evitae

It is an emotional and intellectual imperative that I keep writing. I kept getting sidetracked by dates and numbers. I kicked myself when I didn’t follow through on Sunday, January 1st. I can’t explain my obsession with sequences, dates, and numbers. Maybe it was my way of feeling like I had control over the past. No use in pretending. I can only control now. Therefore, going forward, I will write and draw and design as it comes to me. Creativity is fleeting. There are so many ideas that I didn’t act on and have now lost. With tools like Evernote, my sketchbook, and my notebook, I will reclaim creativity. No excuses.

I felt the sting of being the (female) minority for the first time today, when someone uttered the sexist remark, “he runs like a girl.” My emotional response shocked me more than the comment. I sensed a small pause among the other gentlemen at the table before any amusement registered on their faces, but it didn’t change the fact that it made me feel belittled and irrelevant. My eyes burned a little. A positive, upbeat mood, fostered by a previous meeting about making an impact by volunteering was suddenly shattered by the smallest joke.

I just wanted to get out of there. I got up from the table, pretending to grab another cookie, scouting for a predominately female table to move to. Having come from a meeting that was curiously dominated by women, I thought I would feel better returning to such an environment. There were one or two such tables, but they were full (and boisterous), so I sat back down and cloaked myself in introversion, keeping up appearances that I was listening or part of the conversation with the occasional glance, smirk, or nod. What did I care anyway? I’m not a girl anymore after all. Sure, a grown man running like a little lass would be pretty funny… however it is a little girl runs anyway. But then why not say he runs like a little kid? Is that ageist?¹

Only now the the witty retorts come to me. I could have said, “Oh, so he runs like her?” a fellow employee and woman who is passionate about running and sits just a few seats behind me. I can just imagine the silence that might have been, or how they might have kept talking over me instead. Still, I wonder, how could I have enlightened him about the hurt his small words might cause? How could I make this a teachable moment instead of a venomous attack on his “manhood?” How could I make my point without it being attributed to my gender (or race for that matter)? Did it make any sense to spoil the mood to assert my presence, especially when I had joined them so late into the conversation? Instead, I chose silence.

I often feel an immense pressure to act as “one of the guys.” Most of the time, it makes me feel included and even empowered. I can just have fun, and for the most part, be myself. I don’t need to compete for their attention because I am one of them.² The inevitable, but typically mild sexist humor whizzes right over my head. Heck, sometimes I join in. Besides, it’s not my job to police humanity, is it?

Yet every once in a while, it makes me feel terrible. How much of this misogynistic behavior (mild or otherwise) have I internalized and accepted? It’s like I’m compromising that other side of me, my femininity, a side that is barely dominant in my personality, but is still important. I just wish I could have said something, anything, to help remind them that ours is a workplace that should promote diversity and conclusion, and should thusly be a place where exclusive language is avoided. Some might argue that my passiveness is feminine, but on the other hand, any aggression I might show to express a point, to assert myself, is either mannish (and therefore inappropriate) or negatively feminine, that is, bitchy.³

In other words, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. But I guess it’s better to always do anyway. The guys that will try to understand or do and stand up for you, those are your true friends. Unless of course, you don’t think guys and gals can be friends. That, however, is altogether a different story…

1. Does anyone care about ageism anyway? [↩]
2. There’s no better wing man than a woman. [↩]
3. Or just what they would expect from a woman. [↩]

Privilege has always been something that I’ve automatically conflated with “race,” and specifically, with “whiteness.”¹ It’s not that I don’t recognize those privileges I do have. Those just aren’t the first things that come to mind. Human nature inclines us to think constantly about the things we wish to have, not those we already do.²

Yet, the fact of the matter is, everything that is a conceivable advantage to someone else, whether you perceive it that way or not, is a privilege. That being said, it never really occurred to me that my size should be deemed as such. It’s just not something I feel the need to obsess over. In fact, I get a little peeved when people label me “skinny.” It’s not that I disagree with them, though I personally identify as the “average” body type since, despite appearances, I’m in terrible shape. I just find it incredibly irritating that people feel the need to keep bringing it up. Somehow, my relatively healthy weight (and body image) marks me as peculiar, particularly among women.³ In our weight obsessed society, it’s been long established that “skinny” is the perceived norm, despite the fact that obesity is pretty prevalent. So how do people cope?

Everywhere I turn, someone is counting calories, giving up bread and pasta, or not eating altogether. Given the positive relationship I have with food, it is absolutely infuriating to watch my friends clamor over what seems like such a trivial detail. Everything in moderation, right? Why fuss over it anymore than that? I wouldn’t call myself a glutton, but I do enjoy food a great deal, especially in good company. Some of my fondest memories were shared over a delicious meal, with people who shared my enthusiasm for food. So you can imagine how I must feel when a friend asks to change plans last minute on account of her diet.

I was livid. Fortunately, the conversation took place over instant messaging, otherwise I may not have dealt with it so calmly. We had plans after work to get bubble tea, one of my personal favorites that I’d been craving for a while at the time. It dawned on her just hours before our departure, having recently renewed her enthusiasm for her diet, that the calories of the drink would certainly be high. Were it not so close to the day of the event, I may not have been quite as upset about it. In retrospect, I probably overreacted, but the alternative, Starbucks, is unappetizing. Yet, that’s not what most offended me. Adding insult to injury, she added, “Sorry, us regular girls don’t get to have as much fun as you skinny girls do.”⁴

This “consolation” was not well received. Right then and there, I considered canceling the event altogether. Instead, I said, “I hope you don’t think that’s a compliment…” She shrugged it off, stating that was in fact her intent.⁵ I was deeply offended by her remark, and I regret not speaking to it then. It’s probably for the best, as I was very likely to blow it out of proportion, given my state of mind (hungry). Ultimately, however, the conversation ended in compromise.

This situation gave me new insight into the guilt we associate with privilege, especially when it is uncommon or perceived to be undeserved or else endowed by something as arbitrary as genetics. I’m sure my genes do play some role in my stature, but obesity is no stranger to my family. Why should I be deemed “irregular” because I “lucked out?” Besides, it’s not all a matter of fortune anyway. There are a number of personal preferences, such as my general ambivalence towards fattening deserts, frequent snacking, love of milk, and habit of eating with the urgency of a cow that have ensured that my figure is comparatively slim. I cannot help that anymore than the color of my skin. In fact, for a moment I felt like I could almost imagine what white guilt felt like, to be accosted for something that had nothing to do with me, at least not immediately.⁶

But I’m done with feeling guilty or sorry for other people who intend to pity and punish themselves for the shape of their bodies. If you’re genuinely obsessed with your body for health rather than image, then I completely support you. Maybe you can even encourage me to exercise more often. All I can ask of my friends is that they know that whatever their choices (including those that may annoy me), I accept them for who they are, not the shape they come in. Stay healthy, friends.

1. Note that I use these terms only loosely, as I buy into neither concept, but they suffice to explain myself in this context. I am of the mind that race is a biological fallacy devised to divide and conquer, whereas whiteness, decoupled from skin color, is merely a subset of human culture. These topics are deserving of separate posts altogether, so I will not go into further detail here. [↩]
2. Envy is such a wasteful emotion. [↩]
3. This may be yet another reason why I occasionally, perhaps often, prefer sausage fests as far as friends are concerned. Tacos are too insistent on being lean. Where’s the beef?! [↩]
4. As this was a plain-text conversation, the emphasis is mine. [↩]
5. But does the intent of words mean more, or their actual impact? How do you reconcile intention with perception? Can you? [↩]
6. Of course race is far more complicated, insofar as minor biological differences are virtually intangible, whereas weight is not. [↩]