I am willing to violate Rule #1 of this website.

Image: from a Take Back the Night flyer, circa 2000. I think it’s a copyright violation. Oops.

A few years back, I was an organizer for the Champaign-Urbana version of Take Back the Night. For those unfamiliar with TBTN, it is an international event designed to protest violence against women. It dates back to 1977, and is celebrated in virtually every major city in the US. Specific details vary from place to place, but for the most part, the occasion includes a rally followed by a women-only march through the streets. While Champaign-Urbana has historically stuck to this format, this year’s organizers are, much to my dismay, allowing men to march.

Is a women-only event exclusionary? Yes. Is there a reason for it? Yes. The march is an opportunity for women to walk the streets after dark without the presence or protection of men. The value of this experience is immeasurable, because we spend our lives with the ever-present fear of walking alone at night. While it’s statistically true that most sexual assaults are committed by persons known to the survivors, this doesn’t minimize the constant fear women experience of stranger rape. It certainly doesn’t prevent us from being warned from childhood on against venturing out at night – because, you know, if we do, we’re “asking for it”.

Given this reality, it makes perfect sense that a march like Take Back the Night would be empowering for those of us who fear gender-based violence on a nightly basis. It also seems obvious that adding men to the equation contradicts the basic premise of the event. This isn’t to say that men don’t have a place in eliminating and protesting violence against women. They do, and are absolutely essential to the movement. To this end, there are plenty of opportunities for men to get involved. I have attended workshops and seminars on the topic myself, and there are literally scores of organizations devoted specifically to the issue. There are even national conferences in which participants dissect every possible angle of every possible role for men in ending gender-based violence. On the local level in Champaign-Urbana, a group called Men Against Sexual Violence came into existence in part to educate men on the need for a women-only TBTN, and to provide alternate activities for men during the march. In short, there are a whole 364.9 days out of the year in which men can plan a myriad of activities combating violence against women, as well as an existing community already engaged in the struggle.

Given the ample opportunity and vast network of support for men wishing to fight the good fight, you’d think the guys would leave us alone, right? Guess again. Every year, the same thing happened. First, the school newspaper would 1) publish a bunch of articles, editorials, and letters expressing outrage at the exclusion of men, and give us a tiny bit of print space to balance things out; and 2) send a male photographer to cover the march, despite a politely phrased request in writing to respect the women-only nature of the event. Second, the community would be abuzz with can-you-believe-the-audacity-of-those-women chatter, despite public comments, press releases, and a clearly worded website posting.

Third, and most disturbing, was the yearly Lone Ranger. This was a guy who was utterly livid that he could not march, and who would not back down following any amount of discussion or, eventually, avoidance. He would emerge from the pack of men who started out mad, but eventually calmed down after understanding the point of the event. In contrast, the Lone Ranger would endlessly assert that he was OUTRAGED that we would dare to question his commitment to ending violence against women, and that we were DISCRIMINATORY, and SEXIST, and OPPRESSIVE, and OMG HE COULDN’T BELIEVE WE WOULD TREAT HIM SO BADLY WHEN HE JUST WANTED TO SHOW THE WORLD HOW DEVOTED HE WAS TO EMPOWERING WOMEN. He was always very angry, usually in a threatening and abusive manner. He never saw anything ironic about his tireless devotion to questioning the boundaries set by a group of women concerning their own perceptions of safety. He also consumed copious amounts of energy that would have been better applied to organizing, or, well, to almost anything else.

The point is that excluding men from Take Back the Night is important to me. Most men are fabulous, and I know many who are amazing supporters of a variety of feminist causes, but this is a place for women. Freedom from the notion that one is only safe with a man present cannot occur with a man present. It’s that simple. Therefore, I am deeply disappointed that this year’s C-U TBTN organizers have overturned decades of empowerment and strength by allowing men to march. Congrats – you’ve got the Lone Ranger in your ranks now, along with a crew of guys who might have been better educated had they been challenged to think harder about women’s experiences with gender violence. Who don’t you have? Rape survivors who feel uncomfortable and unsafe marching with men.

That’s how my sister described us in this photo. It was taken in summer 1996, when I was 18 and Blue was 19:

Here’s a poem of Blue’s from that era:

today i woke up like a slam in the face
not adjusted yet to the dream i had just had
i was on the wrong side of the road
heading straight for a big white van
we collide and slam! i’m awake
about to hit what’s heading towards me full on
but now ive decided
i will choose what slams into me
i know where i’m headed
my dreams
direct me.

Eleven years later, she’s at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. More importantly, she’ll be in San Francisco next week visiting me. Yay!

I was at the pharmacy recently, in line behind about 15 other people. The setup was such that there was one clearly demarcated queue feeding into a row of approximately five cashiers. As each cashier finished a transaction, he or she would invite the next customer to that particular station (thankfully not using the questionably grammatical “Can I help who’s next?”).

As I stood in line, I noticed that the woman behind me was slowly and subtly invading my personal space in an attempt to move ahead of me in line. At first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt: maybe we arrived at the same time; maybe I didn’t notice her and inadvertently cut her off when I walked in. However, I clearly remembered looking around before getting in line so as to prevent such a faux pas. Verdict: guilty.

My knee-jerk reaction was to protect my space and prevent her from advancing. In response, she adopted a new strategy. She stood off to the side of the line, as if confused about the system, and slowly moved toward the cashiers. When the one nearest her beckoned for the next customer, she made a beeline for the counter.

Freeze-frame: what to do?

During social conflicts, my regionally diverse upbringing makes itself known via a domino effect of emotional reactions. My formative years in upstate New York meant that my intuitive response in this situation was to yell:

“HEY! What do you think you’re doing? Do you think nobody saw that? Get back in line!”

However, the 15 years I lived in the Midwest immediately canceled out the New York reaction:

“be passive aggressive. You can be mad, and think that lady is rude, but dontmakeascenedontmakeascenedontmakeascene.”

Following the Illinois voice, Georgia made an appearance. This one was passive aggressive, too, but more along the lines of:

(to the other rule-following patrons) “Oh my gosh, ya’ll. Did you see what that woman did? Some people.”

Of course, after a year and a half in San Francisco, the when-in-Rome attitude of “whatever” has taken root as well. This was the prevailing attitude amongst the line-standers at the pharmacy. Some people took note of the woman’s obviously antisocial behavior, but shrugged it off. As for me, after my internal regional conflict, I came up with this:

I had nowhere to be in the immediate future. In fact, my schedule is so very flexible at the moment, it is driving me mildly insane. The truly interesting part of this scenario is that woman’s personality. What is it that caused her to pull such an elementary school-esque move? Did she have a small child to pick up at day care? Was she double-parked? Was she missing her favorite TV show? Why is it that she was perfectly comfortable subverting the other patrons’ (unknown) needs for hers?

In short: four years of sociology classes trump geography.

A woman boards the N Judah in the financial district, sporting the following:

• A beautiful wool coat that fits perfectly, either because she has the figure of a model or because it was custom tailored
• Flawlessly applied makeup that strikes the perfect balance between Fresh-Faced Youth and Socialite With an Agenda
• Hair so expertly highlighted it could almost, but not quite, be attributed to genetics instead of a pricey stylist
• Two identically designed shoes, each of which match her outfit, despite the fact that they are different colors

In honor of my alma mater’s discontinuation of its stereotyped Native American mascot, allow me to present a recreation of one of the more memorable protest signs I saw on the issue:

The reference here, of course, is to stadium cushions. Some moron had the bright idea to place “Chief Illiniwek,” the “honored symbol” of the University of Illinois, on these butt warmers, as well as on toilet paper, beer steins, and a variety of other paraphernalia decidedly inappropriate for a religious figure.

Those representations disappeared years ago, as the anti-”Chief” movement gained momentum, as did claims of the halftime dance’s authenticity, and the argument that any Native American organization or community in the country was not actively opposed to the use of Indian mascots. Additionally, I saw the campus climate change dramatically from the time I arrived at the University in 1996 to 2005, when I left town. I remember speaking out against the “Chief” in my freshman sociology class and worrying that my classmates would start throwing stuff at me; nine years later, seeing an anti-”chief” t-shirt was relatively commonplace.

Well, the inevitable has happened. After (and as a direct result of) eighteen years of community organizing, “Chief Illiniwek” is no more. Good riddance – but I’m going to miss those protest signs.

and tired of being sick:

But at last I can drink my cough syrup out of my I (heart) Baseball shot glass. I scored the glass when I was three by screaming “I WANT THE BABY GLASS!!!” in a Cooperstown gift shop until my parents stopped trying to explain that it was, in fact, for grown-ups and simply bought it. I then made them serve my cranberry juice to me one shot at a time.

Thanks for thinking of me, Ruxi!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my maiden voyage into meme-land. The topic is “10 Things You May Or May Not Know About Me,” which is perfect for Project Janna. After all, when embarking on a project, i.e. the de-chaos-ifying (or re-chaos-ifying, depending on how you look at it) of Janna, it’s always good to know a few basic facts. Here’s what we’re working with:

• I lived in the Caribbean for four months, on an island you’ve never heard of. It’s called Saba, is part of the Netherlands Antilles, is situated about 15 minutes from St. Maarten by plane, and is an extinct volcano rising directly from the ocean floor. The population was 1,000 at the time (1984), and the island consists of five square miles of land. There is one road, aptly titled “The Road,” and one airport that boasts the shortest landing strip on earth. There is an elfin forest at the mountain’s peak, and, below sea level, some of the best scuba diving in the world.

• During high school, there was a period of time in which I wouldn’t leave the house without applying black eyeliner. It wasn’t too dramatic; I was in a goth-lite phase. However, I felt naked without it. This accompanied a strong Sylvia Plath fixation.

• I have been known to shop at Abercrombie & Fitch. Yes, I know. I was even wearing (well-fitting, even on my 5′3″ frame) pants from said store when my graphic design instructor described their marketing scheme as “Teenyporn.” Touché.

• I learned to read at age four.

• My sister and I distributed an indie paper in our preteen years. It was called the Neighborhood News, and required us to “collect news” door-to-door on a weekly basis, compile the goods, photocopy it, and make deliveries. My favorite mini-article consisted of this: “Alan Diedrick got a flat-top. Wow!”

• I went to a Cooperstown Hall of Fame Game when I was ten, as a last minute sports-ambivalent addition to a group that had lost one person. I didn’t know who was playing, didn’t know that my ticket could’ve been scalped for someone’s firstborn child, and wore a late-80s-esque denim miniskirt and a pink top.

• I live in a neighborhood in which I was unsurprised to see a woman dig a tiny plastic bag of powder out of her bra this morning, exposing most of her breast to dozens of passers-by. Curiously, on a monthly basis, I still shell out more in rent for my studio than many people pay for houses they actually (will) own. Even more curiously, I still feel perfectly safe walking down the street at 3 AM.

• I once played a role titled “Butler” during a sit-in.

• I won the Geography Bee in fifth grade by answering two questions correctly out of ten. I think the US government wants us to be stupid so that we’ll be fine with attacking other countries for no good reason. Who’s gonna stand up for a country they’ve never heard of? Iraq? I-what? Is that the one with the Shah or something? No? Whatever. They sound shady. Break out the big guns. Kill! Kill! Yeah!

• I was named for a Swedish porn star.

Just kidding on the last one. As for the customary tagging, I’ll leave the option to meme, or not to meme. It’s up to you, loyal readers.