#men are out here having their first child at 70 but god forbid a woman not settle down until their late thirties

[theamazingannie]

Obviously it’s incredibly misogynistic to write about a woman being a bad role model for being unmarried and childless at 34 and there have been numerous posts outraged about it, but I also think it’s absolutely cruel to write an article calling Taylor Swift a bad role model for being unmarried and childless mere months after her releasing an album talking about how she WANTED to be a mother and a wife but was strung along by her ex for six years. Like women seriously can’t win can we

[venikamenon]

Boundaries & The Men Who Did Not Respect Mine

In light of the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, the #metoo movement, the accusations against powerful people in the entertainment industry in India, discussions around sexual assault have been inescapable. Here are a few instances that impacted my life profoundly. 

This is going to be a little long and a little all over the place but strap in, because it’s an emotionally exhausting ride.

This story begins in 6th grade.

My maa and I were vacationing in Shimla, a north Indian mountain-covered city. On our last night there, we were waiting in a crowded bus station for our Volvo to depart.

I was wearing a white puffy jacket, given to me as a present by my American aunt and uncle, which automatically made it more special than all of my other jackets. I don’t remember anything about this vacation apart from what was about to happen, but I remember being happy. I remember smiling at all the other families that waited along with us. My mother, the sole provider for my family of five, was first and foremost a bad ass professional (a word I would not have been allowed to use back then), so when she was able to tear herself away from her work, it was a reason to celebrate.

I remember smiling at this man who was looking at me.

Me, I was 10-11 at the time.

I did not think anything of it in the moment. But pretty quickly, I realized this man was following my maa and I around. Every time I looked up – and I did have to look up as I was a short chubby child –, he was a few feet away. His face holding a smile and his eyes staring right at me, unwavering, unblinking, focused.

I remember feeling uncomfortable, not being able to breathe, and looking at my maa for help, but not being able to say anything.

Every time, I would turn my back to him, he would circle around us to be in my field of vision. Over and over again. No matter where I looked and how hard I tried to look away. I was frozen, stuck in a nightmare, unable to vocalize.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally boarded the bus. As I looked back one last time to check if I was safe, I was horrified to see him walk on after us. That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t be trapped on this bus with this man for hours. I remember beginning to tear up, and whisper to my maa some incoherent words about this man following me and smiling at me.

She immediately stood up and screamed in the bus “THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME”. She didn’t ask me if I was sure, she didn’t ask me why I didn’t say something sooner, she didn’t ask if I had proof. She stood up and screamed “THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME” and in that moment, protected me and took the public burden off of me.

This man immediately ran out. No one on the bus said anything.

I don’t remember anything else from this whole trip, but I will never forget this man’s face and how this man made me feel. He made me feel dirty and ashamed, as if I had done something wrong. He made me want to rip my soul out of my body and put in in another new and unseen one.

Two things happened as a result of this. First, to the confusion of my mother, I refused to wear that white jacket again, even though it was the warmest, the fanciest and the favoritest jacket that I owned. I couldn’t separate that memory from the clothes I wore that night, no matter how irrational the connection. And if I couldn’t get rid of my body, this was the closest thing I could throw out.

Second, I stopped smiling at strangers.

All this and I’d never even been touched. I would not be able to prove anything in a court of law.

This was the first time the ether had whispered to me, beware of strange men – a recurring theme in every woman’s life, but particularly in India where the danger is “out there” (a notion with heavy classist connotations but that is for another time).

At 17, I moved to New York to pursue my education at a liberal progressive school with 70% women-identifying folk. A safe place.

At the end of my first week of school, a safe place, I called my maa and told her that one of my friends, in the room opposite of mine, had been raped by another student. Both of them were women. Anyone can be an abuser, but what was most shocking was that the abuser just dropped out the very next day of the case being filed with the school, so this person faced no consequences. However, this is not my story to tell.

I know this story does not fit neatly into the man-assualts-woman narrative, but the truth is messy and full of nuance. The other truths are that statistically, men are the primary perpetrators of interpersonal and sexual violence, and that almost all women know someone or have themselves been victims of sexual violence or harassment. It was the first time I witnessed an institution be unable to hold an abuser accountable.

My second year at college, I took an intermediary French class with Man Trash. Man Trash and I were friends, the way you are friends with someone in your class when you need to know when the next test is and what the homework is. We would often be in the same spaces because Man Trash was a good friend of one of the men in my Sophomore year crew. Man Trash was always funny, good at French and nice to me. But, when Man Trash expressed interest in one of my other friends, I became a little concerned. You see, I had heard through the grape vine that Man Trash had been accused of non-consensual touching. I looked into it a little further and found out that two women on separate occasions had brought up the fact that Man Trash had not respected their boundaries. So, when my friend expressed reciprocal interest in Man Trash, I had to confront him before things got any further.

Man Trash proceeded to tell me that it was all a misunderstanding, that alcohol was involved and that the school had already looked into it and they didn’t find anything. And I believed him.

I had been on the school’s Sexual Assault Task Force for a year at this point and had thorough insight into how flawed the investigative procedure could be. I had mocked these pathetic excuses of “alcohol” and “misunderstanding” for vile behaviour from men I didn’t know, mainly online, before.

And yet, I believed him because we had partied together, and he was always nice to me. He was my man friend’s good friend. He helped me with my French homework. I never tried to find out more details or to corroborate if what he told me was true.

A year later, while I studied in Paris my junior year, he raped another friend of mine. However, this is not my story to tell.

This was the first time I was complicit and was unable to hold an abuser accountable. I am so sorry to the women I failed by associating with this despicable human being and giving others the impression that he was safe to be around.

That year when I was in Paris, I used Tinder for the first time. The first Tinder date I went on was at a bar, and it went well. He offered to drop me home. Once we were in his car, he insisted that we go back to his place, even though I repeatedly said no. In a very calm voice, he kept insisting “let’s go to my place.” He did not shout. He did not act violent. But he kept driving away from my house. I was terrified. I finally said I was going to call my friends if he didn’t stop immediately. That’s when he reluctantly turned the car around. When I typically tell this story, it’s for a laugh: ha ha the one time I was almost kidnapped ha ha.

One of my closest NY friends – a man – has recently been encouraging me to get back on Tinder. I haven’t been able to explain to him why it’s just not for me. I can’t explain to him how trapped I felt in that car in Paris that one time. How suffocating it was to say no repeatedly and be talked over and ignored. I can’t separate that memory from that app, no matter how irrational the connection.

There isn’t even time for the story about the man who asked if he should send me a picture of his penis in the middle of our conversation about skateboarding, or the man who grabbed my butt on the train, the man who followed me on to campus one night when I got home too late etc.

As women, we are encouraged to either bear our souls and recount our most horrific experiences for the benefit of some men maybe perhaps kind of understanding our frustration and distrust of men a tiny bit, or move the fuck on with our lives because god forbid our emotions inconvenience you.

Here, I would like to clarify that in no way I’m saying what has happened to me is the same as sexual assault.  Too many women I know have experienced way worse. My point being: women experience gross and blatant, sometimes traumatic, disregard for their boundaries all the time.

When my mother was first starting off her career, her boss gave her a few x-rated magazines to file. She quit shortly after.

When my high school friend was on the way to a birthday party with this boy we had both known for many years, he tried to grab her on the way there. He apologized to her years later and she may have forgiven him, but I never will.

A fellow college alum who graduated many years before me, recently wrote about how her abuser was trying to re-invent himself in the age of #metoo as a changed man, having never apologized to her or shown any repentance.

My favorite statistician, Mona Chalabi, finally reported someone she used to work with who regularly send her inappropriate messages.

I know there are other stories out there, but none of them are mine to tell. But in each of these cases, the perpetrators faced no lasting consequences.

I am using this to process and to collect my own thoughts. If you made it through to this part, I don’t have a neatly packaged message for you. 

Sometimes, I want to scream till my lungs give out. Sometimes, I want to write till my laptop dies. Silence is no longer an option for many of us.

[machetelanding]

On Monday, Amanda Prestigiacomo wrote a piece for The Daily Wire highlighting the fact that the vast majority of mass shooters and school shooters come from fatherless homes. The trend is undeniable. And, sadly, it's just the tip of the iceberg. The problem runs much, much deeper.

Over 60% of youth suicides are from fatherless homes. Over 80% of youths in prison are from fatherless homes. Over 70% of high school dropouts are from fatherless homes. Over 70% of kids in drug abuse treatment centers are from fatherless homes. The fatherless home epidemic is a verified national emergency, and should be treated as such.

But the fatherless factor is just one part of the equation. The other part is that nearly all of the kids who fall into these statistics are boys. Pretty much every mass shooter in American history, with very rare exception, has been male. 93% of the inmates in federal prison are men. 90% of murders are committed by men. The vast majority of rapists and child molesters are male. Men are three times more likely to kill themselves.

Our culture looks at the picture as I've painted it and concludes that masculinity is a blight on the Earth. It then proceeds to fix the Boy Problem the way you fix a dog. It sees that boys are inclined to be aggressive, so it forces them to be mild. It sees that boys are likely to take dangerous risks, so it encourages them to take no risks at all. It sees that boys are wild, so it tames them. It sees that boys are boys, so it turns them into girls. The strategy has been a disaster. As we work to feminize boys, all of the problems listed above have only gotten worse. They are indeed enlightened problems for an enlightened age.

So, what can we do about it?

The solution brings us back to the beginning: fathers. Boys need to be taught how to be boys, and they need fathers to do the teaching. A mother can't teach her son how to be a man any more than I can teach my daughter how to be a woman. I can teach her how a woman ought to be treated, but I cannot shape her in her femininity the way my wife can. Likewise, my wife cannot form and harness our sons' masculinity the way that I can. Neither can we rely on TV or pop culture or the schools to do the job. They will not mold your son; they will simply obliterate him. Everywhere he turns, if he cannot turn to his father, he will find powerful forces trying desperately to drag him into despair, confusion, and self-loathing.

The feminists say that masculinity is "fragile," and they're sort of right. A boy's identity is a fragile thing. It needs to be protected, or it will be consumed. A boy is bursting with energy, dreams, and ambitions. He feels a deep longing to use that energy and take those ambitions and do something with it. He needs someone — his father, namely — to show him what that thing ought to be. Or else he will figure it out on his own, finding no help anywhere else, and the result may literally kill him — and dozens more, perhaps.

A girl needs guidance, too, but she has some advantages. For one, almost every home in America features a mom. For another, most schools are staffed and run by women. For another, our culture is extraordinarily focused on empowering and encouraging girls, and telling them how beautiful they are, how valuable and important and strong and wonderful, etc. For still another, the female instinct is (whether the feminists admit it or not) calmer, more relational, more domestic.

A girl looks for fulfillment in her home and in her relationships. A boy feels the indescribable, uncontainable urge to go out into the wild and find fulfillment in something, but he doesn't know precisely what. However far we have come (or fallen) as a society, we still have not escaped the simple truth: women want to make a home, and men want to go into the woods and hunt. The only question is what exactly they will hunt, and how.

To that end, I have a few ideas as to the kinds of things we fathers need to teach our little hunters. Obviously this is not a comprehensive list, but it's a good start:

1) We need to teach them to take healthy risks.

Boys will take risks. Now, will it involve drag racing at 2 a.m. or something more fruitful and less fatal? This is why the generally cautious voice of the mother needs to be balanced by a father who knows that a scraped knee and a busted lip can do a young man a lot of good. A boy needs his dad to say: "Go climb that tree." "Go hit that ball." "It's just a scratch." "It's okay to punch back." Even if his mom also says these things, he still needs to hear it from his dad.

These are the risks of early boyhood. But as a boy grows, he needs his dad there to teach him how to take different kinds of risks, fraught with a different kind of peril. He must learn to take intellectual risks by forming his ideas and principles and defending them. He must learn to take emotional risks by forging intimate bonds and friendships. And these will lead to the final risk of boyhood, which becomes the first risk of manhood: moving out of the house and entering the world.

If a boy is raised only by women, and his risk-taking nature is stifled by motherly caution, he will eventually break free and find the danger and adventure he craves. But it probably won't lead to a career and a wife and a fulfilling life. It will much more likely lead to prison or the morgue.

2) We need to teach them to protect the weak.

Boys are fascinated by violence. There's no use fighting it. The idea of a man using his physical strength to defeat and conquer another man is innately appealing to most every boy. The average progressive mother in today's society is scared of this instinct, so she smothers it. She forbids her son from playing with toy guns, and she keeps him away from any TV show that has a hint of violence, and she panics if he ever gets into a fight. She tries to redirect his energies into art classes or gymnastics or dance or whatever else. She tries to make a girl out of her boy.

A father must be there to say, "It's good to be strong. It's good to fight for the right reason. But if you want to be a cool, strong man like me, you should only use your strength to protect people who are weaker than you — never to hurt them."

I noticed that when my son was first introduced to the world of superheroes, he was just as fascinated by the villains as the good guys. I had to tell him that the good guys are the ones we root for, and the ones we like, because they help and protect people. I didn't teach him that violence is wrong. I taught him that violence against the innocent is wrong, and lame and bad and uncool. Now, while his twin sister draws pictures and brushes her doll's hair, he runs around the house pretending to fight off all manner of villains and monsters who, if not for his efforts, would surely destroy us all.

3) We need to teach them to worship God.

There are two things that every boy needs to see his father do: show affection to his wife, and pray. There are few images more powerful, more formational, for a young boy than the image of his father kneeling with his hands clasped. From the boy's perspective, his father spends all day telling people what to do, running the show, doling out discipline, and leading with firmness and purpose. But now here he is, on his knees, humbling himself, submitting himself, reaching out to some greater force; a force he even calls "Father."

The boys sees humility and obedience demonstrated by the same person who demands it of him. He is given, in microcosm, the same lesson Christ gave all of us when He came to Earth. And this is a scary thing for us dads. Our children learn about God through us. The image of God that they form in their heads will be shaped by our example. If we are cruel and distant, they will think that God is cruel and distant. If we are permissive and weak, they will think that God is permissive and weak. If we do not love them, they will think that God does not love them.

So, our job — an impossible job, if we are not praying constantly for God to help us accomplish it — is to give our sons (and our daughters) a window into the world beyond our own. We have to ground them in faith. We have to help them understand their vocation. We have to help them hear the voice of God. And, if we are successful, they will begin to comprehend that the restlessness they feel, the wildness, the longing, is really a thirst for the eternal. They are being called into the wild, and beyond it, to Home.