've seen the Perfect Black Cardigan, when you've worn it and owned it and know for sure that it exists, it makes it very difficult to settle for any less-than-perfect cardigans. But perhaps all the more motivated to go out and find it again.

Being the Bigger Person

"Be the bigger person." It's the most useful piece of parental advice my father has ever given me, an oft-repeated phrase that came out whenever I was having a fight with a friend or was being picked on (as happened often enough) by jerky middle-school boys or generally whenever I was in a situation where I was feeling frustrated or upset by the behavior of someone else.

Be the bigger person. Extend the olive branch. Call and make up. Apologize, even if you're not sorry, because the friendship is worth more than winning a stupid fight you'll forget a week later. (Even if she was really cruel and said awful hurtful things.) Ignore the jerky boys. Let that woman steal your parking place. Let him cut you in line. Small stuff like that isn't worth getting irate over. Be the bigger person.

It's advice that got me all through high school with my good friendships generally intact. And though I am stubborn and like to have the last word and feel injustices strongly, I have never once regretted taking Dad's advice, being the bigger person, and finding a pretense to end the fight. Indeed, I credit that advice for saving a friendship with two of my best friends in the world. 8th grade, some big blowout over something I can't remember now (see?), the silent treatment for months. Which is a little hard to do, since we all had every class together and ate at the same lunch table and the whole shebang. Finally, mid-summer, I took a deep breath, nervously dialed their numbers, and said something along the lines of "so, this is stupid. Let's not fight anymore."

And thank god, cause lord knows I never would have gotten through high school without those girls. And they're still among the closest friends I've got. (AND admit that actually, I was right about whatever it was we were fighting about, but, then, who really cares anymore?)

In college, the more nuanced version of "be the bigger person" got me through the hard times with friends without having to have those big blowout fights. I learned to recognize that occasional shitty behavior can just be overlooked. A stray hurtful comment here or there, an unintended slight, a bad mood one night or a stupid drunken episode...not worth getting too
worked up over. Being the bigger person means letting those things go. And I am glad for those decisions, too.

From my best friend, I've learned a corollary to Dad's lesson: make the more loving choice. Whenever I'm weighing hurts or balancing my needs with those of a friend, I think of my best friend and about following her example, making the more loving choice...even if it's the harder choice, even if it involves swallowing hurts and giving up that metaphorical last word.

I've written in the past about my aversion to unresolved tension and my general dislike of conflict. I've been wondering lately if this has anything to do with Dad's advice. Have his admonishments to "be the bigger person" been so ingrained in me that I get all anxious if I feel like I'm not being the bigger person at any point in time? Has this advice, to end or avoid conflict in order to preserve the relationship, brought on my poor ability to deal with conflict at all? Even in those times when conflict is necessary and even good? (As I type this, I wonder if those times ever exist, even though I of course know they do.)

What happens in those times when being the bigger person means doing nothing? When the more loving choice is not to end the conflict? I'm suddenly in tailspin, my moral compass awry, unable to figure out which choice is best. What about those times when the rift is too big, the hurt is too much and too unforgivable? When patching things over one more time only stretches out the hurt - for both sides - and is, indeed, the choice of the smaller person, the weaker person. Or what if being the bigger person, over and over and over again, only enables a friend's bad behavior, only encourages them to treat you (and others) like shit? What if the more loving choice is actually to hold back your love?

Dad's advice was easy to follow when I was 14. The path it led me down was always clear. That's not so true anymore.

Time Wounds All Heels?

As a kid, I hated tearing off band-aids. Absolutely dreaded it. To me, the pain – or, perhaps more accurately, the anticipation of the pain – of ripping a band-aid off was almost always worse than the original injury itself. When it was clearly time for a band-aid to go, when it was dirty and nasty and just couldn’t stay on my arm or leg for another day, I would start to ease it off slowly. I would pick at the edges, loosening the glue and tugging on one hair at a time, trying to minimize the pain. I would do this intermittently for hours, rubbing at the band-aid, doing whatever I could to avoid having to do the big pull.

I’m known to be a pretty squeamish person when it comes to medical things, and I’m like this with just about any medical procedure. I get anxiety attacks before going to the dentist. I am terrible at getting shots. Can’t handle the thought of an IV. One time, when I had stitches, I was so afraid of the pain of having them removed that I waited too long, and the skin started to grow around them. (Disgusting, I know!). As a result, this supposedly painless procedure was the single most painful thing I’ve ever gone through in my life. I still get goosebumps remembering the doctor pulling those stitches out of my skin.

In short, I am a big baby when it comes to pain.

I yanked off a metaphorical band-aid this weekend, despite my deeply ingrained instincts not to. I’d tried letting the wound heal, thinking the band-aid might just fall off. I’d tried picking around the edges of the band-aid, thinking I could minimize the hurt. I tried leaving the band-aid be…but in the end it was even too messy and awful for me to put up with. There was nothing to be done but rip it up.

And I found the pain was just as bad as I’d always imagined. Perhaps worse. Days later, I can still feel that excruciating pain, the burning heat, where I tore the skin of my soul. I can see the wound, and it’s still gaping. I want nothing more to dig that dirty band-aid out of the garbage, push it back down on my arm, rub it into my skin and pray that it sticks.

But there’s no putting a band-aid back on once you’ve tore it off. The adhesive is gone. Your choice has been made and the damage is irreparable. There’s nothing to be done but to find a new, clean band-aid and hope this one does the job.

But man, if I know anything about band-aids, it’s this…they don’t make them like they used to.