On Mediocre White Male Syndrome.

By Ana CL

As a creative person, I am naturally friends with a lot of other creative folk-- all of whom comprise a diverse range of perspectives that constantly energize and elevate me.
 Because writing like all other arts, is hard work-- (which I do for free) and because community is everything when you're a struggling blogger, I rely on these perspectives for solidarity and guidance.

The one group of people who I get the least acknowledgement and support from however, are creative white guys-- who routinely dismiss, and overlook my contributions, while expecting me to fall all over their artistic/activist endeavors (to the point where they literally interrupt, and talk over me, whenever I bring up my projects.)

In their defense, this behavior is a symptom of a much larger societal ill I like to call:  "mediocre white male syndrome--" a condition wherein the affected white man sports an inflated sense of talent and worth, at the expense of women and people of color.

And this behavior isn't even limited to a mere disregard for women's perspectives--it's also made plain in the aggressive and active belittling of our work. (through a process called "mansplaining")

It isn't enough that in a would-be-dialogue about writing, a creative white guy will dominate our discussion with superfluous self-aggrandizing details about his personal "search for truth" (gag)   Nay, he will also go out of his way to  "show me my place" most notably by referring to my blog as a "fun project." (unlike his pieces, which he simply refers to as his "work")

Then, in an attempt to appear gentlemanly, he'll give me "advice" I didn't ask for-- which coincidentally also functions as thinly disguised disdain for my efforts:
For starters he'll imply my writing doesn't serve a purpose, by mentioning how pop culture's influence is overhyped. Get it? Everyone knows its bullshit, so why bother trying to analyze it?
(except I don't think it's bullshit, which is why I'm the one writing this blog, and not you.)

Then he'll suggest doing some more "original work" (like he does, since he's never been influenced by anybody, ever,)-- a hint he'll  follow up with a patronizing observation about the feeble repetitiveness of online feminism. (Funny, I was going to say I find his insights repetitive and feeble.) Then when my annoyance becomes obvious, he'll tell me to lighten up. Because clearly, I'm the problem in this conversation.


I don't have one particular person in mind, as I write this. And i didn't jump into this post fresh off of an infuriating conversation. What I am describing here is in fact a pervasive attitude  held by many of my white male peers. Not all of them reach the heights of entitlement i've just described, but nearly all of them have (consciously or not) positioned themselves as a figure of creative authority over me.
And I'm sick of it.
Guys:  You don't know better than me. Your ideas aren't better than mine. Your work isn't more original than mine. And you don't know more about feminism than I do.  So.
Stop. talking. down. to. me.

Society has conditioned women to want to appear nice, and you've taken advantage of that, every time I felt compelled to indulge another self-absorbed tangent  about your craft with appreciative receptivity. I don't ever regret being thoughtful, and supportive-- and i'm certainly not going to adopt your method of rudeness instead. (I have my own standards, thank you.) But while I will continue to be fair, I will stop insisting on being nice. 

You think this won't affect you dudes, but it will. Because you rely  a lot on the support and admiration of women. (much more than you think.)

Cheers!

The time I engaged with a pickup-artist

By Anči

The moment I became flustered, I knew my rejection wouldn't take.  Not that it was my responsibility to project earnestness, when a verbal 'no thank you' should have sufficed.
But something in his expression had alerted me of a cynical tendency to disregard protests like mine.

It's the curse of every anxious woman, whose shaky refusals are rarely afforded the respect they deserve. It's not enough to say no, we also must be convincing- a challenge I am rarely up to.

The fact is, getting approached by strange men makes me nervous--  the last time I turned down a pleasant-looking fellow, he had snapped "you're not even good-looking. You look totally country."
At the time, I had played it cool; swinging my hips as I marched away.  But the encounter had  left me feeling shaken.
Was I going to be insulted every time I refused to indulge some lonely bro's ego?
 I've also been called a slut once, for refusing to engage a leering creep, while sunning myself in a bikini. (How dare I expose my skin, and not expect harassment? ) But the most predictable (and painful) backlash in these types of situations is the classic crack about my stutter.

 This was one one of those times:
"Calm down, you're stuttering a lot," (Really, calm down?  I've had a stutter since I was four year's old, pal.)

I knew I was being negged, and the realization annoyed me, almost as much as it intrigued me.
 No, not like that. Give me some credit: I'm a 26 year old feminist with an aversion to both cologne and bullshit. (in other words, don't waste your time trying.)
  But I've also experienced my share of humiliation at the hands of a man eager to exploit my insecurity and inexperience.
And for some reason I  saw this exchange as my chance to flip the script.

When I was 19, I started dating a 25 year old. 
 A few weeks into our courtship, I agreed to come up to his room. And as we began kissing that night, I started making it clear that things wouldn't progress any further.
 It was only when my rebuffs grew insistent, that he gloomily began winding things down.  Naturally I had been annoyed by his forceful attempts at persuasion, but at the same time, I was a teenage girl who badly wanted the approval, of an 'older man.' So instead of getting up to leave or launching into a speech about consent,  I offered up a weak smile.
He half-heartedly began to caress my shoulder. 
 "What's up?" I asked.  
 "Nothing. Although... I thought you said you liked to work out." 
"I do workout."
"It's kinda hard to tell," he answered, looking me over slowly;  and then I knew I was  being punished for my frigidity.

What I didn't realize, was that that remark would herald the beginning of a culturally indentured servitude to every scorned suitor with the emotional intelligence of a child. 
It was the start of negging seasons.

Now at 26,  I stirred my cappuccino, and observed my new acquaintance; making note of his increasingly aggressive (and ridiculous) posturing: chest out; fingers suggestively encircling the loops of his belt.  And as I stared back icily, I thought "I'm gonna take this negging motherfucker down."

 According to a forum for pick up artists (which I am not going to link to): "A neg can be many things as long as it accomplishes the purpose of diminishing the target’s value in a manner that flies under her radar. A neg should always come off in a way that makes it look accidental or unintentional....You can take anything that is less than stellar about her and draw attention to it while pretending to be charmed in a friendly way. Eventually you will be able to instantly spot things about a woman that can be turned into negs and poked at in front of her friends."
 (Notice here, that women are "targets" not people.)

Luckily for me, I come equipped with an easily-exploited "shortcoming" of my own. My stutter-- and what better way to rattle me, than by drawing unwanted attention to it. (zero points for creativity, though.)

A stutter is a tricky thing to navigate. For one thing it  exists in a grey area of social consciousness, oscillating between a quirk and a handicap. And unlike commensurate quips about a commonly recognized disability, (such as deafness)  digs at my speech aren't necessarily read as cruel.  In fact it's simple to toss in an offhand reference to my disfluency, while keeping the conversation light. (The expectation of course, being that in an attempt to appear laid back, I will laugh along with my bully--- thereby relinquishing the mythical 'upper hand,' along with the rest of my dignity. )

"are you always this shy?" The man continued excitedly.
 Here was my chance. I breathed in through my nose, like my speech therapist had shown me, enunciating every syllable clearly:   "Actually, I'm surprised that you brought up my stutter. I thought that was something only the mean kids did."
I didn't have to wait long for the words to register. In the second it took me to look up, he had become flustered, and remorseful, swearing he hadn't meant any offense. (and unwisely adding that he found my stutter "cute.")
 
I maintained a neutral expression, visibly unmoved by his efforts... as his approach shifted back to nervous 'charm.'
The resulting impression was that of  a formerly cocky "playa"committed to a humiliating (and unsolicited) exercise in verbal self-flagellation. (As evidenced by his readiness to brand himself as "an asshole", about twenty times in succession.)  He paused his ramblings once or twice to breathe, and then again, to work in a  bizarre request for my number. (really?)  As I sat back and watched him squirm, I felt satisfied.  I'd also had enough of this pitiful performance.
Declining his last appeal, I stood up to leave-- nodding once, goodbye.


Turns out that while it's  easy, (and cowardly) to confuse a teenage girl, It's harder to face a woman who's called you on your bullshit.



click here to follow this blog on facebook

"Real men vs. underwear models" is a thing of beauty

 Anči

For those of you who thought Body Acceptance only applied to women, here is an awesome new campaign aimed at challenging rigid notions of masculinity!
 Dubbed "Real men vs. underwear models," this project is exactly what it sounds like:

sexy.

is it crazy that i'm actually more attracted to the guy on the left? Absolutely not. The guy on the right looks like he wants to kill me. Also, his hair makes him look stupid. This message is way too long to work as a caption.

What I love about this campaign is that it acknowledges something most men have been reluctant to discuss: That beauty standards are oppressive to dudes too.  And while guys certainly don't experience the same level of bodyshaming, and scrutiny as we do, they still have a male beauty myth to contend with.

This new wave of consciousness-raising might be the reason so many guy friends have opened up to me about battling body image issues:  these complexes have simply become common enough, that overlooking them is no longer an option.  In fact, pretending to be unaffected by beauty standards would at this point, only demonstrate an extraordinary lack of awareness. Not to mention doucheyness.

 The time for faking a relaxed attitude is over, lads. You can sing belch your suffering to the heavens-- or weep into the bosom of your bro. Because some bros have bosoms too.