Small Town Wren

Let me preface this with the fact that I am not a softy. I spent four years in New York City riding the MTA. I’ve been groped. I’ve been flashed. I’ve been eyed. Hell, I was once even threatened with a knife by a crazy man on the A at 3:00am because I was reading a book and he was convinced it was about him. Yeah, I’m not some scaredy-cat.

Chicago’s transit system is generally a much friendlier place than the MTA. I’ve never really had to put up with a lot of things that are just part of life in New York. For instance, I have never-ever been touched inappropriately–on accident or otherwise–on the CTA. I’ve never seen genitals on the CTA either.

Last night, however, was by the far the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been made to feel on any public transportation system. It started on the Red Line. I sat down at around 9:30. About 15 minutes later I felt the prickle of being watched. And then I noticed this guy just staring at me. He looked away as soon as I spotted him. No big deal, I told myself. I’m used to being looked at: I am an attractive young woman after all (not that it makes it okay for dudes to stare at me all creepy like). But again, it didn’t rattle me.

But then he kept staring at me. His eyes kept finding me and the look he had was not the kind I’m used to dealing with. It was all out staring, and without embarrassment at all.  And it made me uncomfortable. I’ve never felt that uncomfortable before from just being looked at.  I felt uncomfortable enough that when we reached my stop, I waited for the doors to open before collecting my stuff and rushing out.

I thought that would be that. I kind of laughed at myself when I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t. I didn’t see him.

I walked up Adams to Union Station to get on the Metra back to Aurora. I got in a car and sat down, pulled out my book, and thought I’d just read for the 20 minutes until the train was scheduled to leave. But then I felt that prickle again. I looked around but nothing. Then I looked up. Sitting above and across from me, and still staring me down, was the dude from the Red Line.

Okay, it’s one thing to be a creepy dude staring at me on a train, it’s an entire different thing to follow me to a different train and continue being creepy. I texted my sister and a friend immediately, then promptly switched cars. Luckily, I did not see him again.

The whole situation really shook me though. I’ve never felt that vulnerable in a public space before. I’ve never felt so violated without being touched. I’ve never felt so threatened without an exchange of words.

I mean, WTF? Why do some men feel like this is acceptable behavior? I am a woman, but I’m a human being first. Don’t follow me and certainly don’t be a creepy fuck about it.

I first picked up The Beauty Myth three years ago. I was writing a paper for a class, for The Anthropology of Gender & Sexuality taught by Nia Parson. It was a great class, and the first time where I was inspired enough to engorge myself on outside sources for a final paper.  I ended up writing a treatise on intersection, third wave feminism, and abortion rights. It was a great paper. I shared it with the group of shamans I was observing later in the year when they started getting grumpy about the right to choose.

The only problem is I never finished it.

Some books have that problem with me: I just can’t get them read. American Gods is a book I’ve started at least a dozen times and as much as I love reading the first 100 pages, something always comes up and I can’t finish it.  With The Beauty Myth, life happened. A series of catastrophic events in early 2008 left me unable to do much else but cry and feel sorry for myself.  I had read what I needed for the paper with the intention to finish it at my leisure during the following semester. It has languished on my shelf ever since.

No more. While generally I would say I have never bought into the monolithic beauty myth, I think I am at a point in my life where I need to read it again (and actually finish it). It’s an important text and it will be good for me and the goals I am working toward right now. The whole strong woman thing.  And, in general, I need some non-textbook reading to happen in my life.

I’m constantly trying to be a better person, to rise above the negativity in my life and move on. While in theory this sounds like an easy thing to do, in practice it is a very difficult battle that I fight every single day. I do it gladly, however, because I can see the person I want to be, and I’m willing to fight hard to become that woman.

One of my big problems is holding on to anger and resentment. I’ve made huge steps on this end over the past few months, but there’s still so much room for growth. I’m certainly a more patient person than I was, and a more open person, but it still isn’t enough. I’m still not where I want to be.

I’ve found something that has been helping, however. I’ve been writing love letters to all the people I have felt have wronged me. Instead of clinging to that rage and letting it eat me alive, I have been trying to find why these so-called betrayals are things I should be thankful for. I have forced myself to re-examine my life and find the positive instead of focusing on the negative.

It’s a very good exercise, but also a very surreal one. The other day, for instance, I wrote one to someone with the dubious title of “The Other Woman.”  Today I found myself writing to my rapist. It’s something I thought I would never do, but to find the positive in such horror has been so freeing.

To find the good in it all is life affirming. This exercise in love and forgiveness has really given me the chance to refocus my life. I refuse to be gripped by anger and negativity for any longer. I cannot remember the last time I was fully free from resentment. Pessimism is not the answer; it has proven to be a dead end. The opportunities to turn that hatred inward are too great, and I can see where I have been led down that path too many times.

I’m taking a stand. For the person I want to be and the person I know I can be. It is far easier to continue to live the fearful life, to stay where we are comfortable and with what we know. I reject this idea. I have not been happy, and there is no reason for this to continue. I am brave and I am ready to start walking forward.

I still have fake blood under my fingernails. It’s really wedged in there and I still haven’t been able to dig it or wash it out.  No worries: it compliments my bruises well.

I must confess, I did not spend Halloween in my small town. I flew to New York City to visit friends and attended the Best Party of the Year: Hallowmas.  Hallowmas is the show the World Inferno/Friendship Society plays on Halloween every year, and it’s always pretty awesome.  This year was no exception.

My sister and David (previously mentioned) have been going for years. I joined in while I still lived in New York. I couldn’t dream of missing it this year, and flying across the country with my sister is always a trip. It started out with a Toasters show and ended in a pool of sweat, exhaustion, and euphoria.

I broke my stagedive virginity at this show. Three times. The feeling of leaping into the hands of total strangers, praying they will catch you, is a total exercise of release. You relinquish control and judgment and just fly. And when they catch you, and suddenly you are swimming above a moshing crowd, all fear is gone. You are entirely in the moment.

That is why I love mosh pits so much. It is all those reasons and more. You cannot fight the pit, only let it take you where it will. No one has control of the pit; it is the sum of it’s parts. You dive in and just go. Yes, you will get bruises, and I have many, but they do not hurt. It’s total surrender.

This Hallowmas brought the return of old friends and meeting of new. Max came to this show, and he’s been at ever Inferno show I’ve been. New friend Eoin was introduced and I hope he will return again soon. My sister and friends found him in London. It’s just a shame that the day after had to be spent calling out some people for questionable morals.

Photo courtesy of Konstantin Sergeyev.

I still have my ode to Halloween in the works, but I’m still quite exhausted from all the antics. I do, however, have bruises, and how I love them.

I look like a battered woman, and in some ways, I am.  A lover or dis-affectionate friend did not give these to me, however.  The best party in the world did.  I spent Halloween in a mosh pit, and I fought hard.