In Which Gender Stereotypes are Effin' Stupid

"I'd have taken you over every single other player on the team. However, it would have been kind of embarrassing when you showed up and were better than the three guys we'd never met. For them. Nor for me."

This text from a (male) friend playing on a (all-male) Ultimate Frisbee intramurals team bothered me for a while. I'd told him, half-jokingly, that if my university's intramural policies weren't so blatantly sexist, I could have been the seventh player on their team. I got this response. Then, as I cogitated (I love that word), I understood the sudden rush of table-flipping frustration. Here's why.

Men, typically, would not be ashamed to admit that perhaps their female friends cook better frittatas than they do (I choose this example knowing full well I have a male friend who makes a badass frittata, whilst I've never dared to make one at all). I've yet to come across a man who will slink into a corner and sulk over the fact that a woman can sew stitches around him (I can fix buttons, no more), or dance better, or clean a house better.

But God forbid a woman be a better athlete.

 Does it matter that I've played Ultimate Frisbee competitively for four years and worked in godawful Texas heat to have excellent throws and catches, or that I've been a distance runner since middle school? No. If I arrive at those fields and show up men who aren't runners or haven't played Ultimate in more than a recreational capacity, I embarrass them by virtue of 1) being more skilled at a sport and 2) doing so while not in possession of a Y chromosome. I'd never get this kind of text message if this were a competition for, say, baking.

Can we agree that this is a special level of stupidity? People have strengths and weaknesses, because they're people. Not necessarily because they're men and women in completely separate and graded categories. Are men better at some sports because they're often physically stronger? Sure. The key word is "often" - not "always". We need to get past this often assumed and culturally ingrained idea that men ought to be better than women at specific things simply because they are men. It harms everyone.

Some (incomplete) musings on brokenness and wholeness

(I started writing this in Greek class this morning, after discovering today's post by Elizabeth Esther, which left me realizing I'm not alone)

I don't know how to reconcile the ideas of human brokenness and wholeness (or progression towards it through sanctification). I grew up with the total depravity of Calvinism. Here's the thing: "total depravity" at its core does not mean man is rotten through and through, completely bereft of goodness. It means, to the best of my understanding, that every part of man is flawed in some way. Heart, mind, soul, strength - none are perfect. All are deficient.

I did not know until this year that this was the intended meaning of total depravity. My understanding for the past two decades has been a conception of man as but a worm, groveling in the dust, even after accepting salvation. I identify with Luther's self-flagellation (though mentally, not physically), his mortal fear of never being good enough for salvation, or for anything else.

This is where I become uncertain. Operating solely according to either brokenness or wholeness seems incomplete. The first leads to doubt, self-hatred, self-depreciation, which ultimately is a devaluation of God's creation. The second, without the checks of the first, could lead to pride, that creeping and subtle sin - the first sin, if Milton is to be believed. We cannot grind ourselves into the dirt and expect to function, but neither can we raise ourselves above others. We can be whole because we were broken, and God in his mercy is restoring his image in us. He heals us and helps us and loves us. We recognize the grace of God in this dichotomy. Or I do, at least. I do not claim to speak for anyone else, or to have these answers.

This love and grace is from whom and what we derive identity and life. We are loved by the eternal, transcendent maker of the universe, who has no ulterior motive or need of our praise. In what else could we find worth of any stability? He loves because he is love. If the perfect, sinless one loves us, and loved us while we were wholly unworthy, dying for us while we were yet sinners, we can love ourselves. We should love ourselves. We delight in beauty, in music, in nature -- and we too are creations with beauty and worth because of our maker. We love God's image as expressed through our unique makes and personalities.

We celebrate his creation and creativity and goodness within us. For what God creates is good; it cannot be otherwise.

So, in a fashion, it does not matter what others think of us. Those feelings and opinions change like the wind. We know, we children of God, how our Father feels about us and how he knows us to be.

We are broken, but we are being healed.

No, it isn't okay.

Technically speaking, nothing even happened. I was four or five yards out of my apartment, dog-eared copy of Wheelock's Latin in one hand, car keys in the other. It was late September in Texas, not hot but definitely not cool, so I wearing a knee-length summery dress. Nothing flashy, just cute.

He was standing on the other side of the parking lot, leaning in the window of a friend's running pickup, shooting the breeze. My boots pocked on the cement, and he looked over his shoulder and saw me. That much I attributed to human instinct and awareness of surrounding. It was when his gaze held that I got the first wrench in my stomach. My mind shifted into overdrive, generating reassuring thoughts. It was ten in the morning, it was light out, it was a good neighborhood.

I knew all these were true facts. Their comforting power waned as I continued across the lot to my car, and he kept staring. Not subtly, not glancing, a direct, blank-faced up-and-down stare. I gritted my teeth, kept my spine straight, and walked in measured, steady steps until I swung into my car, closed the door, and locked it.

This was not an outlying occurrence. It happens often, and to a lot of women. Stares in public places, honks when they're out for a morning jog, catcalls from across the street. Fight-or-flight adrenaline kicks up in those moments. Typically, I ignore it and just keep walking with a wrench in my gut that tells me to put a locked door, pepper spray, and maybe a firearm between myself and the guy in question.

I'm not saying here every guy who whistles at a girl is purposefully out to harass or attack her. The discomfort and fear isn't even an immediately conscious thing for me most of the time. It's my subconscious taking the factors at hand and running worst-case scenarios.

I don't have to process it consciously. My subconscious knows I'm a single, 120-pound, 5'8" female, and tells me to get the hell away. If it ever came down to an actual altercation, my chances are better than the average woman's simply because I'm pretty athletic, but they're not great by any shot.

That knowledge is terrifying. The resultant thought of being caught in a bad situation with no power to escape is paralyzing.

Sometimes I mention how these incidents make me feel acutely uncomfortable and like becoming a professional hermit. A lot of people - mostly other women - will agree, having had those experiences too. A lot of people - guys, mostly, but not always* - will say things like, "Well, it's because you're a hot girl/you look hot" or "Take it as a compliment."

I think often people who say things like this mean to be complimentary. I disagree vehemently with the underlying presumptions of these statements. "Well, it's because you're a hot girl/look hot" can presume the woman in question is the instigator simply by being female. It can presume a woman wearing flattering clothing should expect to get attention (and sometimes, is wearing certain clothing to get male attention) and should be alright with it.

I'm not saying I have a problem with men noticing that a woman is pretty or attractive.** It infuriates me that society often perpetuates the idea this objectification is acceptable.*** This can drift into dangerous territory in a hurry. "Well, she was hot" can rapidly devolve into "she was dressed to get attention" to "she was asking to be stared at", or, even worse, "she was asking for it."

This is not alright. I have not even touched on a Biblical perspective regarding this issue (a dear friend has written about that here, and I highly encourage you click over and read it - it's reassuring evidence some men do find this objectification trend deeply disturbing).

Even from a fairly neutral point of view, I have yet to hear a single reason that justifies some college boy leaning out of his truck window to yell, "Shake that ass!" as I run on the trail around campus.****

It isn't cute. It isn't funny. It sure as hell isn't excusable.


(Tangential/illustrative/amusing note: Some people have taken to compiling men's and women's Halloween costumes and comparing them side by side with little commentary.****)


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*I'm not stereotyping here - I am presenting facts of my (and others') past experiences.

**Obviously. It sort of helps with that whole perpetuation-of-the-human-race thing.

***I am NOT saying women don't objectify men. I am saying it happens more frequently the other way around, and that on a purely physical level, it's typically a lot more frightening for a woman to be objectified by a man than vice-versa.

****On a really tangential note, can I suggest popular culture is a detrimental influence on this issue? If I hear one more pop/rap song saying the good life is being surrounded by barely-/unclothed, suggestively dancing women...

*****Fair warning, there's a bit of profanity on this site, but it's illustrative of my point.

Some confessions

It's that time of life where a lot of people I know are dating and getting engaged and married (not quite to the having-kids phase yet, thank goodness). I'm still at a point of next to total inexperience. Two dates (and that's a stretch to label them as such) total. That's it. I'm okay with that. I don't want to be engaged or married yet. I'm 21. It's not that time yet for me. Part of me does want to start dating at some point, and to take at least a couple steps down that road.

But an overwhelming part of me is terrified to the bone. Instinctively, I align myself closely with John Calvin's theology on the total depravity of man.* I do not trust people. I hate being open, I hate sharing deeply personal thoughts and feelings, and I hate with the passion of a fiery supernova crying in front of people.** I'm not saying I want to change my feelings on that matters so I share everything without discrimination. There is, I think, a healthy balance between being creepily open and completely paranoid.

I fall heavily onto the paranoid side of the spectrum, and that isn't a good thing. The thought of having to be emotionally vulnerable around someone makes me want to start digging that tunnel to China. If I think about it for too long, I start getting physically panicked, twitchy muscles and closing throat and everything.

So...yeah. I don't have much else to say. I have no answers on how to fix this. I can't fix this. This is something that's going to take time, prayer, and maybe a couple minor miracles.


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*But I thoroughly disagree with John Calvin's hatred of art. That's another dissertation, though.

**By my count, exactly ten people have ever seen me break down and cry. Yes, I've kept count. It's terrifically healthy, I know.

Dual Citizenship

Sometimes, it seems to me this are two worlds; there is the one in which we dwell and the other into which we can only chance to stray. Tolkien called it mythos. It is the world of dream, of imagination, of story, the birthplace of our legends. Most have grown out of awareness of its existence, though they enter it when they sleep and when they dream. All children know it; they live simultaneously in both worlds until they are told to grow up. A few retain their presence in this world, exploring it, loving it, knowing it, finding it impossible to explain except through their stories or sculptures or music. Many, upon reading or hearing or seeing these compositions, experience a resonance deep in their chests, the stirring of an unconscious memory.

Even the best forget, however. They fall out of the second world for any of a dozen reasons. A sudden hardship, a lack of faith, a forgetting of self - any of these will take a person by the collar and fling him out. And for a time, those thus ejected cannot find any entrances. They wander about bewildered, saddened, and not quite themselves.

Every entrance is different, corresponding to the resonance felt by those who have forgotten this realm. Sometimes an entrance is the sight of a child holding a flower, the smell of seasons turning, the sound of a perfect high C. Some returns happen in a blink. Some are slower, requiring more effort on the seeker's part, a trail of breadcrumbs back home. Trails lead to breaks in the wall or spaces where the veil thins.

I am at a thinning of the veil.

On Qualities of Writing

I do still live. I just don't think I've had much to say, and I'm not going to post for the sake of posting. That writing usually emerges like stale coffee. No one wants that.*

Adjusting to a new city has been different than I expected. My problem today is having a limited number of people I know, much less to whom I can talk and not overwhelm. I would lay solid money on the proposition many of you (all three people who read this) have these days. The days where you have eighteen different trains of thought running at breakneck speed, and your mind is trying desperately to process them all, if for nothing else in the hopes of bringing some to conclusions so you'll sleep tonight. As I don't have anyone immediately available, I'm using this post to blow off some mental steam.

I'm nearing a point where I think I'll be able to write again. Fiction has been touch-and-go for me since freshman year of undergrad. It's no mystery why; my writing is still far too dependent upon how I view myself as a person. The connection is both frustrating and crucial. My writing changes as I change; nevertheless, I have to learn to uncouple my fiction and my self-perception to a greater extent, and learn to write outside myself. That is a difficult thing for me. I've become less mental (well, in some ways) and more okay with myself over the past couple of years in particular, but the moment I start thinking about my writing while I'm actually writing, the words scatter in the wind.

Madeleine L'Engle had this beautiful way of describing the creative process. As I don't have the particular quote on hand, I'm going to butcher it now in an attempt at summary. The essence of L'Engle's view is that creative process is a fine balance between gritty, dutiful work, application of time and effort, and letting the work be itself. This balance, I think, is exemplified in those times you're reviewing term papers, and come across a particularly beautiful or cogent phrase that you never recalled having written.**

I've stumbled across this balance a few times. Those are the moments I write half-consciously. The words happen; they knit themselves together into concepts and people and places. All I am, at that point, is a physical conduit to their concrete existence.

I have trouble letting the writing happen. That irks me. Because I know the qualities I wish my writing to possess. I want my words to be sharp and crisp and clean like the scent of pine on a winter night. I want characters to be multi-dimensional and plots to be stories both simple and layered at once.

It'll come, someday. The plugging-away-at-it in the meantime, however, is something at which I must continue.

(BTW, who's sad over the loss of Rory? Seriously. Hate you, Moffat, so much.)

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*Coffee grounds, on the other hand, are excellent compost material.

**Excessive amounts of caffeine and late hours spent in silent library cubicles can contribute to this sort of amnesia.

Brokenness

Sometimes, in the nights, I have to cling to music. Bach, Vivaldi, Brahms. Because  movements and symphonies are woven of structure and harmony, notes in sequence and keys that lift and stir and dance and mourn. They remind me there is cosmos, there is order in the chaos, there is beauty in the ugliness, and there is purpose and love eternally underlying and girding a broken world.