Canadian in America

Of all the things in the world I have tried to learn, of all the things that someone has tried to teach me, I think women’s studies has come easiest to me. At least, the women’s studies that I know and love, has come with relative ease. It’s not that I think it’s an easy program, because it’s not, but it’s one of the only disciplines that my mind can wrap its head around without wanting to explode. The concepts can be mind boggling, especially if you don’t do the god damn readings (I’m talking to you, first year self) but by the end of the semester, I generally have a feeling that I understand them. Of course, there’s always that one topic, that one little section of a class where you’re like “what the fuck is going on?!” For me, that concept is spaces as they relate to identities.  It is worth mentioning that I never actually took the course called “Sex, Gender and Space”, but a lot of my friends did and every time they would explain the concept of space and well, anything, I was still lost. Maybe my friends weren’t the best teachers, or I wasn’t paying complete attention. Yeah, it was definitely the latter.

It’s been a few years since that course was offered, and I’m still fairly certain I don’t “get” space. A reading for popular culture class talked about the Canadian identity in American space within the show “How I Met Your Mother”, where the character in question constantly had to negotiate and challenge her identities, based largely on which country she was in. I’m hoping that my having something in common with this character will help me to understand “space”. That going to a new environment will leave me with an understanding of how I will constantly change.

3 weeks later...

So here I am in America. I’ve been here for a little over two weeks, and I can honestly say I’m no closer to understanding “space”.  Maybe I am starting to get a hold of the ideas, because I’ve noticed some things that make me uncomfortable and have lead me to question the world around me. For instance, it was revolutionary that there would be different sex dorms, even though the rules are so strict I have laughed just a little.

-The doors that lock within the building (between wings) are normally accessible to anyone with a residence key card. However, between certain hours, if you are of another sex, those doors will not open (except in case of emergency). This assumes, of course, that you are a member of one of two and only two sexes. Do we need to go into how problematic this is again? No readers, I think you’re smart enough to know the ridiculousness behind the gender binary.

-There is 100 percent no sharing a dorm/house/apartment with anyone of another gender. Which ok, that’s cool if that’s what they want as a rule. But again, the binary. And it seems suspicious that they start locking out visitors of another sex after a certain hour. I could have an orgy of women in my room without getting written up. You know, in theory. 

I do like it here, though. Some of the things do blow my mind, and I’ll be writing about them for sure. Right now I’m still very much in the introduction phase of being here, and I have to hold off judgement, obviously.  And no matter how much something might scare me for whatever reason, I’ll never be comfortable saying it’s wrong if it’s not hurting anyone. 

And now here is the obligatory, but no less sincere, proclamation of homesickness.  Nothing really overwhelming but there is kind of a quiet “I miss you” voice that speaks in my mind every once in awhile. It mostly whispers when I go for days without interacting with people, despite several attempts at doing so or when I miss the companionship of furry creatures, especially ones of the canine and feline persuasions.   

Counting

If I were the sort of person who counted things, I would say I have six working days left, 13 days left until I leave and no time left before I realize my life is fucked. Unfortunately, I am the sort of person who counts things. Obsessively. I hate math and struggle with basic skills like division and subtraction, but I count constantly; things need to be sorted and organized in my mind. Preferably in groups of three or five, please. So at any given time I will be able to tell you how many hours there are left until something, or how many days, working days, weekends and weeks there are until something happens. This practice, while irritating for everyone, makes me feel safe and secure.
At this time in two weeks, I will be in Georgia (USA). This started out as kind of a joke, to be honest, but now it's very real and happening really soon. Remember the time I failed a psych class with a 49 and as a result couldn't graduate, and that bitch essentially ruined a year of my academic life? And when I was one hundred and ten percent angry, depressed, devastated, fucking pissed, vengeful, humiliated and just "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ON A GOD DAMN BIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?!" about the whole situation? In other words, I was a complete drama dyke (never a queen- I'm far too manly) about my academic life and how it impacted my self image and self esteem? (Hey- some people have their bodies, their hair or talents dictate how they feel and see themselves physically. I have school- I'll look like garbage, but if I got a "good" mark on an assignment, I'll feel "pretty" inside. And that's fucked up.)
Where was I? Feeling like shit. Right. So I started joking that I hated UPEI and my life enough that I obviously had to run away to the Southern US.  But then Ann was all like, "you could do an exchange. Seriously." (while she was probably thinking "this girl has to suck it up and stop bursting into tears in my office". She's much too awesome to say so, though.) After looking at the list of schools that UPEI has exchange deals with, which ones were in America and which of those had women's studies, I landed myself in Georgia. I suppose I was the right amount of pissed off, depressed and determined to make the decision that while UPEI was absolutely wonderful for four years, I'd like to go somewhere else for a little while. Several months, dollars, emails and approximately 50 tonnes of paperwork later, I'm headed there in two weeks. No idea what will happen, but I have a place to live, courses to take and four blank notebooks- that's all I need.
This post was going to be real and relevant to the blog, but I sort of got carried away with posting how this situation came about. The next post will be about feminist martians... I write that mostly for myself because I will forget in like 10 minutes.

Bathrooms, binaries and babies

So the other day I'm in a public bathroom with a few strangers, concentrating on nothing else but the all too painful need to urinate. during this time a social interaction between strangers went down, and it took awhile but gradually I came to the conclusion that I feel bad for babies. This woman was in the bathroom with a kid in a stroller and an older woman made a comment about the baby;
"Oh look at his eyes...such a handsome face. He'll break all the girls' hearts when he gets older." The woman with the kid kind of smiled and left the crowded room.
The older woman then turned to me, and said with great alarm that maybe the baby wasn't a boy. She was horrified and really embarrassed at this prospect, and I could tell she felt incredibly guilty for possibly mistaking the gender of this kid. I told her not to worry about it, because frankly I didn't care.
But then I started to feel bad for the baby, because of all the assumptions that were being made in a 20 second interaction. The older woman had pegged the child as male, masculine and heterosexual all within a couple of sentences. When she realized the baby could have been female, the older woman displayed such concern that it seems mistaking someone's gender would be the ultimate insult.
The kid doesn't know all this yet, and that's why it makes me sad; babies can't yet tell people who suck to fuck off.

You are not prepared to deal with randomness that is this post

Pet stores, especially in malls, are fucking weird and not in a good way. You're walking along in the mall, perhaps buying shoes, sweaters or books, and then there's this store that sells people animals just the same as books and pens are sold. This is fucked up.
Buying animals is unnecessary. Go adopt a puppy or a cat. Yeah, it costs money, but trust me, humane societies are not rolling in money vaults of profit. Yes, that was a Ducktales reference to Scrooge McDuck's money vault of gold coins and jewellry. Pet stores are there for the same purpose that other stores are; to make money. And that seems really weird to me. Don't capitalize off of adorable dogs and kittens because you can. I hope the dog you buy from a breeder bites you. But you'd probably have it put down.
But then there's fish and this is where I turn into a complete hypocrite. At least I'm willing to admit it. I am fascinated by pretty much anything that lives under water and could look at fish and sea life for hours, never getting bored of how intelligent and productive some of them are. And they're beautiful. How does one adopt fish, though? Are they something that can be adopted? They can be rescued from disaster and slaughter, but humane societies don't exactly have walls of aquariums, do they? I guess I'm not completely hypocritical; it's not like there is any sea life living in my house.
Octopusses or octopi (both are acceptable) are awesome. They are badass, really intelligent and can fuck you up. Some of them (can't remember which kind; too lazy to look it up) even show signs of grieving for other dead octopus. Or what someone interpreted as grief when observing how they will protect the dead. Yep, I'm going to say some octopi are more evolved than you.

I say "you", but it should be obvious by now that when I do that, I'm probably channeling someone or speaking really broadly. In this case it is both.

Slut of the Town

So I'm sitting in the soc/anth/women's studies lounge as I do most days... working on a take home exam, doing some readings and just generally being happy to be away from my apartment for a few hours. This place is a home to me; there are a lot of days when my entire day is spent here, meals and all. I like it because it's quiet enough to get work done, but I don't feel completely isolated because there are usually people floating in and out all day. Today there is a group of girls that I don't know or recognize. They don't know I'm writing about them as they sit 10 feet away from me. Times like this, I identify with Harriet the Spy... I'm in the world, but not of it. Quietly watching, taking down interesting bits of conversation and thinking about the state of humanity.
At least one of them is writing a paper about abortion for a philosophy class. (I recognized the topic as being from a second year course which is a lot harder than I thought it would be.) It's hard to weave in personal opinions and hardcore values to this course and do well. One of their arguments astounded me. They believed abortion was fine under the circumstances of rape, abuse and if the woman had been using protection. Only if she'd been using protection. If she had been using protection. Oh dear. Where to begin?
-why is it only the woman's responsibility? I believe there was a male there, too if an abortion is required.
-How the hell are you going to prove that she was or wasn't using protection?
-why does it matter? Get the fuck out of her bedroom.
-they said it wouldn't be ok to have an abortion if she'd been "the town slut". Again, shut up and get the fuck out of her bedroom. Why does the number of sexual partners matter when it comes to abortion? The results are the same...an unwanted embryo.
-I'd think that someone with such a conservative stance on abortion would say the slutty mother doesn't deserve to have that embryo in her. That there is no possible way that kid could be raised properly... that people who have multiple partners shouldn't by any means raise children.
ok, enough people watching. I'd have loved to jumped into that conversation full force, but it would have been rude (whereas posting it online is clearly not) and I wouldn't have heard the entire thing.

I'm still alive. (Not that anyone cares.*)

I'm procrastinating again. It's the end of semester and I don't want to leave this lovely province. This happens every year. I cling to the papers on my desk and the pen in my hand in an attempt to prolong the inevitable: going home. I stay until they kick me out and return home, kicking and screaming. Sometimes I feel guilty about my reluctance to leave home and start a job I hate. Guilty because I know I should be greatful for the opportunity to have a job and make enough money to pay off a fraction of my tuition. Guilty because I hate it so much for the 4 months I'm there. It's not even that I hate working... it's an ok job, but I miss school and reading and writing and class like it's never going to happen again. I get physically homesick for school. It's where I belong. If it were possible, I'd just extend my student status until the end of time...minus the debt.

Completely off-topic, but it occured to me that I never even really got started on the sex education series where I looked at different materials for children. Summer project? Ok sweet. And after I finish my paper on the social/historical construction of menstrual/"feminine hygiene" products for pop-culture class, I'll post that, too.
*Big Bang Theory reference.

Oh Shit, this still exists

Hello world. I've been ignoring you. It's not you, it's me. Trust me. We'll be parted soon enough.
So this blog... rumour has it that it's going to have a mark slapped on it sometime soon, and I'm kind of praying (to whom, I don't really know) for mercy on this one. (Regarding my last post- university grades are worth praying for.)I feel like there should be some sort of conclusion to it, even though I tell myself that I'm going to keep writing it just as a project to do. And there really is no conclusive paragraph for something this random. So I share with you a theory.
Some people (and really, I don't know names) say that sexuality, sex and porn are not actions or identities we live with. Rather they are just particular ways of looking at something, someone or an action. Does that make it entirely in the eye of the beholder? Can something become porn or sexual as soon as someone gets turned on by it? Like, do the BOGO commercials for Payless Shoes become a threesome for someone with a foot fetish (presuming they are aroused by the ad)? For someone who is completely turned off by or has no reaction to "mainstream" porn, is it still porn? Does porn just have to be something you find arousing? Can we just call whatever we find arousing (be it sexually, intellectually, emotionally, or whatever) porn? Everyone has their own Disneyland. Why can't everyone have their own pornland if they want one? This isn't really making sense... so one would think I'd research some shit before posting this. But I'm not...maybe after I finish Jenkins and Bruhm & Hurley.

PS This is my Disneyland.