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The elephant is that a lot of newsrooms are full of, or run by, anti-intellectual bullies who think they’re the smartest people on the planet. People who don’t know what they don’t know don’t respect the intelligence of their sources or their audience, and stuff like this happens:


Oy gevalt. Via Twitter user @ablaze.

Of course, I don’t actually believe traditional media deserves everything it’s getting. This isn’t just the newsroom nerd rubbing her hands together at the fate everyone who ever said, “Those protesters have no idea what they’re talking about” (which always meant “I have no idea what those protesters are talking about, and I’m not going to bother to look into it”) or attached a deceptive, moronic headline to a complicated story. Downsizing — which had been going on, steadily, in newsrooms for decades before Craigslist purportedly ruined everything — doesn’t create a culture where journalists have the time and the support to get really good at their jobs. I’m not sure what will, though there are some awesome organizations out there doing really cool projects and earnest efforts to change media business models so they work — spaces that deserve more attention than they are getting. (Yes, you may have noticed that I am here bitching about a dumb headline, and not posting about cool, in-depth reporting projects. Hello everybody! My name is Christen, and I am part of the problem.)

I’ve been thinking about this stuff a lot this past week, because of the Supreme Court decision regarding the Affordable Care Act. (Speaking of, here is the obligatory: SERIOUSLY, CNN. AND FOX.) I write about various implications of the ACA all the time, but I realized — looking around at Facebook and Twitter — that I have no idea what people don’t know about health care reform in this country.

I’m not talking about aggressively uninformed folks who showed up to Town Halls with misspelled signs, or people who operate with their own facts, or at least pretend to. I’m pretty well resigned to never being able to reach certain people; for instance, 2012 me just gives rude teenagers the Mom look and goes back to reading, rather than fret about a missed teachable moment. I’m talking about people I know who are fairly intelligent, well-informed and reasonable (regardless of political affiliation), who didn’t know about subsidies for low-income folks, or about the end of discrimination for pre-existing conditions. I write for a nichier, wonkier audience than most of my friends belong to; still, the non-nichey, non-wonky, but still educable people out there have got the short shrift of a fractured, superficial media landscape and a wonkier one they aren’t trying to find (sometimes also using cynicism as a justification for ignorance) and that isn’t really trying to find them.

Every year on the Fourth I re-read the Declaration of Independence — aloud, if I have an audience. To me, it’s a sobering reminder that democracy isn’t inevitable, isn’t static and wasn’t ever perfect. It’s something we have to keep doing and getting better at.


I’ve written about it before: the itch to tell somebody something — usually something small, something that would only mean anything to the two of you — that runs deeper than the knowledge that that person is no longer there to tell.
It’s a little weirder when your reflexes evolve. I had a fleeting urge to send my mother a link to this essay, which references a movie that was on HBO again and again when I was going through puberty, busy getting ditched by my friends and leaning on my mother for companionship. Which the characters in the movie sort of were, too.
Mom liked movies full of pleasant spaces that ended happily, and I like movies full of funny, mean people. Nora Ephron’s movies usually met both our criteria. (I recently picked up a cheap copy of Heartburn — Ephron’s first novel — and rather delightedly discovered that not only were some of its best lines recycled in When Harry Met Sally, the narrator was so much angrier than any of Ephron’s on-screen alter egos.) If my mother is anywhere, she’s probably talking Ephron’s ear off right now about how Heartburn — the movie — inspired her to make key lime pie for the first time, or how You’ve Got Mail stayed on as background noise while she wrote her master’s thesis.


As wives are wont to do, mine announced one evening in 1992 that we were going to a movie.

The movie was This Is My Life, the writer and first-time director was Nora Ephron, and within the hour, there we were in the cinema watching the opening credits of a middle-aged-chick flick about a woman (played by the wonderful Julie Kavner) who becomes a stand-up comic, moves to Manhattan from one of the not-Manhattan boroughs and sort of neglects her kids in the process but actually makes everyone’s life better in the long run. Though that movie would be considered only a middling success, it was inexpensive to make, had wonderful, real performances, looked great (though Nora said to me years later, “Why didn’t I move the camera?”) and made some money.

I thought it was much more, an ideal debut film that sparkled with bits of genius…

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“I am a huge fan of diy; I make my own bread, yoghurt, and soft cheeses, for example. I make pasta from scratch. I like making my own food and I adore chances to experiment and play around with recipes and ingredients. I am also under no illusion about the costs of these things, the investment of time, space, and energy required to make them happen. For me it’s easy because of my lifestyle; for someone else, it is not easy. Pretending like it is does a service to absolutely no one.

“There’s a certain sense of smugness in the diy community that becomes rapidly irksome when exposed to it for any length of time, a sort of one-upmanship that seems to consume people as they attempt to prove that they are the best at it. At the same time, they want to tell everyone that it’s effortless and easy and requires no special skills or investment on the part of participants, shaming people who don’t or can’t engage in diy. The message is clear: you will never be good enough because someone will always be better than you, but at the same time, you should keep trying, because it’s so easy.”

– s.e. smith, today at This Ain’t Livin’

Mason-Dixon knitting, ball-band dishcloth, handmade wedding gifts

This dish cloth was part of a wedding present. Making it from scratch sort of saved me money. Sort of.

When I started this blog, I thought I would write a lot about DIY, and created some categories to that effect. I DIY a lot: I knit, crochet, embroider, sew clothes (well, I can, but I haven’t done anything but mend for years), eat at home more often than I go out, and in either setting prefer food cooked from scratch over pre-packaged foods. I haven’t baked my own bread since I’ve lived in Portland (something about living with people who are just better at it than I am). And most of the people I surround myself with are like-minded also insane, many far more so than myself. My household is equipped with a jerry-rigged sous-vide cooker and my housemates and friends do stuff like make their own kimchi, bitters, cast-iron pizza and ridiculously high-concept cookies.

Some of the stuff I make, I make out of necessity, or at least frugality. Cooking from scratch is usually cheaper — at least in the long term — than heating up packaged foods or going out; cutting and re-sewing a dress I’ve owned since high school (I love the fabric, but the cut no longer suits my taste) means getting, for all intents and purposes, A Pretty New Party Dress just for the price of a spool of thread (and maybe some buttons or a new zipper). I like making presents for people as well. It’s not truly economical if I take my time into consideration, and sometimes supplies alone are more expensive than buying a comparable object in a store (in that case, the object is always to make it so much better, or at least prettier or cooler — an object I don’t always achieve, but hey).

That’s really only part of the point, though. I like having something to do with my hands while I watch TV (I inherited this from my mother, who multi-tasked pretty much compulsively) and I just think food made from scratch tastes better.

Anyway, I’m pretty guilty of, “It’s just so EASY to…” about DIY: make your own pasta sauce rather than use the bottled kind!, whip up a cute winter beanie rather than buy your brother a Christmas present!, bake your own bread!, or “Why would you buy ___ when you can just make it?” pretty much since I started making stuff. (That was also when my mother was around to say, “Yeah, you could make something just like that yourself for less than the sticker cost, but will you?” Something I still keep in mind when this stuff starts coming out of my mouth. If I ever made an actual list of Projects I Intend To Do Really Soon, you would know why, but I’m pretty sure this advice applies to people who aren’t necessarily as ambitious or procrastination-happy as I.) If you DIY a lot, it ends up translating to: who even does that?

Which is pretty obnoxious, as rhetorical questions go (and rhetorical questions are usually obnoxious). And it’s not just because the answer is usually, “People with less privilege (or a different background/life experience) than you.” It’s also that sometimes, people just don’t give a flying fuck, and that’s OK.

I mean: DIY has always walked this line between something you do out of earnest necessity (everyone needs to eat, and you might as well do it from scratch!) and something you do because it’s creative and cool and maybe a little over-the-top (I can grow my own saffron, bitches!).But there is also this element not just of privilege but of taste performance, and with that comes this long list of things “no one” actually does or likes that is sometimes even leveled in discussions of DIY projects. Years ago, I was telling someone about drying basil in the food dehydrator at the end of the summer, and they responded, “Who uses dried basil?” I didn’t get clarification on this, but I assume either “everyone” lives in a place where 1) basil plants don’t die in the winter (I have never lived in such a place); 2) you can get fresh basil in grocery stores year-round (I didn’t grow up in such a place, though I live in one now); 3) knows the more “authentic” method of basil preservation is to make pesto and, I guess, can or freeze it.

Anyway, I wasn’t any of those people. The answer to “Who does that?”, in that case, was — not for the first time — me. Because, I guessed, I just didn’t know any better then, though I learned later.

Only in the last few years have I started to consider the absurdity of the whole idea of anyone knowing better when it comes to something so unbelievably trivial. I mean: pointing out that plenty of people don’t have the privilege to DIY or care about whether your basil is fresh from your garden or comes in little frozen cubes from Trader Joe’s, or a plastic shaker from the dollar store, it’s valid. But you know, even if people have the access or they “know better,” they might not feel like bothering at this particular moment or they might not care about what you care about, not enough to even buy into your definition of “better.”

And that’s OK.

Canned mushrooms are indefensibly sick, though. That’s just a fact.

Several years and a few blogs ago, I wrote a rambly ranty post about Lunch in Brooklyn, a book I’d been waiting to read since I was 12.

It was excerpted in Sassy over the course of three issues. It was episodic — with little chapterettes, usually just a couple of paragraphs long — and funny titles, like “Hail Mary, Full of Grace, Get This Kid a Newborn Face.” I was the same age as the characters and like the main character, Kate, I was drifting away from my friends and struggling in school (we got actual grades, unlike the kids in the Quaker school Kate attended) and nursed a series of private, tempestuous crushes, like Kate’s on Harry, except because it was a book, it was reciprocal and it was delicious.

Then Sassy died and I went to high school and figured eventually, Lunch in Brooklyn would turn up on the shelves. But it didn’t. I Googled it and its author, Rebecca Moore, periodically, to no effect. Then I wrote about it. The blog post attracted a few comments to the effect of, “Hey, I have been wanting to read that forever, too!” and Marjorie Ingall saying, “People write me asking about Rebecca Moore all the time, and I wish I knew.”

And then Rebecca Googled herself and found me, and the rest of the story is more or less here. I guess if there’s a moral in this, it’s that if someone has made something that meant something to you, for the love of God, say so. Also, that the Internet is awesome.

The second moral, obviously, is that you should buy the book, because you can now. The loopy, episodic rhythm doesn’t quite play out the same in long form — there’s less dramatic tension and more a series of funny, poignant vignettes. The characters fall in and out of step with each other over the course of a year; it’s maybe more like a deeply engrossing and well-written TV show than a movie with one clear dramatic arc.

Read it.

I’ll leave you with an excerpt:

Harry: he is like a chute I could suddenly fall down.Some days I think I might love him. His dark brown hair swings when he walks. Coming down the hall, his eyes go down, left or right. He moves like he’s playing basketball, looking for a space to break out.

“Lately, in Mr. Carmen’s class, I am scared to read Harry my assignments. What if I don’t meet some standard he’s got? Harry and I have always implied to each other that we are both outsiders, only all of a sudden I am feeling like I am the wrong

kind of outcast. With him, it’s like he made a choice to be excluded, but with me, I never know where to be. I could tell him my friends are not really my friends. My friends don’t even know me. But he might say, So why do you hang out with them?”

Today’s Post-Intelligencer features a short post about Cecil Andrus, who visited Washington state recently — and who governed my home state for most of my childhood. By the time I was old enough to vote — just four years after Andrus left office — the idea of Idaho electing a Democratic governor was absurd, almost surreal. As far as I can tell — from my elitist, bike-riding catbird seat — that is still largely the case.

The piece is largely complimentary, but also nostalgic for the party’s imagined heyday: “Andrus is what the ‘D Team’ used to look like in days when Democrats represented guys (and some girls) at the workplace and stood for education, family-supporting jobs and conservation,” the writer of the piece, Joel Connelly, gushes. The emphasis is mine, because isn’t that parenthetical a little odd? I mean, women, especially blue-collar women, have always worked; Idaho was the fourth state in the nation to grant women the right to vote; women voters favor Democrats by a much wider margin than men.

But, you know, whatever. Everybody slips up from time to time, including writers whose commentary skews progressive. Connelly continues in the “in the good old days, all Democrats cared about was fair wages and the environment” vein, a position I have taken myself. I’m glad union membership has increased — however slightly — in the last couple of years. I’m glad we’re talking about taxing the rich again. That birth control is even an issue this election cycle makes my stomach churn.

But then Connelly goes on to say:

“Our state’s Democrats seem preoccupied with social issues and talk ceaselessly about birth control, same-sex marriage, legalizing marijuana and the right of women to terminate their pregnancies.

“Andrus took an opposite tack, stressing Inslee’s independence and willingness to buck the majority in his House votes against bank deregulation and the resolution authorizing the Iraq War.

“Inslee, too, was sounding like a lunch bucket Democrat with talk of hooking up Washington to the new energy economy, and “chowder heads in the Legislature” who once tried to cut money to rural schools.”

“‘Didn’t last. Soon, Inslee was back referring to “access to contraceptives” and the right to choose.”

These gosh darned Washington Dems and their gosh darned fringe social issues, basically! Why can’t they just stick to fair wages and creating wilderness areas like we did in the ’70s? Could we stop pandering to the pot-smokers and the gay-marriers and the birth controllers ALREADY? Is it so hard?

(Never mind that environmental issues — and funding for education — have been considered fair game in the culture war for some time now, at least in the inland Northwest.)

The answer is, in part, that it’s not the ’70s. The world got more complicated, the big tent got bigger and let more people in, and some of the people who’d always been there started talking about stuff that wasn’t on the table before. Also, the Idaho Dems — and Andrus in particular — had a lot of support from loggers’ unions and unions in general. National policy killed the unions and a combination of dwindling resources and NAFTA killed the timber industry. The voting base left, or did other things, and turned on AM radio.

But also: anybody who thinks “access to contraceptives” and “the right to choose” are not economic justice issues is either trolling or willfully ignorant or both. A copper IUD installed using Title X funding costs about a grand, all told — a fraction of the cost of educating a kid in public school for just one year. People who care about family-wage jobs — including those who don’t happen to have ever held one, including many women — care about contraception and abortion, too.

“Some girls” aren’t the only folks with a vested interest in improved access to contraceptives, either. Never mind, either, that Democrats are not the only ones who need or use birth control. Loretta Lynn’s only political contributions have been to Republican politicians and generally right-leaning groups; maybe because she had four kids before she became legal, she seems to get it just fine.

This piece in yesterday’s New York Times — about New York disabilities lawyers who find ADA violations, then find plaintiffs — is both fascinating and, to my view, completely backwards in its framing.

The writer notes that the plaintiffs, after responding to inquiries about suits, collect a small settlement, and then states the crux of the issue as he sees it:

“The practice has set off a debate about whether the lawsuits are a laudable effort, because they force businesses to make physical improvements to comply with the disabilities act, or simply a form of ambulance-chasing, with no one actually having been injured.” (emphasis mine)

The article includes one quote from a person with a disability, a plaintiff who admits she hasn’t actually patronized any of the businesses she sued since they modified their spaces to become ADA-compliant.

Now, the fact that the writer only includes one quote from a person with a disability isn’t necessarily the writer’s fault. People with disabilities make up the largest minority on earth, and as such are a pretty diverse bunch, with a wide array of attitudes and experiences. But like other marginalized groups, they tend to be tokenized and their voices drowned out by “experts.” I wouldn’t be surprised if Secret interviewed more than one disabled person for the story, and if the interview went a little deeper and broader. The quote he used is most relevant to this story, as it’s framed — but that, to me, is the problem.

It’s not just that Secret doesn’t explore very deeply the plaintiffs’ reasons for signing on to the lawsuit. He notes they make about $500 per lawsuit: note that the average person on SSDI collects $1,064 per month, so $500 is a lot of money to a disabled person who is not able to work. The median income of disabled workers is about half what it is for nondisabled workers. I don’t doubt that most of these plaintiffs were at least partially motivated by money; I have reason to believe most of them needed it. It’s not weird or inappropriate to suspect the motives of attorneys who seek them out, or to note (as Secret does) that the attorneys make several thousand dollars per case.

But then there is that business about nobody being hurt by a lack of accessible businesses. And then there is this:

“Suit by suit, the lawyers are forcing this tough and intensely pedestrian city, so resistant to change, to meet standards for accessibility that are more than 20 years old. In doing so, they are part of a nationwide trend: In the last year, 3,000 similar suits, including more than 300 in New York, were brought under the Americans With Disabilities Act, more than double the number five years ago. Most of the cases involve claims against businesses filed by nonemployees.”

Right now I’m on leave from a job caring for people with disabilities, almost all of them in wheelchairs (many requiring larger-than average chairs). It’s a job I can’t do right now because I hurt my left foot riding my bike, so my own mobility has been limited for the last two months, and as I’ve noted previously, my partner uses a prosthetic leg to walk, all of which add up to accessibility being something I think about more or less as a matter of course.

My caregiving job emphasized community integration, so I took people on lots of walks and transit outings in different neighborhoods in the Portland area. When that’s the crux of your work, you learn pretty quickly which sidewalks are passable and which are just slightly overgrown with hedges; you learn which sidewalks have appropriate curb cuts and which sections of the neighborhood are better traversed right on the street. You learn whose wheelchair will fit on the bus and whose won’t.

And you learn which businesses are accessible and which are not. Obviously, you avoid the latter. Planning dates — and these days, planning my own forays into the community — requires a similar, but different, set of calculations about what’s accessible and what isn’t.

What I’m getting at is that if you write that no one is being hurt by a lack of accessibility, you’re right, but only because the ambulance chaser analogy and framing is fundamentally flawed. That people with disabilities are in many cases more likely to accept segregation than to seek out — and attempt to access — businesses they know aren’t going to be accessible for them doesn’t surprise me. Nor does it surprise me that some plaintiffs have shown little interest in accessing businesses named in the claims their names were attached to. Most of us — able-bodied or not — only visit places we can get to, and where we’ll feel comfortable, and avoid places that don’t fit that category for so long they just drop off our internal map and out of our routine.

So what’s a better way to cover issues that affect people with disabilities, or other marginalized groups? Here are some things I think work. Do I do all of these things all of the time? No. There isn’t always time and there isn’t always room for the extra research in a final story, and these are guidelines, not firm rules. But here they are:

  • Ask the people affected, not just the experts. I want to know why the plaintiffs in these suits signed on to them (maybe it is about money and maybe it isn’t). I want to know how accessible they think their home cities are. I want to know what they think about the ADA. People who haven’t identified themselves as experts or leaders for a cause can be tougher to reach and some are reticent to talk, but many are not and everyone is an authority on his or her own life. I also notice the story quotes none of the business owners named in these claims or investigate how smaller businesses, on the whole, have been affected by ADA. (EDIT: rereading the story just now, I notice there is a quote from an attorney who’s defended several such businesses. Not really the same thing.)
  • Ask: what stereotypes am I reinforcing? What common narrative does this story fit? It’s not necessarily a bad thing if your story fits a common narrative. It’s important to know what it is, though. “Insurance companies usually cover x, but the research recommends y” is a story I write a lot. “Frivolous lawsuit” is a narrative that’s sometimes valid, but still deserves a side-eye, if you ask me. Also, the assumptions Secret and I have both made — that the lawyers in his story are exploiting disabled people — reinforce the stereotype that people with disabilities have no autonomy. That’s another reason it’s important to include their voices.
  • When you’re pointing out a problem, ask: what are the alternatives? How will this affect the big picture? One of the reasons I dislike the “frivolous lawsuit” narrative is that it doesn’t ask, Why lawsuits? Why not something else? Maybe there are ways to make small businesses accessible that function as more of a carrot (like grants or loans to improve their structures) than the stick of legal claims. If not, why not? What’s been tried? If ADA is fundamentally flawed (for instance, by emphasizing legal claims, or minimizing the reward a claimant can make while their representatives clean up), what else is there? If we want a more accessible world, how do we build it?

So a bit back Jessica shared a picture of this dry cleaning place in my city on Google+, with the comment, “It is also an act of kindness to take a picture like this.”

I saw a similar picture a year or two ago my friend Mark’s Facebook page, with the comment, “Signs of the times.” I read it as resigned gallows humor. I read it as a rather smart marketing strategy: yeah, we’re in a recession, in one of the worst job markets in the country. People don’t need things like dry cleaning. Until they do. They get the job, they stick with you for life; they tell their friends. It seemed a little desperate; it seemed like good business acumen. The sort of thing my Depression survivor grandfathers would have nodded their heads at appreciatively.

Yesterday I bought a short-term bus pass. In Portland you can buy about a million different looking things that will get you on a bus or train or streetcar. I don’t envy that the bus driver’s job is to learn to differentiate between these kinds of things to know if you have paid the proper fare to be on the thing you are on that day, on top of driving around a giant thing around in a way that doesn’t kill any passengers or errant cyclists.

There are two kinds of short term bus passes. One looks like a lottery scratch ticket — you scratch off your authorized days. The other looks exactly like a daily ticket.

Passes, you show to the driver. Tickets, you put into the feeder as you board.

Yesterday, I bought one of the kind of passes that look just like daily tickets.

Today, leaving work, I searched frantically for my pass and realized that I had. Oh shit. Jesus. Fed. My. Two-week bus pass to the ticket reader. On my way to work. That. Day. Oh shit. Oh Jesus.

It was OK. There have been times in my life when a stupid decision like this would have cost me dearly, the long walk home plus the overdraft fee for the transaction. But it was OK. The bus had just shown up and I was just annoyed that I was going to have to cross the street to the convenience store to get proper change. Fine.

A guy deboarded and saw me frantically patting myself down. He gave me his transfer.

After I got on the bus another guy saw that I was still searching every pocket in hopes I hadn’t flushed $40 down the toilet, frantic. He handed me his transfer, which by then I didn’t need.

It can be hard to explain why I don’t leave Portland when living here has not always worked well for me. The thing is I can take this sort of kindness for granted. I can put a vicious cynical spin on it.

I have that luxury.

And that’s why.

(The title of this post was taken from Aaron Cometbus’ short story, “Portland,” which is no closer to approximating the Portland I live in than the television show about Portland, but I like it better, because I started out as a bad mood myself, and I hate birds.)

A tale of two trainwrecks

I’ve been following this story — about a guy who was walking around Portland stoned and lost his leg to a train — pretty closely. Partly because I just think this sort of thing is awesome, but also because the fact that I think this sort of thing is awesome led to a correspondence with a guy on OkCupid last fall who mentioned in his profile that he’d recently lost his foot (and who was really, really cute). That correspondence led to having hot chocolate together (somewhat awkwardly, as he didn’t yet have his prosthetic) and that led to more hanging out, which led to my getting involved in a relationship with this gentleman. Canny readers (that is, the two of you who are not my boyfriend) might be tempted to speculate this is why I’m not here writing about my cats and bursting into tears at Dari-Mart all the time, but you can pretty much all go to hell.

My first question to my now-beau, because I’m super classy: OK, what the hell happened to your leg?

Turns out he was walking home from a friend’s CD release party, decided to take a detour on the railroad tracks, and he, too, had a disagreement with a train. THEY EVEN LOST THE EXACT SAME LEG. Yet his accident was not covered by every media outlet in town just about, plus Gawker! There wasn’t even a press release.

As A Journalist and a one-time PR hack, I’m always trying to figure out what drives particular stories. Why is one incident hot news and another, very similar, incident, not news? Sometimes the answers are easy: a little white girl gets taken out of her home by a stranger and the cable news networks can’t talk about anything else for an entire summer. A little black girl experiences a similar horror, and the media are like, whatever. Not to mention the tens of thousands of children who are abducted by family members every year (as opposed to the hundred or so stranger abductions). Is it that the rarity of these events makes them newsworthy, or that we’re more comfortable with an unknown enemy than a known one? I don’t have children, and this may be a good thing, because I can’t imagine having to impart the reality of violence on them: “Stranger Danger? Yeah, I…guess. There are some real jerks out there. But most people aren’t that interested in messing with kids they don’t know. It’s the people you already know and trust who are most likely to do horrible things to you. Statistically speaking. So keep an eye out for us. Kool-Aid?”

Because it’s been several years since I’ve been a thorn in the side of a cop tasked with distributing public information, and that used to be one of my favorite things to do, I decided to e-mail the cop whose name was listed on the press release and ask him what gives. I disclosed that I am a freelance reporter and some of the details of my gentleman friend’s accident (I didn’t call him my gentleman friend in the e-mail), but tried to emphasize that I was really just curious. It’s not like I think this represents some sort of blight and neglect on the part of the Portland Police Bureau or the local media. (I did ask my rather fair-skinned friend if he had actually lost his leg to black-on-violence and just made the train thing up to sound cool.) The PIO wrote back, “I don’t know why there wasn’t a press release about your friend’s accident.”

That made me think about getting back into PR, because I could definitely write e-mails saying, “I don’t know!” all day for the right amount of money.

(I jest. It was actually pretty nice of the guy to indulge what must have seemed to him to be a pretty weird e-mail.)

In this case, I’m not sure the discrepancy is so obvious, and I’m too close to the situation to trust my own judgment anyway. One answer is that the kid had just come back from a RAINBOW GATHERING (which got a ton of local media coverage for being a bit of a nightmare, and let’s face it, the Altamont narrative just never gets old) and was HIGH ON THE MARIJUANA and his CAT’S NAME IS GANJA (and she saw the accident, which must have been awful for her). Bryan, on the other hand, was walking home from an indie rock show and was drunk and his cat (who was not present) is named Analog. Perhaps “drunk hipster coming home from an indie rock show loses his leg to a train” IS pretty dog-bites-man, now that I think about it. BO-RING! Only Pitchfork commenters want to make fun of that shit.

Classes hadn’t started yet, I don’t think. We were all just moving into campus housing, barely settled. One afternoon we were getting ready for dinner and she came downstairs sobbing. A man who was obviously a relative was with her. He walked her out to the street and they left in a car.

I never saw her cry again after that. We made friends with different people and I didn’t get to know her well.

Many months later, amid a conversation about her and how Okay she seemed, someone said, “She and her father must not have been very close.”

From another conversation about the same person: “She needs to…let it out already.”

“A violated woman is expected to fall apart, and not just privately, either; she must disintegrate publicly, in front of friends, in front of professionals, in front of Starbucks. It satiates our craving for arena-style pathos. We want to cheer our gladiators for bravery while they hack themselves to bits in the ring. If a woman chooses not to play, but to find her own private way back, we say she’s ‘in denial.’ If we don’t see her fragment, we say that she’s not ‘dealing with it.'”
Vanessa Veselka, “The Collapsible Woman”

I’ve thought many times about the woman I talk about above and how to write about her, even though I knew her very slightly and more than 10 years ago, even though I can’t imagine the pain and rage she would feel at discovering that not only had people gossiped about something as private as her grief, but to see that I’m gossiping about it myself, and about their gossip, to my very tiny public. And while those conversations struck me as strange even at the time, and in memory seem almost unutterably cruel, I have to remember that they were had by young women, college students, unlikely themselves to have experienced any major loss. The only thing more surreal than staring at a box and realizing it contains the body (embalmed or burned) of someone who stroked your hair when you couldn’t sleep at night, is going home and realizing that there are still boxes to unpack, still tests to take, still deadlines to honor.

Places I have broken down weeping: my desk at work. The bathroom at work. My boyfriend’s couch. The Pied Cow. The sidewalk in front of the Starbucks.

I am the woman who ended a relationship, lost a job and compromised most of her close friendships and family ties in the throes of grief. I am the woman who went days at a time without changing into normal clothes or eating regular meals. I am the woman who fell apart.

Veselka, in the essay I quote above, is writing about how women in our culture are expected to react to sexual assault. She also writes:

“If you have been raped or abused, you’re scarred for life. You will never be as you were before the experience. This is also true for falling in love, getting your heart broken, going to war, having a child, or reading a great book. Everything that cuts deeply marks us. We’re all scarred for life the second that we intimately relate to the outside world. With rape, the difference is in the nature of the wound.”

As one who fell apart, I have wondered how people talk about my grief (um, and this isn’t an invitation to tell me). Now that I’m starting to feel a little more like a person I recognize, and I’m working again, and the work is in social services, I am now able identify my 2008 self as at risk for poor coping. Meaning the timing was really, really bad. Meaning it might not have been inevitable that something nearly everybody goes through tear me apart. Meaning the losses and miseries I am bound to experience in the future won’t necessarily take a chainsaw to the entire rest of my life.

I do know what people said to my face, the only one of which I’ll share with the present audience is a man’s surprise (expressed months after ending a fling with me) that I would have been interested in sex At Such a Time. The general trend of many conversations I had in the months after Mom died was that any time someone starts a sentence with, “There’s no wrong way to grieve,” the last half of the sentence is going to be, “except the way you’re doing it.” The therapist I saw briefly was fond of that platitude, adding the seemingly incongruous observation that I hadn’t really grieved the friend I lost in high school, because I didn’t know how.

I feel pretty safe saying, anyway, that rape survivors aren’t the only women whose emotional lives are public property. I feel safe saying that a single, visible breakdown followed by months of public stoicism is just as much Doing It Wrong as spiraling as far out of control as possible without dying oneself. I suspect the more accurate platitude is that there is no right way to grieve, and I don’t mean this even remotely in an “I’m OK – You’re OK” kind of way. I mean that if the universe has just sucker-punched you in some way, prepare for the assumption that whatever grief is, you’re not doing it.

I decided to blog every day for the rest of the month of June. Tomorrow I’m going to post a small and cheerful story about irises. Apparently tonight it was necessary to remind myself why I still find it necessary to be so unpleasant at times. And right out in front of everybody like this, especially now that most of my days are pleasant and I’m no longer living in a way that I’m completely ashamed of. Now that I’m no longer walking around wondering how anybody really manages to do anything, because it’s not even remotely true that I’ve suffered more than most people. Yesterday I saw a woman on the bus ever so discreetly wiping tears from her face, quite possibly looking at the rest of us wondering how on earth we manage to do anything without falling the fuck apart. If you’re that person, know that someday you actually will be all right, without having to pretend that it is or dramatize how much it isn’t.

which of the two I should find funnier:

Peanuts with the last panel removed
, or

Standalone Peanuts images with random quotations from Twitter inserted.

Both were brought to my attention tonight (though I was aware abstractly of the former). The latter is, to my understanding, newer. As we all know, the Internet regresses to the new. (Actually I’m pretty sure there is no possible class of “we all” that knows or believes that, since it makes no goddamn sense. I just really want to lead a seminar called “regressing to the new” at the next SXSWi.) Anyway, Peanutweeter has more Your Mom jokes right now.