I don’t really update this place anymore. If you want to keep up with what I’m doing, check me out at JDH Creates!
This is a review of Radley Balko’s Rise of the Warrior Cop, available here: http://www.amazon.com/Rise-Warrior-Cop-Militarization-Americas-ebook/dp/B00B3M3UFQ/
Police in the United States are a constituency politicians rarely feel comfortable taking on. Republicans praise police for being tough on crime, and Democrats are reluctant to criticize police because of their long-standing alliance with unions and public workers (and police represent both.) Nevertheless, if the news stories of the past several months have taught us anything, it’s that our police forces need much greater supervision and accountability. On top of that, we need real policy reform.
But how did we get here, and why? Radley Balko traces the origins of the modern American police force from its humble roots in the English constabulary to the contemporary SWAT team. He weaves a brisk, digestible narrative and introduces what he calls the Symbolic Third Amendment. If you’re unfamiliar with the Third Amendment, that’s because it tends to have little relevance in modern American jurisprudence, though it was quite important at the time of its writing. The Third Amendment is what forbids the government from forcing citizens to house soldiers. At a glance, this would seem to have nothing to do with policing at all, but Balko makes the case that this amendment signifies a clear dividing line between civilians and the military, that there are good historical (and modern) reasons we do not use the military for law enforcement, and so militarizing the police makes little sense, either. This separation between military tactics and civilian law enforcement makes up what Balko calls the Symbolic Third Amendment, a concept he revisits frequently through the first half of his book.
Where police used to be slightly-more-empowered civilians who intervened during crimes, they are now used as paramilitary forces to terrorize “undesirable” community residents and generate revenue for cash-strapped municipal coffers. But this transformation has come at a great cost: hundreds of innocent people being victimized by raids gone wrong, raids on the wrong homes, raids based on bad informant tips. And while SWAT teams were originally developed to handle dangerous, high-profile crimes like bank robberies and hostage situations, they are now used overwhelmingly to serve warrants against people merely suspected of possessing small amounts of drugs. The very notion that police should be empowered to break down your front door, shoot your dogs, and hold guns to your head while they tear your house apart looking for a dime bag is absurd on its face, and yet 90 to 95 percent of all SWAT raids consist of exactly this. The vast majority of the time, no weapons at all are found, and rarely are large quantities of drugs recovered. Even when police break into the wrong house, tear it apart, and injure or kill the people inside, they virtually never face consequences. Instead, the victims sue the municipality which normally settles the matter for a handsome sum of money–in other words, taxpayers foot the bill for police abuses, rather than police departments or officers themselves.
This state of affairs came about through a gradual shift in focus from community policing to highly militarized drug war tactics. Drug addicts used to be regarded as objects of sympathy who needed treatment, but the warlike drug policies of Presidents Nixon, Reagan, and their successors turned people in need of medical treatment into enemies of the state, worthy only of prison–or death. This is the cost of black-and-white, militaristic rhetoric used in the name of law enforcement. Even so, decades after it began, the drug war has been an expensive, freedom-destroying failure. Though crime rates have been falling for a generation, American police continue to acquire military-grade hardware and embark on raids that are often dangerously negligent in their preparations and effects.
Balko doesn’t mention it frequently, but the most common victims of these hostile policies are minorities and the poor–those least able to defend themselves, and those with the fewest options available for recourse. Police rarely bust down the doors of wealthy CEOs or high-ranking politicians, and most middle-class white suburbs escape the daily reality of America’s modern police. But as SWAT teams have spread even into peaceful suburbs, dangerous no-knock raids against low-level drug suspects have come to places almost devoid of crime, and Balko believes this development can help spark reform. Since this book was released well before the deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and others made national news, he couldn’t have predicted that a rash of black men and boys being killed by police would raise public awareness of these issues so dramatically. However, the confluence of these events sets a perfect stage for national reform, which is Balko’s goal. After tracing the rise of police militarization, he offers a set of policy reforms that should be familiar to anyone who’s paid attention to police abuses in recent memory: end the drug war, put surveillance mechanisms in place to monitor police behavior, track numerous enforcement-related statistics as well as opening court records, which would reveal judges who never decline to sign warrants–another common problem that discourages police accountability. He also recommends stemming the flow of military-grade equipment to police forces, and especially any federal support for this. Instead, he believes federal support should be used to encourage community policing methods–officers walking beats, getting to know the people they are sworn to protect, and dismantling the “us vs. them” attitude that too often results in unnecessary injury, death, and destruction. He acknowledges that these ideas are not all easy to implement, and would first require an American public willing to push for them–something we will hopefully see in the near future.
Rise of the Warrior Cop is an excellent primer on the history of America’s policing methods, especially when it comes to the origin of the SWAT team and its perverse mission creep. I would ultimately recommend this book, but it is not without its flaws. Notably, in discussions of reform and criminal justice policies more generally, Balko ignores how other countries approach policing. It is hard to imagine that the US has nothing to learn from other democratic countries whose police forces are far less militarized. To that extent, the book is a little too US-centric, as if policing outside this country does not exist (or doesn’t pertain in any way to his thesis.) Still, it is a relatively minor oversight in an otherwise well-conceived volume.
This book is an easy recommendation to anyone who is curious about the history of law enforcement in America, and especially its growing excesses. If you want a firm understanding of how we came to the current status quo, Rise of the Warrior Cop is a great place to start.
I wrote a lengthy piece about GamerGate for the site Drunk Monkeys, which you can find here:
If you play video games and pay any attention at all to the industry itself or journalists who write about video games, you have almost surely heard about something called “GamerGate.” If you haven’t, then it will bear some explanation. (If you’re already up to speed on the controversy, skip to the next section.)
At the heart of this story are two women who don’t really have anything to do with each other apart from the fact that they are involved with video games. One is Zoe Quinn, creator of Depression Quest, and all-around outspoken independent game developer. The other is Anita Sarkeesian, creator of Feminist Frequency, a site that examines popular culture through a lens of feminist critique. Given those superficial descriptions, it might surprise some to learn that these women–among many others–have been targeted for public harassment, stalking, and abuse. As to why, that’s a somewhat longer tale.
Quinn rose to prominence in late 2013 when she submitted her game, Depression Quest, to Steam Greenlight. Because she was a woman creating a game about depression, she was harassed and insulted for her trouble. Coverage of the incident brought her no small amount of notoriety, a fact that continues to contribute to the abuse she receives. She has been accused of making up her allegations of harassment, using it to seek attention rather than trying to succeed on her own merits. No evidence of such malfeasance has ever been produced.
Sarkeesian, for her part, created a Kickstarter project in 2012 entitled Tropes vs. Women in Video Games, with the intention of producing a video series to examine portrayals of women in video games. The Kickstarter, though plagued by abuse and harassment from people who objected to Sarkeesian’s intentions, had nearly 7000 backers and raised over $158,000, though Sarkeesian only asked for $6,000. Some expressed skepticism as to whether she would ever produce the videos in question, but the videos did finally start to appear in March of 2013, and episodes have been released once every few months since.
Quinn remained in gaming news in part due to her participation in an expensive, abortive game jam. (The game jam’s failure was in no way her fault, in case you’re wondering and don’t feel like reading the link.) She has also maintained a tumblr blog on which she shares updates about her work as well as anything else she finds interesting. She created a video games sexism bingo card. Predictably, rape threats were sent in her direction in a mere 17 minutes. In short, Quinn is no stranger to online harassment, and has thus far stuck it out despite its seeming endlessness.
In mid-August of this year Eron Gjoni, a recent but former romantic partner of Quinn’s, posted an extensive blog detailing his relationship with Quinn. It came complete with text messaging logs, Facebook chat sessions, and other information meant to corroborate his narrative, namely: that Quinn cheated on him with at least five other men and, most egregiously, used sex to influence at least one (but implicitly more) game journalist into giving her a positive review of Depression Quest. This was to mark the start of an online controversy that is still burning white hot, weeks later.
There is just one problem: the review in question never happened. (To be fair, there’s much more than one problem here, but the fundamental premise is fatally flawed.)
This did not stop users of various sites from attempting to destroy her life. Though the exact perpetrators are unknown, users from 4chan and/or Reddit (it is unclear which) hacked her blog and also obtained personal information about her and her family, which was posted online and used to harass people close to her. Her friends on twitter were also targeted for abuse, including transgender friends, whose gender status was used to insult and degrade them. Quinn, for her part, was adamant that she would not discuss details of her private life in public, as they have nothing to do with her work as a game designer/developer. Nevertheless, the abuse has continued.
As a bit of good news, some of the sites whose users perpetrated the worst abuses saw their threads and posts about Quinn deleted. Moderators on Reddit, 4chan, and numerous other sites where video games are discussed saw fit to squelch discussion of Quinn’s personal life as it was not an appropriate topic for their forums, and they did not want to be held accountable for any threats, harassment, or personal information leaks. This, however, gave rise to a crackpot conspiracy theory that Quinn had somehow managed to bring almost the entire world of video games journalism into her corner to protect her, presumably through the promise of sex or some other deep magic known only to the female members of the species. Such conspiracy theories continue to proliferate despite, again, an absolute lack of evidence.
The focus of most “serious” reporting on this issue has been the allegation of “nepotism” (more correctly, cronyism) in the video games industry. While this may indeed be a real problem, there is precisely zero evidence that Quinn has been involved in any sort of quid pro quo with gaming journalists. Claims that she has used her “power” to silence critics is a laughable smokescreen–in truth, the only purpose is to silence Quinn, and anyone who sees fit to defend her. She has been repeatedly accused of “staging” her own hacking, even though Adam Sessler, a well-known gaming journalist, personally witnessed the hacks being perpetrated against her site.
Where Sarkeesian enters this shit show is more a matter of coincidence than any direct involvement with Quinn. She released the most recent video in the Tropes vs. Women in Video Games series on August 25th, when the Quinn “scandal” was still fresh. Once again, men who felt their privilege threatened took to YouTube and twitter to unleash a torrent of hatred and harassment. The abuse was taken as far as Sarkeesian being driven from her home by credible threats against herself and her family. Sarkeesian has been a convenient target for online misogynists since her first venture into the world of gaming, and the furor caused by the Quinn incident only heightened their anger. Some notable game developers, including Tim Schafer, posted links to Sarkeesian’s video in the hopes of people taking her message to heart. Instead, it only “confirmed” the extent to which women like Quinn and Sarkeesian have “corrupted” the games industry from top to bottom. Every incident that’s even loosely connected to Quinn or Sarkeesian is seen as evidence of an ever-growing conspiracy to “destroy” gaming–at least gaming as the entitled, frightened, privileged, reactionary, misogynistic, rape-threat-slinging man-children know it.
<End Background Summary>
Within the last few days, the entire debacle has come to be called GamerGate, after a hashtag that probably originated on twitter. This, at least, gives us a hook on which to hang discussion of the ordeal. The fact that it’s only just now acquired a moniker should be a good indication of how wide-ranging and confused this whole mess has been. GamerGate itself is meant to refer to the invented “scandal” that game journalists and developers are involved in illicit quid pro quo arrangements, despite an obvious lack of evidence. Like any circus, this farce has had its bizarre sideshows. For instance, a group of female game developers known as the Fine Young Capitalists made public claims that Quinn had their efforts to start a game jam stymied through shady means, a revelation which rallied the support of 4chan’s /v/ forum. The logic of the /v/ members who participated was tortuous and bizarre: by supporting women Quinn had supposedly victimized, they could both express their disdain for Quinn and her “social justice warrior” followers while simultaneously appearing like good feminists due to their support for TFYC. To date, TFYC have raised over $50,000 of their $65,000 goal.
Another peculiar exhibit in this hall of grotesqueries is the #NotYourShield twitter hashtag, conceived on 4chan as a “culturejamming” strategy. The idea is twisted but hopefully not hard to follow: since defenders of Quinn and Sarkeesian are often people concerned with equality and social justice–maligned as “Social Justice Warriors” or “SJWs”–the best way to “expose” them as “hypocrites” is to have an army of traditionally-oppressed people–black people, Latin@s, gay people, transgender individuals, etc.–declare that they are against SJWs, support media attention for GamerGate, and most importantly, are #NotYourShield. The accusation is then that so-called SJWs use their professed support for oppressed minorities as a shield to protect themselves from retribution when they supposedly harass and intimidate those who dare to speak up about GamerGate. In other words, this makes the harassers of Quinn, Sarkeesian, et al into the “real” victims: people who are simply trying to reveal the truth and being attacked for it. It does not matter that most of the people using #NotYourShield are simply employing sockpuppet accounts created solely for this purpose. The point is to drown out support for Quinn and Sarkeesian and produce a groundswell showing that GamerGate is a serious issue that needs widespread attention. Unfortunately, the strategy has been working. Due to the competing narratives and the comparatively superior organization of GamerGate proponents, mainstream reporting on this clusterfuck has generally sided with GamerGate or at least attempted to portray it as an issue with two equally valid sides, even though it is essentially an ongoing, vicious campaign to silence women in the video games subculture.
Dr. Nerdlove has described these events as the extinction burst of gaming culture, and he may be right. Others have commented on the necessity of retiring “gamer” as an identifier. The portion of the culture that seems to rear its head every time a controversy erupts is unquestionably misogynistic, hateful, and juvenile. But, much like the Tea Party, not having an ideological leg to stand on doesn’t mean they can’t accomplish a lot through sheer volume, anger, and a commitment to keep up pressure. Jenn Frank, who has been a supporter of Quinn’s work, reported on the online harassment facing Quinn and Sarkeesian. She was accused of having a conflict of interest and harassed into exiting her field. She is hardly alone. Others have left, most of them silently, unwilling or unable to put up with an unending deluge of abuse and torment simply for being female in a field dominated and controlled by men.
With all of that said, I have been playing games for most of my life. My parents had an Atari 2600 from my earliest memories. I grew up with the Nintendo and Super NES, got into PC gaming in the DOS days, and have continued that pleasant hobby into the present. It’s always been a good part of my life, but in the past couple years I’ve started to notice much more readily the amount of sexist bile that seems to infest the gaming sphere. There was hope when gaming journalists began reporting on these issues, thanks in part to women like Sarkeesian shining a spotlight on sexism in video games. As reporting on such issues increased, game developers took note and, while it’s not been an entirely smooth road, there has definitely been progress. What has not evolved, unfortunately, is the mentality of the self-described “gamer.” Often conservative, homophobic, misogynistic, and reactionary, these are men who are either still teenagers or never matured beyond their teen years, who consider games and gaming culture to be “theirs,” and who can’t tolerate the possibility that gaming might include women, people of color, or people who are gay, bisexual, transgender, or otherwise not conforming to a straight, heterosexual, cisgender identity. They are apparently frightened by these supposed incursions into their hobby, even though gaming has been popular among all walks of life since its inception. Women like Roberta Williams are responsible for some of the best chapters in the history of gaming, and yet the lie persists that gaming is primarily and rightfully a male pursuit.
Almost half of all gamers are women. These numbers are only expected to grow, and in fact by some measures women are already more than half of the gaming public. This notion scares the shit out of men who are already afraid of women, who retreated into gaming in order to escape interacting with them. I am disgusted with their behavior. I am disgusted with this so-called culture. There is no excuse for the sort of abuse and harassment women like Zoe Quinn and Anita Sarkeesian–not to mention many, many others–have received. It doesn’t matter what they’ve been accused of. Sarkeesian herself, in fact, has never been accused of any credible wrongdoing, yet she is subject to constant harassment and threats. The enemies here are not reasonable people trying to bring others to their side. The enemies are hateful slimeballs who think they can shut women up by threatening to rape them, who think they can “reclaim” their hobby by making it eternally hostile to women.
What else is there to do but prove them wrong? I am giving up “gamer”–I refuse to identify myself any longer with a horde of petulant, self-debased man-children–but I will continue to play games, and I will continue to express my support for women like Zoe Quinn and Anita Sarkeesian whenever and wherever I can. Women who want to be in gaming, whether it’s to play games, write about them, or make them, deserve to be here. They deserve to be welcomed and appreciated for what they bring to this hobby and this industry. They deserve to enjoy it as much as anyone else does, not driven out of it for checking the “wrong” box in the “gender” field.
GamerGate will fade away, eventually. It must, as it is completely lacking in substance–the ruse can’t be maintained forever. When the smoke clears and the dust settles, I hope to see a gaming industry less willing to tolerate and cater to the excesses of a coddled, infantilized core demographic, and one more eager to appeal to everyone, to disavow itself of its unseemly elements, and a gaming culture in which the thunderf00ts of the world are regarded more like a crazy uncle than a tribal chieftain.
Forward is the only way to go. They can keep “gamer,” but gaming is ours.
Further Reading: (Note: links here are not necessarily endorsements of the contents.)
- Why We Didn’t Want to Talk About “GamerGate”
- Game of moans: the death throes of the male gamer
- Not All Gamers
- First uses of #gamergate and #notyourshield hashtags
- On right-wing videogame extremism
- On gamers and identity
- Gaming Journalism is Over
Update: post has been edited to remove typos, correct some awkward words and phrases, and a new “Further Reading” section has been added.
There should be a big post incoming later tonight. We’ll see. To celebrate, there’s a new theme in place! I think it looks nice.
I wrote this a few years ago as the first part of a series, but I never wrote more than this entry. It may be a bit rough and/or crummy. In any case, here it is.
Alaska. Halloween night. Jake didn’t dress up, just so people would ask him what he was supposed to be. “I’m my evil twin, Ekaj,” he would explain.
“But you don’t look any different,” the irritating questioner would retort.
“That’s what makes me so insidious.”
Well, at least he thought it was clever, as clever as most 17-year-olds got, he decided.
Though Jake wasn’t the type to spend a lot of time on his appearance, tonight he checked himself out in the bathroom mirror, making sure his wavy, dirty blond hair didn’t look too out-of-control. A little chaos was fine, but he had to be sure it looked as if he put a bit of effort into it. He wanted to appear laid back, easygoing, no expectations. Always one to overanalyze, he assumed this would help the evening go more smoothly with Donna. Pure guesswork on his part, too, as he’d never been on a proper date, and this probably didn’t qualify either.
Satisfied that he looked decent enough in his crimson t-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers, he slipped on a blue overcoat and headed for the door. “Be home by 1AM!” his father slurred, already six beers into a case of Old Milwaukee.
The plan was simple: Jake would meet up with Donna at her babysitting gig, which was on the west end of the Air Force base. Donna frequently sat for five-year-old Arianna, and was good friends with her mother, Tiffany. It was one of Tiffany’s “house rules” that, if Donna was going to have company during a babysitting stint, Tiffany had to meet them first. The other house rule was “no sex in front of the kid.” Jake wondered how serious that one was meant to be.
From Tiffany’s house, Donna and Jake would walk to the Halloween party at the high school, at the southeast corner of the base. Donna intended to meet up with a couple of her friends to go out into the forest near the school and perform their Samhain rituals. Jake found the concept eyeroll-inducing, but he did his best to keep an open mind. Besides, after Donna was finished with her Wiccan activities, they’d go back to Tiffany’s, put Arianna to bed, and have several hours of alone time. The prospect was nerve-wracking for Jake, who hadn’t done more than kiss this girl in the week they’d been seeing each other. They spent their lunch periods together, passed notes in the hall, and on some days he walked her home. Two days before, he’d done just that, and gotten a kiss for his trouble. It was chaste and awkward, the way the first ones often were, but he certainly didn’t regret it–he knew he was behind his peers in terms of experience, and didn’t want to leave high school without even a measly kiss under his belt.
A good twenty-minute walk brought him to Tiffany’s house. Typical of military housing, it was half of a duplex, and not very large or extravagant, just a box-like structure with windows and beige siding. He opened the screen door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again–still nothing. With a sigh, he grabbed the doorknob and discovered it turned without resistance. Since he was expected, he didn’t think much of just walking in. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. As the screen door swung shut behind him, he looked straight ahead and saw two people lying on a black sofa, one on top of the other. His heart pounded but he desperately avoided overreacting. Walking closer, he made out that Donna was definitely the one on the bottom. “Having fun?” he announced himself.
The guy on top stopped what he was doing and looked up. It was Mitchell, one of Jake’s friends, and someone he knew had more than a passing interest in Donna. For her part, Donna quickly shoved him off and sat up. “Thank you,” she said, glancing in Jake’s direction. “I told him you and I were seeing each other but he just can’t take a hint.”
Mitchell smirked, draping his arm over the back of the couch, appearing rather pleased with himself. Jake crossed his arms. “Where’s Tiffany?”
“Upstairs,” Donna said. “She’s getting ready.”
“I didn’t know Mitch was going to be here,” Jake said, his casual way of asking for an explanation.
Donna was quick to explain. “He walked me over from my house and said he’d keep me company until you got here. Obviously, he had only one thing on his mind.” She shot him a nasty glare with that last comment.
“Well, I’m here now, so thanks for looking after her,” Jake said sharply, staring at the boy who’d just been necking his girlfriend.
Mitchell may not have been the most considerate person, but he could tell when he was unwanted. He grabbed his coat and left without much fanfare. Jake finally noticed the little redhead sitting on the loveseat across the room, bouncing enthusiastically. “You’re Jake!” she declared.
He nodded. “I guess you’re Arianna.”
She beamed. “Do you want a shoulder massage?”
Jake raised his eyebrow, puzzled by such an abrupt offer and the age of the person giving it. “Maybe later,” he deferred.
Donna patted the spot next to her on the sofa. “Sit down.”
Jake did as he was told. She leaned against him. “You know that asshole wouldn’t even lend me his coat for the walk over here?”
Jake tentatively put his hands on her shoulders. “Shouldn’t you have brought your own?”
“Oh, I see. Take his side.”
He rolled his eyes.
Moments later, Tiffany finally made her appearance. She was tall, blonde, and thin, and Jake thought she looked older than she really was. For someone in her mid twenties, she had too many wrinkles, pronounced bags under her eyes. He didn’t know if it was young parenthood that caused it, military life, or something else. Nevertheless, she was in a stellar mood. “I’ve got a date tonight,” she announced, showing off her bare midriff and hip-huggers. Definitely dressed to get laid, Jake thought. “You must be Jake,” she said. “You’re not as cute as Donna said.”
“Uh, thanks,” Jake smirked.
“But you don’t look like a creep, so that’s good. When will you two be back?”
“No more than a couple hours,” Donna promised. “When is your date?”
“A little after eight.” It was five-thirty, so Jake knew they had plenty of time.
Donna grabbed Jake by the hand and led him toward the door. Tiffany went for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, getting a head start on her evening. “We’ll be back!” Donna reassured.
The two of them began their trek across several streets and a few parks, working their way toward the high school. Donna did most of the talking, which was fine with Jake. He didn’t care for talking about himself, and he absolutely wanted to get to know her better.
“My dad almost didn’t let me babysit tonight. He pulled some bullshit with saying my grades weren’t good or something. He just likes to yank my chain a lot. Do your parents do that?”
Jake shook his head. “My dad doesn’t really care what I do, as long as I’m home on time. He knows I stay out of trouble.”
“My parents are assholes. They always hassle me for no reason. And then they reward my little brother for doing nothing, and rub it in my face.”
All of this sounded familiar to Jake. The first time they really talked, at the Homecoming dance, she’d gone off at considerable length about her father. Jake thought the man sounded controlling and manipulative, but hadn’t yet met him. She just always seemed to have a lot of ill will directed toward him. But then, what teenager didn’t fight with their parents?
Then again, Jake never really argued with his parents. He got the usual lectures about poor grades (anything below an “A” didn’t cut the mustard), sloppy clothing, and general ambivalence to the world around him, but he never properly rebelled like most of his peers seemed to. Maybe it was because he got all that chaos out of his system years before. For some reason, he just never felt motivated to stick it to his parents and make their lives a living hell. Plus, since his parents divorced, his father was in a perpetual drunken stupor, reeking of cheap beer and rum and often oblivious to anything with less than 5% alcohol content by volume.
So, Donna spent most of their journey complaining about her family. Her father was an ass, and her mother was an idiot, and her brother was a prick. Jake had very little to say that would comfort her, but he hoped being able to vent to someone would help her feel better.
It was about this time that Jake realized Donna hadn’t actually dressed up, either. She wore a green turtleneck and jeans, hardly anything that screamed “Halloween.” Between parental rants, he inserted the question: “Are you supposed to be anything for Halloween?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do I look like a little kid to you? I’m fourteen, I quit dressing up when I was twelve! And you’re one to talk. What’re you supposed to be?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Ekaj, Jake’s evil twin.”
She didn’t look very amused. “That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid,” he shot back.
“I’m sure I could’ve come up with something better than ‘evil twin.'”
As they walked along one of the major roads, they saw the high school coming up. Jake walked closer to her, which prompted her to tug at his coat. “I’m cold,” she said flatly. He slipped out of the thick, blue covering and threw it around her. She smiled and kissed his cheek. “You’re a gentleman.” The “unlike Mitch” was implied, Jake thought.
The sky had already darkened for the most part, but a plethora of lights illuminated the school, revealing dozens of students strolling in and out through the front doors. Jake and Donna greeted a few acquaintances in passing on their way inside, moving toward the great hall, where most of the festitivies occurred. The scene was crowded, students milling about, trying a random assortment of games. People played Twister for prizes, something Jake would’ve expected to be far too risque for the school administration to allow, but there it was–two freshman girls and a junior guy, contorting their bodies in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable collapse. The other games proved much more traditional, and involved throwing or rolling balls, tossing rings, or whacking a pinata shaped like a moose. Jake just hoped it didn’t contain “moose pellets.”
Few of the activities truly caught their interest, until Donna spotted a ring toss game using two-liter bottles of soda. “How does this one work?” she asked the senior who appeared to be in charge of it.
He answered as though it should have been obvious. “Uh, you just toss the ring, and if you get it around one of the bottles, you win it.”
Donna nudged Jake. “Win me that Dr. Pepper.” She pointed to a bottle in the middle of the pack. Jake wasn’t sure he could make it, but he figured he would try for Donna’s sake.
Pulling a dollar bill out of his pocket, he handed it to the senior and was given three rings, about four inches in diameter. The guy instructed him to stand behind the line of blue tape stretched across the floor, which meant Jake would be tossing the rings a good five to seven feet.
Standing behind the line, he concentrated, leaning forward, holding a pink ring horizontally in his right hand, lining up the shot. He gave it a spin and watched it bounce harmlessly over the collection of bottles. Donna frowned, but at least he had two attempts left. He tossed the second, which hooked the top of the target bottle, but still flew off to the left. Jake shook it off and tried to shut out all distractions for the final shot. Donna wanted that bottle, and by God, he was going to get it for her.
He pulled his arm back toward his chest, and this time tried to put very little spin on it, so it would simply land rather than swirl around the neck of the bottle. His change in strategy paid off, as the blue ring cruised through the air and landed squarely around the top of the Dr. Pepper bottle and came to a stop. Donna smiled and did an excited little jump. Jake was only too happy to reach down and retrieve his prize. “Here you go,” he said smugly, handing it to Donna.
Jake realized a few of Donna’s friends had shown up while he was concentrating, and one of them–Sarah, he thought her name was–asked if she could have a drink. Donna shrugged and extended her arms to give it to Sarah, but the latter girl’s grip slipped, and the bottle hit the floor with a bounce. Fortunately, it had not yet been opened.
Sarah bent down, picked it up, and went to twist off the cap. Jake only got as far as saying “Wait!” before the soda fizzed over and started spraying through the bottom of the cap. A startled Sarah released the dysfunctional bottle and it smacked the floor once again, spinning in circles and covering the floor in fizzy, dark soda.
Jake sighed, saw no one else moving in to stop it, and grabbed the bottle, twisting the cap back on tightly. Donna ran off to hunt down a custodian, and Jake held the bottle at arm’s length by the neck, letting the excess drip off the sides into the puddle that had formed on the floor. He stared at Sarah. “You can’t open a bottle of soda right after you drop it, you know,” he said, thinking this would’ve been common knowledge.
Sarah blushed and looked down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Donna soon returned with paper towels, and a janitor was in tow with a mop. The mop soaked up most of the mess, while Jake, Donna, Sarah, and two more of Donna’s friends knelt down to clean up the edges with the towels. In a minute or so, they had the mess cleaned up. Jake wiped down the bottle, seeing that it had lost about a quarter of its volume in the ordeal. “Can I try again?” Sarah asked sheepishly.
Jake gave it over to her again. “Just open it slowly this–”
And there it went again. Sarah unscrewed the cap in a hurry, and the fury of fizz resurged. Jake stuck his hand on top of the bottle, tightened the cap, and gave Sarah a dirty look. “You know what? Just keep it.” He glanced over at Donna. “You wanna get outta here?”
She nodded. Jake, Donna, and her other two friends–Vicki and Stephanie–headed out, leaving Sarah with a bottle of Dr. Pepper whose carbonation she evidently could not control.
The four of them exited the school and strolled across the street toward the forest. The trees went on for quite a distance, maybe a quarter mile or so. Just before the trees was a small park, consisting of a swingset and a merry-go-round. Donna stopped Jake there, putting her hand lightly on his chest. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come with us.”
“Why not?” he grumbled.
“Because I know you don’t believe in this stuff and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“What, exactly, do you think would happen to me?”
“I don’t know. Angry spirits. Bad karma. Could be anything. Just because you don’t believe in higher beings doesn’t mean they don’t believe in you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself. Do you just want me to wait here, or go back to Tiffany’s?”
“Just wait. We won’t be long.”
She moved off with Vicki and Stephanie, disappearing into the woods, and Jake found a swing to slouch in. He considered following them anyway, but he didn’t want to be disrespectful. He knew very little about Wicca or Wiccan beliefs, and wasn’t sure how a fourteen-year-old raised by Christian parents could know much about it, either, but he declined to press the issue. This was their first “date,” after all, so it wasn’t as though she owed him anything.
Boredom set in and he started to swing, inching higher with each thrust forward, until the chains gave a satisfying “snap” each time he reached his apex. He didn’t know how long he’d been doing that when Donna called to him to “Jump!”
Without thinking about it, he slid forward at his highest point, soared through the air, and landed on his feet, knees bent. His shins burned every time he did it, but somehow that failed to deter him. Donna clapped with satisfaction and came over to hug him. “Told you that wouldn’t take long.”
“We’ll see you later,” Vicki said, waving to Donna. She nodded in return, and watched the other two girls walk away, going south.
“You ready to go to Tiffany’s?” Donna asked.
“Of course,” Jake said, casually taking her hand in his.
The walk to Tiffany’s duplex was largely silent, and Jake felt tense. Donna was content to walk hand-in-hand with him across the base, and all he could think about was the fact that he’d be alone with a pretty blonde for several hours. What would he do? What could he do? Anything was possible. He had a condom in his pocket, courtesy of his friend Josh. He was “prepared,” should anything happen. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to go that route so soon, particularly with this girl.
Donna said very little until they arrived at Tiffany’s, finding the woman dressed up and ready to go.
“Ah, good!” Tiffany smiled. “I was hoping I’d get to leave early. Arianna already ate, had a bath, put on PJs, and brushed her teeth. She’s ready for bed anytime, but she can stay up until 9 if she’s good.”
Donna nodded. “Same as usual.”
“Now, Jack, is it?”
“Jake,” he corrected with a shrug.
“Jake. I’m sure Donna’s already told you my rules, but I’ll restate them for your benefit. No fucking in front of Arianna. That’s basically it. You can spend the night if you want, I don’t really care.”
“I have a curfew, but thanks,” he said.
“And if you do have sex, just remember: Saran Wrap doesn’t work. That’s how I ended up with Arianna,” she laughed.
Jake hoped she was making that up. He couldn’t be certain.
Momentarily, they heard the sound of a car horn. “That’d be my date,” Tiffany said. “You kids be good!” She snatched up her purse, tossed her keys into it, and ran out the door.
Donna locked it behind her and moved to the couch, flopping onto it. “Arianna!” she called toward the stairs.
“What?” came a squeak from above.
“Just checking on you. You can come down if you want, you don’t have to go to bed ’til 9!”
The little redhead scampered down the stairs and hopped onto the sofa next to Donna. She stared at Jake again. “Do you want that massage now?”
At this point, Jake was more than ready for it, no matter who was giving it. He felt the tension all over his body, the anticipation, the arousal. He needed some kind of relief, and if that meant having a little kid rub his shoulders, well, he’d take what he could get. He hoped it would calm him down a little.
He sat on the floor in front of Arianna, and she put her hands on his shoulders. She had a tight grip for a five-year-old, and went to work immediately. She dug her fingers into his skin and worked the tension out of his muscles. He closed his eyes and sighed. He wondered if she had to give her mother a lot of these, since she seemed to be quite skilled at it.
Donna got up and sorted through Tiffany’s movie collection, a bunch of VHS tapes. There was a particular one she wanted to see, which she stuck into the VCR once she found it, then went back to the couch.
Jake opened one eye, noticing something was coming on the TV.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“‘Interview with the Vampire.’ I watch it every Halloween.”
“Oh, I’ve never seen it,” he admitted.
“We’ll take care of that. Arianna, would you mind going upstairs and playing in your room? I’ll take over.”
The little girl nodded and obediently went back upstairs. Donna started working on Jake’s shoulders, picking up where Arianna left off, and Donna was definitely more forceful about it. She practically pulled him up off the floor with each movement of her hands. She kept it up through the previews, but once the movie started, she scooted off to the side and patted the spot next to her. “Come sit with me?”
He got up and took the designated spot. Without a word, he moved his arm toward her, and she leaned forward to let him slip it around her. She sighed and wriggled against him, getting comfortable. He put a peck on her cheek, got his other arm around the front of her waist, and in moments they were about as close as they could get with their clothes on.
Donna focused on the movie, so Jake tried to do likewise, difficult as it was. He’d never held a girl before, and he found the experience intoxicating–the warmth of her body next to his, her scent surrounding him, something subtle and sweet. He felt his pulse racing and could do nothing to slow it. He thought himself an idiot: there wasn’t even anything happening, just two teenagers watching a movie.
He did his best to pay attention to the film, but it seemed physical urgency was starting to get the better of Donna, too. Something tickled his neck so lightly he couldn’t be sure Donna was actually touching him, or if it was merely his own anxiety playing tricks. He soon realized, as the sensations intensified, that Donna had turned her head and was kissing his neck. He held her more tightly, if only to give his hands something safe to do, and just let her do as she pleased.
But Donna was having none of that. She took one of his hands and put it on her chest. He quickly moved it down to her stomach. She made a slightly frustrated noise and pulled it back up, resorting to sucking on his neck now. He trembled, half out of excitement, half out of fear, no longer contesting the placement of his hand. This meant Donna only noticed the vibration coursing through his body. She pulled away from his neck to see him face-to-face. “Are you shaking?”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
She giggled. “That’s cute.” She scooted in and kissed him on the lips. Not gently, either–full of demands. She slipped her tongue into his mouth at the first opportunity, and he found himself virtually helpless. She knew what she was doing and he hadn’t the slightest clue. His body seemed almost alien to him, lit up with enraged hormones determined to overtake all reason. She snaked her hands under his shirt, creeping up his abdomen toward his chest, still kissing him, keeping him unbalanced.
He lost all sense of time and space, doing his best to reciprocate her moves, until she set off one alarm too many. He felt her hand working at the button on his jeans, and he stopped her cold, pulling her hand away. She broke their liplock and stared at him. Jake couldn’t discern whether she was more confused, hurt, or angry. “Why did you stop me?”
“I don’t… I don’t want to do… do that,” he stammered, struggling to get the syllables out.
She frowned. “Don’t you like me?”
He nodded. “I like you a lot. That’s why I don’t think we should.”
“I don’t get it,” she sighed. “This is what every guy wants. Am I not pretty enough for you? Are you mad at me because of Mitch?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I think you’re very pretty. And this has nothing to do with Mitch.”
“If you like me, and you’re not mad at me, then why don’t you want to?”
He sighed. “If we do it now, you’ll just think that’s what I want from you, like everyone else.”
“What if it’s what I want?”
“Then if you like me, you’ll wait until I want it, too, right?” He couldn’t predict how she’d take having her own logic turned around against her, but he had to try.
Fortunately, she couldn’t see any fault in what he said. She didn’t look upset anymore, so he just kissed her and held her tighter. She made no complaints about that.
Despite very little happening after that, the time went by far too quickly. He held her, rubbed her back, kissed her, but mostly just kept her in his arms with no expectation or escalation. The movie long over, they sat together in contented silence.
A few minutes before 1AM, the alarm on his watch beeped. “Shit,” he muttered. “I need to get home.”
He started to pull away, and she clutched his arms. “Don’t go.”
“I have to, I’m already going to be late.”
She gave him a pleading look, eyes as big as saucers, tears practically welling up in them. “Ask for another couple hours?”
“Fine,” he sighed, getting up and going for Tiffany’s phone. He punched in his home number and waited for his father to answer.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s me. I was wondering if I could stay out a while longer, like until 3?”
“No, it’s late, you need to get home.” No negotiation, no compromise. It was as much as he expected.
“Okay, I’ll be home soon then.”
He hung up and looked toward Donna. “Sorry,” he said simply. “I wish I could stay.”
She ran up and hugged him, giving him another kiss. “I wish you could, too. See you on Monday?”
“You bet,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She showed him to the door and handed him his coat, helping him put it on. “Thanks for tonight,” she said quietly.
“You’re welcome.” One more kiss, this time on her forehead.
Out the door he went, into the cold night. He already knew he wasn’t going to sleep well. Not with her scent all over him, and the fresh memories of her fingers and lips on his body. Maybe things wouldn’t work out in the long run, but if they had nothing else, they’d always have Halloween night.
It was the only thought comforting him as he made his way home in the cold, Alaskan night, green ribbons sparkling and waving in the sky above, both timeless and transient.
Note: this piece will meander between personal narrative and editorializing. Pardon the erratic format.
September 11, 2001 was supposed to be just another ordinary day for me. I would get up, get showered and dressed, go to class, go to work, then come home and go to bed. I was a sophomore in college at the time. I lived with my mother, stepfather, and my younger sister and brother, in rural Indiana. New York City was an alien place I’d never been and didn’t think I’d ever see in person.
It’s odd what details you remember about a day when something profoundly unexpected happens. There are those moments in history where everyone can tell you where they were and what they were doing: when humans first walked on the Moon; when JFK was shot; when Dr. Martin Luther King was shot; when Reagan was shot; when the Berlin Wall fell. (It probably says more about me than anyone else that the events I think of tend involve people being killed.) For Millennials like myself, I suppose 9/11 was that moment. I was already up and dressed that morning. Everyone else had gone off to school or work, so I was home alone. Remembering something I had been meaning to do, I grabbed a PC game that had a cracked CD case, picked up one of the new jewel cases I’d bought the day before, and set about transferring the insert and booklet from the cracked case to the new one. It was while I was doing that that my mother called. She asked me if I’d turned on the TV today. “No. Why?” “You should turn it on. We’re under siege.”
I had no idea what she meant by that. The TV came on to one of the major news networks. The image was of the World Trade Center towers. One of them had a plume of smoke billowing from it. I don’t remember anything that was said on the phone after that. All my attention was on processing that visual and whatever it meant. A few minutes later, a second plane hit the second tower, which I saw happen live. I realized they couldn’t have been accidents, not to happen so close together like that. But who would do this, and why?
It was still a few hours before I had class, and I spent that time glued to the TV. All the major news networks were based in New York City, so their anchors and reporters were clearly shaken. Some came directly from the scene to report what they’d witnessed. People were jumping from the burning towers. One reporter came to the studio after the towers collapsed, covered in debris and barely holding himself together. The Pentagon was also struck, and another plane went down in Pennsylvania. It wasn’t much past 10AM and we didn’t know if it was over. There was talk of shooting down any more planes if they appeared to be hijacked, given that all planes were told to land at the nearest airport. I had to leave for class without being sure if anything else was going to happen.
The one class I remember from that day was my Sociology 101 class. No one was in much of a mood for the scheduled course material. Our professor instead introduced us to the concept of anomie. That term probably describes better than anything else what I felt at the time. I wasn’t angry or sad or anything like that. Everything just felt “off.” This was something happening hundreds of miles away from me. It wasn’t something that affected me directly, but it happened in the country where I lived, to people “like” me: fellow Americans. I was never a very patriotic sort of person, but I sensed that collective loss all the same.
The professor opened the class to discussion. People talked about their feelings for a while. It was a jumbled mess. I don’t remember much of what was said. After everyone quieted down, the professor dismissed us. It was soon announced that classes would be optional for the rest of the day, in light of events. It was a sensible decision. I don’t think anyone was going to learn much–our minds were on other matters.
I nevertheless had to report to work at 6PM, which was a computer lab on campus. Each computer lab needed someone to sign students in and out, offer technical and application support, and make sure no one stole anything (yes, people stole stuff out of the labs.) The girl I came in to relieve had no idea anything unusual had happened. I asked her if she’d seen the news today, and she said, “No.” I explained what had happened and she was sure I’d made it up as some sick joke. I told her to check out a TV or any news website and she’d see I wasn’t kidding.
I had a four hour shift that night. The lab was quiet. Most people didn’t feel like coming to use the computers. I spent the time reading news articles, though very little was yet known at that point. At the time, I was subscribed to CNN email alerts, which had flooded my inbox through the course of the day with lots of stories that turned out not to be true: a bomb had gone off at the State Department, the Washington Mall was on fire, mass shootings at shopping malls, etc. I was relieved to learn that they were all false reports and that the attacks essentially ended the moment Flight 93 crashed in a Pennsylvania cornfield.
President Bush addressed the country that night. He looked incredibly shaken. I don’t remember anything about what he said, though you can always read the transcript.
I remember the flurry of information that came out in the following days. We had a list of names. We knew al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden were behind it. We also knew that Afghanistan was harboring bin Laden himself, and we demanded that the Taliban turn him over immediately. The way that whole scenario played out is something I don’t think we give much thought to, but represents an unnecessary rush to action. The Taliban were not and are not “nice guys.” They’re radical zealots who gladly oppress anyone who doesn’t follow their brand of Islam. Even so, we were giving them money when they ruled Afghanistan, to support their efforts to eliminate opium production. We weren’t allies, but weren’t enemies, either. The Taliban apparently believed the US wanted to negotiate over bin Laden. After all, that’s how international politics are supposed to work: country A wants something from country B, country B tries to negotiate a good exchange for it, country A makes a counteroffer, and either you come to terms or you let it go. Instead, we demanded they give us bin Laden unconditionally, the Taliban asked for time to consider a response, and in a little more than week we’d decided the time for talk was “over” and it was time for “action.” We gave the Taliban no time to respond in good faith to our demands, nor even to locate and hand over bin Laden, as it’s unlikely he would have simply cooperated with such a demand.
So, less than a month after the attacks, we invaded. We roundly thrashed the Taliban and, for the most part, drove them out of the country. We teamed up with the Northern Alliance and began helping the Afghans form a new government. In practice, this government ended up having control over Kabul and not much else. The government in Kabul itself quickly became a hotbed of corruption and favor trading. A dozen years later, almost 15,000 American and allied troops are dead, and at least the same number of Afghan civilians have been killed by combat and insurgent attacks. A resurgent Taliban have rebuilt to the point that we have no choice but to give them a place at the bargaining table, and the government is still as corrupt as ever. We spent over a trillion dollars and there’s not much to show for it. Afghanistan remains about as much of a failed state as it was under the Taliban. Our rush to action cost tens of thousands of lives and a trillion dollars to bring about virtually no real benefit. An enormous waste.
That’s not even addressing everything that grew out of 9/11’s aftermath. Not even a day after the attacks, the Defense Department was at work looking for a way to pin it on Saddam Hussein as a pretext for an invasion of Iraq–something the Bush administration desired since before even coming to power. On top of being justified by outright lies and fabrications, the costs of the Iraq war are in some ways greater than Afghanistan. Almost 5000 coalition troops died, and estimates range from 100,000 to over a million total violent deaths resulted from the US-led invasion, subsequent occupation, and resulting insurgency and sectarian warfare. That war’s total costs are estimated to be in the neighborhood of $6 trillion once long-term costs of caring for wounded veterans are accounted for, which make up a large portion of that estimate. Today, Iraq continues to suffer daily bouts with insurgent violence and sectarian tensions always threaten the government’s stability. Ongoing crises in surrounding countries (such as Syria) have effects that spill over into Iraq, making the situation even more precarious. Once again, tremendous costs in human lives, resources, and dollars have added up to not very much.
No one would argue that Saddam Hussein or the Taliban were good guys that should be in charge anywhere. But war is a messy and unpredictable business, and in these two cases we rushed to war with poor justifications, poor intelligence, poor forward planning, no concern for expense or realistic objectives, and with the supreme arrogance to believe we could invade countries with no substantial democratic traditions and convert them into shining examples of American-style democracy and capitalism. Deposing a hostile regime with military equipment decades out of date is not that hard. Building a functional state out of its ashes, however, turns out to be very difficult. This is not a lesson we should have had to learn again, either. The only situations in which our efforts at nation-building have been successful were during periods of total war, when as many national resources as possible were thrown at the problem. Really, we have two examples to our credit: Germany and Japan, post-World War II. Efforts in Korea and Vietnam may not be considered nation-building per se. In the ’90s, we had Somalia and Haiti, both of which were at least nominally nation-building efforts, and both of which failed miserably due to a combination of not fully understanding the political situations into which we’d inserted ourselves and not putting sufficient resources into our interventions. Iraq and Afghanistan have demonstrated amply that even with great time and expense, turning failed states into modern democracies is an extremely dicey prospect, and one which we should never rush into, regardless of how justified we might feel. We certainly should not undertake such measures out of a sense of national pride or ego.
In addition to our failures in Afghanistan and Iraq, the legacy of 9/11 lives on in other ways: the federalization of airport security in the form of the TSA continues to inconvenience law-abiding travelers, and debatably violates the civil rights of people who are not under any suspicion; recent revelations regarding the NSA’s spying efforts show dramatic, virtually unchecked expansions, both at home and abroad, justified by 9/11 and enabled by cheap, ubiquitous computing technology; the assassination of American citizens without due process or trial is now a fact of life, executed under both Bush and Obama with virtually no outcry from the people; warrantless wiretapping and a whole slew of new legal and investigative tools give government officials ever more power to keep tabs on the people whom they are supposed to serve. As a people, we remain fearful and wounded. The Bush administration burned bridges with many of our allies, particularly over the war in Iraq. The UK–historically our staunchest ally–saw Tony Blair expend massive amounts of political capital in supporting that war, a mistake so embarrassing it’s made the UK unwilling to take any action in Syria, no matter how limited. We bomb other countries with impunity, even sending our troops into sovereign territory without permission (as we did with bin Laden.) Such behavior is generally considered an act of war, but we get away with it because we’re the US and no one dares stand up to us. The Obama administration has continued the worst excesses of the Bush years in terms of prosecuting the “war on terror.” All this is to say that the 9/11 mindset is our new normal, and it’s not just limited to our foreign relations and efforts to fight terrorism.
The 9/11 attacks deepened a nascent recession brought on by the dotcom bust. The Bush administration went into a spending frenzy. I’m sure we all remember those stimulus checks we got and then promptly spent on bills or new TVs? We needed to grow consumer spending, so we relaxed regulations on the banking and credit industries, allowing a vast housing and credit bubble to grow unchecked, which provoked a global financial crisis that decimated our economy and has left a whole generation of workers out in the cold. Would all that have happened without 9/11? It’s hard to say. Maybe it would have. But the fear we felt as a nation on that day seems to continue to plague us and every decision we make. It’s why talk of cutting defense spending is viewed as downright traitorous, even when we seem not to have any credible enemies to defend against. It’s as if we longed for the days of Cold War paranoia and 9/11 gave us the opportunity to live in fear again.
Circling back to the immediate aftermath of 9/11 itself: we also had no interest in understanding why anyone would want to do this to us. It was inconceivable that we could, in any way, have provoked this. In no way did we deserve it–who deserves to suffer such egregious violence?–but we held ourselves completely blameless and innocent, as if the day’s attacks occurred in a vacuum for no real reason. 9/11 was blowback for decades of reckless foreign policy in the Middle East. Robert Fisk elaborated on this point a couple years ago, noting that the 9/11 Commission softballed what they found to be the central motive behind the attacks: US support for Israel. While I think the US should support Israel’s right to exist, that support should not be unconditional and we should certainly not condone ongoing settlement efforts or violent, oppressive behavior toward Palestinians. The denial of a Palestinian state is itself a completely unacceptable state of affairs. And given that US support for Israel is cited as the primary motivation for the 9/11 attacks, is that not something everyone deserves to know, so it can inform our policies going forward? By no means do I believe we should abandon Israel as an ally, but when that alliance can have such profound consequences, we must go into it with our eyes wide open and not pretend nothing bad can come of it. As Fisk said, to do so is simply lying to ourselves.
Ultimately, I don’t believe we learned anything from 9/11. We Americans seem to like living in fear. We like reliving our traumas, whether they led to victory or defeat. We also have no stomach for self-examination or introspection. We’ll complain and argue, but we won’t change. The 9/11 narrative is and apparently always shall be that bad people attacked us for no reason and we responded by trying to bring democracy to the Middle East, and those ingrates just wanted to kill us and blow people up, so screw ’em. That’s what we’re left with. If we learned anything, it was all the wrong lessons. It was yet more validation of American exceptionalism and self-styled superiority. We’re just too good for this world, and that’s why “they” hate us, whoever “they” are. We don’t understand why people don’t like it when we try to “bring” them democracy and capitalism and freedom. We don’t understand why the world doesn’t appreciate us telling everyone what to do. We just don’t understand. And we don’t want to.
So, on this twelfth anniversary of the September 11th attacks, I would ask you to take a moment to try to understand, to think about what happened that day, what led from it, and how it got us to where we are now, and if that’s a place we really want to be. And if not, where do we go from here? Do we want to simply reopen the wound to our national pride, or do we want to stop and seriously think about why this happened, how our policies have consequences, and how our arrogance and thirst for vengeance results in the deaths of real people who’ve done nothing to wrong us? We are not blameless and we are not innocent, and we need to take responsibility for our actions, or those actions will continue to come back to haunt us, over and over.
9/11 Timeline was a decent resource for nailing down the sequence of events, but by no means do I accept a lot of the conspiracy hoohah listed there.
I haven’t updated this blog in about a year, and all of a sudden I’m posting something potentially controversial. That’s just how I roll.
No one thing prompted this post. It’s been a combination of many things, mainly discussions of women, feminism, sexism, rape culture, and so forth that I’ve had recently, with different groups of people in separate venues. By that token, the time feels right to dig a little deeper into this and express my thoughts.
Not everyone will agree with what I have to say. I fully expect that. It might make some people angry. Some might feel attacked, although this is not in any way a personal attack on anybody. I’m also not trying to claim I’m perfect or that I never make mistakes–I make as many as everyone else, perhaps more. But there are some things I feel I need to say, and some things that I believe are worth discussing.
For clarity’s sake, when I say “you” in this post, I am referring to the men in the audience, who may or may not be guilty of the behavior I describe. If you haven’t done these things, then don’t feel attacked–you’re not the “target,” so to speak.
With the disclaimers out of the way, I’ll get right down to the meat.
In Western culture, men have privilege. Before you start arguing, just hold that thought and play along for now. It’s the truth. It’s not like we’re given a membership card when we’re born, it’s just something society is built around, because men (straight white Christian men, that is) designed and, until relatively recently, completely dominated this society. It’s not an intentional thing that you use whenever you come up against an obstacle–a “get out of jail free” card for any of life’s problems–but it’s something you are assigned by default, without asking, without (initially) questioning. That is not to lay the blame at your feet (or mine), but to acknowledge that it exists and work from the position that it is absent for others: women, black people, gay people, etc. Although I could speak at length about any of those groups, for this discussion I will focus on women, and issues specific to women. In particular, I will talk about American women, though what I say may be applicable to women (and men) elsewhere.
I’d like to go over a couple specific issues I’ve noticed, particularly online, but they can apply in “real life,” as well.
Women and Self-Image
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that most women have self-image problems. The numbers vary, but around 80% is seen as a fairly credible statistic. That means 4 out of 5 women are dissatisfied with their bodies. Eating disorders are still common, affecting as many as 1 out of 4 women. One thing men do that exacerbates these problems is objectifying women. Now, there’s a phrase everybody’s heard but many may not know what it means. What does it mean, exactly, to objectify a woman? Put simply, it means to reduce a woman to nothing but her physical attributes–or, more crassly, just her sexual attributes. Saying, “I’d fuck her”? Yeah, that’s objectification right there. Rating a woman’s attractiveness on a numerical scale? You better believe that’s objectifying, too. You meet a woman and before you even get to know her or have a conversation you have already judged her looks and put her into the “would do” or “wouldn’t do” category? That’s objectification right there. Not considering a woman worth your time or attention unless there’s a chance of her having sex with you? A bit more subtle, but it’s essentially the same thing.
You may not think it’s a big deal if you make racy comments about celebrities, either. After all, you’re not likely to ever meet Katy Perry or Scarlett Johansson or Catherine Zeta-Jones, so it’s not like your comments personally hurt them, right? But what about the women around you? If you’re posting “I’d do her” online, how do you think that affects the women who read it? What they see is you passing judgment on a celebrity–supposedly the most beautiful women in the world, or so popular culture tells us–and whether your comment is something like “I’d hit it” or “too ugly for my tastes,” you’ve just announced to everyone (especially any women witnessing this) that women have no value to you apart from their appearance and/or their ability to satisfy your sexual fantasies. No need to care about women being intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive, creative, articulate, or anything else–if she ain’t got the looks, she ain’t got squat, right?
As a somewhat startling example, go and google “best female musicians of all time.” What’s either at the top or very close to it? An article about the “Top 20 Sexiest Female Musicians of All Time”. Wooo! I also found, in the course of playing with Google, that if you start typing “best female”, the top suggestion is “best female body”. Because what else would someone want to search for about women than their bodies? This is hardly something to blame on Google, either. These suggestions are a result of their popularity with users. Lots of people are searching for “best female body”, apparently.
If you view a woman, not as a person with independent thoughts, feelings, and goals, but as a means to an end, then you have objectified her. Maybe you just want her to be your emotional dumping ground, or maybe you just want her to fulfill your sexual desires. It doesn’t matter which. In both cases, you’ve reduced her to a tool you can use, rather than a person whom you respect.
You may also think it hurts no one when objectifying comments are made solely around other men, so-called “locker room talk.” Except it does reinforce those sexist tendencies that see women as little more than vessels for men’s sexual pleasure, and a woman who can’t offer herself up as that, or is found unworthy of being that, is seen as having no value at all. Indulging in this even when no women are around still reinforces in the men participating that this behavior is okay, and it will tend to bleed out into their interactions with women elsewhere in life.
I don’t believe most men think things through to this level. They’re just trying to have a good time, and sizing up women is a game, like arguing over which football team is the best or which car is the fastest. You might spend only a few seconds forming a sexist thought, but it’s going to stay with any women within earshot a lot longer, piled up with all the other sexist comments they are subjected to on a daily basis. Sure, you just made one little comment–and so did a dozen other guys that day. Have this happen day after day, year after year, and where does it lead? Body image problems, eating disorders, poor self-esteem. It’s not just sexist comments that do this, of course, but they are a major contributor to the problem.
No one can solve this problem all by themselves, of course. But you can do your part, by thinking twice before making a comment that dehumanizes a woman into nothing but a pair of breasts and a vagina for you to fill.
“What rape culture?” Yeah, I didn’t used to think it existed, either. I mean, rape is illegal and society hates rapists, right? How could we have a “rape culture”? It’s not as if you, personally are a rapist, right?
Again, this goes back to male privilege. One of the things men virtually never have to worry about is being sexually assaulted. “But men get raped!” Yeah, yeah, I know: very rarely and at nowhere near the rates women do, so let’s not pretend the situations are at all similar. Men do get raped, and that is worth discussing and addressing, but not when we’re talking about women who are raped. Men do not live in constant fear of being sexually assaulted, while most of my female friends have expressed to me a persistent, sometimes crippling fear of being raped–and it’s not an unjustified fear, given that about a quarter of all women will be sexually assaulted at some point in their lives, and many will be assaulted more than once. This is not a small problem, not something we can just sweep under the rug and say, “we’ve outlawed it, nothing more to worry about here.” You aren’t a rapist, but you may–without even meaning to or realizing it–help to excuse and minimize the actions of rapists.
Have you ever done anything to lessen the crimes of a rapist? Have you ever made a rape victim feel like she brought it on herself? Have you ever said a woman who appears “too serious” or “uptight” just “needs a good fucking”? Do you make rape jokes in mixed company? Congratulations, you help to promote rape culture.
No, that doesn’t necessarily make you an asshole. If you don’t think there’s anything wrong with this behavior, then you very well might be.
First, think about the language commonly used to talk about rape. “She was raped.” Who is missing from that sentence? The rapist, of course. Do people generally say, “someone raped her”? Not in my experience. I don’t think this is intentional, either, but a way of describing the situation that makes it about the victim. In fact, it makes it so much about the victim, that it becomes something that simply happened to her, not something that was perpetrated against her by another person. When viewed that way, it can appear that the rapist himself has been excused from his crime–his victim goes on suffering, but he’s out of the picture, existing only as a mythic boogeyman if consciously existing at all.
It helps to remember that, when a woman tells you someone raped or assaulted her, you don’t forget that another man did this. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, but it does mean you should be more sensitive about how you discuss it with her. The last thing you want to do is seem like you are excusing the rapist, or worse: identifying with him more than her.
Questions never to ask someone who is telling you about how they were raped:
1. What were you wearing?
2. What time did you leave the party/theater/friend’s house/whatever?
3. How much did you have to drink?
4. Are you sure you didn’t lead him on?
Questions like this serve no purpose but to a) make it sound like the rapist wasn’t really at fault and b) anger/upset the woman who thought you were a decent enough guy to talk about this with, but now you’ve completely ruined that, so great job.
“But wait! I wasn’t trying to excuse the rapist at all!” I know. You really weren’t thinking of it that way. Instead, you saw her rape as a “problem” to “solve.” Something she could have prevented, and an experience she can learn from. If she just does the right things in the future, this won’t happen again. If she dresses more conservatively, drinks less, doesn’t go out after dark, and avoids making eye contact with strange men, why, she’ll never have to worry about being raped again! It’s so simple, isn’t it? It’s a good thing there’s a smart man around to figure this out, because it’s not as if a simple woman could.
When a woman is talking to you about her rape experience, she is not looking for you to solve a problem, she just wants you to listen. If you can’t offer understanding, at least offer support. But don’t condescend, and don’t patronize. Every woman will have her own reasons for expressing this to you, but never is it because she wants to hear how she could have kept it from happening, or otherwise be told how it was in some way her fault. Don’t turn it into a political discussion, don’t bring up how men are raped, or how women make false accusations of rape–don’t even do this in a more public/online discussion regarding rape culture or male-on-female rape in general. It is hard enough for many women to talk about their experiences without some men making them feel inferior for it, or even implying they somehow deserved it, or just plain hijacking the discussion into being about men’s issues.
This is rape culture. Women are first reduced to objects, and those objects are to either be used or protected, depending on a man’s whims–and in either case, it’s about men. Men get to define women’s roles, men get to determine whether a woman was responsible for being raped, men get to decide whether women’s issues are even worth talking about, men get to determine at what point a woman should simply “get over it,” men make women choose between either being assaulted or infantilized. If you behave this way, even if you don’t mean to, then you have helped promote rape culture. Two words: stop it.
As for what I said about patronizing: don’t go overboard and treat them like porcelain dolls. They may be coping with a traumatic experience, but they’re still women, not children that expect to be coddled and sheltered from the big, bad world. If a woman tells you someone raped her, that doesn’t mean she’s asking you to protect her from now until the end of time–she just wants you to understand that that experience is a part of who she is, and something you need to be aware of if you’re going to be part of her life. It is a privilege (just not the inborn white male kind) to be told about this. Don’t have a huge reaction to it–don’t make a big show, don’t probe for all the gory details, don’t insist on bringing it up constantly (but also don’t dissuade her if she does want to talk about it.) These things will probably make her regret telling you in the first place.
So, what can you do to help thwart the promotion of rape culture? Pay attention to what I said above: don’t objectify women, no matter the context. It is fine to appreciate a woman’s beauty, as long as you are able to appreciate her for more than that. Think about women as people first. When you talk to a woman, engage her on a personal level, don’t just practice your flirts and pick-up lines. When your male friends are engaged in raunchy talk about women–be they celebrities, coworkers, or that woman you passed on the street–speak up and tell them you aren’t comfortable with it. If you aren’t ready to challenge them at that level, just change the subject. Anything to get it away from the sexist portrayal of women. Remember that even if you just make one questionable comment a month, women hear them all the time. Enough men eliminating their once-a-month indiscretion can have a big impact. When a woman is talking to you about how someone sexually assaulted her, just listen and offer your emotional support. Recognize that many of the women you pass on the street may have been the victims of rape, and no one walks around wearing a sign that says, “someone raped me.” So keep the rape jokes to yourself, and don’t make discussions of rape about how tough it is for men.
There is no one thing guys can do to solve these problems, but make no mistake, as a cultural issue, the ways in which men treat women are our problems to solve, because men perpetrate the vast, vast majority of sex crimes and sexist behavior. It’s not something that will change overnight. Just stop and think about what you say before you say it. Think about how a woman might feel about the next words to come out of your mouth–how might she interpret them, as opposed to how you mean them? You aren’t a bad person, I assume, and you don’t want to be a bad person. Go the extra mile and put yourself in other people’s shoes, and consider how they might see your behavior, and if you are comfortable with how it makes you look. It’s about how you treat women, both directly in how you interact with them, and indirectly in how you talk about them. Do you want to look like someone who trivializes the concerns of women, or someone who excuses rapists, or someone who makes women feel worse about themselves… or do you want to be someone known for their understanding, empathy, and trustworthiness?
It’s your choice.
Note: The above post was informed by some other blog posts and articles I’ve read. Feel free to peruse them, as well. They are very insightful, too:
I am certainly going to leave this open for comments. I want to hear your thoughts. Agree? Disagree? Think I’m insane? Let’s talk!
I plan to have several entries regarding Budapest, considering that’s where I spent the bulk of my trip. They may be more impressionistic in nature rather than straight accounts of things that happened. After all, it has been almost a week since I returned and the days sort of run together. Fortunately, I have photos to jog my memory, or something.
I arrived in Budapest about 15 minutes earlier than scheduled. The plane landed, we disembarked onto the tarmac, and then a shuttle bus took us to the baggage claim area. There was no Skyway for whatever reason. While I waited for my suitcase, I pulled out some local money from an ATM. I must say, Hungarian Forints look more like real money than Euros. Euros look like Monopoly money. An observation about both of them is that they feel thinner and flimsier than US bills. I have my doubts that such money could survive a trip through the washing machine.
After claiming my suitcase, I headed for the exit. Almost all the signs in the airport were in both Hungarian and English, so it wasn’t hard to figure out where I needed to go. As I emerged into the arrival area, I saw a man holding up a sign with my name on it. Woohoo! He was, of course, the owner of the apartment I’d rented for the duration. He grabbed my suitcase and escorted me to his car, a small wagon that was nevertheless quite large compared to the other cars I saw. The rumors about cars in Europe being small are certainly true. I will say, though, that it was not uncomfortable.
My host talked to me as we drove off toward the city center. It was dark. Lots of things were lit up. One particular structure that caught my eye was the Dohany Street Synagogue. The golden glow of its two domed towers were very striking in the dark, so naturally I asked what it was, and he was happy to explain. As we drove, he pointed out other attractions I might want to see, and to be honest I forgot most of them almost immediately. I wound up seeing quite a few of them anyway, but he spoke so quickly it was difficult to capture everything he said. He pointed out West End as we drove past it, notable for the strobing lights all over the exterior. I feel bad for anyone who has to live next to that. It must be really annoying to have lights flashing in your window all night, every night. In any case, West End is a large mall with 4 stories and an imperial shit ton of stores and restaurants. There’s also a movie theater and an arcade. Many of the businesses use English signage and almost all the employees I spoke to knew at least enough English to take your order and otherwise help you out.
After about a 20 minute drive we came to Podmaniczky utca (street), where the apartment was located. One thing this area had in common with Brussels was the way buildings were pressed up against each other. No alleyways between them or anything like that, just wall-to-wall buildings everywhere. Totally understandable for cities that are hundreds of years old and densely populated.
We came in the front door of the apartment building and I was led to a small courtyard. It seems the interiors of most apartment buildings in Budapest possess such central courtyards. I’m not sure what the reasoning is. The building did look a little run down, with cracks in the walls and chipped paint. The courtyard wasn’t especially well cared for. But I can’t complain too much: the apartment was quite cheap and in a great location, close to many attractions.
The owner took me into the apartment, showed me the trick to locking the front door (it’s a little temperamental), gave me the layout of the place. It had a small refrigerator–bigger than a mini fridge but not quite full size, and with no freezer. There was a very small kitchen with a toaster oven that had a range top, a little sink, a coffee maker, an electric teapot, and some basics: salt, sugar, rice, olive oil. I had to taste test the salt and sugar to figure out which was which. D’oh. There were also plenty of dishes.
Next was the bathroom, which consisted of a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall. The shower got its water from a sink attachment, and let me tell you it had some crazy water pressure. It reminded me of that “Seinfeld” episode where Kramer and Newman don’t want the new “low flow” showerheads being installed in their building, so they buy black market showerheads from some Eastern European thugs. Apparently, there was some truth to that. This shower was crazy. I had to keep the water turned down to avoid being pelted with speeding bullets of water. Oh, it also leaked a little, so the floor got wet.
The living room/bedroom was easily the biggest room in the whole place. It had a queen-sized bed, a dresser with a little TV on it, a rocking chair, a small cabinet, and a couple nightstands.
I also forgot the dining room, which was separated from the living room/bedroom by a half-height wall and some posts. Said posts actually held up the loft, directly above the dining area, which had two very small beds. Those beds did not get much use. The stairs up to the loft were also quite steep and probably not worth attempting while drunk.
The main bed was pretty comfortable. I’ve had better, I’ve had worse. I think it was originally a sleeper sofa and they put a thin foam mattress on top of it. You could kind of feel the bars if you laid a certain way. Still, I slept pretty soundly on it. Can’t complain.
This is all probably too much detail. Tough cookies, eh? With all this business about the apartment out of the way, the next can cover some actual sights, plus the highlights of using Budapest’s public transportation system. Woohoo!
Also, having been up for 36 hours by that point, I slept like a fucking baby. Holy shit, dude.
I had the better part of a day to spend in Brussels, so rather than waste it just hanging around the airport, I decided to go into the city proper. The first thing I noticed was that everything in Brussels is in at least three languages. Dutch is almost always first, followed by French, and then either German or English. I think I saw Italian in a few places, too. Seeing the same thing written in a few languages certainly gives you clues as to what it’s saying even if you don’t actually know said languages.
Even so, getting to the city center proved more difficult than anticipated. It wasn’t a matter of logistics–I knew I just needed to take a train–but rather that the way the train schedules were displayed was extremely confusing. At the train terminal below the airport there was a posted list of all the trains, when they departed and from what platform. Many trains go to the city center but most of them don’t stop there, and the digital signs indicate only the train’s final destination. On top of that, the track number specified on the schedule often didn’t match where the train actually appeared. So, does the train to Leuven that leaves at 9:58 from track 2 go to Bruxelles-Midi even though the schedule says that train should be on track 1 a few minutes later? There was no consistency at all. Eventually, I bit the bullet and just jumped on one of the trains going to “Bruxelles-Zuid” (South Brussels) and got off at the central station.
The trains were pretty nice, a bit nicer than the commuter trains you can take in New Jersey. Rather than everyone facing the same direction and packed together as if you’re on an airplane, the standard in Europe appears to be for sets of opposing seats facing each other, sometimes with a small table in between. You can fit fewer people on such a train but it’s certainly more conversational and inviting.
Once I got off at the central station, I walked through the station and looked around a bit. Much of the station is actually underground. It doesn’t look very big from the outside, and is in fact mostly dwarfed by the surrounding buildings. Above the row of ticketing windows is a massive digital schedule, which was quite impressive to see. They had trains going everywhere from Antwerp to Bruges. After getting a feel for the interior of the station, I went out to the street and looked around. Maybe other parts of Brussels are laid out more sensibly, but the area around Brussels-Central is an ungodly maze. I avoided wandering too far afield for fear I wouldn’t be able to make it back to the station in time for my flight.
Despite the somewhat insane street layout, I did find Brussels to be an attractive city. It was busy but not insanely so–certainly no comparison with, say, Manhattan in the morning. During the few hours I spent near the station, I found a nice garden (under renovation but still attractive), an art museum, a water display that had something to do with a salt mine (don’t ask me, I don’t know), a bunch of flags, the remains of a castle butted up against a modern apartment building, some cathedrals, and a lot of stairs and cobblestone roads. For my first taste of Europe, it was visually appealing if not viscerally impressive.
The most negative aspect of my time in Brussels involved a set of young women outside the aforementioned garden. At one end of the garden was a set of steps leading up to another area with a fountain, from which you got a pretty nice view. No doubt it was a tourist trap, and at the first landing on said stairs (quite a large area in itself) there were a handful of women with clipboards, asking people if they spoke English. And if you did, why, it’s your lucky day! They talked about the problem of homelessness in Europe and that if you would just be kind enough to put down your name and hand over 20 Euro, you can help stamp out poverty in the EU. The cynic in me said that this was a scam and I should get away as quickly as possible. The cynic in me won out, yes it did. Maybe they were looking for English speakers because they’ve heard of the famed generosity of Americans–or perhaps they’re familiar with the famed gullibility of Americans, and were looking to take advantage of same. Suffice it to say, I moved on quickly.
Little else tarnished my brief stay in Brussels. After a few hours wandering about and looking at pretty things, I went back to the station and took a train up to the airport. This was substantially less frustrating, since the digital signs would all say “AIRPORT”. While waiting for the train, a couple of German women came up to me and asked if I spoke English. While I could have pretended only to speak Esperanto or somesuch, my wits failed me at that moment and I tried instead to be helpful. They said they were trying to get to Bruges and wondered if I knew what train to take. Oh, of course not. I told them I was also confused by the insanity of the Belgian trains. They wandered off and probably wound up in Amsterdam.
Back at the airport, I finally got hungry. There was a place called “Quality Burger Restaurant.” I do love truth in advertising. I had a “beef andalousse” burger, which cost like 2 Euro and was smaller than the smallest burger they sell at McDonald’s. Oh, what the hell, Europe? They had bigger ones, but my God, they were like 8 Euro a pop! No way, dude. So I got one of those andalousse thingies and a side salad, which was actually very good and not at all like the side salads you get in the US. It had feta cheese and other things in it which I am now forgetting. And balsamic vinaigrette dressing. That was good. I paid 10 Euro for an hour’s worth of Internet access. It was laggy and sucked ass. What a ripoff.
Later on, I found out there was an observation level at the airport where you could eat and watch the tarmac. I had to get in on that. Since you had to buy something to get into the restaurant, I wasn’t hungry, and I wasn’t sure about trying Belgian beer, I instead bought a bottle of French merlot which was something like 12.5% alcohol by volume. I drank it, watched the planes, started to feel very warm and amused, then decided to go through security to get to my proper terminal and gate. Alcohol kept me from properly emptying my pockets so I kept setting off the metal detector. The security personnel were visibly annoyed and I earned myself a patdown from an American gentleman who was for some reason working in the Brussels airport. This is what I get for not drinking in a year and a half and being a total lightweight to begin with.
It took me a few hours to sober up, by which time my plane had come and it was time to be off to Budapest. The sun was going down, and I hopped aboard a Malev Hungarian Airline flight. They served us cheese sandwiches and tea. I napped a little bit, but then they rammed my elbow with the meal cart. Fuck.