You cannot be a woman online and not get hated. There is not an opt-out option. In fact, there are also very few places off-line where you can be a woman and not get hated. It crept in fairly slowly for me. It started with fairly run-of-the-mill creepiness from strange men, which I was not used to at all, for a host of reasons, including being overweight and being sheltered; I found these replies off-putting and mildly scary, but not necessarily worrisome. I had seen this kind of stuff happen to other women; it just hadn’t happened to me. At the same time, more and more non-creepy men became incredibly condescending to me. The more followers I got, the more often I got corrected. On everything. One time, as a game with myself, I tried to see if I could get someone to explain crosswalks to me—a man stepped in and helped me and my dumb lady brain out! It’s easy to say that this stuff is innocuous, or small potatoes, but I don’t buy that anymore. I used to, for sure. Back when I was still defensive of men as a group, I bought that these annoying and mildly creepy interactions were anomalies, that they were not representative of men as a whole. But if every time a woman gets a big enough following she starts getting mild harassment and constant belittling from men, it becomes difficult to ignore the overall pattern. And that isn’t even touching on the genuinely scary, hateful shit that I got, that women get when they’re in public spaces. Once that stuff started—once I got rape threats and people contacting my employer because I said something “anti-men” onlineXI and called a fat cunt about 284,058 times in various graphic ways—it was impossible to not see what was going on and why. My boyfriend, who used to be active on Twitter, could post essentially the same joke I did, and no one would say anything to him. No one corrected his jokes, no one “actually’d” him, no one threatened him in his DMs, no one sent pictures of dicks all day long. Certainly no one ever wrote an entire erotic play starring Mario and Waluigi and emailed him the script asking him to play the fairy nymph.XII
After a few short years on Twitter, I realized that, wow, actually, you are treated differently if you’re a woman; no, this isn’t a conspiracy. I started listening better to more and more people about what they thought was unjust. I started following people who weren’t comedians—they were writers and activists and scientists and academics. Some were just people who were really good at explaining tough concepts via Twitter. Most of all, I started following more and more people who were not white. I started wondering why all the people who I had been listening to were white, why that felt so comfortable, what was left out of what white people said. I started to realize more and more of the gaps—chasms, really—in my fundamental beliefs about the world. If I could understand the disparity of treatment of women when held up against that of men, it seemed to me incredibly easy to understand how a similar dynamic of oppression would extend to trans people, Black people, people with disabilities, undocumented people, indigenous people, and all marginalized communities. I’m not saying that I read one tweet about intersectionality and *snap* got it. I’m just saying that after realizing that women definitely had it harder and worse than men in a general sense, even if not on every individual level, I understood better how that might apply to lots of issues, and how identities could intersect and overlap. And of course, I didn’t really learn this from Twitter—Twitter itself taught me nothing—but from the activists on Twitter, especially Black women, whose voices I probably would not have heard had I not been on the site. I would not have heard them because until Twitter, I wasn’t trying all that hard to stay informed about things; I was luxuriating in the white teenage space of “If something is not happening to me, I don’t know much about it.” However, I also suspect that even if I had tried to be more informed on more topics, the places I would have gotten my news from would likely not be publishing stories from, for, and by marginalized people at the rate I was reading their words on Twitter.
Perhaps the thing that cracked open my worldview the most, and I readily admit that this came way too late, was Mike Brown’s killing in 2014 in Ferguson, Missouri. Ferguson is a suburb of St. Louis to the north of the city. I grew up only about twenty minutes away; my mother and father both still lived there. My siblings still lived there. I was actually the only one in my family not in St. Louis in 2014 when Mike Brown was killed. The trial took place in the suburb my dad lives in; they closed off access to his neighborhood because it was close to the courthouse and some of the wealthy white residents were afraid of looting during the trial.XIII You had to show ID to get in. I say that because it’s not like this didn’t touch my parents’ lives. And yet I somehow knew so much more of what was happening than they did, while living two thousand miles away. And it was all because of Twitter. Every time I found someone who was tweeting from Ferguson, someone who was actually there, actually protesting, actually showing up, I followed them. Then I followed anyone they retweeted, too. I read everything I could. I donated to bail funds. I retweeted every piece of information I could find. Not that doing any of that is anything, obviously. I couldn’t imagine why it had taken me so fucking long to pay attention. But of course the answer is, because I didn’t have to. I got to wait until I was twenty-one years old because I was white.
Could I have found out about this earlier, about just how much of our nation is predicated on white supremacy? Absolutely yes. It’s not like Twitter was the first place to report on police brutality. I’m not suggesting that I had no choices for places to go to do work and read and listen and learn better. But Twitter was a wonderful tool for sharing information rapidly,XIV and for getting that information to people who might not otherwise seek it out. I know that’s not good or ideal. I know that I should have been outraged sooner. It should not have taken years of other people’s pain for me to catch on; no one should have had to be harmed ever to begin with.
At first, I joined in in being loud about injustices. Whenever anything unfair happened—anything racist, sexist, ableist, homophobic, transphobic—I yelled about it. I figured that joining in and repeating what I was reading was a good way of showing support. I was angry a lot. For the first time in my life, I was gaining actual convictions. I believed that things were right and wrong, or, more accurately, harmful or not, and I was upset when people didn’t see it that way, or didn’t care. I am still upset and angry a lot. I’m furious that so many people in our world are not just okay with but happy about the suffering of others. That so many people don’t want poor people to live, that so many don’t care that trans people get murdered at such high rates, that so many don’t care about the lives of refugees, that so many believe that climate change won’t affect them and therefore isn’t worth addressing. It’s horrific. But back in 2014–15, I was a little tornado of ire about every issue under the sun. If I had been a chill girl in the first few years of college, people on Twitter helped me make the hardest of one-eightys. I didn’t allow anything; I had a hair trigger and I couldn’t figure out why everyone else wasn’t on board.
Of course, I hadn’t been on board a few short years before. I don’t want to make it seem like I didn’t know that racism, sexism, homophobia, ableism, and other forms of bigotry were bad before 2014. I knew. I just didn’t think I had any personal responsibility to do anything about them other than to not be a bigot. I didn’t realize the full extent to which the world was tilted in my favor, and I didn’t understand how living in a patriarchal white supremacist colonizer capitalist state might color my entire worldview. I had to unlearn a lot of information, like the myths that America is a meritocracy or that voting once every four years is enough to help people. And as soon as I did learn otherwise, I was upset that other people weren’t on the same timeline. Of course tons of people were light-years ahead of me in their understanding of social inequality—many were the very people posting about it on Twitter whom I found and read and listened to and then often regurgitated.XV
It felt very good to be right—which is what I thought I was. I felt like I finally had ground to stand on. I felt smart and wise and empathetic. I knew I didn’t kno
w everything, but I thought I knew a lot. I thought I was being a good person. I thought I was helping people and being supportive. I was not. I was 100 percent wrong about that. I was a classic white feminist taking up space and being loud for the sake of being loud. I didn’t have ill intent, not that that matters at all. It was more that I thought I was unimpeachably right—for perhaps the first time in my life—and I wanted to fight people who were wrong because they were, in my eyes, harmful. But my impact was… terrible. I was a loud, obnoxious white lady who no doubt talked over Black and brown women, even if I was agreeing with them. I don’t remember every single thing I tweeted or said, but I’m 100 percent sure there is a lot there that I would cringe to read today. It’s not that my beliefs today have simmered down or been tempered at all—if anything, I’m much more radical now than I was then—but eventually I finally, finally learned better how to stop centering myself. While everything felt brand-new to me, it was of course not new to the communities experiencing harm. But it felt good to feel like I was fighting for something worthwhile, like perhaps I was doing for other people what activists online had done for me. But I’m not an expert; I’m not an authority. It was simply not my place to talk.
What I know now—what took me longer to learn than it should have—is that adding my voice isn’t what the situation calls for, most of the time.XVI I’ve now learned how to listen better and amplify other voices, how to let other people talk of their experiences and speak for their communities, rather than trying to take up space. To put it simply, I learned how to shut the fuck up, that I did absolutely not need to weigh in on everything. That in fact I shouldn’t. It’s not like I’m perfect at this. I’m not even close to perfect at almost anything!XVII I’m still angry and upset all the time. I’m still worried constantly; news stories frequently completely unmoor me. But I’m not talking or, God forbid, shouting all the time anymore. I’ve learned how to support better without taking up space. How to show up but not make it about me. And I learned it by being really, really wrong for a long time and then listening to other people and adjusting my behavior.
It’s not particularly pleasant to be confronted with the reality that your previous behavior sucked for someone else, that it was harmful or uncomfortable. It’s shitty to hear, but it’s necessary to listen to. And the more practice you get with humbly accepting that you’ve messed up, the less harm you do, because if you’re really apologizing, that means you’ve absorbed what you did wrong and you will change your behavior. I’ve found that a lot of people want to support marginalized communities in ways that make them feel good or look good; most unlearning is a lot more painful than that, frankly. It’s usually pretty excruciating or at least embarrassing to look inward at what you’ve done and how you’ve harmed people intentionally and unintentionally. It isn’t meant to make you feel good.
I learned all of that from people online who often had to be aware of bigotry and hatred because they were experiencing it, unlike me. I learned from all their work and writing, and for that I’m very grateful, not that my gratitude is necessary or helpful or asked for, or that my individual learning is the goal.
But, when people say, “You won’t change people’s minds on Twitter,” I have to disagree. I wouldn’t hate billionaires and corporations and fossil-fuel executives were I not on the site. I wouldn’t understand all the ways in which I unintentionally uphold and benefit from white supremacy. It probably would have taken me much longer to figure out how often I encounter sexism on the smaller scale. I never would have learned how to be wrong, how to apologize sincerely, how to separate my intent from my impact. Every day I read more and learn more and listen more to people who aren’t white, who aren’t cis, who aren’t in power. Access to those voices has immense value, and Twitter gave me that. Twitter made me a better person. Even if it also gave me Shrek pornXVIII and hundreds of men calling me a fat cunt.
Imaginary Dinner Party
I assumed, perhaps like many children of similar upbringings (who watched a lot of movies), that adulthood would include dinner parties. I assumed my attractive partner and I would host them together; he’d be the kind of hot guy who can pull off a turtleneck—like a male model or a professor. Ideally, an ex–male model professor.
This is the type of party where guests would show up with bottles of wine, despite that we—the model-professor and I—already had dozens. In this fantasy, I am a red-wine drinker, which is just about the chicest thing I think a person can be. I am not a red-wine drinker. I drink champagne. All the time, without regard to occasion. But at my fantasy dinner party we are not drinking champagne. We’re red-wine drinkers here, in this house.
Speaking of the house, I think the setting of this dinner party is paramount. You simply must envision the dinner party I’m hosting in a vaguely ’70s-style home with beautiful original hardwood floors. Throughout.I Plants and expensive chairs fill the house. Everything looks both cultivated and effortless; you would believe me if I said that the person who lived here before me robbed a flea market at gunpoint and took the best stuff and I simply inherited the furniture. Of course, there are modern touches here and there. A glass-door refrigerator in the kitchen displaying emerald San Pellegrino bottles and fresh produce. Nary a processed food in sight. But those are offset by the custom built-ins, shelves laden with obscure books and one-of-a-kind souvenirs.
A record player is setting the mood, though in my fantasy there’s none of the work of actually changing albums and resetting the needle. I don’t know the logistics, but somehow I’ve made a vinyl mixtape album that plays for hours. This is a fantasy! Go along with me! Here’s the playlist: “Didn’t I” by Darondo, “Do What You Gotta Do” by Nina Simone, “Give Me Just a Little More Time” by Chairmen of the Board.
I’ve cooked for us this evening, because of course I have; those cooking lessons I took in Piedmont two summers ago really paid off. I worked on this meal all day, but it’s casual. There’s handmade pasta and homemade pesto with basil fresh from my garden. My “famous” arugula salad on the side. Cipolle ripiene, probably. We’ll begin with a happy hour of charcuterie so no one gets too hungry. There will be specialty cocktails and a fully stocked bar, and of course, red wine. Anything you want, it’s yours. Help yourself!
My model-professor partner will be regaling everyone with stories as I finish getting ready—I’ve spent all day cooking, remember. Though of course he’s been helping out; I’m not going to have a fantasy partner who isn’t helpful. Maybe he’s a desserts guy; that would work nicely. Yeah, he’s made tiramisu to keep with the Italian theme. Good for him; we’ll get that out of the refrigerator later when we need a… wait for it… pick-me-up.
I’ll go into the master bedroom and change into a dress that somehow is both stunning and effortless. It’s intricately made and uniquely designed without being fussy. Also, you’ve never seen me in it before, but I’ve had it for years. I’m wearing delicate gold jewelry, the kind that good dinner party hosts can always pull off. And I’m tan—glowing, even. I must be getting a lot of outdoor activity; I insist it’s just from tending my herb garden. After slipping into the unmatched dress, I throw my hair up into a chic almost-French twist. It’s messier, looser—pieces are falling out. You know that look. Of course, in my fantasy, putting my hair up doesn’t make me look like the Trunchbull. It makes me look ethereal, goddess-like. Oh, don’t forget, I’m wearing the best-smelling perfume you can even fathom. Or maybe that’s just what I smell like. You’ve always wondered, because I always smell so good. Is that bergamot? Citrus? Who knows!
I come back out from the master bedroom to a good-size group of people already here, people who have arrived magically at the same time, so no one is feeling weird about being the first guest at the dinner party. Every guest is interesting and talkative without needing to be the center of attention. Conversation is flowing freely; we’re talking about politics, love, philosophy, art.II We’re laughing so hard we keep knocking over wineglasses, but I’m cool ab
out it. “You can’t ruin anything in this house! It’s no big deal!” I say with a laugh, grabbing nice tea towels to wipe up the spill.
We eventually move out to the back patio to continue drinking and laughing around the firepit. I have two or three very beautiful, impeccably trained dogs, who are roaming around the well-curated lawn.III There are hanging lights and citronella candles and a copse of lush fruit and olive trees, making it feel like we aren’t in a city but rather a Mediterranean orchard.
No one even says, “We’ll have to do this again sometime,” because we all know we will. Soon.
Not to Be Cliché, but I’m Going to Talk About My Vagina (and Tits)
There comes a time in every memoir written by a cis woman where she has to talk about her vagina. I know because I read a lot—a lot—of memoirs. They’re my favorite genre of writing. I want to know how everyone is faring. I want to know how their dad’s death affected them, how their first restaurant job went, how their first kiss came about. I love that shit. Someone spent the time to write down the hot goss in their life! Thank you! I just want to hear about the lives of strangers without the risk of meeting someone who might be boring or tell me about being a hedge fund manager, or that they think 5G networks are killing us, and that is where memoirs step in. It’s like meeting a new person but you don’t have to have your pants on and you can walk away at any time without being rude.
Anyway, in a lot of cis women’s memoirs (basically all of them), things come back to the vagina. I read two books in a row this January where an entire chapter was devoted to periods. Frankly, menstrual prose is not my favorite genre of writing. Unless you’ve got some really good/weird/bad shit going on down there, I’m pretty neutral about the topic. I’m not against anyone having their own vagina monologue; I’m not grossed out or scandalized by it, as I would’ve been at fourteen, but I still don’t usually feel like I connect with these stories. They often feel too common, too pedestrian.
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