Jessica Critcher

An Open Letter to the Kids Who Harassed Me From Their School Bus

Thu, 13 Jun 2013 08:22:00 -0400

Originally posted to Gender Focus.

An open letter to the children who harassed me from the window of their school bus

cc: Their parents

Dear Boys,

It’s me, the angry lady from Boston. I hope you had fun on your field trip. Maybe you were in my neighborhood to see our Paul Revere statue. But my guess is that you were here to visit the New England Aquarium, because the way you yelled at me and called me names made me feel like an animal in a zoo. For their sake, I hope you were nicer to the animals. I don’t think I could forgive you if you spoke to a penguin the same way you spoke to me.

I was having a pretty good day up until I crossed in front of your school bus and you started shouting things at me. I didn’t hear all of the comments, thank goodness, but the one that stuck out the most was “You’re fat!” I heard that one repeated by a few of you, so I guess you really wanted to be sure I heard that part.

Those comments hurt my feelings, boys. But before I go any further, I need to tell you something: My feelings were not hurt because you called me fat. There is nothing wrong with being fat. I’m fatter than a lot of my friends, and some of my friends are fatter than I am. It’s a waste of time to compare myself to other people. How fat a person is does not change how smart, kind, creative, thoughtful or valuable a person is. I can be fat and still be beautiful, and even if I wasn’t beautiful, I would still be a person whose thoughts and feelings matter.

But it took me a long time to learn that, and some people still don’t know. That’s why I’m upset: because you didn’t know that I have such a good attitude about my body. For all you knew, I could be battling an eating disorder, or some type of medical condition. What if I thought being fat was terrible, and you calling me fat made me want to kill myself? For all you kids knew, I could be harming myself or wishing I was dead. I’m not– but you didn’t know that when you called me names. That’s the risk you take when you shout hurtful things at strangers. And even though I don’t consider “fat” to be a bad thing, the way you said it made it perfectly clear that you DO think it’s a bad thing. So while I’m not exactly devastated about being called fat, I’m pretty miffed that you kids feel like you have the right to call me names.

This affects more people than just you and me. What about the girls in your class who saw you teasing me? They are getting the message that if they don’t look the way you want them to look, they deserve to be teased and it’s okay for you to make fun of them. When I was your age, I didn’t look like a model or the kids in TV shows. I still don’t. But for a long time I hated my body and the way I look – because boys like you made me feel like I was ugly, and that was the only part of me that mattered. That isn’t your fault. You weren’t even born then. But your parents were.

Hi parents. I just thought you should know that your sons harassed me on the street. You’re probably a little older than I am, but not by much. People I went to highschool with are having kids all the time, so we’re definitely in the same age range. I’m a grown woman; I can handle myself. I’m not tattling on your children. However, as a member of the society into which your precious darlings will one day be set loose, I would like to express concern.

Children learn by watching. Your kids are being brought up in a culture where it is acceptable to judge women based on their appearance. This sense of entitlement to an opinion on women’s bodies obviously starts very early. Does your child know that women are human beings with thoughts and feelings? The fact that I even feel the need to ask this should be cause for alarm.

Every adult man who has ever harassed or cat-called me was a little boy once. Today, your sons demonstrated that they felt justified in hurting a total stranger. I’m worried about what could happen when that feeling goes unchecked. Instead of just hoping, I am asking you to talk to your children about bullying and harassment. Because a ‘boys will be boys’ attitude toward sexism (or a kids will be kids attitude toward bullying) takes them to dangerous and scary places in adulthood.

Yours Sincerely,

The Angry Lady on the Street in Boston

My Reality: I Have Emetophobia

Tue, 04 Jun 2013 07:39:00 -0400

Originally posted to Gender Focus.

While I missed the boat on Mental Health Awareness Week in Canada (May 6-12) May is Mental Health Awareness MONTH over here in the US. Jarrah’s bravery in opening up about her experience with Trichotillomania (Hair-Pulling Disorder) inspired me to speak up about my emetophobia.

Emetophobia is a strong fear or aversion to vomit. I know, most people don’t like it. But for emetophobes like me, it’s a constant fear that warps into a daily struggle. Some don’t even type or say the word “vomit” out of superstition. Here is a pretty neat infographic on the subject. Wikipedia also has a nice summary:

Emetophobia (from the Greek εμετός, to vomit, and φόβος (phóbos), meaning “fear”) is an intense, irrational fear or anxiety pertaining to vomiting. This specific phobia can also include subcategories of what causes the anxiety, including a fear of vomiting in public, a fear of seeing vomit, a fear of watching the action of vomiting or fear of being nauseated.[1] Emetophobia is clinically considered an “elusive predicament” because limited research has been done pertaining to it.[2] The fear of vomiting receives little attention compared with other irrational fears.[3]

This fear has also caused me to indirectly be afraid of several other things, like traveling by boat (never tried it, too scared!), roller coasters, crowds, hospitals, dental exams, new medications, new foods, drinking or being around drunk people, pregnancy or being around pregnant people, and little children, because they vomit like it’s their damn job. I will avoid all of these things things to varying degrees just because the possibility of feeling slightly nauseated or hearing someone talk about being ill exists.

This phobia has also caused me to fear a lot of other things because they are connected to a concern or incident specific to me, including cashews, McDonald’s, Vicodin, multi-vitamins, intense exercise, and even just being at the gym.

If you tell me you or your children are recovering from a bout of the flu, I’m going to insensitively ask, “What kind of flu?” and if it’s The Bad Kind, I’m going to rudely keep my distance, and take shallow breaths until I can leave. If we’re on a road trip and you tell me you get carsick, I will let you ride shotgun and do everything in my power to make you feel comfortable and obsessively ask if you’re all right – but only if it’s impossible to not sit by you. I know – I’m the worst. I’m sorry.

Another side effect of this phobia is guilt, because it causes me to act like a jerk in situations where I would really not like to act like a jerk. If one of my siblings was sick growing up, I would avoid them or obsessively ask if they were feeling better. If they were in the process of being sick, I would end up having a panic attack and make the situation all about me. I still do this. Once I visited a friend who had just had a baby– she had just pushed a tiny human out of her body, and I came to congratulate her on this effort with the chocolate shake she had been craving during labor. But her pain medication made her sick, and instead of doing whatever it is normal people do when someone is ill, I stood in the corner and mentally tuned the whole thing out. (Seriously, what is the polite thing to do in this situation?)

I’ve been getting panic attacks since I was about eight. Until I was in college, I thought the panic attacks themselves were an indication that I was going to be sick, which made them worse, which made me think that I was about to die, which, surprisingly, did not help. I have become so afraid of any physical symptom that could in any way resemble nausea that I’m not sure I even know what genuine nausea feels like. And I don’t want to find out.

I’ve gotten better at coping with my panic attacks, but it still doesn’t take much effort to set one off. I’ve developed several nervous habits as a result, including compulsive throat clearing, touching my face, swallowing and clicking my throat, and jerking my head. Sometimes I’m so nervous and self-conscious about a panic attack or the related behavior that it’s just easier to stay at home and be strange in private.

But even then I’m not safe. For some reason movies and television shows think it’s hilarious to portray realistic vomit, so any media could turn into my worst nightmare. I’ve gotten good at reflexively looking away from the screen. My awesome, supportive partner has also gotten good at reflexively covering my eyes.

Eventually this reached a point where it was difficult for me to function. I would wake up several nights a week with panic attacks. I was nervous about all of the food I ate, and would compulsively chew Pepto Bismol tablets. I stayed indoors as much as possible due to fear of contracting the Norovirus. And I would worry. All the time. That, my friends, is no way to live.

I tried a few internet forums and support groups. While it was helpful to know I was not the only person in the entire world who had this phobia, they were never any help. We were all in the same predicament, and the discussions mostly revolved around being afraid and hating it. I was hesitant to bring this up with a doctor because I didn’t want to 1) be dependent on anti-emetic medication, 2) be dependent on anti-anxiety medication or 3) undergo any therapy where I would be exposed to images or forced to actually vomit.

But I also didn’t want to live in fear for the rest of my life. After some searching I found The Emetophobia Recovery System by Rich Presta. It’s a book and some other materials that you can download right from your home without having to go out into the germy world. The sales pitch sounded too good to be true, and the price was a little steep for me at $97. But, again, I was desperate. So I gave it a shot. And if you’re suffering like I was, I would say it’s worth the money. It hasn’t cured me. But it has helped me manage my fear and cope with it in a way that doesn’t ruin my life. I learned some techniques to help shorten the length of my panic attacks, and I’ve gotten to the bottom of why I’m so afraid.

After a certain point I had to ask myself, “What am I really afraid of?” Even if “the worst” happens, and I’m subjected to this traumatic event, what is really so terrifying? I learned that for me, it’s about being in control. It’s the idea that my body could turn on me and subject me to something horrible and embarrassing against my will. So, to compensate, I try to control all kinds of other stuff, like how thoroughly my food is cooked.

Like I said, I’m not cured, but I’m working on it. And more importantly, I can function, which is almost as good as being cured. Maybe someday I’ll be able to ride on a boat.

See a Woman Reading? Leave Her Alone.

Wed, 08 May 2013 07:53:00 -0400

Originally posted to Gender Focus on May 5th 2013.

A few months ago, I went to meet with a colleague at his apartment. Since I wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood and I’m paranoid about being late, I budgeted extra time to find the address. It turned out to be easy to find, so I ended up with an hour to myself. Thankfully, a person who likes to read is never bored. I pulled out a book (This book, actually) and prepared to indulge in an hour of reading in a quiet, sunny public park. I barely got through one page before a man started talking to me.

He told me I was cute and asked me if I had a boyfriend. And even after I told him I was married, he just kept talking at me. For the record, I understand that this man was just trying to be friendly, and he probably didn’t mean to annoy me or make me feel weird. But since I felt weird and annoyed, his intentions were irrelevant.

Eventually I pulled out my phone, told him I was running late, and headed on my way. By then I was too upset to properly concentrate on my book. But it wasn’t even about the book in the first place. It was about my personal space, which he ignored. This kind of thing happens all the time.

Whenever I express my frustration about this, someone invariably tells me, “But he was just trying to be friendly/strike up a conversation/learn more about the subject.” Stop. What you are telling me is that the fact that a man wants to talk to is more important (and should therefore be given more consideration) than the fact that I want to be left alone. I should dig deeper and find the good intentions behind why this man interrupted me. I should give this man the benefit of a doubt and take the fact that he bothered me as a compliment. The desires of a stranger are more important than mine.

I had a friend counter my point, saying that she personally likes it when people stop to chat her up while she’s reading. If you like that, good for you! Opportunities for that to happen are plentiful. I happen to detest it and would like it to stop. People usually follow this up by asking how potential partners are supposed to meet each other, as if it’s supposed to check-mate my argument. But that’s not my problem. If you really want to know, check out this piece called “Schrödinger’s Rapist,” which offers some advice on how to approach women without being creepy:

To begin with, you must accept that I set my own risk tolerance. When you approach me, I will begin to evaluate the possibility you will do me harm. That possibility is never 0%. For some women, particularly women who have been victims of violent assaults, any level of risk is unacceptable. Those women do not want to be approached, no matter how nice you are or how much you’d like to date them. Okay? That’s their right. Don’t get pissy about it. Women are under no obligation to hear the sales pitch before deciding they are not in the market to buy.

I like that some people find reading to be an attractive trait. But I don’t read for anyone’s enjoyment but my own. Men of the world, if you see a woman reading a book, eyes darting from line to line, wrapped up in her own universe, leave her alone. She is probably having a moment, and she deserves to have it.

She might be about to learn the true identity of the killer. She might be studying for an important exam. She might be about to read a sentence that changes her life. Don’t interrupt her to tell her she’s cute or has good taste; she knows it. Don’t interrupt her to tell her she has bad taste; that’s debatable, and she doesn’t care. Don’t interrupt her to ask what her book is about; note the title and check it out for yourself if you actually care about the book and not about taking up some woman’s time. Better yet, pull out a book yourself and do some reading of your own. Unless she is on fire, nothing you have to say to her is more important than what she is reading– because she decided for herself that she wants to read. If her eyes are on the page instead of on you, she is telling you that she is all set for company at the moment.

Do women interrupt each other when they’re reading? Maybe. But it has never happened to me. Do women interrupt men? I have never done it, and I doubt it happens as often. But even if it happened occasionally, it wouldn’t be part of a larger framework of street harassment as a result of rape culture. There is a power differential in play when a man interrupts me.

For other women, it might not be reading. Some might experience this while running on the treadmill at the gym, or meditating or painting, or listening to music or any number of ways we mind our own business. For me, it’s reading. Men of various races and ages feel the need to talk to me while I’m reading. Men of different social classes, in all kinds of different locations have been certain that whatever they were about to ask or tell me was more important than anything I could possibly be reading. A high school student on the bus, a beggar on the subway, a Coast Guard Auxiliarist in a stairwell, they may come from different places and follow different creeds, but they are all united in feeling entitled to my time.

People tell me I should be nicer about this. But here’s the thing. I am nice. You, reader, are exposed to my hostility because I am safe in my comfort zone, not being interrupted while I write this. But when it happens, and some strange man decides it’s a good time to ask me if I have a boyfriend, I smile. I’m polite, I let him talk until he gets bored. I’m not nice because I want to be nice, but because I’m anxious about a negative reaction to hostility. I get flustered and my courage fails, so on the spot, when men feel entitled to my attention, I am always nice. He doesn’t learn that he is bothering me, and I am pulled away from my book. Everyone loses.

I resist solutions to social problems that require women to be nice(r). We have been bullied into sweetness for hundreds of years. So the next time this happens, I am going to do my best to be assertive, rude even, and explain that I would like to be left alone. If you don’t want that to happen to you, the next time you see a woman reading a book (or otherwise minding her own business), for the love of Dickens let her read in peace.

Asking for It

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 14:08:00 -0400

Originally posted to Gender Focus 27 March 2013

Last summer my husband was out of town for work. Though I missed him, it was exciting to be alone in Boston. I liked the idea of being mysterious and anonymous, minding my own business about town. With my tiny grocery cart, I felt like a woman with a secret. For two dollars I could take a train anywhere in the city– to an art museum or a brewery or a noodle shop or a bronze statue. If I wanted, I could go downtown and ride an elevator to the top of the tallest building in the city and scan the horizon for miles around. Wanting was all it would take to make it happen. The feeling is so pleasant that I like to carry two dollars in my pocket, even when I don’t plan on going anywhere.

We didn’t have air conditioning then. I would write early in the morning with the windows open, feeling breezes on my skin as I ate tomatoes from our roof garden. In the afternoon, when the sun climbed over the buildings and smothered my desk in hard light, I wrote in coffee shops and restaurants and all over the Coast Guard base where I could pilfer WiFi and air conditioning and a quiet place to sit. But when the sun went home, so did I.

One night that summer I got a real hum-dinger of a migraine. I get those quite a bit. The combination of hormonal birth control and staring at computer screens probably exacerbates this problem that I’ve had since I was about ten. Over the years I’ve been poked and prodded and scanned and medicated, and the doctors concluded that some people just get headaches.

That night, my eyes felt hard and heavy like little stones. The pain branched out from a tight knot deep inside my head, forming lightning patterns that stretched out to my scalp. It was too early to go to bed. I was restless. I took medication and massaged the tight pressure points in my face, trying to dissolve the pain like sugar cubes in tea, but nothing budged. I wanted to be cool and quiet in the dark. I wanted to feel a breeze from the harbor on my skin. I wanted to feel cold grass under my bare feet. I wanted to escape my stuffy apartment, to be outside. Wanting it was not enough.

Keys in hand, I hesitated. My independence and my two dollars didn’t carry the same weight at night. I know the statistics: 1 out of every 6 American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime. Being a white woman, I know that someone like me is raped at the national average rate of about 17 percent. I tried to weigh the risks. Were those good odds? One in six. Seventeen percent. I couldn’t tell. Would the feeling of cool grass under my feet be worth it? This is my city, I told myself. My taxes maintain these parks and streets, and I’m going to walk them. I won’t be made to feel scared. Except, I was scared. I locked the door behind me and set out into the night.

I have been warned against this for as long as I can remember. At five or six my mother told me that if a stranger tried to touch me or take me somewhere, I should scream and kick and bite and fight. Ever since, I was paranoid that this would happen, that – even at five – I would be tasked with defending my own life and bodily autonomy.

I took some night classes in college, and I got more lectures about being a woman. Carry your keys in your hand to use as a weapon. Look men in the face, in case you have to describe them to the police later. Walk quickly, with your head high. Don’t walk like a victim, I was told. They’re looking for victims. Once I went to a concert by myself and my mother warned me that a man in Cleveland had raped and killed twelve women and buried them in his cellar. I didn’t need to ask what that had to do with me. It had everything to do with me. My mind has always resisted the idea that I could make myself into a victim. But mine was not the only mother to give such warnings.

It was exhilarating to be out alone at night, with no particular place to be. The ocean breeze felt delicious on my skin, just like I imagined. But the sensation was polluted and complicated by fear. With every step, my brain repeated one in six, like a nursery rhyme. One in six, one in six, the chant synced with my heartbeat.

No one knew where I was. It excited and terrified me. If I went missing, there would be no clues. It could take days to find me. I could be chopped up by then, violated and destroyed. If my husband called that night and I didn’t answer, he would have no way to find me. He would try a few more times and then probably call my mother, and then the police. My apartment would show no signs of a struggle. I should have left a note: Out for a walk, look for my body. xo.

If something happened to me (and I survived), I would be put on trial. They would ask what I was wearing – nothing but a sundress and a gauzy green wrap around my shoulders. Out at night without a bra – they would say I was asking for it. Comfortable clothing, like the freedom to walk at night, comes with a price. I was scared, but I kept going. I found a bench in the park and kicked off my sandals. I wanted to lay back and close my eyes, but being a woman alone at night without a bra was as far as I would stretch my safety. I had to remain alert.

A man smiled at me and commented on the nice weather. I nodded, but to myself I wondered, like I do with any strange man who talks to me, is this man going to try to rape me? He was only exchanging pleasantries. He didn’t mean to cause me anxiety. And being a nice man who had no intention of raping me, he would probably think that this story has nothing to do with him.

Men get defensive when I talk to them about this. I had a man ask me directly, confrontationally, how placing the responsibility to stop rape on men is supposed to help. If a man is about to rape you, asking him to stop won’t work. He told me I hadn’t thoroughly analyzed my position on this issue.

I’m 5’4” with virtually no upper body strength. The fact that I can be overpowered by just about any man who decides to violate me is not new information. I’ve been hearing about this since I was five, remember? If a man feels entitled to rape me, it’s too late. We can agree on that. If even one man feels like he has the right to violate someone, he learned that over time, and we as a culture have failed. Men need to hear that this is not acceptable behavior long before they contemplate raping us. Years and years before.

Imagine if, five-year-old boys were trained like I was. Imagine if boys were told that it is wrong to touch someone without permission. Not just once, but always, constantly, seriously, by grave-faced parents, repeating this message every time their son left the house. Imagine if mothers and fathers worried about their sons out late at night, asking, reminding, insisting that rape is wrong. Imagine if men in college were told about the serial killer in Cleveland with twelve bodies in his cellar– with “don’t end up like that” as the moral of the story. Imagine if while I was told not to be a victim, a young man was told not to be a predator.

Rape would probably not be eradicated by now. But the streets would feel much safer. It will take a few years for the messages to sink in, but if they’re as persistent as the messages I’ve been getting, they’ll eventually be common knowledge and instinct.

I walked home from the park without incident that night. The cool air polished the rough edges of my headache and I was able to sleep. I turned the deadbolt and sealed myself up at home, thankful that I had not been raped yet. But the “yet” is a heavy thing to carry. A few men in my life will shoulder it from time to time, but it always finds a home in the pit of my stomach. This weight does not make for a pleasant late night walk. I look forward to a day when I can set it down. That’s all I’m asking for.

My Boobs and I are Outraged

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 10:47:00 -0500

Originally posted to Gender Focus.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go a whole day without feeling angry about misogyny. That day is not today.

Of all the ridiculous things said at the Oscars, I find myself most upset at Seth MacFarlane’s “Boobs” song. It’s like a splinter in my heel: it hurts and I can’t stop picking at it. The fact that I’ve already been told, in the nicest way possible, to calm down about it ties the whole thing up in a nice, sexist bow.

Where do I even start?

MacFarlane sang about having seen several actresses’ breasts in films. That was the entire joke: “We saw your boobs. In that movie that we saw, we saw your boobs.” He then lists specific films in which actresses, most of them present, appeared topless, except for Jennifer Lawrence, of whom he says, “We haven’t seen Jennifer Lawrence’s boobs at all.”

Apparently those are the only two relevant categories for women at the academy awards: those whose breasts we have seen and enjoyed and those whose breasts we haven’t. Maybe that has something to do with why only one woman has ever won Best Director.

The cheeky, adolescent, boys-will-be-boys tone of the song is played off as if it’s supposed to be a compliment. Angelina Jolie’s breasts, MacFarlane says, “made us feel excited and alive.” But whether it’s a famous man with a microphone on television or a stranger yelling at us from a street corner, women are constantly reminded that our bodies are public property – not our own, but belonging to and existing for men.

Even grammatically, the phrase “We saw your boobs” is problematic. It makes viewers the subject of the sentence and ignores the fact that these women have any sort of agency, phrasing it instead as if viewers were peeping without these women’s consent.

But exposing one’s breasts on film isn’t unequivocally good, either. The double standard would never allow that. It is apparently possible to do this in too many films, as he reminded Kate Winslet, listing off several films in which she appears topless, adding “and whatever you’re shooting right now.”

There was also a cheap dig at Scarlett Johansson, saying we saw her boobs not on the big screen, but on our mobile phones. I couldn’t help but make the connection to women being blackmailed with naked photos on the internet, or the recent trend of revenge porn. He has seen their breasts, he can see them anytime he wants, and he doesn’t let us forget.

Another disturbing thing about this song is that the films listed are serious dramas for which many of the actresses were critically praised. Several of the breasts MacFarlane delights in having seen were exposed in the context of rape or assault in the films. Boys Don’t Cry in particular is about a trans man who is beaten, raped and murdered. I fail to find anything hilarious about that, whether or not we saw Hilary Swank topless.

Do breasts in that context make MacFarlane feel equally “excited and alive”? The subject matter of the films and the acting those women did was deemed totally irrelevant because they have breasts. Even a serious actress like Meryl Streep is not above pervy ridicule, because Seth MacFarlane saw her breasts in Silkwood, twenty years ago.

The first time I saw the song, I was horrified at the reactions the women seemed to have at being mentioned by name. Hollywood demands that these women show their breasts, and then ridicules them when they do.

A few people from the Uphold Patriarchy committee chimed in to point out that the performance (and the reactions) were pre-recorded, and it wasn’t “real” sexism, but all in good fun. (Seriously, why can’t you feminists ever have any fun?) The fact that this skit was pre-recorded doesn’t make any of my previous concerns less relevant. That actually makes things worse.

Seth MacFarlane, jackass that he may be, is not the problem here, but a gross symptom. He didn’t crash the otherwise respectful Oscars and steal the mic to make jokes about eating disorders and domestic violence. He was hired in advance and advertized as a reason to watch this program.

This skit was pre-recorded. Music was scored, rehearsals were held, a dance was choreographed. At some point during the planning for this elaborate opening number, someone could have decided that this wasn’t a good idea. But no one did.

In an ideal world this song would never have been suggested. In an ideal world, a 9-year-old girl would never have been called a cunt on Twitter during this awards show. In an ideal world I wouldn’t be so angry about all of this all the time. That ideal world is never going to exist if we keep tolerating this day after week after year. This has to change.

Join me in my outrage. Sign Bitch Media’s petition and add your own ideas for how The Oscars can be improved. And if you won’t be outraged along with me, at least stop telling me to calm down.

Your Arguments Against Our Permanent Birth Control are Bullshit

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 11:03:00 -0500

Originally posted to Gender Focus. Cross-posted at The Frisky.

My spouse and I are seeking permanent birth control, and the entire process has been difficult. At this point, we are sick to death of unsolicited advice on the subject (Pro-tip: If someone you don’t know says they’re not judging you, they are judging you). Everyone’s heart is in the right place, I can only assume. People think they are telling us new information that will keep us from making what they perceive to be a mistake. I get that they’re trying to help. But we continually find ourselves defending this very personal decision to total strangers. So to keep myself from screaming, I’m going to outline why the condescension disguised as concern is totally unfounded. Trust us. We’ve thought it through.

Bullshit Assumption #1: But you’re so YOUNG! And it’s such a BIG decision!

We know we’re only 24. Thanks for telling us! No one says this to people in our situation who decide to have children, which is an equally big decision. It’s not the weight of the decision that makes people uncomfortable; it’s the fact that we decided against having children. If you’re going to offer unsolicited advice, at least be honest about why.

Bullshit Assumption #2: It’s permanent. You’ll regret it later and resent each other.

Why do they always pair those two? This “advice” intrigues me the most, because there are so many layers and implications. Firstly, it implies that we do not know what “permanent” means. The permanence of a thing is not inherently an effective reason to argue against it. That’s actually the most attractive feature of this birth control option. Thanks, but we’re set.

Furthermore, My husband and I don’t think we’ll ever want to be parents. But this isn’t a conversation about parenthood. This is a conversation about birth control. They’re related, but not the same. We like kids, and we might make kickass parents. And in the (very unlikely) event that we want to be parents at a later date, we still can. According to the US Department of Health and Human Services , in 2011 there were over 400,000 children in the foster care system, 25% of whom were seeking adoption. There are human beings behind that statistic, and they deserve love. We don’t feel the need to assemble a child from scratch when so many are looking for homes.

If we ever change our minds and decide parenthood actually is for us and our lives actually can’t be complete without it, we don’t have to bemoan our permanent decision and grow to hate each other – mostly because we’re adults who talk about our problems, but also because there are steps we can take to be parents if we so choose. As depressing as it is, our backup plan is that there will probably always be kids without homes. Once every single last orphan has a home, I will entertain this nonsense about needing to remain fertile just in case.

Bullshit Assumption #3: You have several other birth control options available.

We were in a urologist’s office when we heard this gem. He refused (on moral grounds!) to perform a vasectomy because of our age. In the meantime, he told us that we have many birth control options (as if we didn’t already know that).

We also already know that the Mirena IUD, our current method of birth control can cause:

Headache/Migraine
Acne
Depressed mood
Heavy or prolonged menstrual bleeding
Vaginal discharge
Breast pain or tenderness
Nausea
Nervousness
Inflammation of cervix, vulva or vagina
Pelvic pain during your period
Back pain
Weight increase
Decreased sex drive
High blood pressure
Pain during intercourse
Anemia
Unusual hair growth or loss
Skin irritations (such as hives, rash, eczema or itching)
Feeling bloated
Swelling of hands and feet

And last but not least, my personal favorite:

Although uncommon,pregnancy while using Mirena can be life threatening and may result in loss of pregnancy or fertility.

Life threatening, folks! Most methods of birth control (the super effective ones, at least) have a list of side effects like this. The doctor then went on to say that he would feel more comfortable performing the procedure on someone older, so we should just wait. But here’s the thing.

According to the National Institute on Aging, the average age for hitting menopause is 51. So. This doctor (and everyone who tries to talk us out of this) is “uncomfortable” with sterilization, but totally fine with me experiencing any or all of the previous symptoms for the next 27 or so years. I have at least five of those, and 27 years is too long to experience any of them. Even if we had children, I would still be on birth control for most of those years. Only someone really selfish would have such wack priorities.

Bullshit Assumption #4: Not having children is selfish.

People say this! But only people who take our extremely personal decision not to have children as an attack against their (equally personal) decision to have children. I donate to charities and do volunteer work (with children!) but even if I didn’t, and even if not having children actually was selfish, that still wouldn’t be a legitimate concern. If what we’re doing doesn’t hurt anyone else, why does it matter?

Bullshit Assumption #5: What if your spouse dies?

During my husband’s initial consult, his doctor tried to use this “divide and conquer” tactic to see if I was nagging him into having the procedure. I’ve also heard a similar excuse, “What if one of your kids dies?”, launched at parents looking to sterilize themselves. (Fun fact: If someone’s kid dies, having another one won’t change that. Don’t be a jerk.)

If I die before my husband, his new, less awesome wife will have to be cool with his vasectomy, because, as we adults understand, that is meant to be a permanent decision. If she wasn’t cool with it, I guess that would be a deal breaker, and she would have to pass on marrying such a handsome widower. Anyone who would object probably wouldn’t be a good fit for my husband anyway, because they would have very different opinions on a very important topic.

One more thing: flip it around. Would you ask a couple who says they are trying to have children what they would do if one of them dies based on whether a new partner would disapprove? What if your new partner doesn’t like kids? That sounds crass and insensitive because it is. I’m not dead yet. Keep this concern to yourself.

Bullshit Assumption #6: You’ll try to have it reversed later.

We’ve already established that this is permanent, and we’re on board. But one of the reasons my husband’s doctor refused to perform the procedure was that too many people change their minds and want to have the procedure reversed, and those that do are often unsatisfied with the results. How many is “too many” though? How often is “often”? Information on this topic was hard to find, mostly because searches including the words “vasectomy reversal” and “regret” brought me to message boards about just that. But according to this article in The Independent, “US research suggested 6 per cent of men change their minds at some point after vasectomy and seek to restore their fertility.” Ohio State University tells us that “Approximately half a million vasectomies are performed in the United States each year.” But we had to listen to a doctor compare this choice to suicide (yes, really) because 6 percent change their minds. Cool.

No one is hurt by any ill-effects of this procedure but us. We would be willing to sign something to the effect of “We understand this is permanent.” That’s how it works with permanent decisions. Welcome to adulthood.

Bullshit Assumption #7: Why doesn’t your wife get the procedure?

This was another attempt to turn my husband against me, because obviously I must be trying to control him and nag him to death. But I’ll stop you right there. I volunteered to get a tubal ligation. I’m the one with the phobias and the aversion to being pregnant, but I was more than willing to go under the knife. However, after doing some research, we found that vasectomy is a less invasive procedure with less recovery time, fewer complications, and it’s less likely to fail. So he volunteered. His body, his choice. And, if I were the one getting sterilized, people would be asking me why he didn’t just get a vasectomy. And we would still be facing this con(cern)descension.

Planned Parenthood to the Rescue

I don’t ever want to be pregnant. That alone should make it a done deal and no one’s business. And, with the exception of the post you’re reading right now, I don’t feel like I should ever have to justify that to anyone. So whether or not people agree with our choice, we’re going to find a way to do this. Planned Parenthood agrees and is helping us find a doctor who thinks that our reproductive choices are ours to make and ours alone.

Happily Ever After? Problems with the birth control debate, myself included

My experience is by no means standard. I am a white, middle class, heterosexual, cis-gendered, able-bodied, married woman. While it is cathartic to talk about my struggles with reproductive choice, I hold several privileged positions in society that shape these experiences. For example, I have the luxury of framing this as a series of personal choices. And, while it gets irritating, it should be noted that there is a huge amount of privilege in the fact that society in general is obsessed with women like me reproducing as soon as possible, lest we run out of white babies.

With the way abortion and birth control debates are polarized, it can be easy to overlook the fact that not all women are pressured to have children, at least not equally. For people of color, people of marginalized social classes, individuals who are transgender or outside of the gender binary, and people with disabilities, there is a history (and in some cases an ongoing practice) of forced and coerced sterilization.* It is also important to note that much of the birth control many of us depend on to regulate our fertility was developed at great cost to women of color. And, once people other than married, straight, cis-gendered white ladies have children, their parenthood is usually open to far more scrutiny.

So while some of us are fighting to avoid parenthood, it bears repeating that others are fighting for the chance to have children and raise them as they see fit. I would love to see a day when no one has to justify their choices – reproductive or otherwise – to anyone. But we have some work ahead of us. I’m going to do my part by, among other things, being unapologetic about my choices. Hopefully I can make a little more room for others to do the same.

*(See: Sterilization of Puerto Rican Women, Mississippi Appendectomy, Forced Sterilization of Native Americans, Mandatory Transgender Sterilization, Sterilization of Women and Girls with Disabilities for just a few examples.)

Buying Presents for Other People's Children: Actually Not Super Difficult

Tue, 18 Dec 2012 08:32:14 -0500

Buying Presents for Other People's Children: Actually Not Super Difficult:

I offer some suggestions for feminists who need to buy presents for other people’s kids but are wary of the usual gendered toys. Originally posted December 17th, 2012.

An Open Letter to Green Day: What the Hell, Guys?

Sun, 26 Aug 2012 00:18:11 -0400

An Open Letter to Green Day: What the Hell, Guys?:

I am one of Green Day’s biggest fans. But as a feminist I was disappointed by their video for “Oh Love.”

Women and Men who are Ambivalent about Men Who Hate Women

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 15:43:07 -0400

Women and Men who are Ambivalent about Men Who Hate Women:

I reviewed “Men Who Hate Women and Women Who Kick Their Asses”, a collection of responses to Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, etc).

The Invisible War: Breaking the Silence Around Military Sexual Trauma

Sat, 21 Jul 2012 17:06:19 -0400

The Invisible War: Breaking the Silence Around Military Sexual Trauma:

Originally posted to Gender Focus. I review The Invisible War, Kirby Dick’s documentary on rape in the US military.

Gender Focus Panel: SFU Men's Centre

Wed, 20 Jun 2012 11:00:54 -0400

Gender Focus Panel: SFU Men's Centre:

I’m a few days late posting this. It was originally posted to Gender Focus on June 17th. Other contributors and I weigh in on the SFU Student Society’s decision to establish a “Men’s Resource Centre” on campus and the controversy surrounding the decision.

Gender Focus Panel: While the Men Watch

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 17:56:16 -0400

Gender Focus Panel: While the Men Watch :

CBC’s Hockey Night in Canada has partnered with “While the Men Watch” - a show hosted by two women billed as “female-friendly commentary” for women to access while their male significant others watch the game. Other Gender Focus contributors and I weigh in with our thoughts.

Women Are Not Like Cats

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:47:40 -0400

Women Are Not Like Cats:

Originally posted on Gender Focus, March 21st 2012. I react to a piece by The Good Men Project titled “Women Are Like Cats.”

Invisible Children Makes Ugandans Invisible

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:44:00 -0400

Invisible Children Makes Ugandans Invisible :

Originally posted for Gender Focus on March 19th, 2012. My take on the hoopla surrounding the Kony 2012 campaign. In a nutshell, it’s good that you care about something, but if you want to help, it might be a good idea to ask Ugandans about it instead of a white man.

The Secret World of Arrietty: For the Activist and the Child in All of Us

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:39:00 -0400

The Secret World of Arrietty: For the Activist and the Child in All of Us:

My review of the new Studio Ghibli film, The Secret World of Arrietty. Originally posted to Gender Focus, February 27th 2012.

Of Beds and Bugs

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:36:32 -0400

Of Beds and Bugs:

Originally published with Katherine Press, February 2012. Sort of a break from my usual style. This is a personal essay based on my experience living alone and learning things about myself while my husband was out to sea.

Au Revoir, "Mademoiselle!"

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:29:37 -0400

Au Revoir, "Mademoiselle!":

Originally posted for Gender Focus on January 27th, 2012. I talk about a French town banning the use of “Mademoiselle” on official forms, and my own personal gripes with gendered terms like “Madame.”

Can't Turn it Off: Retro-Sexism in TV Sitcoms

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:23:00 -0400

Can't Turn it Off: Retro-Sexism in TV Sitcoms:

Originally posted for WAM!, January 5th 2012. I react to un-funny TV sitcoms that rely on gender stereotypes, specifically the (now canceled) show, “Work It!”.

I'm Sick of Being Sick of Rape Culture

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:17:22 -0400

I'm Sick of Being Sick of Rape Culture:

Originally posted for WAM! on December 13th, 2011. I respond to a piece on Campus Basement titled “10 Ways to Fool a Sorority Girl Into Bed.”

(2011) 16 Days of Action Against Gender Violence

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:12:32 -0400

(2011) 16 Days of Action Against Gender Violence:

Originally posted for WAM! (Women, Action and the Media) on December 12th, 2011. This is a summary of our 16 day blogging campaign, in solidarity with the Rutgers University 16 Days of Activism Against Gender Violence campaign. We highlighted WAMmers working to end gender violence.