A thing about weddings that I wrote!

I'm leaving tomorrow evening for a July 4th long weekend with my fiance's family, and I'm working on a longer post that may take some time to put together. In the meantime, here's a link to something I wrote for Offbeat Bride (an amazing, inclusive, non-stuffy wedding website) a few months ago!

 Who the hell cares: important lessons from partners who aren't as interested in wedding planning

Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries: A Review of Season 2

Murder mystery series, whether in book or television form, have always been amusing to me as far as the overall conceit works. Not the Law & Order-style murder mysteries, where you have professional detectives getting called into investigations because that's their job. But more the Nancy Drew-style series, where an amateur, otherwise regular person goes about their daily life, which just happens to include a gruesome murder every week or so.

It's suspension of disbelief that allows these type of series to survive and flourish. (If you witnessed a murder every week, wouldn't you start to go a little crazy after a while?) And as far as flourishing goes, I am overjoyed that the Australian series Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries is going to come back for a third season sometime later this year, after some consternation and wringing of hands by its fans who were worried that it might be canceled.

I love this show. Once I'd learned that a third season was imminent, I spent the past weekend watching the entire second season (and rewatching part of the first). And let me tell you, suspension of disbelief is never more enjoyable than when you're immersed in Miss Fisher's world. It's Melbourne, Australia in the 1920s. Phryne Fisher has inherited a vast fortune, which allows her the freedom and the funds to dress in couture every day, gallivant around town in her top-of-the-line "motorcar," and support a complete household staff in her luxurious home. Phryne speaks her mind and does what she likes, and she's irresistible with her coiffed black bob and her purr of a voice.

All of this combined with Phryne's insistence on solving crimes and upholding justice would be enough, but there's more. She's talented and athletic, confident and witty, intelligent and intuitive. (As I write this, I wonder how it's possible to love and admire a character with almost no flaws.) Season 2 finds her performing a fan dance at a gentleman's club (all part of an undercover scheme, naturally), acting out a radio drama, directing a film, and showing off her singing abilities. She is sexually voracious and independent; nearly every episode includes a brief moment with a new lover, who is featured in that episode, appears in her bed for one glorious evening, and never turns up again. Sex is fun, guilt-free recreation for Phryne--an extraordinary accomplishment for a woman in that era, and often in this one.

This leaves us wondering what's going to happen with Phryne and Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, whose will-they-or-won't-they chemistry was evident nearly from the first episode and only grows stronger in the second season. The traditional television formula would have us believe that eventually, Jack and Phryne will put aside all their reservations about one another, fall into each other's arms, and live happily ever after. That still could happen here--the sexual tension between them is thick and permeable, and their friendship is solid--but what exactly would "happily ever after" look like for these two? It's practically unthinkable that Phryne would settle down into a quiet, romantic life with Jack, and as much as I want them to be together, I would also be disappointed by that kind of ending.

The good news is that we've got Season 3 to look forward to now. Spoiler alert--there are a few tantalizing "almost" moments in this most recent season, but Jack and Phryne never do share as much as a first kiss, making the advent of the third season that much more exciting.

In "Dead Air," the 11th of 13 episodes in Season 2, Jack Robinson counsels his constable, the boyish Hugh Collins, on how to respond to the fact that Hugh's fiancee Dot (Phryne's constant companion) doesn't want to quit working once they get married. Poor traditional Hugh isn't sure how to take it. "That's the paradox of pursuing a modern woman," Jack tells him. And he would know.

Look at these two! I mean, seriously. Can't wait for Season 3.

Re-finding Feminism

A while back--not far back enough that I'm able to stop cringing about it yet--I renounced feminism.

Well, kind of. I never stopped believing in equal rights for women; I never stopped being pro-choice and I never quit voting and I never decided that we women were all just a bunch of whiny harpies who needed to be put back in our place. I held onto my beliefs, but the word "feminism" became a dirty one in my vocabulary.

The unfortunate, hilarious, oooh-seriously? reason: I was influenced by a man I was dating at the time.

He was, generally, a good guy. Probably still is. And by "good guy," I mean he was respectful and wasn't the type of man you'd find creeping on women in bars or raping anyone. I mean the basic tenets of not being a monster.

But he felt threatened by feminism. As he explained it to me, feminism meant preferential treatment of women by a society trying too hard to right its past wrongs. As a man, he felt he was often overlooked for things like jobs or scholarships, in favor of someone who could fill a diversity quota. And as a white man especially, he felt that as an individual he might miss out on opportunities because he represented too much power and privilege. He was angry that traditional gender roles not only limited and hurt women, but men as well--it was just that no one seemed to care.

Back then, I understood very little about the concept of "privilege." It didn't occur to me to tell him: Yes, but as a white male in America, you have so many advantages you probably don't see most of them. Or: the very fact that you feel threatened by women standing up for their rights not to be second-class citizens is proof of why feminism is important.

I wanted this dude to love me. So he kept talking about how feminism had wronged him, and slowly, I came around to his point of view.

I was raised by feminists. My mother in particular was crucial to this part of my upbringing: giving me books by Gloria Steinem, teaching me about my period and the particulars of my lady-parts when I was very young (much to my chagrin), subscribing me to New Moon magazine. My father was never so overt, but he instilled a strong sense of responsibility and independence in me, and he always liked to toss a baseball or kick a soccer ball around with me when I was growing up. None of this "if only you were a boy" BS.

When I started dating this particular man, I felt only briefly that I was betraying myself (no kidding). I was giving up the ideals that I'd learned were so important, in favor of something that, I was convinced, was more evolved, more enlightened. Men experience sexism, too!!! I'd think, anytime someone mentioned something unfair to women. Harassment? Stereotyping? Discrimination? They happened to men, too, I reasoned, and therefore what women experienced wasn't so special. It was hardly worth discussion. And after all, if you were getting paid less than a man for the same work, it was probably your own fault. I wrote an editorial for my school paper about "reverse sexism" and began explaining that "I'm a humanist, not a feminist. I believe in equal rights for ALL PEOPLE."

I was probably insufferable.

I'm back on track now. That man has been out of my life for several years now. A while ago, I read Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman and found myself falling back into the soft, pillowy safety net of my feminist allies thanks to her clarity, wit, and utter reasonableness. This quote of hers, in particular, helped lead me out of the tunnel:

“We need to reclaim the word 'feminism'. We need the word 'feminism' back real bad. When statistics come in saying that only 29% of American women would describe themselves as feminist - and only 42% of British women - I used to think, What do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of 'liberation for women' is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? 'Vogue' by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES? Or were you just DRUNK AT THE TIME OF THE SURVEY?” 

And with that I realized what an idiot I'd been.

Several things have happened in my life recently, however, that made me realize that my own return to sanity regarding feminism doesn't mean shit for the rest of the world. Caitlin Moran is right. A lot of us just plain suck when it comes to women's issues, and whether it's because we're too afraid of the "feminist" label or have some misguided idea of what feminism is, we're not doing a very good job at all.

Identifying as a feminist can be terrifying. It still is for me. I have a hard time talking about it with anyone whose viewpoints might be different than mine; it's only the known feminists I can be completely honest with. That's partly to do with my own dislike of any sort of conflict, but a lot of feminists struggle with being loud and proud about it, too. If I were to tell a complete stranger that I'm a feminist, that person might come to all sorts of unfair conclusions about me, from the superficial ones (I must hate the color pink and any woman who shaves her armpits) to the devastating ones (I must hate men and want to crush their dreams).

And as much as they'd be wrong, I still don't want them to think those things about me. I do have a mental weapon (built on Caitlin Moran's influence) against that doubt and fear, though, which I'll share here.

For any woman afraid of feminism: there's a good chance that unless you live in some sort of cult, you're operating on feminist values without even realizing it. Do you have a job? Are you educated? Do you wear pants and use birth control? Do you enjoy going out unchaperoned on a Friday night, spending your own money, and heading home without any expectation of a curfew? You can thank feminism for that. Women didn't come by these privileges easily.

It's easy not to realize or remember where we've come from. It's incredibly common for an otherwise "modern woman" to not recognize why she is able to live the way she lives. I lost my way for a while, and it feels good to get back to being totally myself, thinking my own thoughts and living as I choose. And after all, isn't that the whole point?

I'm baaaaaaaack!

Hello, lovelies.

Remember when I kept a blog? It was a while back. My most recent post went up more than a year ago.

Life got a little crazy. I moved in with my boyfriend, who then became my fiance. (We're getting married in October!)

Plus I was in grad school, and hurrying to finish up a little sooner than expected so that I could put all my energy into wedding planning and just generally moving forward with my life.

But now, my degree is done, it's summer, and I have lots of ideas and thoughts. A few of them are Chicago-specific. Most of them are not. So let's just pretend that this blog is called "the Ursula files" instead of "the Chicago files" because as much as I love this city, most things that are important to me don't have a lot to do with what happens here.

Also! I used my name just then. Don't know if you noticed. But that's a new thing. Let's drop the anonymity, okay? My name is Ursula and I live in Chicago. There's probably more than a handful of us here. When I started this blog I was all worried about "important people" finding out who I was and, based on my accounts of various landmarks and restaurants in this city, decide that I was unfit for...something. A career, a livelihood, a future. But now I've decided that that's stupid.

Okay, that's enough blathering. See you guys soon.

Because I feel like the dudes need a little love.

[Updated on 7/14/15: I'm leaving this post up, unedited, because that feels like the honest thing to do. But this is just to say that, more than two years in, I don't agree with a lot of what's written here. I've reconnected with feminism, learned a LOT more about it in the process, and am done apologizing for "nice guys" and #NotAllMen-ing all over everyone. So the crux of this piece really doesn't reflect my perspective at all anymore. But, here you go.]

What I’m about to write is uncomfortable, for several reasons.  I’m a little uncomfortable with these thoughts of mine, for one thing.  More so, though, I’m nervous about what YOU might think, which is why I’m going to try very hard to make sure you get exactly what I mean.

With that out of the way: I’ve been reading and thinking a lot about rape culture in the last month or so, in light of the Steubenville events in particular.  It’s disturbing: the elements surrounding the Steubenville rape itself, the media’s response, the way that many people seem to view rape, which is often in a “who cares?” light, a fact that I find fundamentally terrifying.   

Thankfully, there have been many sane, compassionate, and lovely responses as well.  Melissa Harris-Perry’s open letter comes to mind.  So do the many, many people who fired back at CNN’s dreadful coverage of the final verdict for the Steubenville rapists.  I am lucky to live in a community of thoughtful and caring people, and have not, in person, witnessed anyone being angry at the victim of the crime or bemoaning the fates of her rapists.  So I feel like there’s hope.

I also came across this article on Upworthy: There is Actually One Golden Rule to Prevent Sexual Assault.  It’s a list of tips which all come down to, essentially, don’t rape people.  (Derp?)  

Let’s not bemoan the fact that our society has come to such obvious edicts as this, because clearly it has.  If we want to change rape culture, it’s a worthwhile endeavor to start educating people from the reverse direction.  And I’m glad to see media like this that are willing to look at the truth.

But one thing has bothered me in the week since I’ve read it: nearly every one of the “10 Top Tips to End Rape” was directed at men.  You know: “Don’t put drugs in women’s drinks.”  “When you see a woman walking by herself, leave her alone.”  “If you are in a lift and a woman gets in, don’t rape her.”

A few things about this:

• Yes, men rape far more often than women do.
• Yes, men need to be taught from boyhood that rape (or any kind of assault) is wrong.
• But.  

This is the point where I get in trouble with my feminist friends, because I see this sort of thing as an example of when feminism becomes not so much about making women equal with men, but with putting men down.

Rape is bad.  It’s bad when a man rapes a woman, it’s bad when a woman rapes a man, it’s bad when a man rapes a man, it’s bad when a woman rapes a woman.  It’s always bad.  And it should not have been so hard for Upworthy (a generally compassionate, smart website that promotes equality for everyone) to take a look at the semantics in this little article and edit it a little.

Words have meaning.  If you think about it, this article just perpetuates the concept of man as aggressor and woman as victim.  And isn’t that what we’re supposed to be changing?

And please, no jokes about “when a woman rapes a man…is it REALLY rape?”  Men, you do yourselves a disservice when you make jokes about how you have no control over your sexual impulses.  You do have control.  You’ll be fine.

I know this because I am surrounded by many smart, capable, and caring men, who have never raped anyone and are horrified by the very thought of it.  If all of these men got together and were lectured on “how not to rape a woman,” I promise you that they would all be disgusted and offended.

Yes, we need better education on this topic.  We need for people to understand that no kind of assault is appropriate, ever.  We need for everyone to get the concept of no means no, that being asleep is not the same as giving consent, that giving consent and then changing your mind is totally legit.  It’s not even that hard, but apparently we need to do a better job.

I just don’t think it’s necessary to alienate the menfolk in doing so.  If we treat them like dumb animals, how can we expect them to act like anything else?

A review of Give Me Everything You Have: On Being Stalked

 

When I see James Lasdun, the author of Give Me Everything You Have: On Being Stalked, in my mind’s eye, the image that comes to mind is actually that of singer-songwriter James Taylor.  You know the one: he’s the original soft-spoken, white-tee-shirt-wearing, acoustic-guitar-playing, almost-apologetic musician.  Your mom probably loves him.  He’s that kind of guy.  And that’s how Lasdun comes across in his memoir.  He’s overwhelmingly modest, a guy who’s happy to write his books, teach creative writing, and spend time with his family.  A sweet, unassuming soul.  

Perhaps it’s that very characteristic that, in part, led to Lasdun’s role into a haunting, years-long cyberstalking case.  Quick summary: two years after having her in a writing workshop, Lasdun gets an email from a former student, asking him to read some of her new work.  He agrees, somewhat reluctantly, and the two strike up a pleasant correspondence over the next several months.  The former student is often flirtatious, which is worrisome, but Lasdun makes it clear to her that he’s happily married and that sort of thing isn’t welcome.  At first, the former student backs off, but things escalate.  Lasdun receives several emails from her per day, some of them rambling, some sweet, some apologetic, some outright hostile.  She evens refers to herself at one point as a “verbal terrorist.”

As more and more people get roped into this (the former student emails several of Lasdun’s colleagues, denouncing him, accusing him of stealing her work), Lasdun has no choice but to bring up the situation whenever he takes on a new job.  This woman posts insane comments to his articles online, messes with his Wikipedia page, leaves hostile reviews of his work all over the Internet—leaving our hero with a mound of anxiety over his reputation and his career, not to mention his personal well-being.  

At some point in those first 70 pages or so (Lasdun jumps right into the story, with barely any prelude, which I appreciate), as you watch things get slowly more and more creepy, you may start to wonder: Isn’t he going to do anything about it?  

A few points on that: one, yes, he does eventually do something about it.  A detective gets involved.  So does the local police station.  But the authorities are of little help in the end.  The saga begins in 2006, after all, when cyberbullying was only beginning to be seen as a legitimate threat.

The second point: Lasdun is a trusting, affable fellow who wants to give his former student the benefit of the doubt, and everything screams “too late!” once he realizes that this is a much bigger problem than he’d anticipated.  This woman is pleasant and intelligent in the beginning—if just a little too friendly—and our hero is easily charmed by her.  He lives in a quiet, remote area of New York State, and although he’s accomplished in his field, he isn’t particularly well-known.  The attentions of a bright fellow writer are, understandably, refreshing and fun at first.

The third point: in the light of the recent Steubenville rapes, and all the talk afterwards about rape culture and victim shaming/victim blaming, it’s uncomfortable for me to think Why didn’t he do x, y, and z, because it doesn’t matter—it’s not his fault.  So I want to point out the difference between “How could he be such an idiot and let this happen to him?” and “Why didn’t he, you know, delete his email address when things got weird?”

That was the main thing that bothered me throughout—the apparent lack of retaliation on the part of Lasdun—and the only reasonable answer I could come up with was that it’s probably a good thing to have a record of what your stalker is saying, just in case any of it can be used as proof of criminal intent.  

What makes this story different from your average stalking tale is Lasdun’s hyper-awareness of himself.  He’s a smart man and a poet, so he’s inclined to look beyond what’s happening on the surface and see its literary and historical implications.  (Also, if you’re not particularly well-versed in the life of D.H. Lawrence, medieval literature, or the Israeli/Palestinian conflicts, there are several sections of this book that may or may not elude you.)

In the end, there is no end.  When this book was published the emails were still coming in; Give Me Everything You Have, it seems, is not a reflection about something that happened and is no longer happening, but simply an attempt for the author to gain control of his life again.  Because that’s what stalking is about.  That’s what any form of harassment or abuse is about: power and control over another person.  

This book is quiet, inquisitive, beautifully told, and terrifying.  Read it.  And be careful out there.

Okay, life is pretty awesome.

The other night I was helping my boyfriend pick out some new pants in Old Navy downtown, and once he’d selected a few pairs, he came out of the dressing room, took me by the hand, and said, “Come on, Grumpy, let’s get you home.”

I was confused and upset.  How was I being grumpy?  I was FINE!  And I told him so.  “Nah, you’re grumpy for some reason,” he said.  “Come on.  I’ll buy you some chocolate and we’ll go home.”

That, of course, made it worse.  How dare he think that, even if I WAS grumpy, that he could buy back a good mood with CHOCOLATE?  What a jerk!  I refused to let him buy me any chocolate, and after he insisted, I told him I wouldn’t eat it, and after he insisted on that point too, I told him that I might eat it but then I would promptly regurgitate it all back onto him.

Finally he wore me down.  We stopped at Godiva (FINE, WHATEVER) where he bought me a bag of sea salt caramels (FINE, WHATEVER).  Two minutes after I’d eaten one, we were strolling happily down the street, and I was back to my cheery self again.

I hugged my love and apologized.  “I forget that sometimes I can get a little hypoglycemic,” I told him (click here for fun details).  

He just smiled and pointed to himself.  “Guess who doesn’t forget that.”

It’s a good thing when you find someone who occasionally knows you better than you know yourself.  

I like to think that we looked approximately like this.