If straight men are denied sex with women, in prison for example, do they objectify the effeminate man, the “pretty” man? It seems so. This also seems to say something about power and sex. So, it isn’t necessarily about women and power, but power, the power to satisfy a need or desire.
I wonder how much power most women have to get this kind of satisfaction. It is about agency, means. I think it is harder for women to satisfy desires for sex, security, society, and success, because of having to navigate through the world not feeling confident that their integrity is all that matters. It is a man’s world. I will not apologize for that statement. I can qualify it: a wealthy, connected, white man’s world perhaps, but still the world’s power is almost absolutely in the hands of men.
Lisa, you say that some men try hard (the thought that they have to try hard would be something we should look at to help us understand some of this better; do they have to try hard with peers?) to treat us with dignity and respect. I am an equal. Yes, truth be known, quite often I feel superior, but I have been called on it and have tried to continue to work on that. It is a response to exactly this question of being “treated”. I don’t want to be treated, just act civilly as one would with anyone one meets. I am not asking for special treatment; I am demanding equal treatment. I don’t always have someone’s respect, and I don’t respect many people; but in a civilized (loosely used) world, I mind my manners and hold myself back from making any judgment through my actions about who should be treated respectfully. We all should have that, and it should not be something I try, but something I do.
Dignity is mine through my sense of self, my self-esteem. I am the keeper of my dignity. This is often affected by objectification. As Lisa says, it is a form of objectification to be placed on the mantle as muse. For me, as an older woman, I am not often seen as a sexual object, but I am seen as the Wise One, mother of the thousand four letter words, and so, also “mantle-ized” and my dignity(which is based on my vision, my view of myself) is not acknowledged, even if I resist this placement. My dignity is affected when a man doesn’t understand (and act accordingly) that my sense of worth comes from me and not what he wants me to be (for him) or thinks that I am.
Respect is tricky: we both seem to be respected for some innate quality that men interpret as something that needs to be pedestal-ized, and therefore robs of us real respect.
This is all very often unintentional. I realize that. But until men realize that they do it, without the tap-dancing qualifications and explanations, it is still offensive.
For the men who read this: ask not that I understand the male position: I do, all too well and often, with much kindness, compassion and giving; ask how you can learn.
Showing posts with label Not Fully Human. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Not Fully Human. Show all posts
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
All Apologies
I want to pick up where Laura left off. I want to begin by saying that I relate to the air of apology that permeates that final paragraph. The question that lingers: do I have the right to talk about this? I’m worrying about that too, even as I write this. I worry because in the writing of this I might have to speak some hard truths about myself and the people I love. But that’s the commitment here. We promised to get naked, and I’m going to try to overcome my guilt and shame and get down to it.
It’s hard for me because I seem to have a built-in drive to coddle men. I think about the men I love and I immediately shy away from using the word objectification. How could I possibly accuse them of this?
Which brings me to therapy. I hated therapy this week. My therapist wanted me to talk about how hard it was growing up with a largely absent father and a severely depressed mother. Now, I think my parents were really good parents. Kind and loving. But it’s actually just true that for much of my childhood they couldn’t care for me as much as they wanted to. That’s life, no blame necessary. But I can’t quite seem to get past the idea that talking about that hard period in my childhood would be blaming my parents for the things that have been hard in my life. As if my talking about this thing that happened to me would somehow be to betray them. Where do I get this idea?
More to the point, why do I have this idea about men? I don’t have this issue with most men—just the ones I care for. I’m more than willing to critique the behavior of the man on the street, the one who catcalls or harasses or follows me home. Guys like this are chauvinist assholes, and there’s not much more to say about them. There’s plenty to say about the social circumstances that make them feel like it’s acceptable to treat women this way, but that’s a topic for another post. I’m thinking, rather, of the good guys—the guys who try hard to treat women with dignity and respect, but struggle a bit in the execution.
I will admit that, as a woman, I’m not always sensitive to the difficulties of the male position. There seems to be something, probably partially testosterone (but almost certainly not just that), which drives even conscious, considerate men to approach women because, in complex part, of sexual attraction. I know that human motivations are not simple. We’re looking for an awful lot of things from one another, when we seek each other out seriously in friendship and in love.
I wonder if the problem comes in not because we are too conscious of the fact we are men and women, but because we are not conscious enough. We either over-sexualize women or we under-sexualize them. We likely do the same thing to men, but with different consequences.
What I want to talk about now is the woman’s side of the coin, the one I know best. I have a friend and former lover—let’s call him B—who seems to see me not just as fully woman, but The Woman. He has made of me a muse. I can’t bring myself to fully explain to him, though I have tried, how difficult this is for me. I don’t want to have to see myself that way, as somebody else’s inspiration. More than that, it would be dangerous for me to do so. I’d lose all sense of myself—and I’ve worked hard to gain what little I have.
B both fully sees and fails to see me as a woman. He sees me as a woman in an idealized sense, as the kind of woman who doesn’t exist. But this keeps him from seeing that I have my own desires, that my desires matter. And, the hardest part is, I can’t bring myself to tell him this directly, because I care about him. Or, rather, I tell him, but then I back off, retreating into this relationship of turmoil and tenderness, a relationship that seems to be harming us both.
I really do wonder if the problem is that we’re failing to see each other as man and woman. We’re failing to see what the other suffers, what unique struggles accompany these strange positions which we occupy. If I’m feeling particularly bold, I might even ask the question: can we occupy them differently? Can we occupy them at will?
B positions me as an object—if not a sex object, then an object of a different kind. The muse on the mantelpiece. He doesn’t mean to harm me by this—I don’t believe that of him at all. But harm me he does, somewhere so deeply inherent to my sense of self that something of me is lost in his love. Lost for both of us.
To be a woman in this world is to battle against a particular set of social conditions. Objectification happens. This much we know. I think what matters most is that we begin to recognize the firmly entrenched conventions that keep women in a state of objectification even via those we love.
It’s hard for me because I seem to have a built-in drive to coddle men. I think about the men I love and I immediately shy away from using the word objectification. How could I possibly accuse them of this?
Which brings me to therapy. I hated therapy this week. My therapist wanted me to talk about how hard it was growing up with a largely absent father and a severely depressed mother. Now, I think my parents were really good parents. Kind and loving. But it’s actually just true that for much of my childhood they couldn’t care for me as much as they wanted to. That’s life, no blame necessary. But I can’t quite seem to get past the idea that talking about that hard period in my childhood would be blaming my parents for the things that have been hard in my life. As if my talking about this thing that happened to me would somehow be to betray them. Where do I get this idea?
More to the point, why do I have this idea about men? I don’t have this issue with most men—just the ones I care for. I’m more than willing to critique the behavior of the man on the street, the one who catcalls or harasses or follows me home. Guys like this are chauvinist assholes, and there’s not much more to say about them. There’s plenty to say about the social circumstances that make them feel like it’s acceptable to treat women this way, but that’s a topic for another post. I’m thinking, rather, of the good guys—the guys who try hard to treat women with dignity and respect, but struggle a bit in the execution.
I will admit that, as a woman, I’m not always sensitive to the difficulties of the male position. There seems to be something, probably partially testosterone (but almost certainly not just that), which drives even conscious, considerate men to approach women because, in complex part, of sexual attraction. I know that human motivations are not simple. We’re looking for an awful lot of things from one another, when we seek each other out seriously in friendship and in love.
I wonder if the problem comes in not because we are too conscious of the fact we are men and women, but because we are not conscious enough. We either over-sexualize women or we under-sexualize them. We likely do the same thing to men, but with different consequences.
What I want to talk about now is the woman’s side of the coin, the one I know best. I have a friend and former lover—let’s call him B—who seems to see me not just as fully woman, but The Woman. He has made of me a muse. I can’t bring myself to fully explain to him, though I have tried, how difficult this is for me. I don’t want to have to see myself that way, as somebody else’s inspiration. More than that, it would be dangerous for me to do so. I’d lose all sense of myself—and I’ve worked hard to gain what little I have.
B both fully sees and fails to see me as a woman. He sees me as a woman in an idealized sense, as the kind of woman who doesn’t exist. But this keeps him from seeing that I have my own desires, that my desires matter. And, the hardest part is, I can’t bring myself to tell him this directly, because I care about him. Or, rather, I tell him, but then I back off, retreating into this relationship of turmoil and tenderness, a relationship that seems to be harming us both.
I really do wonder if the problem is that we’re failing to see each other as man and woman. We’re failing to see what the other suffers, what unique struggles accompany these strange positions which we occupy. If I’m feeling particularly bold, I might even ask the question: can we occupy them differently? Can we occupy them at will?
B positions me as an object—if not a sex object, then an object of a different kind. The muse on the mantelpiece. He doesn’t mean to harm me by this—I don’t believe that of him at all. But harm me he does, somewhere so deeply inherent to my sense of self that something of me is lost in his love. Lost for both of us.
To be a woman in this world is to battle against a particular set of social conditions. Objectification happens. This much we know. I think what matters most is that we begin to recognize the firmly entrenched conventions that keep women in a state of objectification even via those we love.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
She's So Hormonal
Lisa and I were talking on the phone this afternoon about men and testosterone.
We have talked about this many times before. It seems that men are not responsible for the way that hormones affect their behavior toward women.
Watching “Venus Boyz” one trans man said that he had to make a conscious effort not to stare at women’s breasts: not the tits, not the tits. As a woman, and as a trans man, he was/is a feminist, and yet this behavior continued to pop up. It would seem that hormones place men in a constant heightened sexual awareness that cannot be circumvented. Or maybe it is a combination of the power of the male hormone and the power of being male.
Women, at least the women I know, are often trying to figure out why men, often the most “conscious” men, continue to sexually objectify women. Even when they are aware that it is offensive and wrong, I am not sure that most men truly understand what it is meant by a sexual object.
If a woman refuses sexual intercourse with a man he personalizes it, in my experience at least. Often it enrages him, and this may be another theme entirely, but it is connected, perhaps only tangentially, (but I am not convinced) to testosterone and power. When a male friend in crisis will seek out the help or attention of a woman he finds sexually appealing over a close friend (unless the sexy one is not available) I find that to be objectification for both women. Possible sex partner or not seems to decide many of the decisions men make.
Do positions of perceived power (or lack thereof) in the social strata contribute to this? Is there a kind of reverse objectification that men encounter and so transfer that to women?
Ya think?
Smarter minds, and more patient ones, have engaged this discussion. I am only asking questions.
Why do men, who ought to know better, continue to see women as less than fully human and more as objects of sexual gratification?
Even the most enlightened men can avoid the controversial discussion with themselves about sexual objectification because it has to do with power.
I said to Lisa today that women are always called “hormonal” if they display emotional or very emotional (crying: something men don’t usually or ever do in public; not that women do it much anymore either; it seems women are trying to have power by being more like men, hence the lack of things like tears) responses to stresses, etc. Men are never called hormonal. Maybe they shouldn’t be, considering the way the law works it might be a case of being hormonal rather than physically abusive.
So it would seem that power not merely testosterone, brings much to bear on this idea of objectification. I know this is obvious to everyone, I am just still stunned by men that I know and like who persist in this behavior and refuse to see it or acknowledge it: the desire for power is that seductive baby, not the tits.
If I have had to learn how to curb my emotions (or my responses to estrogen) in the world in order to be taken seriously and to not be a target of derision (she’s hormonal) why then can’t men?
I am not saying I have researched this, or thought it out to present as an academically sound essay. I am a woman trying to understand why this behavior continues, why even my well intentioned men friends, see the word objectification as something radical, ranting, and political, instead of the damn daily grind for women trying to live under patriarchy.
We have talked about this many times before. It seems that men are not responsible for the way that hormones affect their behavior toward women.
Watching “Venus Boyz” one trans man said that he had to make a conscious effort not to stare at women’s breasts: not the tits, not the tits. As a woman, and as a trans man, he was/is a feminist, and yet this behavior continued to pop up. It would seem that hormones place men in a constant heightened sexual awareness that cannot be circumvented. Or maybe it is a combination of the power of the male hormone and the power of being male.
Women, at least the women I know, are often trying to figure out why men, often the most “conscious” men, continue to sexually objectify women. Even when they are aware that it is offensive and wrong, I am not sure that most men truly understand what it is meant by a sexual object.
If a woman refuses sexual intercourse with a man he personalizes it, in my experience at least. Often it enrages him, and this may be another theme entirely, but it is connected, perhaps only tangentially, (but I am not convinced) to testosterone and power. When a male friend in crisis will seek out the help or attention of a woman he finds sexually appealing over a close friend (unless the sexy one is not available) I find that to be objectification for both women. Possible sex partner or not seems to decide many of the decisions men make.
Do positions of perceived power (or lack thereof) in the social strata contribute to this? Is there a kind of reverse objectification that men encounter and so transfer that to women?
Ya think?
Smarter minds, and more patient ones, have engaged this discussion. I am only asking questions.
Why do men, who ought to know better, continue to see women as less than fully human and more as objects of sexual gratification?
Even the most enlightened men can avoid the controversial discussion with themselves about sexual objectification because it has to do with power.
I said to Lisa today that women are always called “hormonal” if they display emotional or very emotional (crying: something men don’t usually or ever do in public; not that women do it much anymore either; it seems women are trying to have power by being more like men, hence the lack of things like tears) responses to stresses, etc. Men are never called hormonal. Maybe they shouldn’t be, considering the way the law works it might be a case of being hormonal rather than physically abusive.
So it would seem that power not merely testosterone, brings much to bear on this idea of objectification. I know this is obvious to everyone, I am just still stunned by men that I know and like who persist in this behavior and refuse to see it or acknowledge it: the desire for power is that seductive baby, not the tits.
If I have had to learn how to curb my emotions (or my responses to estrogen) in the world in order to be taken seriously and to not be a target of derision (she’s hormonal) why then can’t men?
I am not saying I have researched this, or thought it out to present as an academically sound essay. I am a woman trying to understand why this behavior continues, why even my well intentioned men friends, see the word objectification as something radical, ranting, and political, instead of the damn daily grind for women trying to live under patriarchy.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wanna Grow Up to Be, Be a Debaser?
When I was fifteen years old, I spent the summer with some cousins on a lake near Orofino, Idaho. The lake was clean and warm, the sand hot and white. I loved the sultry summer days, the feeling of the sun on my Midwestern skin. I loved spending time with my older cousin, Nikki, who was both significantly less bookish and more worldly than I. One night, Nikki and I went into Orofino, where we were invited to a party. I was excited—Nikki taught me how to dress, wear makeup, hold myself. She loaned me some clothes. I looked like what I was to about to become, a slightly older version of Lolita. At the party, I overheard something fairly disconcerting. Not entirely accurate to say I overheard: the news was broadcast. A young woman, a girl, I suppose, was drunk and giving blow-jobs for beer in the back room. I never forgot this moment.
What does it mean to be just an object? What does it mean to be not fully human? There’s little question that the girl in the back room was being treated as an object rather than a subject, but clear-cut cases like that are the exception, however dishearteningly frequent an exception they may be. The trickier situations involve our day to day interactions with people we don’t yet know, or don’t know well, or perhaps know altogether too well. They involve the complicated realm where the other person is both subject and object. I’ve been frustrated, in the past, by the men who would ask me out without knowing the first thing about me, beyond how I look. Men I met on buses, in coffee shops, in bars. But I’ve also had to admit to the unfairness of this frustration: you can tell a great deal about me based on how I dress, the bright pink color I’ve dyed my hair, how I carry myself, the books I’m constantly reading on the bus. But more than this, I have to admit to being “guilty” of the same behavior: I’ve asked out men I don’t know before, and I imagine I’d do it again if the spirit moved me. Does this mean I think of them as sex objects? I’m pretty sure I don’t.
There’s a rather loathsome old saying which pretty much sums up the problem: “The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think.” This, I think, is insulting to everyone involved. This is why my frustration troubles me: it marks a potential failure to treat myself and other people with respect. I’m not saying that other people are always deserving of my respect—the man who spends the entire conversation staring at my tits has forfeited his right to my respect. Likewise the man on the bus who persists in trying to engage me in conversation after I’ve made it clear I prefer to be left alone. But, again, irritating as they are, these are the exceptions. The fact that they’re exceptions certainly doesn’t render them less worthy of attention—we always have the right to demand that we be treated with dignity and respect. But my concern here is that the exceptions not color the rest of our experiences, not keep us from recognizing the possibility for real, meaningful interactions between human beings.
This is, I think, an important conversation to have—how do we treat one another? How do we want to be treated? What are the pitfalls of interactions between men and women? Gender (and the specter of sex) certainly complicates these interactions, rendering them fraught in a unique way. Again, these questions aren’t rhetorical: I really do want to know what people think about this. How do we navigate our anxieties about being treated as objects, about treating others as objects? The object is the means to an end, something to use to reach gratification. The girl in the back room basically became, for the men who used her—and men were moving in and out of that space with some regularity—just a collection of body parts. A mouth for sucking cock, hair to hold while guiding her head back and forth until they reached their climax, cum shot, I imagine, down her throat or on her face.
I think about this girl. I worry about her, because I’ve known her. Hell, I’ve been her. Maybe nothing quite so public, but intentional black-out drinking leading to sex with strangers is pretty much in the same camp. Why would I want to be treated this way? Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m not getting any closer to an answer by staying silent. None of us are.
What does it mean to be just an object? What does it mean to be not fully human? There’s little question that the girl in the back room was being treated as an object rather than a subject, but clear-cut cases like that are the exception, however dishearteningly frequent an exception they may be. The trickier situations involve our day to day interactions with people we don’t yet know, or don’t know well, or perhaps know altogether too well. They involve the complicated realm where the other person is both subject and object. I’ve been frustrated, in the past, by the men who would ask me out without knowing the first thing about me, beyond how I look. Men I met on buses, in coffee shops, in bars. But I’ve also had to admit to the unfairness of this frustration: you can tell a great deal about me based on how I dress, the bright pink color I’ve dyed my hair, how I carry myself, the books I’m constantly reading on the bus. But more than this, I have to admit to being “guilty” of the same behavior: I’ve asked out men I don’t know before, and I imagine I’d do it again if the spirit moved me. Does this mean I think of them as sex objects? I’m pretty sure I don’t.
There’s a rather loathsome old saying which pretty much sums up the problem: “The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think.” This, I think, is insulting to everyone involved. This is why my frustration troubles me: it marks a potential failure to treat myself and other people with respect. I’m not saying that other people are always deserving of my respect—the man who spends the entire conversation staring at my tits has forfeited his right to my respect. Likewise the man on the bus who persists in trying to engage me in conversation after I’ve made it clear I prefer to be left alone. But, again, irritating as they are, these are the exceptions. The fact that they’re exceptions certainly doesn’t render them less worthy of attention—we always have the right to demand that we be treated with dignity and respect. But my concern here is that the exceptions not color the rest of our experiences, not keep us from recognizing the possibility for real, meaningful interactions between human beings.
This is, I think, an important conversation to have—how do we treat one another? How do we want to be treated? What are the pitfalls of interactions between men and women? Gender (and the specter of sex) certainly complicates these interactions, rendering them fraught in a unique way. Again, these questions aren’t rhetorical: I really do want to know what people think about this. How do we navigate our anxieties about being treated as objects, about treating others as objects? The object is the means to an end, something to use to reach gratification. The girl in the back room basically became, for the men who used her—and men were moving in and out of that space with some regularity—just a collection of body parts. A mouth for sucking cock, hair to hold while guiding her head back and forth until they reached their climax, cum shot, I imagine, down her throat or on her face.
I think about this girl. I worry about her, because I’ve known her. Hell, I’ve been her. Maybe nothing quite so public, but intentional black-out drinking leading to sex with strangers is pretty much in the same camp. Why would I want to be treated this way? Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m not getting any closer to an answer by staying silent. None of us are.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
I, Object
I was an object: a thing.
I first learned this in the 60s when the words “sex object” seemed to float through the consciousness and media. I didn’t understand it exactly: I thought it was good to be thought desirable, sexy. It took me a while to see that to be treated like a possession, a curio, an inanimate object whose only value was the ability to arouse sexual sensation or pleasure in others, was dehumanizing. I didn’t know then that half the world probably did not concern themselves with my thoughts, feelings, or needs. I was only a teenager.
I married very young (still a teenager) mostly to get away from my mother and everything about my family that I abhorred. My mother understood my behavior, as she appears to have done the same herself, and told me that running away (I had done some of that as well before the impending wedding) was not going to change anything. She said, “Just remember, the last bag you pack has you in it.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought she was referring to me as an object, like an article of clothing. Now I get that she wasn’t saying that at all, but it is interesting that in some way she was unconsciously telling me exactly that.
I became a woman, but I was not a sex object. I had never been the girl that men wanted. I was the girl that men were scared of. I was direct, I was competitive with them, and I could get really angry when aroused. I was an alien, very different, thorny kind of object. This kind of objectivity was harder to talk about. I was supposed to be glad that men did not treat me as merely a body, but I was not treated at all. I was made invisible.
As an older woman I am visible, but not seen. Now I am a talking, laughing, engaging but useless thing. Men will talk to me; they will acknowledge my physical presence, but not me as person. Most often they engage with me because they must. They have to go through me to get to what it is they want.
Today LJ and I attended an orientation for a course that we are going facilitate. It is for an experimental college. We were required to go to this event. What followed was apparently well meaning, but juvenile and a colossal waste of time. Well, not for all attendees.
A young (and I mean young -- the guy looked to be all of twenty) man approached LJ and I as we prepared to leave at the end of the meeting. His first query was about our “relationship”. I took this to mean he wanted to know if I was her lover. I assured him we were friends, knowing full well that he was only interested in making contact with LJ. I talked my sincere head off. I asked him kind and probingly interested questions about his course, we talked about the trajectory of our studies, and on and on.
Upshot: he only wanted LJ’s phone number. I felt like I was an appetizer that came free with the meal but is completely ignored. True, he did not ignore me, if anything we talked quite a bit: mostly as I am trying to not be cynical toward men.
As nice and polite as he was being, I was not part of the main course. I felt like the pickle that is offered on the side with your sandwich that is never eaten, but thrown away.
I am not the goddamn pickle. And it isn’t just young men who behave this way. So now, I am not an object, I am not a thing, I am not threatening, and I am not scary. I am without any value at all. I cannot decide what is worse: to be invisible, or to be completely and utterly valueless.
I first learned this in the 60s when the words “sex object” seemed to float through the consciousness and media. I didn’t understand it exactly: I thought it was good to be thought desirable, sexy. It took me a while to see that to be treated like a possession, a curio, an inanimate object whose only value was the ability to arouse sexual sensation or pleasure in others, was dehumanizing. I didn’t know then that half the world probably did not concern themselves with my thoughts, feelings, or needs. I was only a teenager.
I married very young (still a teenager) mostly to get away from my mother and everything about my family that I abhorred. My mother understood my behavior, as she appears to have done the same herself, and told me that running away (I had done some of that as well before the impending wedding) was not going to change anything. She said, “Just remember, the last bag you pack has you in it.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought she was referring to me as an object, like an article of clothing. Now I get that she wasn’t saying that at all, but it is interesting that in some way she was unconsciously telling me exactly that.
I became a woman, but I was not a sex object. I had never been the girl that men wanted. I was the girl that men were scared of. I was direct, I was competitive with them, and I could get really angry when aroused. I was an alien, very different, thorny kind of object. This kind of objectivity was harder to talk about. I was supposed to be glad that men did not treat me as merely a body, but I was not treated at all. I was made invisible.
As an older woman I am visible, but not seen. Now I am a talking, laughing, engaging but useless thing. Men will talk to me; they will acknowledge my physical presence, but not me as person. Most often they engage with me because they must. They have to go through me to get to what it is they want.
Today LJ and I attended an orientation for a course that we are going facilitate. It is for an experimental college. We were required to go to this event. What followed was apparently well meaning, but juvenile and a colossal waste of time. Well, not for all attendees.
A young (and I mean young -- the guy looked to be all of twenty) man approached LJ and I as we prepared to leave at the end of the meeting. His first query was about our “relationship”. I took this to mean he wanted to know if I was her lover. I assured him we were friends, knowing full well that he was only interested in making contact with LJ. I talked my sincere head off. I asked him kind and probingly interested questions about his course, we talked about the trajectory of our studies, and on and on.
Upshot: he only wanted LJ’s phone number. I felt like I was an appetizer that came free with the meal but is completely ignored. True, he did not ignore me, if anything we talked quite a bit: mostly as I am trying to not be cynical toward men.
As nice and polite as he was being, I was not part of the main course. I felt like the pickle that is offered on the side with your sandwich that is never eaten, but thrown away.
I am not the goddamn pickle. And it isn’t just young men who behave this way. So now, I am not an object, I am not a thing, I am not threatening, and I am not scary. I am without any value at all. I cannot decide what is worse: to be invisible, or to be completely and utterly valueless.
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