This ad, along with its accompanying campaign, pretty much makes me want to scream. For hair-ripping fun, you should really check out the video at keepcontrol.ca.

For now, let’s focus on this image of genius, shall we?

“Aidan didn’t think he’d be raping his friend’s sister.” Under the slogan of the campaign (”KEEP CONTROL”), the statement suggests that, a) Aidan just lost control after five drinks and that, b) it’s worse that he raped his friend’s sister, rather than some random stranger.

The ad perpetuates the myth that men simply lose control when they drink; that sexual assault wouldn’t occur as often if they didn’t drink as much. True, alcohol may be used as “liquid courage,” but it doesn’t make someone do something ze doesn’t want to do in the first place. Sure, I may have a couple of drinks in order to encourage myself to get up on the dance floor, but it’s not like I didn’t have that planned in the first place. Further, alcohol doesn’t make people commit outrageous crimes such as sexual assault. Think about it: Is someone going to stab herself in the eye because she’s had a few drinks? No!

So, let’s put the blame where it belongs - in the hands of the perpetrator. Aidan didn’t rape his friend’s sister because he had too many drinks; he raped his friend’s sister because he’s a perpetrator who uses sex in order to gain power and control over women.

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I’m reading Douglas Coupland’s newest novel right now and I can’t help but feel alienated by its utter loneliness.  The guy’s a fucking genius at capturing emptiness, of communicating longing…

But I’m reading The Gum Thief and I just can’t relate.  I’ve been trying to figure out what it is and I think it stems from the first thought I had when I reread JPod a couple of weeks ago: it’s fucking white and ridiculously straight.

Something about my Indian-ness means my own brand of loneliness stems from the disconnection I feel with family I’m meant to have branded onto my skin, not necessarily from trying to fill emotional voids with popular culture or superficial attachments to work.  If anything, I actively brainstorm ways to distance myself from work and the people there because I love everything about it so much.

Maybe I’m full-swing into adulthood.  Maybe coming to terms with my Indian-ness means coming to terms with the fact that I’m not on the fringes because of what I listen to, but because of who I am, because of how I’m treated: my brown skin and my parents’ birth country has relegated me to the position of an outsider.

I don’t want to try to fit into worlds like Coupland’s anymore.

“Uh oh.”

I looked down and it wasn’t there.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

I buried my face into my pillow as first fear, then dread, overwhelmed my body. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered.

I went to the bathroom and pulled it out. Guess I’ll be needing the morning after pill. Again.

The downside to no hormonal contraceptive means that “accidents” like the above are more than just annoying; they’re horrifying. I’ve been in two situations like this and both times, I woke up alone; called to see where ECP is locally available alone; made the walk over to the pharmacy on my own; tackled my own insecurities over judgment when requesting the pill (judgment placed solely on me, I’ll add) on my own. The worst is that sick feeling as the hours after the dose tick by: the nausea, the cramping, the headache, the irritability…

This shouldn’t be a big deal at all. I should be able to shrug my shoulders and say, “Oh, well! I’ll get the pill tomorrow.” I shouldn’t have to worry about how the pharmacist will treat me and I certainly shouldn’t be relieved when she’s kind and gentle and understanding. Good treatment should be the norm, not the exception. Both partners should be held accountable when shit like this happens, but we all know who bears responsibility.

What’s more is how much of my emotions, and my life, is controlled by the threat of pregnancy. Really, a condom slipping (especially with a partner who I wouldn’t ask/want to accompany me to the pharmacy) should be horrifying because I don’t know what’s in my body. I should be concerned with the threat of rampant STIs, especially the incurable ones such as Herpes, HPV, HIV/AIDS… But instead, I worry over the growth of a fucking fetus which I have every right to abort. How fucked up is that? How fucked up is it when anti-choice rhetoric is so strong that someone as adamantly pro-choice as I am is still more concerned over a fucking pregnancy than a disease that could kill me?

The morning after isn’t what was so bad. It was the night after, the week after - my body sick, my body screaming, my breasts sore, my mood off-balance (shitty for anyone, somewhat dangerous for someone who’s bipolar)… And it’ll continually be worse in the coming months, years, if this happens again and if I have to go through it again on my own because I’m the one with the ovaries.

There was a time, not long ago, that I’d be glued to any pop culture depictions of intimate partner violence.  I sucked up that shit like a little kid sucks up the juice from a melting popsicle:  I slurped it, savoured it, devoured it and chewed on what was left for hours later.  If this was a heterosexual relationship, how was the woman being depicted?  If the man was the offender, how was he shown?  With whom were the viewer’s sympathies meant to lie?  Whose motives were examined?  Was the violence naturalized? If so, in what way?  What were the legal implications of what was going on?

I still think examining popular culture is important in examining social views of assault, sex, violence and everything in between.  What’s changed now, though, is that I’m working in the field.  Full-time.  I absolutely love my job, so I’m not complaining, but I admit that it’s hard.  It’s hard to get up everyday and think, “Yay!  Time to talk about sexual assault!  Time to take more crisis calls!”

In order to take care of myself, I’ve had to lock up the bits of myself that revel in after-work discussion.  For example, Oprah had a woman who had experience intimate partner violence; even just a couple of months ago, my eyes would’ve been glued to the program, analyzing how this woman was treated by Oprah, her doctors, the audience and herself.  I’d soak that shit up.  Now?  I couldn’t watch it for more than 30 seconds.  Yes, the show grabbed my attention, but one mention of, “And when he burst my eardrum…” and I just couldn’t watch anymore.

I wonder what kind of effect my job is having on me and my politics.  Is it making me a lazier activist?  In truth, I haven’t done anything activisty for a long time now.  I just can’t.  I’ve even found it difficult to blog about what irks me because I’m irked so often at work, to the point where hearing stories of the worst violence is normalized.  I often forget that some people think rape is the worst thing that can happen to anyone because those who experience it are just a part of my everyday life.

Am I becoming hardened?  Or, am I become softer?  Am I taking care of myself, or am I letting go of what matters to me?  In turning my passion and dedication into a full-time job, have I compromised my commitment to engage?  To fight?

Is it just me, or is this ridiculously misogynistic?

I’ve drafted about five entries for my “first post of 2008,” but everything I write seems trite.  Still, I want something here.

I want to write that I’m happy: with myself, my job, my friends, my place in life.  I’m still angry at injustice and I always will be, and I’ve realized that my passion for fighting doesn’t conflict with my love for my life; in actuality, it’s my need to fight and speak and yell and scream that makes my life one I feel is worth living (and enjoyable, too).

This blog had a nice nap, but it’s not dead.  Neither am I.  I read back on the old entries and the ones filled with sadness and regret are a part of who I am, but no longer define me.  2007 gave me 12 solid months to overcome the pile of SHIT that was 2006. And now, here’s to 2008 being a year to just enjoy it all.

My body feels composed of rotting wood.  The kind that’s flexible, yet old and about to break beneath your feet if you take justonelittlestep.  My eyes are muddled and if I could paint a photo of myself, I’d be curled up into one cushion on a 3-cushion couch, my head leaning against the wall, expressionless.

I’d say I feel empty, but “I feel” is a bit strong.  I’d say “I am,” but that is “to be,” which implies that I’m somehow living.  I’m just rotting.

Does anyone remember Popular?  It was an American dramedy that aired between 1999 and 2001.  I only caught a few episodes when the show was “live,” but have been watching the reruns on the Family Channel over the past couple of months.  I’ve gotta say, that was one smart program.  I’m choked there were only two seasons, but that’s the fate of most great shows (save Degrassi and Buffy).

So, what made the show so fantastic?  There’s one episode which deals with having a pre-op male-to-female transexual teacher who gets fired from him job, clearly outlining the discriminatory practices of the school.  And another, which is more fresh in my memory, of a new black football student, George, who enrolls in the (mostly) white school.  Here, George and Sam (the most popular of the non-popular girls) wrestle with sexual tension, which Sam tries to resist because of her anti-jock stance.  In one scene, George asks if he can sit with her and her friends.  Sam responds with, “Sorry, but your kind sit over there.”  George gets pissed off at her apparently racist remark, which she retorts wasn’t intended that way.

Now.

Normally, this would be where Sam would throw a fit of rage, hurling insults at George, call him too sensitive and wonder how he has the gall to accuse her of being a racist when, clearly, she has other black friends!!!  This show, though?  Instead of getting defensive and angry, she actually apologizes.  Yes, Sam confronts George later in the episode and tells him that her remark was directed at the split between the (popular) jocks and the (geeky) non-jocks; then, she clarifies that she realizes it must be weird for him since there aren’t many other African Americans at that school and that she knows she should’ve watched her language more carefully and she is sorry for making him feel ostracized on account of his race.

!!!!!

How brilliant is that???  I have never, ever, EVER had anyone do that to me in real life - that is, no one later retracts their steps and apologizes for making what seems like a racist remark.  Instead, the person gets all huffy and puffy, throws a fit and asks me how I DARE accuse them of being “a racist.”

I wish I had taped that episode so I could send it around and show everyone how that’s all it takes to make someone who miscontrued your remark as racist feel better.  That’s all.

Of course, the show’s no longer on air.  Figures.

Someone on the feminist_rage community in LiveJournal posted an entry about an asshole employee at Starbucks commenting on her choice in snacks.  It may not sound like a big deal to some people, but it affirmed a lot for me.

Sometimes, in line at cafes or when ordering at restaurants, I can’t help but observe how skinny people order.  Do they think the same things I do?  Are they as afraid as I am?  I used to feel compelled to ask for the low-fat treats at cafes so the baristas wouldn’t think I’m over-indulging.  At ice-cream parlours with my friends, I’d always order frozen yogurt instead of ice-cream and I pretended not to like sweets so I couldn’t be pigeon-holed as one of those fat girls who just doesn’t know how to control herself.  I’ve gotten over most of that, but even now, if a barista asks me if I’d “like whipped cream with that,” I say no.  Even though I love whipped cream, I say no.

And then I sit down at the table and grab my drink and notice how much room my chubby fingers take up when I grasp the cup.  I eye the excess on my arm.

And I hear the blonde three feet away from me smile while she ensures her drink is made with homo milk and served with extra whipped cream.  I think she’s probably a size eight.

I hate winter, I hate this city and I usually hate the snow. That’s why I can’t help but catch myself when my feet are sludging through the fresh, white, sticky powder, feeling an unfamiliar wave wash over me. There’s no concrete in sight, only a sparkling blanket. It’s morning and it’s only -4 and the flakes are giants made for perfect for snowballs (as opposed to the sad, little, dry ones which cause nothing but lonely drifts). So, somehow - and I don’t know exactly why - I catch myself in a sliver of hesitation this morning, waiting for the bus. Smiling.