I guess it's time I start calling myself a feminist...

Feminism is a funny word in my vocabulary. For as long as I can remember, "feminism" is defined as this crazy, radical idea that women are human beings, and should be treated as much...meaning they are entitled to the same rights and privileges as men. Can't say I disagree with that definition, but unfortunately, that's not what is commonly associated with "feminism" when people hear it today.

I've been in the church long enough to have heard the rants of evangelicals, accusing feminism as the great destroyer of families, usurping traditional male duties, etc. I don't buy into those. I think there have been some unexpected consequences of the feminist movement, such as teaching women to have sex "like men" (without strings), and as long as both genders can get away with it, then that's equality. Feminists, from a stereotypical standpoint, tend to be in favor of abortion, which I am most definitely not. I believe there is nothing more feminine than a mother wanting to protect her child, in the womb and out. Consequently, I've avoided the label of "feminist" because I didn't want to have assumptions made about me that weren't true.

If I call myself a feminist, the evangelicals will call me a heretic. If I don't call myself a feminist, the rest of the world will see me as anti-woman. Are those my only options? I hope not, because they kind of suck. Clearly one side of the spectrum, or perhaps both, is misinformed.

Yet here I am, crusading for advocacy against rape culture, and appealing to the minds of liberals and conservatives alike. In this, we are all equally vulnerable. So that leaves me to question my beliefs about what I think feminism is...and why I'm so apprehensive to call myself one. Because really, as a woman, there must be something fundamentally wrong with me if I can't identify as such.

I'm rereading Jonalyn Fincher's book "Ruby Slippers," which addresses the Christian approach to femininity and women's roles in the church (and it's fantastic, for those who haven't read it). Throughout history, Christianity and feminism have not gone well together. So it seems I have another hurdle to jump when it comes to reconciling my feminist opinions, because I subscribe to the teachings of a holy book with passages by the Apostle Paul that say women must not speak up in church. At the same time, the first witnesses to Jesus' empty tomb were women. In an age when a woman's testimony was considered worthless, why would the Gospel writers have named Mary Magdalene as the first witness, and not someone more credible? If the resurrection never happened, that's a bad way to try and convince people that it did.

If people are wrong about Christianity being a misogynistic religion, then I'm probably wrong about my reasons for avoiding calling myself a feminist.

Maybe, just maybe, people of all religious and political persuasions can agree that feminism is about discovering what it means to be female. How to be feminine in a society that favors men, and not see that as a weakness. How to maintain a healthy identity when fashion magazines try to sell us beauty in a package, when toddlers in tiaras are in such a hurry to grow up, but women in their thirties are desperate to look younger. Most importantly, maybe feminism is about how to feel like a "real woman" even if you don't have much in the way of curves, haven't had sex, aren't married, or in a relationship, and despise dressing up. Maybe it's about appreciating the differences of both genders, instead of trying to make them one and the same, because we're not the same. We're made differently, we think differently. Or maybe it's about trying to find that common ground.

So. Am I completely crazy, or might I be on to something?

Ask if you want, but you may not receive

I'm slowly starting to embrace this new introverted side of me. This is a fairly recent development, so part of me couldn't help wondering if it's a phase, or something permanent. Being that outgoing social butterfly who goes up to strangers introducing herself is no longer comfortable. Speaking in front of people doesn't come as easily as it used to...well, depending on the subject. There are some subjects I now denote too personal for discussion with people I've just met. When it comes to my books, though, I'm like a new mom showing off all 50+ pictures on my iphone of my baby in the exact same pose, thoroughly convinced she is the most adorably original creature anyone has ever seen.

There are some situations I'll have to get used to, like the dreaded "What do you want to do with your major?" question that everyone always asks at parties. It's my own fault, I know, for choosing something that makes people feel awkward. Or maybe it's God's fault for, as seminarians like to say, "Putting this calling on my heart." Explaining that I want to work with rape victims almost always shuts down conversation. I understand why, but there's not much I can do about it. Only on rare occasions have I been asked "And what made you want to do that kind of work?" I'll say "Personal experiences," and leave it at that. You don't get more of an explanation if you're not a close friend of mine. In that circumstance, it doesn't matter whether one is an introvert or not. There's healthy curiosity, and then there's a complete lacking of tact.

But then there's this other thing...this "OOOOH you grew up Jewish?! Tell me your whole life story RIGHT NOW!" In not quite those exact words, this has happened to me dozens of times, not including the time I've spent in seminary. And when this happens, my former self and new self collide. The old self wouldn't have so much of a problem with this. I confess, I was "that girl" who loved being the center of attention, and dropping the "I was raised Jewish" bomb in a Christian setting was always the best way to make that happen.

Now, it's different. Aside from trying to be more humble, I'm realizing -- shocker -- that I don't owe everyone who asks a detailed explanation, about anything. For one thing, it's exhausting to recount the majority of my life in under five minutes or so. For another, being barraged with questions (or so it feels) is even more exhausting. My life is a literal open book -- I don't regret writing one that answers all those questions -- and that's exactly why I wrote it. To let myself off the hook for having to explain everything...just read about it instead! (Shameless plug, I know)

Moreover, there's a certain "novelty status" that comes with being different. I'm starting to get a little sick of it, honestly. As a new introvert, being the target of personal questions, especially from strangers, freaks me out. If I want to put myself out there, I'll write a book or volunteer in some other way. I like the freedom of choice. I no longer revel in turning the tide of a social gathering because my background is suddenly the most interesting subject. But then, introverted or not, wouldn't that make anyone feel uncomfortable?

The moral of this story is this: feel free to ask whatever you want. But don't be offended if I decline to answer.

God takes crap and makes fertilizer

A timely excerpt about trials and forgiveness from Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter:

     I wish I could say that the rest of my senior year was relaxing and relatively trial-free. The following verse from James became the theme of my last few months of college: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (1:2-4). Naturally, this verse did not sit well with me the first time I read it. Consider it joy when facing trials? What kind of crazy logic is that? But setbacks are only setups for God to work. He makes all things work for the good of those who love him. The biggest trials we face are also where our calling for ministry can be found...

     As John was trying to convince me to fall back to our old ways the next time he’d return home, I also found out he was seeing someone else. To add further insult to an already gaping injury, the medium in which I discovered this information was Facebook. He couldn’t even tell me himself.

     That night started well enough. I had gone out to sing karaoke with the girls in my h2o bible study, and did not return until midnight. I now know better than to check my Facebook or email just before going to bed. That night was, without being melodramatic, the worst night of my life. I cried so hard I was dry-heaving and dizzy. When you find out that the man who has been a god-like figure in your life since you were seventeen is now in the arms of someone who isn’t you, it tends to wreck your world. Mine shattered instantaneously, and I’m still amazed at just how easy it was. 

     I realized that the timing of our inevitable downfall was actually in response to a prayer from the weekend before. I attended a women’s retreat with h2o and listened to a speaker talk about her struggle with a spiritually and emotionally damaging relationship in college. I felt as if she was addressing me personally. I perfectly understood the ugly cycle of giving in to the same old sin, even with the best of intentions to avoid it. I also understood the feeling of hopelessness that can lead to dangerous forms of compromise. 

     It was easy to stay in a relationship that was destroying me from the inside out because I firmly believed that was the best I’d ever have. In looking for a quick fix to my loneliness, I made a personal god out of a fellow human being who was incapable of fulfilling me. Even when I felt disrespected and worthless, I believed I could fix him when I couldn’t even fix myself. I remained convinced, despite warnings from Bethany and Anne, that the man I’d originally fallen in love with still lived somewhere inside him.

     I knew there was no way I could spend the night alone. Kaitlin was the first person I could think of to call, even though it was after midnight. The night I spent sobbing my guts out on her couch was the first time since accepting Christ that I felt so completely worthless. Even before my family found out about my faith, I don’t think I’d ever felt grief this big. This was a man I had known for half a decade, someone I loved with the depth of life itself, even if I was not being respected by him as a daughter of God should be. 

 

     What should have been only a five-minute walk from my dorm to her apartment took nearly half an hour because of all the snow I had to trudge through. By the time I made it to her place, I was a wreck and could barely stand up. We stayed up nearly all night, and I could not believe her when she told me how God would use this pain for glory someday. I could not believe her when she told me I deserved so, so much more than what I had settled for in a man. I felt that my self-worth was permanently shot to pieces, and no godly man would ever desire me as a girlfriend, much less a wife.  

     I needed to do a spring cleaning of my life more than ever, but even that could not be done completely on my own. I hardly ate, slept, or showered within the first week of my newfound “freedom” as an officially single woman. I thought that with enough prayer and support from close friends I could get through this, but I couldn’t. My mind was a broken record of all the things I should have done sooner, things I wish I’d said. 

     Eventually, I decided to get counseling so I could at least finish my senior year on a strong, healthy note. Sometimes I think it will be easier to forgive him than it will be to forgive myself. But I know there is no point in continually beating myself up. I know that the past cannot be changed or undone.

     Jesus’ attitude toward forgiveness never struck me as borderline insane until this moment. I had been hurt before, certainly, but never enough where the thought of forgiveness seemed completely impossible and ludicrous. To forgive someone who hurt me this deeply felt ridiculous and unnatural. It contradicted everything I know that is true about human nature. 

     But then, by sheer grace alone, I remembered how I became a Christian because of the fact that it is unnatural. Christianity calls its followers to rise above their natural condition, to be more than they could ever become on their own. It is completely counter-cultural, and the standards set by Jesus are often perceived as unrealistically high. His words about forgiving those who mistreat you have caused him to be labeled as crazy by many of his critics. But turning the other cheek is anything but a passive response. 

     Forgiving those that the world considers unredeemable is just one of many examples of embracing God’s vision for our lives. It is by no means a light and easy task, but it is necessary for healing. Many people equate forgiveness with excusing poor behavior, but the reality is that holding on to anger is emotionally crippling. It robs you of the chance to heal from tragedy. That’s not to say that it isn’t natural to grieve, but even now, while still grieving, I know that holding onto it for a lifetime and still hoping to heal is like gorging on cupcakes daily and still expecting to lose weight. Refusing to forgive someone who has wronged you only gives them permission to dominate your life. 

     Still, I continue to struggle with it every day. Some days are better than others, and then there are days I feel like I have fallen back to the hopeless pit I was stuck in before. Some days I have to force myself to pray even harder for the ability to choose life again. Hell hath no fury like the prayers of a broken-hearted woman.

     A song that is commonly sung in h2o services contains a verse that says “You make all things work together for our good.” That is another one of my favorite things about Christianity: the fact that no experience, good or bad, is ever wasted. As a friend of mine likes to say, God takes crap and makes fertilizer.

Off-the-market author on developing single characters

I've arrived at that strange turning point between perpetual adolescence and adulthood: my high school friends are getting engaged, some are having kids (or getting engaged after having kids). Since I myself am not there yet, it will be a while before I start writing any stories about women who are married or have kids. Imagination notwithstanding, I'm a fan of writing only what I know, for now. Never mind that "what I know" is constantly changing.

I've longed for a book that chronicles the life of a single twenty-something that doesn't make her a modern Cinderella, or a Sex and the City character. If such a book exists (and I'm sure it does somewhere), I've never read it, hence why I'm writing one. The idea of a 21st-century single woman evokes an image of Bridget Jones awkwardness, Zooey Deschanel adorable-ness, and Carrie Bradshaw promiscuity in my mind. I want a character who has fallen in love with the wrong person, made some mistakes, but doesn't want to be defined by them, or be consumed with molding herself into someone who's perfect for a man she hasn't met yet.

Not surprisingly, I'm writing about what my own life was like for most of college. But once I got the idea for this novel (the working title is "Public Displays of Convention"), I couldn't help but wonder: who will believe this story? I wonder this because the author has been in a relationship for the last year and a half. Still, I can't help but remember the countless times when older women reached out to me at the lowest points of my singlehood, when I'd hit rock bottom and felt like I'd be alone forever. They tried to encourage me, and I'd think bitterly to myself, You can't help me. You're happily married; you can't possibly remember what it was like to be where I am now. 

Well, I still remember very well. It wasn't too long ago -- barely two years, actually -- when I sincerely believed I'd be single for the rest of my life. Not because God told me so, but because I didn't think anyone would want me. Now I know I was wrong, but that doesn't mean I can't empathize with the pain of not knowing if it's meant to happen.

I don't want to create a character who gets a happy ending, though. I've read plenty of novels that do have happy endings, and enjoyed them immensely, but for the purpose of this book I think such an ending would be irresponsible. Why? Because I've learned that relationships are not a cure for whatever self-esteem issues exist before a relationship starts. The habits formed as a single person won't disappear the moment you meet the love of your life. I don't want to perpetuate the lie that true happiness and fulfillment can only be found if you're in a romantic relationship, a message that's not-so-subtly implied by 99% of all chick flicks. It's simply untrue.

Not to mention, the expression "work on becoming the kind of person you want to end up with" is misleading. You don't want to fall into the trap of becoming the best person you can be for the sole purpose of attracting a significant other. No, you should focus on becoming your best self, FOR yourself!

So while I'm still a full-time grad student, and have a lot of responsibilities on my plate without taking on the task of writing a new novel, I'm doing it anyway, while the memories of trying to live "productively single" are still fresh in my mind. It saddens me how so many people essentially waste themselves on the myth of "you complete me." Without being preachy, I want this book to drive home the point that worth is something we're already born with, not something to wear on a ring finger.

Keeping calm and writing on

Being published is something that's hard to talk about without sounding like a pretentious snot. But I digress: the reason it sounds snotty is because most people don't understand just how much the industry has changed. With the invention of e-books, especially, publishing is now easier than ever. Writing something worth reading is another issue altogether. Snooki from Jersey Shore can ghost write a book that sells three million copies after being on a shelf for fifteen minutes, but twenty years from now, no one will be discussing it in their book clubs.

Inevitably, those who know me will find out I'm a writer. When they do, they'll sometimes ask one of my big pet peeve questions:

"Have you written anything I might have read?"

If only the literary world were that small.

At the same time, being published in any form is still noteworthy. It means you've put yourself out there to be admired and/or criticized, and there's no way to know for sure how your work will be received. Still, knowing what I know now about publishing, how companies like Amazon produce thousands of e-books every day by virtual unknowns like me who all dream of winning Pulitzer (so I assume), it's hard for me to accept the compliments. Or maybe I'm too hard on myself.

I'm proud of what I've accomplished, but I've learned something else about the phenomenon of seeing your name in print: it doesn't last. To use an extreme analogy, it's like winning a Grammy, but then listening to a song that one of your contenders wrote, and thinking to yourself Damn, I wish I'd written that. There's competition and petty jealousy in the writing world like there is in any other.

I'm in the middle of a friend's novel right now, also self-published, and this was my first thought after reading the first few chapters: This is so legit, totally something Barnes & Noble would sell, and my books read like a highschooler's creative writing project. That's not to say that Halo Publishing did a bad job; I'd highly recommend them for anyone looking into self-publishing. What I'm criticizing instead is my choice to self-edit (bad idea!), and my writing style itself. Panic strikes at odd moments: will a serious reader take my work seriously?

I know it's futile to think like that. Even the best of the best (according to the New York Times) get dismissed as poo on paper by handfuls of critics on Amazon. That's the biggest reason why being published is admirable: critics, especially anonymous ones online, can be mean. I haven't gotten much of it yet, but if I take this job seriously, then it will happen. No amount of editing, and no impressive publishing label will prevent that. You can't please everybody.

I'm reading this book right now (yes, I perpetually read more than one book at a time, and I'm in grad school!) called Why We Write. It's a collection of essays from various authors on why they do what they do even when the inspiration is lacking, the rejection letters keep mounting, and they question their own talent. For the moments I get trapped in thinking I'll finally feel like a talented writer when I publish a best-seller, this book is bringing me back to earth. Writing just for money is pretty much a guarantee that you won't make any. Being "good" is irrelevant (and completely subjective). I write because I believe in my work, and really, that's all that matters.

Grammys, rape culture jokes, and another SYAK excerpt

It always surprises me how rape culture jokes come up in the most unexpected contexts. I wouldn't have expected to hear one relating to the Grammys: "Will Rihanna be on the cover of Chris Brown's 'greatest hits' album?" Took me a second, but that "aha" moment wasn't too long in coming, and I groaned. The person who posted the joke to Facebook, and some of the people who 'liked' it, were good friends at one point. But I've realized that the people I choose to surround myself with play a significant role in healing whether they realize it or not. I could stand up and educate them, but too often this results in arguments and I'm the one told to "lighten up." I do need to "lighten up" about some things, but this is something I have absolutely no tolerance for anymore.

For the record, I do think Rihanna is a terrible role model, but not because of the way she handled the abuse of her ex boyfriend (or current boyfriend? I can't keep up) Chris Brown. Celebrities in general do set themselves up to be emulated, to an extent, but no one plans to be a poster child for domestic violence. To hold Rihanna up as a standard for how all women should react is ridiculous not just because she's only human, like all of us, but arguably because being in the spotlight increases the pressure to hold herself together. And we don't know the circumstances of why she's chosen to forgive and/or reconcile with Chris Brown.

With that, here's another excerpt from Someone You Already Know, depicting another example of ignorance (based on a real-life incident where I used to work):

The ignorance just never ends. I learned very quickly after the party incident with Trevor that I can’t afford to lose my cool every time someone makes a stupid comment about rape. This is something I’ve discussed at length with Dr. Cleary: the tactful way to respond to ignorance. I have no desire to be considerate to a person who makes an offensive, galling statement, though. I made it clear to my therapist that I’m tired of being labeled as the “damaged” girl. 

     If I had to pick out the dumbest person in my class, I’d have to say it’s Melanie. She’s the kind of girl who seems very nice and sociable, but completely lacks common sense; she’s a girl who kept saying “orgasm” in biology class instead of “organism,” and couldn’t understand why everyone including the teacher kept snickering. 

     She also may well be the only person in school who hasn’t heard of what happened to me. I know this because she’s the only one who hasn’t treated me any differently.

     Somehow, I misplaced my car keys, and Melanie was the one found them and brought them to me at the end of class. She noticed the "rape whistle" in addition to pepper spray on the keychain, which is more for my mother's comfort than my own. In reality, those would be the last thing I'd think to use if I was being attacked again (God forbid). I'd probably be too busy running or fighting for my life to bother fumbling through my purse for them. 

     Anyway, I half-heartedly said "Yes, that is my rape whistle," to which the idiot girl replied "I wouldn't fight back if that happened to me. I mean hello, it's free sex! And no one will think you're a slut for giving in because, you know, you could say you were raped."

     Thankfully, I wasn't the only person to hear this. Another girl standing nearby immediately turned around, and was just as shocked and dumbfounded as I was. "How could you think something like that, much less say it?!" she demanded. 

     Melanie simply shrugged and quipped "Well, if you're not getting any..."

     I was torn between wanting to shake some sense into her, walking away and ignoring her completely, or taking the time to attempt educating her. Crazy, right?

     As a survivor trying to find a new normal, I can’t shake the stupid out of every ignorant person I come across. This is not the first bout of ignorance I will face, and it will not be the last. Who knows, in earlier times I might have rolled my eyes at a rape joke and let it slide off my back. I hate, hate, hate to admit this, but my patience and tolerance levels will have to improve tremendously if I expect to have some semblance of a normal life. Perhaps this episode is my first training session.

     In a strange, back-handed sort of way, I envy Melanie for being able to afford that kind of ignorance. More likely than not, she hasn't experienced the trauma of a sexual assault. She's lucky she has not the foggiest clue what she's talking about. As offensive as her comment was, I sincerely hope that she never has to learn first-hand just how wrong her thought process is about this issue.

     I consider it a small miracle that I was able to take a breath, compose myself, and say calmly, albeit through clenched teeth "You know Melanie, you wouldn't think that way if it happened to you."

     She didn't do much more than shrug me off with a "Whatever," but my point was clear. The other girl who overheard the exchange thanked me for attempting, however feebly, to set Melanie straight. And just like that, it was all over. I survived another ignorance attack. Hallelujah. Only an unforeseen number left to go.

     Episodes like this make me all the more cautious of the words I choose, and how I use them. It also makes me aware of the possible damage that can occur by speaking blithely of things I know nothing about. You never know who might be listening.