Don't Be a Slut

I grew up with a lot of male influence in my life. I have three brothers, my mom had five, and most of them had sons. From a young age, I was surrounded by boys all of the time. When people find out I have three brothers, they often make comments as though they are sorry for me, that it must have been hard growing up like that with no sisters. And I never understood this. I love my brothers, and we get along great. I did not understand why everybody assumed that gender was one of the defining characteristics of a good sibling relationship. Now that I’m older, I can see that if I had a sister, perhaps we could connect in ways where there are barriers with my brothers. They surely have aspects of their relationships with each other that I am not a part of. While we might work out in the garage together once in a while, we aren’t gym buddies. And when I want to go shopping, I usually go with my mom or a friend instead of them. But these are activity preferences. We all act pretty similarly, and I generally don’t think about it in gendered terms. And I think that for the most part, my parents treated my brothers and I equally. I think that my mother, however had a more conservative upbringing than my father, and I think that a lot of gender-specific principles were ingrained in her. My mom was (and still is) my foremost teacher and role model in my life. There were gender roles that seemed inherent to her that I did not really understand, and I think that she was sometimes shocked by my behavior. I grew to distain the word “ladylike” because it seemed synonymous with oppression and reprimand. I think these reasons are why Jamaica Kincaid’s poem “Girl” resonates with me. I thought it was a moving depiction of the kinds of lessons that a girl learns from her mother, lessons about how to navigate the world. And one of the repeated lessons was to not be a slut. I think that this sentiment is relatable to a lot of girls, but it was very much present in my own upbringing. In my house, we did not talk about sex, and my understanding of sexuality was limited for a long time. I could not understand why I was not behaving like a proper lady; I especially didn’t understand why some “unladylike” behaviors were okay and others weren’t. I was taught to stand up for myself; don’t be weak. But don’t lay on the couch with your legs spread apart, even in pants, because it’s not a ladylike position. It’s ok to wear a bathing suit, but a short skirt is for sluts. I think that most of my inappropriate behaviors were deemed such because they did make for a proper representation of what conservative female sexuality should look like. Like Kincaid’s mother, these things were passed along in an attempt to make sure I would succeed in society; as she put it, to be someone who the baker would let touch the bread. Most of what my mother taught me has been empowering, and all of it has been meant to help me. I hope, however, that in the future, mothers will no longer feel the need to teach their daughters that one of the most important qualities for success in the world is to not be a slut.

Feeding the Right Wolf

When I was reading Carl Morse’s poem, “How To Watch Your Brother Die,” I experiences a wide range of emotions that came and went surprisingly quickly. I think that no matter how strongly we hold an intellectual belief, there is always a part of us that in some way reverts to an entrenched prejudice that we have not yet drowned. Pema Chodron Wrote a book called “Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves From Old Habits and Fears.” The first chapter of the book, “Feeding the Right Wolf,” talks about mental habits and how mindfulness can help us to overcome our entrenched ways of thinking and create new defaults that are beneficial to life. She draws an analogy of a river, and describes every action and thought as a drop of water. We have large rivers that have built up over years of drop after drop being put in them, and if we wish to change these things about ourselves, we must instead put drops in a new river. And while we may actively prefer a newer and smaller river, it is not helpful to deny the existence of other rivers. I think that many of us who consider ourselves progressive individuals find it uncomfortable to acknowledge our own prejudices if we are uncomfortable with them. As I was reading Morse’s poem, there were times where I felt deeply sad and empathetic, but I knew that I was making some assumptions because of prejudices that have been socialized into me and most people in our society. I think that I often feel the desire to ignore these and pretend I don’t feel them, and I can only assume that others do the same. But I think that perhaps an acknowledgement of these feelings followed by a conscious reinforcement of our intellectual beliefs would result in us putting out drops into the right river–feeding the right wolf.

I, too, am an American.

Language is at the base of human interaction. In his book “The Hour Between Dog and Wolf,” John Coates argues that our highly evolved ability to move influences our thoughts, rather than the other way around. This means that our physical functioning is inextricable from our humanity itself, and one of the most important anatomical evolutions is that of our vocal chords. The ability to articulate is one of the primary advantages that humans have over other animals. Without it, we would not be able to have the same level of complexity of thought, nor would we be able to convey these thoughts to anyone else. Words allow us to make use of our cognitive power, and they give us the ability to form complex and meaningful communities with other humans. In his poem, “I Am An American,” Steve Connell labors over the power of words. He speaks about this within the context of being an American, and as Americans, we pride ourselves on one right in particular: our freedom of speech. Connell takes this right and brandishes it as a weapon of extreme empowerment, begging for accountability for the damage that it will inflict. And it is this willingness to accept the responsibility of words that makes them so powerful. One cannot wield a weapon effectively without acknowledging that it is dangerous. And I do think that Connell wants to be dangerous. All artists do. What is the point of creating if there is no room for trouble? I admire this poem, not because of Connell’s beautifully articulated mourning of Iroquois children, or because I agree with everything he is saying. I am moved by this poem because he asks me to hold him accountable for his words, and that conviction is something that I desperately want for myself. And when he asks, “If your words don’t define you, why are you talking?” it makes me want to shut up and think carefully before I speak again. It makes me want to be Connell’s definition of an American.