Say the Word

Trigger warning: Discussion of miscarriage and pregnancy.

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It's hard to believe it's already been a year since I "went public" about my September 2018 miscarriage, but it's true - once again it's October 15, Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day. And while this one obviously feels different from the last - thanks both to the passage of time, which dulls all grief, and to the fact that this year I'm pregnant with a healthy pregnancy - I do still have some things to say about pregnancy loss, and my experience in the months that followed mine. Today seemed an appropriate day to share those thoughts.

Throughout the fall and winter immediately following my miscarriage, I had a lot of people reaching out and checking in with me, throughout my Facebook post, my blog, private social media messages, texts, emails, snail mail cards, phone calls, and in-person conversations. These efforts made me feel loved, listened to, and so lucky to be surrounded by such a wonderful support system.

And yet, there was something about many of those interactions that I found curious (and, if I'm honest, a little annoying at times) - something I hesitate to bring up for fear of seeming ungrateful:

People really don't like using the words "miscarriage"* or "pregnancy loss." In fact, they often go frustratingly out of their way to avoid them, using all sorts of superfluous and downright mystifying phrases instead.

Over those several months, I heard my miscarriage referred to as - and this is a non-exhaustive list - "that time" and "last fall" (as if autumn is inherently a challenging time of year), "the pain and difficulty you went through," "that thing that happened to you, which I read about on your blog," and even the ultra-vague "recent events." (That last one particularly confused me, as it was said to me in February - an entire five months after my miscarriage. If it weren't for other context clues, I wouldn't have had any idea what they were referring to.)

Then there were other people who just trailed off in the middle of a sentence, unable to think of a synonym for the word they were desperate to avoid: "How have you been doing since...?" or "I know someone else who also had a... you know..."

It was hard to ignore the pattern, and it was hard not to take it a bit personally. When it happens time and time again, with a dozen different people, you begin to wonder: Is it something about me? Are they pitying me? Do they think I'm "too fragile" to hear them use the actual word? It's not a great feeling.

At the very least, their avoidance signaled to me that they were uneasy talking about it - and that put me in a bit of an awkward position. Whether they were asking me how I was doing because they felt socially obligated to, or because they genuinely wanted to know, they hardly encouraged me to give them an honest answer or start up a lengthier conversation when the topic appeared to make them so uncomfortable. I often ended up giving the answer it seemed they wanted to hear ("I'm doing fine, thanks for asking") and leaving it at that. They got to feel good about reaching out, but I ended up feeling rather alone.

(This isn't to say I needed or wanted to talk about my miscarriage all the time; I usually didn't. But there were times when I would've liked to know the option was there if I wanted to talk, and when people refused to call my miscarriage a miscarriage, it felt like it took away the option.)

I noticed this tendency to avoid the label more in people who hadn't experienced their own miscarriage. Some couples who've been through pregnancy loss of their own also avoid using the word of course (and in a society that still sees the topic as taboo, and frequently discourages showing vulnerability, it's no wonder), and there were certainly those who hadn't been through a miscarriage who were still willing to use the terminology. But more often than not, I realized that if someone was unafraid to use the word in front of me, it was because they'd been there. They knew what it was called; they knew what they called theirs. What's more, they knew that refusing to label an event does nothing to change the event itself - and that embracing the label can actually be incredibly empowering.

It reminds me (as so many things do, let's be honest) of the Harry Potter books. As soon as Harry learns about his parents' death in Book 1, after ten years of being denied the truth surrounding that night, his instinct is to refer to it every time thereafter as what it really was - murder at the hands of Voldemort - even while that decision shocks everyone around him.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people - "

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," said Harry. "I just never knew you shouldn't."

Except that Harry did know - Hagrid had already told Harry that most wizards call Voldemort "You-Know-Who" or "He Who Must Not Be Named." And as the book continues, Ron has to repeatedly ask Harry to stop saying Voldemort - because Harry keeps doing it, despite Hagrid's explanations and Ron's protests. At 11 years old, Harry hardly has the words to describe why he feels the need to do this (and J.K. Rowling doesn't come out and say it either), but I think it's because to say anything else, or to avoid speaking Voldemort's name out loud, would feel dishonest and dishonoring to both his parents and his own journey of grief. He was mad that the truth about his parents' deaths had been hidden from him for so long, and now that he knew what had really happened, he wasn't going to go back to lies, omissions, or spreading misinformation. In any case, at the end of the book, Harry's choice (and mine) is vindicated when Dumbledore tells him, "Always use the proper names for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

As I've said in previous posts, one of the best ways to grapple with trauma is to take ownership of it - to take something that happened to you, and make it happen for you instead. The first step in this process of moving on is often getting past denial by naming and defining your experience. Using the appropriate, Google-able terms furthermore gives you access to information about what to expect (a great help in reducing fear of the unknown), and connects you with others who've gone through something similar (paramount to helping you feel less alone in your experience and provide you with a useful support system).

On the various "What to Expect When You're Expecting" miscarriage/pregnancy loss boards, and similar boards on other apps and online forums, accurate labels are in fact so common that shorthands are used instead. MC = miscarriage, MMC = missed miscarriage, CP = chemical pregnancy, EP = ectopic pregnancy, MP = molar pregnancy, BO = blighted ovum, etc. Spend any amount of time on those boards, and you quickly figure out what all those abbreviations mean.

Granted, all of those posters are on there because they want/need a space to talk about it - and there are many who experience pregnancy loss and don't want to talk about it at all - but isn't it telling that of those eager to share their experiences, none of them choose to talk about it in euphemisms? We know the deeper truth: it happened, regardless of what creative phrase you come up with to describe it - so you might as well just call it what it is. To do otherwise just compounds unnecessary confusion and misunderstanding at best - or perpetuated fear, shame, oppression, and isolation at worst.

My doctors, too, never beat around the bush - I assume from some combination of not having time or tolerance for euphemisms. My medical chart says everything: in between comments about my high-risk status due to my diabetes, there are phrases like "incomplete abortion" (the medical term for missed miscarriage) and "multigravida" (meaning that I've had more than one pregnancy). And so, every time I saw a new doctor (or one I hadn't seen in awhile, since the start of this pregnancy), the doctor would both congratulate me on my new pregnancy and acknowledge that my first had ended in loss: "We're so glad to see you back here with a healthy pregnancy!" or "That first one was just a fluke; I hope you aren't worried. Everything looks great this time!" During an appointment early in my second trimester, when a doctor was trying to find my baby's heartbeat with a Doppler wand and having a bit of difficulty, he apologized. "I know it's hard when we can't find it right away for you, after everything you've been through. But babies just hide sometimes! I'm sure I'll find their heartbeat in a minute - ah look, there it is! Strong and healthy, at 150 beats per minute."

I assumed the people who took great pains to circumnavigate the words "miscarriage" or "pregnancy loss" in my presence meant well. They likely did it because they were afraid of offending, embarrassing, or upsetting me, or because they themselves found the words offensive, embarrassing, or upsetting to say. I don't think they did it to purposefully incite shame. But when they treated those words as if they were potentially offensive or embarrassing, that's exactly what they were doing, wasn't it? Even if they didn't mean to. They were treating my miscarriage like something I should be ashamed of, something I should take offense to others knowing about and acknowledging, something that shouldn't be said out loud.

There are a whole bunch of other words like miscarriage: rape, assault, depression, suicide. They are things that our society is afraid of and uncomfortable with, and words that erroneously have connotations of blame attached. We all want to believe that there's a reason these things happen, and ways of preventing them - and the easiest way to do that is by blaming the person it most affects. (And for trauma like rape and pregnancy loss that disproportionally affect women, this impulse is all the more frequent.) But the truth is, acts of violence can happen at any time to anybody, regardless of what that person does; mental illnesses and other chronic disorders affect otherwise healthy people indiscriminately and unpredictably; and miscarriages, which occur in at least 1 in 4 pregnancies, are nearly always just a matter of horribly bad luck. These are not things that can be prevented, as much as we wish they were, and they are not things we should let anyone feel ashamed of.

If someone says they're on medication for the treatment of their depression (or anxiety or bipolar disorder or OCD or anything else), don't call it their "condition," implying that it's some nebulous, vague, unknowable disease - use the label that they and their doctors and therapists use. And if someone has publicly proclaimed that they were raped or sexually assaulted (as so many have in this era of #MeToo), don't try to find another phrase to use instead ("nonconsensual sex," "forced sex," "taken advantage of," etc.) - use the words they use: "rape" and "assault." To do anything less is to disempower the survivor who has chosen to use that word to describe their experience.

This isn't Victorian times anymore. It doesn't do anybody any good to force these topics or words into secrecy.

Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't admit my own faults. There were times when I wanted to use the word "miscarriage" (or at least obliquely refer to mine, even without using the word), but shied away from doing so... As I've found with so many things that open us up to vulnerability, it's easier to write it in a blog post than it is to say it out loud.

My impulse to mention my first pregnancy didn't go away once I was pregnant for the second time - in fact, it was something I often wanted to do during those first few weeks. It felt weird to me to tell people I was pregnant without acknowledging what I'd been through; I always wanted to tack on the word "again": "I'm pregnant again!" I was also frequently compelled to compare my two experiences - how did my symptoms this time stack up to what I'd felt during my first pregnancy? But I did my best to curb those impulses and keep such observations mostly to myself - even while doing so felt like lies of omission and hypocrisy, perpetuating shame and stigma just as I accused others of doing.

I was worried what others might think of me if I kept bringing up my miscarriage. Would they be concerned or even disappointed in me, that even when I was getting a second chance at pregnancy I was still "complaining" about what had happened the first time? Would they think I was somehow doing a disservice to my unborn child by refusing to let them be their own person, with their own pregnancy, untainted by what I'd experienced previously? And what if someone heard me say these things who had experienced more than one miscarriage, or someone who struggled with infertility, and was still waiting for their rainbow baby, or their first positive pregnancy test to arrive - would I come across as ungrateful, would my words spark jealousy in their hearts? I knew how difficult it could be to hear about someone else's pregnancy when you were hoping and trying so hard for your own, and I didn't want to inadvertently cause anyone else that sort of pain.

I was also worried about making other people uneasy by reminding them, in the same breath as telling them my happy news, that life also brings loss sometimes. This acknowledgement did not temper my own excitement - I would argue that knowing the worst that could happen and holding that concurrently with my hopes and dreams for my new pregnancy actually made me appreciate and value my pregnancy even more. But I was worried that others might not feel the same way I did, and think me adding that "again" to the end of "I'm pregnant!" was in poor taste.

I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to care less what others think of me, and to feel less responsible for the reactions that others might have to the things I say and do. I'm trying to prioritize myself, and say the things I want to say (even if for now that means mostly just posting them on here). I want to be a role model for my future child(ren), and exemplify the traits of self-confidence, honesty, authenticity, and openness to vulnerability that I so value and admire when I see them in others.

I hope anyone reading this post will try to be better, too. And if, in the meantime, the best you can do is ask someone "How are you doing since...?" - at least that's something. In the end, I was always touched when someone took the time to contact me, and - as stated before - felt extremely grateful that so many did.

I'd much rather someone reach out clumsily than not at all.



***

*To be fair, there is some debate about the appropriateness of the term "miscarriage" - given that when you break it down into its components ("mis" and "carry") it seems to put blame on the one who was carrying the baby-to-be in their womb. Still, I think it's safe to say that if someone uses the word "miscarriage" to talk about their experience, you can assume they aren't offended by the term, and feel free to use that word yourself when talking to them about it. If you do want to avoid that particular word, "pregnancy loss" (or even just "loss") is a good substitute.

Personally, I find "pregnancy loss" to be both a more and less accurate description of my experience - it feels more accurate, in that I quite literally lost a pregnancy, and certainly didn't incorrectly carry the child I was hoping to have; it feels less accurate in that "pregnancy loss" is an umbrella term that encompasses stillbirths (losses after the 20 week mark) as well as miscarriages (losses before the 20 week mark), and I feel a bit like a fraud when lumping in my experience with others who quite literally labored and birthed a baby who may have even breathed outside the womb for a few short minutes or hours, and whom they may have had the chance to hold, however temporarily, in their arms as well as in their wombs and hearts. So while I do use both "miscarriage" and "pregnancy loss" interchangeably, I tend to default to "miscarriage" more often - just to avoid that constant internal debate with myself. (Not to mention that "pregnancy loss" just sounds clunkier in everyday conversation.)

To put an even finer point on it, I use other terms as well... I use "my miscarriage" or "my pregnancy loss" to refer generally to the weeks-long process of noting diminishing pregnancy symptoms, learning at my 8-week ultrasound that my baby had stopped growing, getting a D&C six days later, and the weeks of physical and emotional recovery that followed. But sometimes it's more convenient to reference a specific date rather than an entire process - and when that's the case (as it often was when we were trying to conceive again), I chose September 13 and called it "my D&C" (e.g. "this is my Nth menstrual cycle since my D&C"). More often, I think of the entire pregnancy, not just the end of it (and sometimes not the end of it at all), and I refer to it as "my first pregnancy" or "my last pregnancy" ("last" meaning previous, not final). Even when I was not yet pregnant again, I always used one of those qualifiers; trying to conceive requires a certain optimism and forwardness of perspective that assumes another pregnancy is just around the corner, if not already begun.

I don't care which of those terms you use with me - miscarriage, loss, pregnancy loss, your first pregnancy, etc. All of them are true, better than the verbose "that painful, difficult thing that happened to you last fall, which I read about on your blog," and refreshing to hear.

And if you're not sure what someone else wants their experience to be called - ASK THEM! I know it can be awkward and nerve-wracking, but if you want others to feel safe enough to be emotionally vulnerable around you and tell you how they're feeling, you might just have to be emotionally vulnerable around them, too. :)

Implicit Bias/Unconscious Racism

Everyone is a racist.

No, really - it's been scientifically proven. (For some examples, check out this article, and also this article.)

Even liberal activists who would never consciously or purposefully utter a racist slur or generalize groups of people; even people who belong to minority groups themselves - everyone is prey to implicit bias and unconscious racism. We subliminally pick up on stereotypes portrayed in the media, or inherit knowledge of those stereotypes from others around us, and they sink in to our subconscious. We would never admit them aloud; we often don't even know they're there at all - and if we do (temporarily) know, you better bet we pretend not to.

For example, the stereotype that black men are inherently more dangerous or threatening than men of other races. Most of don't believe that's actually true at all, and will explicitly and publicly denounce such stereotypes as misguided at best, horribly racist at worst. But how many times have those same people kept a bit more distance between themselves and a stranger who happens to be black than they would an identical stranger with lighter skin? It's not a behavior that we even realize we do, but we do it. If we were to be confronted with the reality of this implicit bias that's just manifested itself, we might deny it, or try to make excuses.

This article has a great definition of implicit bias: "Implicit bias refers to the attitudes or stereotypes that affect our understanding, actions, and decisions in an unconscious manner. These biases, which encompass both favorable and unfavorable assessments, are activated involuntarily and without an individual's awareness or intentional control. Residing deep in the subconscious, these biases are different from known biases that individuals may choose to conceal for the purposes of social and/or political correctness. Rather, implicit biases are not accessible through introspection."

It goes on to say that implicit biases are pervasive: "Everyone possesses them, even people with avowed commitments to impartiality such as judges." Furthermore, "the implicit associations we hold do not necessarily align with our declared beliefs or even reflect stances we would explicitly endorse."

Another great article (yes, one that I already linked above - but it's just that good that it warrants linking again) takes that last idea even further, and says: "We bury [implicit bias] deep in the subconscious in layers of denial to protect our social reputation. We might explicitly deny our internal reactions, but implicitly we follow their whispered mandates."

The real problem is that implicit bias can be just as dangerous as explicit bias. You don't have to be an uber racist, vocal neo-Nazi/alt-right/white supremacist type for your racism to harm people. You don't have to intend harm to cause it.

If you're not on board with me so far, the rest of this post is not for you. This post is for people who are open-minded, self-reflective, and willing to admit things that might make them uncomfortable. I am also making other assumptions about the type of person you are - namely, that you're generally tolerant and "woke," and that you don't want to be racist (or that you want to find a way to be as least racist as it is possible to be). You also already understand what implicit bias is, how harmful it can be, and that everyone has some of it (including yourself). If that sounds like you, keep reading.

In my unprofessional opinion (but as someone who has given a fair bit of thought to this, in an abstract way), here are some things that we need to focus on in order to dismantle some of the implicit, unconscious bias we have:

1) Recognize where your personal implicit biases lie. This isn't easy, because they're not biases we actually believe in, or ones that we're usually aware of. But when something from your subconscious "breaks away" into your awareness, take the time to acknowledge it. Did you just catch yourself crossing the street when a black man approached? Were you describing a scene you witnessed to a friend and heard yourself referring to a non-white by race - where you didn't see any reason to indicate the race of the white people in your story? Did you have a nightmare where a stranger was invading your home, or threatening your family - and this dream villain was the only person in the dream of another race? They don't even have to be "negative" associations - maybe you found yourself asking your Asian friends to be study partners for an upcoming math test, or wanting to be picked to be on a team with the tall black kids during a pick-up game of basketball.

Whenever you recognize a moment of implicit bias coming forward like that - don't ignore it. Take the time to acknowledge what happened, to self-reflect and unpack where that gut reaction came from and if you've ever had a similar gut reaction in a similar situation before. Maybe even write it down. Keep a list, or write a journal entry. If you feel comfortable talking to your friends about it, ask them if they've had similar experiences. Follow the train of thought and extrapolate how your snap judgment could have been harmful to the others around you who witnessed it - especially if it was a seemingly inoccuous bias, or one that could be spun in a positive way (i.e. "All Asians are smart!" or "All black men are good athletes!"). Even "positive" stereotypes like these are harmful - because they lump everyone together to make incorrect assumptions, thus alienating anyone of those groups who doesn't fit the idea of what a member of that group should be good at, and because they might attribute a good quality to a group at the expense of other groups. If all Asians are inherently smart - does that mean other races are inherently dumber?

2) Don't shame yourself. This can be difficult for a lot of us (if the rather small sample size of me and my perfectionist friends and family are any indication). We don't want to be racist, and then we witness ourselves thinking racist thoughts. Even if they are something we had literally no conscious control over, we might find a way to blame ourselves for our mistake. We feel guilty and ashamed. This is understandable. You might even argue that it's the proper reaction - because if we recognize it was wrong, and that we are to blame, we're more likely to fix it, right?

Actually no. In my experience, the more we shame ourselves for something, the more likely we are to bury it and insist that it's not a problem. The shame makes us feel bad, so we avoid reflecting on it or doing anything to take concrete steps to make sure it doesn't happen as often - which then means when we inevitably slip up again, we'll be even more ashamed, and so on, until we've created a shame circle that just gets worse and worse and spirals us into depression or anxiety. Furthermore, the harsher we are on ourselves, the harder it is to see the positive attributes we have, and the harder it is to have confidence in ourselves to change. If we focus only on the negatives and beat ourselves up over our shortcomings, over and over again, everything will start to seem impossible - and once you're in that defeatist mindset, it's really hard to find the motivation to work toward any positive change. We might also start to believe we don't deserve to succeed in that positive change - we get stuck in this mindset of, "I said/did a bad thing, and that makes me a bad person, and as a bad person I am not capable of being a better person, or deserving of being seen as a better person, and anyone who forgives me for my mistakes is being too nice to me, nicer to me than I deserve."

3) Don't pass the buck, either. It's decidedly unhelpful to get stuck in those shame cycles mentioned above - but it's equally as unhelpful to try washing your hands of the whole thing. You alone are not to blame - but as a society, as humans, we are. It's a collective effort, and that means we're all a part of the problem - and the solution. The trick is to find a way to balance these two responses. You have to recognize your (probably minuscule) part in contributing to systems of oppression and discrimination and make efforts to change, while at the same time allowing yourself to be imperfect.

I think the best way is to approach it as a learning opportunity. It might sound silly, but it will probably help if think of yourself as a friend you're talking to, or even a young child who just needs a bit of guidance. I know I'm always quicker and harsher to pass judgment on myself than on others, and I bet some of you are too. If you overheard your good friend say something that sounded surprisingly racist, would your first instinct be to disavow that long, solid friendship? Probably not. You would assume she "didn't actually mean" what she said, and ignore the problem. Even better, you might gently talk to her and figure out if she realizes what she said and how bad it sounded. Similarly, if you saw a child have a reaction that clearly came from implicit bias (i.e. trusting a white stranger more than a black stranger), it would be a better idea to talk to him about his behaviors and thought processes than to let the opportunity for learning pass, just because you know he "didn't mean it."

So when you recognize yourself falling into prematurely labeling people or making assumptions based on stereotypes, call yourself out on it and face it head on. Allow yourself the luxury of being human (all humans make mistakes sometimes), but still make sure to think through what happened and reflect on what a better response might have been instead. Soon enough, you'll find yourself being more aware of implicit bias - which in turn will make you more likely to recognize it before it happens, and to start correcting for it so it doesn't happen as much.

4) Don't shame other people. Maybe you're more likely to judge others harsher than yourself. In that case, treat others with the same respect you allow yourself. Accusing someone of acting in a racist fashion is not going to put them in a receptive mood to really self-reflect and figure out what happened or why. If you want to talk to someone about examples of their implicit bias you've witnessed, think long and hard about the best way to do it. Maybe bring it up at a later date, or be prepared to offer some examples of times you had a similar reaction and then immediately regretted it. You can bond over your shared mistakes, and come up with some solutions of what you could have done or said instead.

5) But also don't let other people get away with implicit bias. Remember how I said you have to find a balance between allowing yourself to make mistakes/forgiving yourself for the mistakes you do make, yet still taking responsibility for your inadvertent racism? Same goes for other people. They might need some (gentle) assistance in realizing they've said or done something racist - and you might be the only one in the room to notice this fact. If you don't speak up, the perpetrator and the other people in the room who witnessed it might never recognize that something problematic even happened. You don't have to make a big thing about it - and in fact it might be a better idea not to (see point #4, above). It can be as simple as saying, "Did you realize you started walking faster once that black man turned the corner and came into view?" or "I know you didn't mean that the way it came out. What did you actually mean to say?" You'll help them be more diligent in observing their own slip-ups, and make sure everyone around you knows that you won't stand for racist behavior, whether it was intentional or not.

In a similar vein, if someone says a racist joke, don't laugh. If you find yourself laughing inadvertently, make sure you follow up with: "I'm only laughing because that joke actually made me really uncomfortable - and not in a good way." If someone starts defending their joke ("It was just a joke; I didn't mean it" or "I didn't make it up myself; I'm just repeating it"), ask them: "Would you have told that joke in mixed company?" If they wouldn't say the joke in front of a black person, for fear of offending them, why would they think it's okay to say the joke in front of white people? We should all be offended when we hear racist comments - not just the comments that apply to our race.

I know all of this advice is "easier said than done." Don't expect to recognize every time some of your implicit bias shows, or to feel comfortable pointing out when someone else's does. Allow yourself to understand that this - like so many things in life - is a learning process. Progress is going to be gradual, and maybe not even noticeable. You're going to make the same exact error in judgment at age 60 that you did at age 20. This doesn't mean you're failing. It just means you're human. They're called implicit and unconscious biases for a reason. You're not aware of them until it is too late, and because they're embedded into our unconsciousness they're also really hard to successfully eradicate them - and keep them out. Don't expect yourself to be better than everyone else. You will not reach an unattainable level of "racistlessness." Literally everyone is a racist. That means that you're not exempt from the problem. It also means that you're not exempt from the solution.

If we all just put in a little bit of effort to be more aware of the things we do and say, and to be kind to our fellow human beings, wouldn't this world be a much better place?

L'Art Erotique Recap: What's in a Name?

My episode of ARTV's L'Art Erotique docuseries, Desirs Secrets, aired in Montreal in early February. Though the video of it is up on Vimeo, it's for private access only (otherwise I'd link it here). It was (of course) all in French, and I haven't had time to translate it all yet to see exactly what they said about my art, but from what I can glean so far it seems to be a pretty accurate representation.

I'm very grateful for the opportunity to get my work seen by more people, but I do have a major complaint. They listed my name as "Andrea Frownfelter" on the video, even though I expressly told them many times that my name is now "Andrea Arbit."

I understand the confusion - they contacted me to be a part of their docuseries because they found and read my thesis online (which you can read for free here: http://commons.emich.edu/honors/238/). I wrote this thesis in 2010, the year before I was married, and so it was published under "Andrea Frownfelter." Maybe they would have published it under a different name if I had asked, but I didn't ask, because I was pretty sure the answer would be a resounding "no." I wanted to earn graduation credit for my thesis, and so I used my (then) legal name, the name that would appear on my diploma.

I was already engaged at the time, and knew I would be changing my name soon to "Andrea Arbit." I was slightly worried that it would lead to some confusion, since I planned to use my married name on all future artwork and projects completed after 2011, but I figured it was just the first few paintings of what I hoped would be a long artistic and writing career, and that in the end it wouldn't make much difference.

I didn't realize that my thesis would continue to connect me with people years after graduation. I've been married almost five years now, and graduated from EMU for six years, and in that time I've tried to make a name for myself as "Andrea Arbit." But it is still "Andrea Frownfelter" who is often cited, because that is the name listed as the author of my thesis. Maybe if I knew this would still be coming up six years later, I would've asked EMU if they could publish it under the name "Andrea Arbit." I should've asked. The worst they could've said is no, and just maybe they would've said yes.

Every time I received an email from the people producing the L'Art Erotique series, it was addressed to "Andrea Frownfelter" or "Mrs. Frownfelter" (which was never my name; I was never a "Mrs." when I was a "Frownfelter") or even, once (strangely), "Mrs. DeAndrea." I politely corrected them each and every time.

When I was interviewed in person, I even filled out a form with my name and title as I wanted it to be used in the show. I wrote "Andrea Arbit." None of these instances of telling them my new legal name apparently stuck, because when the episode aired, I was listed as "Andrea Frownfelter."

This was my chance at getting the name "Andrea Arbit" out there - and connecting my new name unequivocally with my thesis paintings, so that there would be no confusion that we were the same person. Instead, they perpetuated and exacerbated the problem, naming me as "Andrea Frownfelter" when that isn't a name I've used for any of my art or writing since 2011.

Honestly, every time I think about it again I get a little angrier. If I had wanted to continue to be known as "Andrea Frownfelter" I would have used that name. I do not use that name anymore, and told them so many times. They did not respect my wishes.

I feel a little weird complaining about it, because I feel like it's the opposite problem that many women have. I hear more stories of women who do not want to change their name after marriage who are bullied into changing their name anyway, or who are called or addressed by a name that isn't theirs and which they've never taken, just because other people (whether they be strangers or family) can't fathom a woman who would chose to keep her birth name. Instead, I get called by my birth name when I want to be addressed by my married name.

Maybe it just goes to prove that there's no right way to be a woman and have a name, even in contemporary society. Those who don't want to change get shamed at for not changing; those who do want to change but already have something out there with their birth name on it face constant issues with getting other people to acknowledge the new name. It's ridiculous - and it's usually a female-only problem. Women are the only ones routinely expected to change their names (change their identities) throughout their lives. Our choices to deal with this problem are to face scrutiny for keeping our birth names, never marry, or never produce anything before marriage that gets our name known.

I married when I was 22 years old! It's not like I had decades of an illustrious career attached to the name "Andrea Frownfelter." I had one academic paper, which I wrote when I was 21. That was it! What, was I supposed to marry before I graduated just to avoid this problem? Or go through extra red tape to change my legal name without being married, just so I could use the name I wanted to before graduation?

I didn't want to be known as "Andrea Frownfelter" because I didn't particularly like the name. It was nothing against my family; I just didn't like the F sounds. My brother had actually been bullied a lot as a kid by peers substituting other F-words into his last name. ("Fartfelter" and "Frownfarter" probably being the nicer of the possibilities you can imagine). Though I avoided much of this name-calling myself (somehow), knowing how easily kids were changing his name did little to make me want to keep mine. I also didn't like the length. Sometimes it was hard to fit the name on forms. (I pity anyone who has a long first name and a long last name - I can't even imagine!)

I've always wanted to be a writer or an artist, to create things and attach a name to those things, to be known. I played around with pen names as a kid. When I pictured my first published book, I didn't picture it filed under F for Frownfelter. I knew it would be something else. It didn't have to be my real name, but it had to be a name associated with me somehow - a name I'd come up with or decided on, a name that would be my own.

Then I happened to fall in love with someone with the last name "Arbit." It was pretty convenient. It was a shorter name, a name I liked, and a name I thought sounded good with my first name. I thought the alliteration might help with name recognition, and it didn't hurt that it was at the start of the alphabet. I figured I'd use it as my writing name, my artist name, my legal name, and the name everyone would call me.

I always wanted to change my name, and I saw getting married as a wonderful excuse to do so. Not only would it be easy to legally change my name at that time, but (I thought) it would also be easy to socially change it at that time - that everyone would easily accept my decision because it was part of a tradition. In addition, I expected to have kids one day, and wanted to avoid the headache of different last names within the same family. It made sense for me to change my name, and to change it to the name of the person I was marrying. I felt a little weird about it, being a self-proclaimed feminist. But I rationalized away such weirdness by reminding myself that being a feminist is about doing what feels best and most self-empowering for each individual woman, and for me that was changing my name.

I like being "Andrea Arbit." I enjoy the way it rolls of the tongue. I enjoy the way it looks. I enjoy signing it - whether it's just the last name scribbled into the corner of artworks or my first and last names, two capital A's, signing a check or document.

But none of that should even matter. I don't have to give a reason why I want to be known as "Andrea Arbit." If I ask you to do that, why can't that request just be accepted? I owe no explanations. There is no reason for someone to disrespect my wishes and call me by anything else - even if the thesis that brought me into your attention has my last name listed as something different. Why is it so hard to do what someone asks you to do regarding their own identity? It's their identity. They know best. 

I can't even imagine how difficult it must be to be transgender.

All I'm asking for is to be recognized by my changed legal name, which happened almost FIVE YEARS AGO and was acquired in the most privileged, traditional way that it could possibly be acquired, following naming conventions which have been around for literally centuries. And even this I have problems with.

I realize that this is probably just a "lost in translation" or "falling through the cracks" sort of thing - I was emailing and talking to several different people through the process, and most were good about addressing me as "Andrea Arbit" (or simply "Andrea") in further correspondence, once I corrected them. They were also translating back and forth between French and English. I don't think the used the wrong name maliciously or intentionally. Mistakes happen. I get it.

But it's still really disappointing that I was called the wrong name on television, that my artwork was attributed to a name that no longer exists, and that I was denied the opportunity to promote my desired, currently utilized, legal name to a wide audience. I hope their mistake doesn't do too much to hold "Andrea Arbit" back from the recognition she's working hard to earn.

Why Are You So Quiet?: A Modern Double Standard

It used to be that men had no qualms about verbally disparaging (or physically abusing) womenfolk if they spoke "out of turn," voiced opinions, or socialized - with other men, or even with each other. A well-behaved woman was meek and silent; like a child, she was allowed to speak only when spoken to, or only in certain places. The specific customs varied depending on location and historic era, but a popular one was that women could only speak at home, and that their voices were unwanted in public.

In the Bible (1 Corinthians 14:34-35), for instance, Paul said: "Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the law says. If they want to inquire about something, they should ask their own husbands at home; for it is disgraceful for a woman to speak in the church." (NIV)

In some religions or cultures even today, women are discouraged from speaking. An overly loud, gregarious, or social female is seen as dangerous, unruly, and impolite. Often, it is a seen as a reflection of other "moral failings," such as sexual promiscuity. A woman who speaks freely also probably has sex freely; a sociable woman is therefore a bitch and a whore.

This is an extreme opinion. It is not usually said so harshly - at least in modern America - and yet some of this idea remains and permeates our culture more subtly. Women do not generally fear physical abuse or being called a whore if they were to voice an opinion in public or interrupt a man - and yet it's statistically observable that in many gender-integrated public spheres (classrooms, business meetings), women are less likely to raise their hands or speak up. They're less likely to be called upon to speak up. And they're less likely to interrupt their male counterparts, compared to how often women are interrupted by men. Women don't participate in public in the same way that men do - because we've been conditioned not to. We've been raised that interrupting others is impolite.

The standards of "good behavior" are different for girls and boys - "boys will be boys," we're told, and so they are allowed physical and verbal freedoms like running through the house, making a mess, interrupting each other, and speaking loudly. I could see how someone might even try to argue that it is the boys who are discriminated against with such cultural allowances - because girls are seen as more capable of good, polite, restrained behavior, at a younger age, and so are given a higher standard. A boy is going to have a hard time believing he has a capacity for patience to wait his turn or to sit still in his seat if such behaviors are not modeled for him or encouraged, or if he is met with a laugh or a shrug or a "oh well, we tried" attitude when he missteps from this desired behavior. He comes to believe instead that he can't help fidgeting, that he can't help playing rowdy, that it's in his very nature to do so. When he gets away with interrupting others, he comes to believe that his words are important, that his opinions are important. He learns that a louder voice can be heard over a softer one, and if he speaks up, if he yells, if he interrupts, people will pay attention.

Similarly, girls often learn that their gender is predisposed to politeness, to empathy. They care about others, and so they care about listening to what others say, and they're willing to put others first. They will listen to someone else complete his or her thought before voicing a response. They have the capacity to wait their turn, to be patient - and indeed embody the positive qualities of their gender when they do so.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again - gender roles hurt both genders. Boys who are not loud or rambunctious might feel ashamed for not acting like a boy is supposed to; he may then purposefully act like the other boys to fit in. And girls who are too harsh or too loud or too opinionated or too rambunctious are called tomboys or bitches.

Of course, at a certain age, these prejudices about how boys act more or less fall away. Men are expected to conduct themselves with politeness and good behavior in college lecture halls and business meetings. While they may get away with interrupting colleagues on occasion, it would be noticeable (and potentially worthy of an HR write-up, or a chat with the boss) if he interrupted constantly, or acted particularly rudely when doing so.

Furthermore, while there is an expectation that women are quieter than men in professional settings, there are other public settings where women are expected to be more talkative than their male counterparts. When surrounded by other women, women are in fact "known" for their socializing. There are myriad jokes and (derogatory or derisive) phrases about their tendency to talk: gossiping, chatting, prattling, "clucking hens." In private, it's a well-known trope that wives "nag" their husbands, or just in general try to talk to their husbands about their day. (It's no wonder men are so reluctant - they spent all day at work getting a chance to talk, and now that they're home, they only want quiet, relaxing time.) At parties, women often engage both sexes in conversation, often doing the brunt work of moving a conversation forward, trying to engage those at the fringes of conversation, prompting others with questions about how they're doing, etc. If there is a person in your family who takes on the role of keeping track of everyone and updating the rest of the family on the goings-on of the others, chances are it's a woman - a mother, a grandmother, an aunt, a female cousin.

Even as girls, females are expected to be social - but only during "social times." I went to three different elementary schools growing up, and anytime I started at a new building and had to make new friends, I would go through a period of transition where I would be particularly quiet and shy. Recess monitors came up to me that first week to ask if something was wrong. Why wasn't I talking with or playing with the other girls? I was shamed for not talking, for not being social. Yet later, after I made friends, I was told off for being too social. For those who know me now, it may be hard to believe - but my third grade teacher in particular had so much trouble keeping me quiet during class that she regularly kept my assigned seat away from those of my other friends. I have the report card to prove it - she wrote in the comments section that I talked too much in class, when I wasn't supposed to.

To be fair, I don't think this is necessarily gendered - we all have to learn growing up when we are and aren't allowed to do things. There is a time and place for socializing; this is true for everyone, regardless of gender. Additionally, I think the lines become more blurred, more subtle as we age. Men and women don't talk or act so differently as adults as they do as children. We all interrupt each other sometimes, we all speak loudly sometimes, and we all stay silent sometimes. We find our own rhythm, and it's often more individual and based on where and how we feel comfortable, than about gender specifically. I'm very reserved with strangers, or in large groups, but I'm comfortable talking a lot with my husband and other close friends and family members.

Yet what I do think is gendered is the policing of one's decision of where and when and how to socialize or speak up. A man can speak as loud and ardently as he wants with few repercussions; a woman does not have the luxury of always speaking her mind unless she's comfortable with being called a bitch. A man can also be as quiet and reserved as he wishes with few repercussions - if a man isn't social, he's painted as the "strong, silent type" (stoic, unemotional, manly), or it's assumed that he has "better things to do"; he's not talkative because he's busy, he's tired, he's been working hard all day. A woman who isn't being social is seen as out of the ordinary. "Why aren't you talking?" "Is something wrong?" "Are you unhappy?"

I would be remiss here if I didn't make this discussion more intersectional. A white man probably gets away more with voicing opinions and speaking loudly than a black man does. When a white man interrupts, he's eager and has strong convictions; when a black man interrupts, he's being a bully or a thug, or his parents never taught him proper manners.

I speak from my own experience when I write of quiet women being called out on their quietness; it happens to me all the time. It's not always a question. ("What's wrong?" "Are you okay?" "Why are you so quiet?" "Do I intimidate you?") Sometimes it's a statement. ("You're so quiet." "You're so reserved." "You don't have to be scared to speak up.") But the questions are still there, still implied. It's wrong, it's weird for someone like me to be quiet or reserved. It must mean something's wrong. I must be unhappy, or uncomfortable, or scared. Maybe I'm just shy and thoughtful. Maybe I'm more comfortable with silence than with talking just to talk, with saying nothing just to fill space; maybe you're the one making me uncomfortable now that you've pointed out my "unnatural silence." I hate when people say these things. What? You think this is news to me? I know I'm quiet; you don't have to tell me.

I suspect that many people point out that I'm being quiet because they wish to draw me into conversation. Instead, it often makes me retreat more, because pointing it out makes me self-conscious about how quiet I was being, and I turn even quieter to reflect on how I was acting or how I am being perceived.

On the other hand, other people may point out that I'm being quiet because they are uncomfortable with my silence - and, for some reason, think their discomfort is my problem. What they're really saying is: "I didn't expect someone who looks like you to be quiet, and you not being how I expect you to be is making me uncomfortable - which is your problem, not mine, so please get around to fixing it and acting more like how I expect you to act, so that I can be comfortable again."

Many women complain that they are told to smile - by complete strangers. They are policed on their apparent happiness and told to smile - not because the stranger is trying to make the woman feel better or feel happier, but because the stranger is uncomfortable and wants the woman to smile, to pretend that she is happy or at ease, so that the stranger can feel secure. I don't think this has happened to me; I can't think of a time (other than when I was child throwing a pity party or a temper tantrum) when I was told by someone to smile, or act happy. I certainly can't think of a time that a stranger has approached me to harass me about not smiling. But I do hear a lot of comments about how quiet I am (from people close to me and strangers or near-strangers alike), and I think these are related. Maybe it's a level worse than "not smiling." I'm not smiling and I'm not talking, not engaging socially with the world, and it's the worst offense that people pick up and try to call me out on.

I wonder, too, if it's not because I'm blonde. I'm a 20-something blonde woman, and young women and blonde women are particularly stereotyped as social, as extroverted, as talkative, as friendly, as perky, as happy. We're supposed to all be cheerleaders, sorority girls. I'm sure Black and Hispanic women who are quiet, introverted, shy, or bookish have similar stories. Because these groups (like blondes) are particularly seen as loud, extroverted, and social, with a love of raucous parties and/or dramatic displays of emotion, a Black or Hispanic woman who does not embody the expected stereotype might hear similar "concerns." What's wrong? Why aren't you friendly? Why aren't you talking? Asian women on the other hand, are not expected to be loud or talkative, so they probably don't see similar surprise from strangers when they act quiet and reserved. I can't imagine an American woman in a hijab being told: "You're so reserved. I hardly ever hear you talk." But someone like me does.

Being a woman - even an American woman - is not a universal experience. Double standards are going to be slightly different among different groups of women. But as a young blonde white woman, I am exposed to these double standards:

- If I talk a lot, I'm seen as gossiping and idly pilfering time on silly chats; yet if I'm quiet and choose not to take advantage of opportunities for small talk, I must be unhappy or uncomfortable, because a blonde anti-social female is unnatural.

- If I'm too friendly, I'm a social butterfly, a ditz not to be taken seriously - or, even worse, a flirt, a whore, a slut, sexually promiscuous, "asking for it," begging for attention; yet if I'm not friendly enough - if I prefer solitude to parties, if I'm reluctant to smile or share personal stories - then I'm uptight, uncool, rigid, old-fashioned, I have a "stick up my ass" or my "panties in a wad," I'm a prude, a tight ass, a virgin, a bitch.

- If I interrupt someone else (especially a man, especially in a professional setting), I'm rude, I'm selfish, I'm impolite, I'm a bitch; yet if I never speak up, I'm seen as weak, scared, intimidated, and unwilling or unable to stand up for myself: a doormat, a wimp, a pussy.

- If, in the process of continuing or sparking a conversation, I ask too many "personal" questions, I'm a nag, I'm nosy, I'm a bitch; yet if I don't play this role and inquire how others are doing - or if someone else were to ask for an update on my life and I were to give what they consider a short, unrevealing answer - I'm a brat, I'm snotty, I'm not feminine or empathetic enough, I'm rude, I'm uptight, I'm a bitch.

Double standards are, by definition, a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" situation. Because there is no way to win, I've gravitated over the years to one end of the spectrum. I decided it was safer or more comfortable for me to be thought of as uptight or unfriendly than it was to be seen as sexually promiscuous or flirty, or seen as a frivolous, vapid, unintelligent ditz. I decided I'd rather be too quiet than too loud. I was okay with being thought of as snobby or rude; I told myself I was being mysterious and unknowable, that it was a virtue, that men get away with it all the time. And so I played up my introversion more. I policed myself, I made myself quieter. I think I was predisposed to some shyness and reserve, but I definitely became more shy, more reserved, and more quiet, starting in high school and college.

I've taken the Myers-Briggs personality test a few times, and though I've nearly always come out at INFJ (and always I, in particular), for many years the amount of "I" I was on the Extroverted-Introversion spectrum only increased. I went from being like upper-60s% Introverted to high-90s% Introverted from the beginning of high school to the end of college. No wonder I seemingly lost my ability to make new friends and started giving off more austere and less friendly first impressions.

I'm not trying to be rude or impolite, and I'd rather not be called a bitch (who would?) - but what hurts me more is when my reserve is interpreted as me being a doormat, or weak, or scared, or intimidated, or sad. Maybe because there's a bit of truth in there, and that's why those words hurt more. I don't see myself as rude (on the contrary, I think I'm one of the nicest people I know); but I do worry that I don't stand up for myself enough, that I don't think enough of myself. I do worry that I'm too sad, or too anxious, or too easily intimidated. Isn't the whole reason that I became more introverted because I was afraid? I was afraid of being seen as a ditz, as unintelligent, as flirtatious, as "asking for it." Being quiet seemed like it could be my protective shell.

So to all of those who have ever asked me "Why are you so quiet?" - feel free to pick your favorite answer from the ones provided below:

- Because being quiet often feels safer to me than the alternative.

- Because being quiet often feels more comfortable to me than the alternative.

- Because by now being quiet is a habit.

- Because I'm tired of being asked why I'm quiet.

- Because I'm just tired in general.

- Because I'm mysterious and unknowable. Because still waters run deep.

- Because you wouldn't ask me that question if I were a man and I'm silently protesting your belief that you have the right to police whether or not I engage you in conversation.

- Because I'm actually not paying attention to the conversation and have zoned out and am thinking about my novel or some other much more fascinating thing.

- I actually don't owe you an explanation at all. And I suspect you weren't really looking for a thoughtful response anyway - you just wanted to get me to say something in response.

A List of Christian Privilege in America

I think very few people would argue against the idea that Muslims face overt discrimination and oppression right now in America (and other countries). But many people don't recognize that Christians actually have privilege on top of that.

[Side note: Yes, Christians as a whole or as individual sects/groups have also been discriminated against and overtly oppressed in the past. But not in the last couple of centuries in America. I am talking about contemporary American culture right now - the way America is in 2015. Christian oppression that occurred in previous generations but that is no longer occurring is unrelated to this discussion. Christian oppression that is still occurring around the world but not in America is also, similarly, unrelated to this discussion. These things are horrible (as all oppression is), and I am not denying that. But oppression against past generations of Christians or against non-American Christians does not impact the privilege American Christians do have in contemporary American society. Imagine if I were talking about a store that sold canned peaches and you brought up, as counterpoint, a store across town that refused to sell canned peaches. What does that have to do with my comments about the canned peaches at the store I was talking about? It doesn't. It's unrelated. It contributes nothing helpful to the discussion.]

Anyway, here is the list of just some of the ways Christians (mainstream Christians, who belong to a denomination that is recognized as legitimate by a majority of other denominations) have privilege in contemporary American culture.

In America today, a Christian can say all or most of the following statements as true, while a non-Christian can not:

• My elected representatives are mostly people of my own religion
• I am confident that I will never have to cast a vote on election day at a place of worship intended for a religion other than my own
• I can easily find religious commentary on local, state, and federal politics that I agree with or understand. If I want to listen only to news anchors or visit only news websites who subscribe to my religious beliefs and share my opinions, I can easily find such opportunities.
• When I ask to see "the person in charge," odds are I will face a person of my own religion
• When my religion has a major holy celebration, odds are that I will automatically receive that holiday as a vacation day from work or school; if I do not receive it automatically, it is easy to request it off and have that request accepted
• If I work in a career that requires 24-hour shifts (such as hospital employees, law enforcement, etc.) and can not request time off for my holiday, it is only because my holiday is so ubiquitous that all or most of my fellow employees would also request that day off, and they cannot grant all of those requests. If I do have to work on my holiday, I will likely receive extra monetary compensation (overtime pay), as well as other forms of compensation (free food, office celebrations, holiday decorations) to make up for having to spend the holiday with coworkers instead of with family. (Even employees who may not consider such a day important might receive these "compensations" for having to work on that day; because the default assumption is that it is a holiday for everyone.)
• There is little chance I will be ridiculed or harassed for my religious beliefs
• I can be loud or assertive about my religious beliefs without fear of being shamed, ridiculed, demonized, or seen as "other"
• I do not have to worry about "the message" my religious clothing, decorations, music, or language might be sending about my ethnicity, heritage, customs, beliefs, citizenship, behavior, or intentions
• Artifacts, clothing, and decorations of my religion can easily be purchased at any nearby store (Just try to find Hanukkah candles or Kosher-for-Passover matzoh in an area of the country without a sizable Jewish population... It's like searching for a needle in a haystack.)
• I can easily find music of my religion on the radio (especially true this time of year, but even all year round there are Christian radio stations)
• I can easily find "inspirational" novels and movies that prominently feature my religion or my religious beliefs
• Should I wish to send someone a greeting card with an inspirational/religious message, I can easily find one to purchase that incorporates the beliefs and wording of my religion
• I can be confident that the ordinary language of day-to-day existence will include terms and practices favored by my religion (i.e. a moment of prayer at the start of a ceremony)
• When I am asked to take an oath in court or at an inauguration ceremony, I am given a holy book from my religion to rest my hand on
• I can reference something from my religion in conversation with the confidence that everyone will understand what I am referring to, whether they subscribe to my religion or not (every American knows the basic story of Jesus, even if they don't believe in it; everyone will know what you mean if you say "Sunday School" or "Mass" or "Priest"; everyone will know what the cross symbol or fish symbol on the back of your car indicates)
• If I want to purchase a religious bumper sticker for the back of my car - or religious-themed wrapping paper, or paper plates, or invitations for my child's religious event (i.e. a Christening/baptism/dedication) - these products are readily available
• I can refuse to learn the language, or practices of other religions without worry of being ostracized for my ignorance or left behind in a conversation (especially in a classroom setting, where even the most secular literature in an English class might inspire talk of "Jesus allegories", etc.)
• I can walk into a public building or inspect a piece of government money and expect to see words or symbols associated with my religion (i.e. "In God We Trust")
• If there are religious themed displays at a public building (such as a Nativity scene at Christmastime on the lawn of a school, city hall, library, etc.), it is likely that it is my religion being displayed
• I can be confident that I will learn the history of my religion and read literature written by people of my religion in public school
• Should I want to, I can easily find private, accredited schools for my children to attend which incorporate my religion into its daily curriculum
• If I want to marry someone of my religion, I can easily find a partner who shares in my beliefs, and can easily find a nearby venue to get married in that will follow the marriage customs and language of my religion
• If I want to find a new place of worship within my religion, I can easily find several options to explore
• If I want to compare programs at local places of worship (especially around the holiday season), I can open up any local newspaper and find a list of churches of my religion
• Magazines, billboards, television, movies, and virtually all of media is catered to people who share my religious beliefs/upbringing (even if religion is not a specific, blatant, referenced part of a TV show, you can bet every sitcom family puts up a Christmas tree, and every sitcom wedding follows the traditional Christian format and customs - even if its a slightly more secularized version)
• I will most likely never be asked to speak "on behalf of" my religion as a whole, or to explain my religion's customs and beliefs, or to defend or explain the actions of someone else who subscribes to my religion 
• My ability to make important decisions and my (moral) capability in general will never be questioned as dependent on my religious upbringing
• If I were to carry a gun, it would not be interpreted as an act of evil intent or religious zealotry
• If I were to commit a crime, my religion would not be called into question

I'm sure there are even more ways I haven't even thought of... If you think of something, leave a comment and let me know!

Obviously some of these are a lot more dangerous than others. Adding together just the more "mundane" privileges (i.e. the availability of Christian radio stations and Christian bookstores) creates a culture that makes anyone who does not self-identify as Christian feel left out, ostracized, excluded, and ignored. Many Christians, I am sure, do not mean to make others feel left out, ostracized, excluded, or ignored. Many do not even realize others feel this way at all. But it is exactly because they have Christian privilege that they can go about their lives not realizing the privilege they have.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year: Christian Privilege at Christmastime

I love the holiday season. I love the songs, the decorations, the baking, the gift buying, the gift wrapping, the gift receiving, the family togetherness - all of it. I've always loved it. I was born on December 20 and was brought home from the hospital on Christmas Eve. My parents brought me inside in my car carrier and put me right underneath the Christmas tree in the living room - their little Christmas present. I don't remember that, of course, but I like to imagine that it was a formative experience because I was enthralled by the twinkling lights and the love in the room.

Growing up, my parents were always careful to separate my birthday from Christmas so that my birthday wouldn't be overshadowed by the mammoth holiday. I got a birthday party separate from any Christmas parties planned, I got separate birthday and Christmas gifts. It was like a week of celebration - my birthday merging with all the holiday parties at school and the holiday traditions with my family. I absolutely loved it. I liked to pretend everyone was hanging up lights to celebrate my birthday with me.

This is still my favorite time of year - made even more celebratory since meeting my husband. His birthday is coincidentally the same day as mine (though a year earlier). And his family is Jewish, so he grew up celebrating Hanukkah. So now we get to share traditions for Hanukkah and Christmas, and stretch the holiday season out even longer.

I never thought much about Christian privilege growing up (why would I? I was Christian), but since stepping away from Christian beliefs and meeting my husband, I've become keenly aware of it.

For example - he teaches at a public high school here in Michigan, and a couple years ago expressed his feelings about the office's holiday display. There was a menorah to represent Hanukkah, a kinara to represent Kwanzaa, and even some written notices about cultural traditions of other religions, including some words about Islam, posted with sensitivity toward the sizable Muslim population at the school. But the majority of the display was a nativity scene for Christmas - and it was precisely this part of the display that bothered my husband. Hanukkah is not a particularly important holiday to the Jewish religion, and the menorah is just a candle holder, which is not in itself a particularly religious symbol. In fact, there is no Hanukkah equivalent to the Christian manager display that has a comparable "level of religiousness." Christmas is widely celebrated in the U.S. among Christians and non-Christians alike, and has many symbols associated with it that are less religious - wreaths, Christmas trees, poinsettias, Santa Claus, reindeer. And yet, the school chose the most religious aspect of Christmas and paired it with the practically secular menorah, kinara, and flyers.

It could be argued that it's not Christianity's fault that Hanukkah has no symbol that is particularly religious (although, let's be honest - if Jews have ever "toned down" their religious symbols to make them more generic and acceptable looking, it was because of persecution and genocide and diaspora, and Christianity is to blame for most of the instances of Jewish persecution, genocide, and diaspora throughout history). But even if Christianity had no influence on Judaism and how Hanukkah is celebrated, the office administrators that put together the display could have chosen more secular Christmas symbols. Including a nativity scene complete with angels and a baby Jesus and a praying Mary and Joseph was a clear choice, and one they could have opted not to make in an effort of religious sensitivity.

True, this was a display in the office, not in the lobby or the front lawn of the school; it's main purpose was probably similar to a worker decorating his or her cubicle with the items of their religion. Such displays are permitted (and should be) within our Constitution. But the display was also facing out, rather than in, and was clearly meant to be seen and appreciated by anyone coming through the office - administrators, teachers, students, and parents. The flyers that were printed up included a suggestion that visitors should "tell us about your religious beliefs!" - presumably so that the office employees could update the display if it was found lacking, for the benefit of everyone. It was hard to tell whether it was just an office employee decorating her workspace, or a decoration for the school, and thus seemingly endorsed by it. The school lobby, by the way, has the words "In God We Trust" engraved on the wall in big letters - so it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that the school might sponsor a display of religion.

A lot of schools - and other public buildings - do just that. City halls and police stations have giant life-size nativity scenes on their lawns, same as churches. It is precisely these displays of church on buildings that function for the state that upsets my husband - because we are supposed to have a separation of church and state in this country, yet instead often seem to have a state-sponsored religion (Christianity).

So my husband expressed his concerns on Facebook (probably not the best place to do so, in retrospect), and the result was that a bunch of other teachers and students and administrators jumped down his throat. Some cited the amount of time the office employees spent trying to make a nice display that was open to everyone's holidays (as if effort and good intentions were sufficient excuse). The flyers in particular were lauded as proof that the secretaries were trying to be as inclusive as possible. And yet, it is the flyers that (to me) most point out the Christian privilege on display. The secretaries had a nativity scene ready to go (whether it was the schools or was brought in from one of their homes is not really the point) - and they placed this nativity scene literally right next to a sign pointing out the secretaries' ignorance of "other" religions. If Christianity were not America's default religion, the secretaries wouldn't have to ask what other religious traditions there were this time of year, because they would already know those other traditions instead. Growing up Christian in America means that you can be ignorant of other traditions - because your traditions are the ones catered to. It might seem nice and tolerant and inclusive to ask other people to contribute their own religious beliefs to your display, but it also puts the onus on them to come forward and explain them to you - and after you've pointed out that their religion is "other," is "unknown," which really puts them on the spot.

As the only Jewish teacher in the school, my husband is often asked questions by his students when they're taking a Humanities class and learning about religions or when they're reading a book about the Holocaust in an English class. Sure, it's nice of them to "think of him," but it also requires of him to represent an entire religion/ethnicity. Black people are similarly asked to speak "on behalf of" all black people, or women to speak "on behalf of" all women. Like all black people or all women or all Jews are the same, and have the same opinions. My husband isn't even religiously Jewish anymore (like me, he has stepped away from the belief system he grew up in), and yet Humanities students come to him to ask about Judaism.

(On a similar note, the one black teacher at his school is often asked for help with discipline issues for black students - whether or not she actually knows the students personally. It is assumed that because she is black and the troublemaking kid is black, she will know what to do with them. It's absurd.)

But back to the office holiday display - the amount of backlash my husband received for airing his grievances was enormous. Some of his colleagues stopped talking to him. He felt ostracized. Yeah, he probably could have gone about it better - like talking to the office secretaries instead of posting something on Facebook. But it's like none of them even listened to what he was trying to say. They didn't bother to consider his viewpoint because they felt so personally victimized. (Never mind that seeing a nativity scene in his workplace kind of made him feel personally victimized in the first place, which is why he took to Facebook to complain.)

It's like the outrage over Starbucks' red cups this year. There is no "war on Christmas," guys. The fact that some people ASSUMED their favorite coffee chain would have decorations on its cups for the religious season that they personally celebrate in fact proves just the opposite. It was perfectly within the realm of possibility that there would be Christmas imagery; it was something those people were expecting, because their religion is so ubiquitous that they have seen their Christmas imagery depicted on the paper products of this and other companies before. This year, for whatever reason, their religion was not specifically pandered to (or not pandered to enough - because, let's face it, red is still a Christmas color, and other winter holidays from other religions do not use red as their symbolic color). Next year, perhaps Christianity will be pandered to again (or more obviously). But the chances of a different religion being pandered to are basically nil. It's Christianity or secularism in this country, and often a mix of the two. It is never any other religion. And even if it were secularism all the time (as, I would argue, it should be, given the wording of our Constitution), that would still not mean that Christianity was being "warred" upon. It would just mean that it was not specifically allowed to tout its privilege, or maybe even that (gasp!) some of its privileges were being taken away.

For true equality to be reached, some groups are going to have to lose their privilege. Losing privilege is NOT discrimination, though - the two are completely different. Losing privilege is like expecting you'll win the lottery, but then you don't actually win after all, and so you do not receive the money you were counting on. Discrimination is like having money that is rightfully yours  taken away from you, because somebody else decided it shouldn't be rightfully yours, or that they deserved your money more than you do, or simply because they wanted to be a bully or demonstrate their power or strength or cunning and they didn't care who they might hurt in the process.

Yeah, losing privilege can suck; not winning money you expected to win, that you perhaps needed to win (to continue the lifestyle you were accustomed to) is a major bummer. But it's not a personal attack, it's just an inconvenience - and it's only considered an "inconvenience" because it's something you were accustomed to that you are no longer receiving, not because it is actually necessary or prudent or even good for you.

It's hard to see your own privilege; this is true for any privileged group. But make no mistake - Christians (especially those belonging to a mainstream Protestant denomination) do currently have privilege in this country. This post is getting long enough, so I'll include my List of Christian Privilege in tomorrow's blog post. It will be a fitting list to consider on Christmas Eve.

As for me and the holidays - I think I'll always love this time of year. It's just too engrained in me to give up, and if it's something that makes me happy, why should I give it up anyway? I enjoy the Christmas season more or less as I always have - with family, with friends. I bake cookies, I wrap presents, I put up a Christmas tree. But I have sloughed off many of the more religious parts of Christmas over the years since I've stepped away from my Christian beliefs, as I once sloughed off believing in Santa Claus, or waking my parents up at six in the morning to run downstairs and open gifts. I do still like the religious music, and sing along when I hear one I particularly love. But it's the sentiment I'm attached to, not the specific words, or the specific message.

Even when I was a devout Christian, I didn't go around rubbing Christmas in other people's faces, though. (At least, I tried not to.) I was encouraged by some at my church to make a point of saying "Merry Christmas" - especially if a store employee wished me "Happy Holidays" when I was checking out with my Christmas purchases - but I don't remember too many times when I actually did that. Probably mainly because very few store employees wished me a "Happy Holidays" - they all just said "Merry Christmas" anyway, and so I had nothing to complain about. I had friends who did not celebrate Christmas because they subscribed to a different religion; it was more second nature to tell people at school "Happy Holidays" - or even simply, "Enjoy break!" or "I'll see you NEXT YEAR!" when it was time for the two weeks off school.

There are ways to celebrate your own religion, your holidays, your traditions without making other people feel bad for not having the same traditions as you do. Don't assume other people are celebrating what you're celebrating. It's not hard if you actually try. The real reason some Christians act as though everyone is celebrating Christmas is because they think everyone should be. 

I imagine a particularly obtuse Christian might say: "But I do want others to feel bad for not being Christian, because I want them to become Christian! I want us all to belong in one big Christian group together because I want us all to hear the truth, and believe in Jesus and go to Heaven! It's a noble cause, my alienation and discrimination and exertion of Christian privilege! And it's not like religion is gender or race - you can choose what religion you subscribe to, you can choose what to believe in! Anyone can - and should become Christian. It's not like I'm saying that I'm better than non-Christians naturally or biologically or indefinitely. I want equality, I want everyone to have the same privileges I have! How is that a bad thing??"

To which I would reply: We have freedom of choice in this country. As long as it does not infringe on other people's pursuits of happiness, we have the freedom to our own pursuit of happiness. Let other people make their own choices and celebrate what they want to celebrate - their celebrations in no way involve you or infringe upon your own celebrations. Your celebrations, on the other hand, do often infringe on other people's celebrations, because your celebrations have the power, have the privilege in this country. Do you really want someone to become a Christian just to belong - or do you want them to come because they want to be there and came willingly, without coercion? And wouldn't it make "the choice" to be Christian, to believe in Jesus, less significant if literally everyone made the same choice? How much of a choice would it be if it were mandatory, or nearly so?

Get off your fucking high horse and recognize that other people believe just as ardently in the tenants of their religion as you do in yours. They believe they are right; you believe you are right - and there is literally NO WAY to prove which one of you (if either of you) are right - at least no way to prove that on this planet, in this life. Why can't you enjoy your time with your family, and enjoy your holiday celebrations in the privacy of your home (as Jews and Muslims and Hindus, etc. do with their holidays)? Isn't that what the holiday is about anyway - the family traditions? You do yours, and let other people do theirs. They've been doing just that for generations in this country; why don't you repay the favor and give them the same courtesy?

An Unfortunate Incident at the Gym

My husband and I recently joined a local gym, in an attempt to actually be healthier and not woefully out of shape, but it's been hard to find time now that he's back to work. Lately, we've found time only on weekends, but even if we do manage to go during the week, it's almost always at night, once we've finished whatever else we have to get done that day. (If it's this hard with just us and a puppy, I can imagine how people with actual children ever have time to go to the gym!)

So this past Saturday, we went around 9 pm. It's a great time to go, because it's not very crowded. My husband was using the lap pool to swim, and I was soaking in the hot tub, being lazy and not actually working out, because my neck has been sore on and off the past few days (probably thanks to my TMJ), and I just wanted to relax my jaw/neck/shoulder muscles.

And then this happened -

-

[INT. Pool room at gym. GUY enters hot tub and sits near but not super close to ANDREA. GUY is maybe in his 30s. ANDREA is not wearing her glasses and can't really see him (or anything else). They sit without talking for a few minutes.]

GUY: Hot tubs are great, right? Best part of the workout.

ANDREA: Mmm.

GUY: Relaxing?

ANDREA: Yup.

[It is hard to hear, because the hot tub jets are LOUD. GUY persists in attempting conversation.]

GUY: So how are you doing tonight?

ANDREA: Fine.

GUY: So you work out earlier, or...?

ANDREA: Nah, I just came for this.

GUY: Oh yeah, I do that after soccer sometimes. I play a lot of soccer. I'll come here to relax after, use the hot tub and the sauna.

[ANDREA is trying to be polite, but also clearly doesn't actually want to talk to him.]

ANDREA: Mmm.

GUY: You got any other plans tonight?

[It is already 9:30 pm. ANDREA wonders what kind of people actually still have other plans after going to the gym at 9:30, even if it is a Saturday.]

GUY: Or this weekend?

ANDREA: Not really.

GUY: Not going out and hitting the bars?

ANDREA: Nah.

GUY: You don't drink?

ANDREA: Not much, no.

GUY: Don't smoke either, I bet. [Laughs.] Not that anyone smokes anymore.

ANDREA: Right.

GUY: So you don't hang out in bars? What do you do for fun? What's your hobby?

[ANDREA tries to think of most mundane, boring thing she does as a hobby, something that will get GUY to stop talking to her.]

ANDREA: [Shrugs.] I read.

GUY: Reading, okay, yeah. I read, too. I read a lot of books about soccer. And books about nutrition. But not fake nutrition. Real nutrition. What do you read? Fiction? Non-fiction?

ANDREA: Mostly fiction.

GUY: Yeah. Reading's so great. It's a great workout for your brain. I like to rest my brain, you know, relax.

[ANDREA wonders why GUY is mansplaining her own hobby to her. GUY goes on for a bit on vague benefits of reading, for no reason ANDREA can see other than to fill the silence he is uncomfortable with. GUY is just talking to talk.]

GUY: You're not very social, are you?

ANDREA: [Shrugs non-commitally, gives weak chuckle.] Heh.

[ANDREA notes silently that this is usually the time when someone would lose interest and/or pick up on the social clues she's been dropping like flies and stop bothering her. Especially since the hot tub jets are so LOUD and conversation is difficult to maintain. But GUY is persistent, and chooses to ignore her short answers and tone of general disinterest.]

GUY: I'm Jake.

ANDREA: [Reluctantly] Andrea.

GUY: Oh really? I have a cousin named Andrea. She spells it with an I. A-N-D-R-I-A. That's how they spell it in Europe. I bet you spell yours with an E.

[ANDREA marvels at the fact that GUY is actually mansplaining her own name to her now.]

ANDREA: Yup.

GUY: So, Andrea, I'd like to take you out sometime. We could go to Barnes and Noble, read a book. [Chuckles.] Or I'll take you to a bar, show you a good time.

ANDREA: I'm actually married.

GUY: Really? Where's your ring?

ANDREA: [A little annoyed that he doesn't just believe her when she says she's married/a little annoyed that he feels he is entitled to proof of her marriage.] I don't wear it in the hot tub.

GUY: Why not? Afraid you might lose it?

ANDREA: ...Yes.

GUY: Are you happily married?

ANDREA: [Now getting more than just a little annoyed.] Yes.

GUY: Are you sure? You don't seem happy.

ANDREA: [Now very annoyed. Wonders why GUY thinks he is an expert on ANDREA's feelings, after talking to her for five minutes. Still, she is a GOOD GIRL, and so tries to be polite.] I'm just tired right now.

GUY: Oh yeah, me too. I put in so many hours working. I'm a soccer trainer, I'm always working and playing soccer. Did I mention I am fit and play soccer? Are you sure I can't take you to a bar, loosen you up a little? You don't have your phone with you? I can't give you my number?

[It is still LOUD with the hot tub jets, and difficult for ANDREA to hear GUY, but it sounds like GUY really is still trying to ask her out. It is AWKWARD and more than a little BEWILDERING.]

ANDREA: No.

GUY: Are you sure? You don't look like you're sure.

-

Finally, finally, he left me alone. In retrospect, I wish I had been ruder to him. I wish I had given him the emphatic "NO, ASSHOLE, I DON'T WANT TO GO OUT WITH YOU, PLEASE GO AWAY SO I CAN ENJOY MY HOT TUB TIME" that he clearly needed to hear to get the hint. I wish I had been "more feminist", and expressed incredulity at his mansplaining and obvious sense of entitlement to not just receive answers to whatever question he wanted to ask, but also to receive the answers he wanted to hear. I wish that I had just gotten up out of the hot tub and left, and walked to the lap pool and gotten in and talked to my husband, and let GUY wonder/worry that I was talking about him.

Instead, I sat there. I let him keep talking to me. I actually answered his questions - shortly but also truthfully. I didn't have to give that guy the truth. I didn't have to answer him at all. I did, because I cared what he thought of me, or what others around the hot tub might think of me, if I were to act obviously rude. I did not want to be the one to cause a scene (never mind that the guy didn't care about doing that at all).

I do not often get hit on. In fact, I think this is the first time since I married my husband four years ago. Since I write and make my art from home, I don't often leave the house by myself. Usually I am with him. If I am alone in public, I always have my wedding ring on - unless I'm at the gym.

More importantly though, I give off that unsocial vibe GUY mentioned. I don't engage in conversation with strangers. When someone I don't know starts talking to me, I immediately put up my guards and give short, annoying answers. Even before I was married, even when I was in college, I was hit on maybe twice. In my entire life. People might try to start a conversation, but they give up pretty quick. They don't typically get around to the actual asking.

So in a way, it was kind of nice to be hit on at the gym. Not because it was flattering. Because it gave me a reminder of how awkward those situations are firsthand. A lot of times, it's hard to relate to feminist accounts on Twitter or Instagram or wherever, when they're complaining about catcalls and being hit on and trying to find non-misogynists to date in the real world. Those things don't typically happen to me. So it was nice to be reminded of why it's important to keep fighting the good fight.

And about the idea of why "hitting on someone" isn't flattering - because I feel I have to explain myself more - as women, we are brought up to think that it's supposed to be flattering. Especially for someone like me, who doesn't get that kind of thing a lot, and doesn't try to get that thing a lot, to be singled out and chatted up anyway, even when I'm not trying, is supposed to make me feel good about myself. Because above all, women are supposed to want to be desired. Men are supposed to want you, and women are supposed to want to be you. So it should "feel good" when a guy comes along and reminds you that there are guys who want you, right?

But it doesn't feel good. It feels awkward. I didn't ask for his attention, but he gave it to me anyway, and I was supposed to be flattered. He never once actually gave me a compliment - never once said I was beautiful, or that I must be smart because I liked to read so much, or anything at all.

The only thing he called me was "unsocial" which - I mean, honestly? That's not a nice thing to say. I don't like when it's pointed out to me that I'm being "too quiet" or "too shy" or "too anti-social". I already know I'm acting that way, I'm already upset about it, and I'm already worried that people think I'm being rude when I'm not intending to be (or, in this case, upset that I wasn't comfortable being ruder, and getting him to leave me alone). Telling me I'm anti-social isn't nice. It makes me feel more uncomfortable, and that was a situation in which I was already uncomfortable. I was in a gym (a place I don't know well), in a bathing suit (which like, I'm not terribly insecure about my body, but I'm certainly not used to going around in a bathing suit in public), without my glasses (which means I was blind and couldn't see any of his facial expressions or facial cues at all, or even the clock with the giant-ass numbers on the wall to know how long he'd been annoying me), and in an environment in which it was often difficult to hear what he was saying.

The whole thing was designed not to flatter me, but to make me uncomfortable. But Andrea, you might say, he didn't know you were blind without your glasses. He didn't know how infrequently you get chatted up by strangers, and how awkward that makes you feel. He was just trying to be nice.

But wouldn't a nice guy take the hint, and stop pursuing a conversation I obviously didn't like? Wouldn't a nice guy believe me when I said I was married, when I said I was happily married, and leave me alone at that point? Would a nice guy be so eager to "corrupt" a marriage, to encourage an affair, to take an unsocial innocent and get her "loosened up" at the bar?

I reiterate - the whole thing was designed to make me uncomfortable. So uncomfortable in fact, that I might "give in" to what he wanted, just because it was easier. I was supposed to be desperate, because I was alone in a public hot tub on a Saturday night with clearly nothing better to do.

I wasn't the fiery bitch I later decided I should've been, once I had more time to digest his words and the way he said them. But neither was I the desperate girl he was looking for.

I am not saying that guys shouldn't hit on girls (or girls shouldn't hit on guys). But there's a time and a place for it. And if one party is giving off "go away" vibes, stop it. And ESPECIALLY if someone says the word no, STOP IT. "No" does not mean "yes." "No" does not mean "convince me." No means no, even if it's said by a meek, awkward, near-sighted girl, in a way that doesn't seem entirely believable to you.

If she can manage to say "no" she can manage to say "yes." She chose not to for a reason.