Small Town Wren

I’ve been gone awhile. It’s hard to write in your blog when you feel like nothing you have to say is important or of any consequence. I’ve probably just been psyching myself out.

I think it’s time to own up and say that I am incredibly, incredibly frustrated. And part of that frustration has to do with a lot of the resentment I feel towards life and this blog. It seems that I stop writing here every time it becomes very obvious that the purpose of this blog will not be fulfilled. I started this blog two and a half years ago to talk about moving back to Nowheresville, Illinois after graduating from New York University in May 2009. And for awhile I wrote here regularly and happily. And then it became rocky. And that rockiness has coincided with every turn that has made it clear that I would not be leaving this place when I earned my Masters Degree.

I am frustrated. I wasn’t supposed to be in my parents’ house for more than two years. I’m still here. I was supposed to be able to support myself with a Masters Degree in Education. I make $12.00 an hour and am supposed to feel “lucky” for it. I have found a field within education that I am absolutely in love with (Special Ed), would really like to pursuit that and bonus, there are positions open in it! However, getting my LBS1 to do that would make me ‘too expensive’ to ever hire.

I’ve worked my butt off my entire life to be successful. I worked hard to get into a world-renown boarding school, then to get into the best college in the world for my field. There was lots of opportunity  and money in that field until about 6 months before I graduated. I moved home to get into a Masters program which I paid for out of my pocket. I don’t have debt, not even on my credit cards. I did everything right.

I did everything right and yet everything is going wrong.

Even the little things aren’t going my way. All my knitting mojo has left the building. How many times have I had to restart the same gift for my sister? (Hint: The answer is 5.)  How many students do I miss because of a crazy merry-go-round job switch? (Answer: 46.)  Though let me clear, I am absolutely in love with the six students I see every day now and with my job. I just miss my 46 Kindergartners, too.  And how many sticks of butter did I put out to soften that were the wrong kind? (Srsly: 4.)

I’m completely head over heels for a man, but I cannot afford to start the life with him we both want. I refuse to be a kept woman. It’s just not something I can do. And let’s not get started on how much we’re be jerked around by the credit union when we are actually trying to see if we could afford to move in together.

I’m just so angry and there is no place to direct my anger. To be honest, it’s not really anyone’s fault unless we want to start glaring at bankers and mortage lenders. Well, I perhaps could be angry with the Illinois government for jerking around Education funding and not paying their bills. But the problem is, there’s no one I can walk up to and scream at them and get them to make this right.

There’s no customer service for when everything sucks.

One of the first and, to date, one of the most-bitter fights Daniil and I have ever gotten into had to do with something most people would probably raise an eyebrow or two at. It was a bitter, drawn out affair that resulted in somewhat of a compromise. To this day, though it only occasionally comes up, we struggle and butt heads about it.

You see, when I met him, he was not registered to vote. While some might not care, to me this was an issue of great and dire importance. It still is. He finally caved and registered right after last year’s elections (sigh). The compromise was he very adamantly insisted that though now he was registered and I should be happy, he would never, never, ever exercise his right to vote. And, as far as I know, he hasn’t.

And this still troubles me. Perhaps even more so than it did a year ago. Why?

I’ve noticed–and I’m not the only one–that politics is become a lot more like TMZ every day. And no one seems to care. We happily swallow up Trump’s birtherism, giggle about Jon Kyl’s ‘non-factual’ statements, and snicker about Rep. Weiner’s…well…weiner. And while we process what is happening with these news bits, we simply move on without, well, doing anything.

But then things like this happen:

They happen and we don’t notice because there’s nothing entertaining about it, and we want to be entertained. LZ Ganderson wrote on CNN:

It shouldn’t really matter which side of the fence you stand on regarding abortion: that tone, that rationale, has no place in the debate. That more people, more women, were not angered by DeGraaf’s statements only highlights just how little we are paying attention to lawmakers.

He’s right. We’re not paying attention, and crazy whackadoo lawmakers have figured that out. As long as political news coverage is actually entertainment in content, these politicians can do and say whatever they like. My 4th grade teacher always said that who you are is the person you are when no one is watching.

No one is watching what’s going on. No one is watching and the masks are coming off. And since no one is watching, no one notices when they change the law in ways we don’t like, to reflect values we don’t believe in.

I am shocked and horrified that it’s okay, politically and socially, to say things like that, to say that you should plan ahead for rape. I’m upset this isn’t more news worthy. I’m ashamed that we could stand for it in this country.

Politics isn’t entertainment, people. It’s real life, and it has very real consequences. And sadly, punishing women and making the lives of women more difficult has been a common theme of late (or almost forever, really). But it’s not just women, it’s happening to the poor and to the brown, too. It’s only going to get worse if we continue to view politicians the same way we do celebrities.

As a side not, it was pretty ingenous of DeGraff to sugges his wife and daughter would “never need an abortion” if they were raped. Last time I checked, ‘never need’ was not synonymous with ‘I will forbid’.

I made it home late Monday night. It was a heck of a journey that culminated in landing at O’Hare about 2 seconds before the airport shut down. We got stuck on the tarmac at our destination. Too much lightning apparently; they wouldn’t let the plane get to the gate. The wind was so strong our plane started to lift up again and countermeasures had to be taken. It was ridiculous.

It was a very philosophical trip. I have lots of thoughts on lots of things, and I’m too tired to get them out at present. Pictures and words will follow soon. I promise.

I’ve had to deal with an astonishing amount of unprofessionalism today. I can’t even wrap my brain around all of it. Nothing like someone breaching your confidence, but then not evening getting that breach right. Nothing like having your ass over the fire due to something you never even said.

Dear Douchebags Driving Nice Cars:

I get it: you have a lot of money. You also have really poor self-esteem married to a glaring sense of entitlement. These three things have led to the Lamborghini, Jaguar, Porche, or whatever that you are driving that is in mint condition and the new wax job. It also explains why your car is that horrible color burnt orange, pea green, or whatever.

I, on the other hand, am driving an 11-year-old White Honda that isn’t even mine. And has shitty brakes and awful traction. I am not the person to play Asshole Highway Chicken with.

I’m sorry 80 mph on the Eisenhower is not fast enough for you. But I will never get out of your way for throwing a temper tantrum with your brights over how terribly slow I am driving. And I will certainly not brake when you cross four lanes of traffic to get around all the cars and then get back in front of me and try to slow down to 30 mph.

Let me tell you a story of another one of your kind. I was walking through a construction zone in New York City that had a flagger directing traffic and pedestrians. I had the right of way, and Mr. Brand New Jaguar had the stop sign. It was real cute how he faked a slow down, swerved around the flagger, and then slammed on the brakes when he realized that, gee, there was a person there.  A person wearing steel-toed boots. A person who can kick hard enough to leave a boot dent in their shiny new car. A person who may have been me.  Those cars you drive might be expensive, but the siding is cheap.

I will not slow down for your entitled belief that you think the Eisenhower is the Autobahn. I will laugh when you flick me off as if I were the most horrid person on the planet. I will cackle as you realize I’m not slowing down to protect your precious little sports car. And I will reach for my phone and I will call the police, and I will tell them you are speeding 100 mph and driving recklessly and that you are the only burnt orange Lamborghini heading into the city on a Friday night when there are cops all over the highway.

I hope you like your ticket, asshole. It made my day seeing you pulled over.

But here’s a tip for the rest of you Douchebags Driving Nice Cards. When you are driving a really expensive sports car that is so obviously a stand-in for the shortcomings in your life: don’t piss off the people around you. We don’t have overpriced physical egos to protect and we can cost you a fortune for doing something that’s free.

Sincerely,
Wren

Yes, you heard me. Kill the bill. I, a long standing proponent of health care reform, someone who still thinks we desperately need it, is ready to say kill the bill.

The public option? Gone. Expansion of Medicare? Gone. Ability for the government to negotiate pricing, pharmaceuticals, etc? Gone. Guarantees that insurance companies supply useful plans? Never there. Fines for those who cannot buy health insurance? Still intact.

I’m done. Yesterday’s paycheck told me I’ve earned around $6700 this year. The only reason I’m not on food stamps and in public housing is because my parents are giving me a place to stay and my grad school status allows them to claim me as a dependent so I still have health insurance. My grandmother is helping me with tuition.

Under this bill, I’d be required to pay the government a $1500-$3000 fine a year if I cannot afford health insurance. Considering the status of government subsidies is in peril, it’s pretty damn likely I will not have health insurance unless it is employer supplied. I cannot afford that fine. I don’t even make enough money to survive on my own. Next year I’ll be making even less money due to the legal slave labor of student teaching. Oh, right, it’s in the disguise of accredited classes. This isn’t an internship; it’s taking over someone’s job who is still getting paid for that job to the attune of at least $44,000. But that’s another story.

This bill is fundamentally violent. All it does is deliver 30 million new paying customers to a business that doesn’t actually want to provide the services we pay them to provide. Fuck that. Fuck all of it.

A: When you walk out of work and a sheet of ice is covering all your windows inside your car. Thank goodness I was stupid and touched the windshield in front of the driver’s seat a few months back so that part didn’t freeze over.

I’d have a picture of it, but there’s no way in hell I’m going back outside.

It’s a little old, but very relevant to my life at the moment. Seeing as my recent reading selection has had a lot to do on the subject and I’ve been dealing with this stuff in my personal life, it feels appropriate to link it. A diary entry over at Daily Kos discusses Rape Culture. Here are some pretty disturbing statistics:

According to the findings, around 25% of people believe that women who have been raped are at least partly to blame because of how they dressed, how much they drank or how many sexual partners they have had.

The survey revealed that:
-38% believe that a woman is partly to blame for rape if she walks through a deserted area.
-37% think a woman is partly to blame if she flirts extensively.
-30% think a woman is partly to blame if she flirts with a man at all or fails to say no clearly.

It also found that 10% of people feel that a woman is completely to blame for rape if she has had a number of sexual partners.

Read the rest of it here.

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.

After our insurance company announced their premiums for next year, it officially became cheaper for me to spend two years in grad school earning a degree while staying on my parents’ health insurance than to pay for individual coverage.

That’s right. My master’s is cheaper than health care. I can’t even come up with anything to say about it.