When I receive comments like this either on this blog, on my Tumblr, on Facebook, or in person, I kind of want to shoot myself in the face.
“Yeah well, I’m [insert group name here] and this doesn’t apply to me.”
I will personally give you $20 if you can find a post on this blog claiming that all x are y. When you’re writing about culture and social science, as I do, a certain amount of generalization is necessary to be able to make a point. I’ve decided not to insult my readers’ intelligence by littering my blog posts with inane truisms like “but of course there is an exception to every rule” and “this may not apply to every individual but” and so on. Apparently, though, people don’t understand this, so I probably need to add a “generalization warning” to the two warnings that I already have.
“That’s just your opinion.”
Gee, brilliant observation, Einstein. This is my blog! Of course it’s just my opinion! I will gladly pay up another $20 if you find a post in which I claim to be the supreme authority on some subject or other.
“Don’t be so judgmental.”
Or what? I’ll be a Bad Person? I never claimed to be a perfect saintly individual who doesn’t judge people. Most people judge people. Granted, most people do not have a blog, so perhaps that’s what sets me apart. In which case, go ahead and state the problem as it really is–I’m a woman, I’m sharing my opinions, and my opinions aren’t always Nice and Kind and Loving. Oh noes!
“Check your privilege.” (and variations thereof)
I’ve already written about this so much that I hardly have anything to add and will simply direct you to this, this, and this.
“I like you better when you aren’t so angry.”
Yeah, and I like the world better when it doesn’t have any problems for me to get angry about. I also like YOU better when you don’t demand constant cheeriness from me. What can I say, we all have our likes and dislikes!
I’m sorry, you must’ve gotten lost on the way to your junior high and accidentally ended up on my blog. You should probably get going now.
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Since most of the people who read this probably know me in person, I can probably assume that you, my reader, know how I look. Specifically, you may have noticed that I’m curvy.
And when I say curvy, I’m not using that as a euphemism for “fat,” because that’s not what I am. I’m curvy. Specifically, I have fairly large boobs and a rather large giant ass.
Despite our society’s idolization of hourglass-shaped women such as Marilyn Monroe and Kim Kardashian (neither of whom I am attempting to compare myself to except where waist-to-hip ratio is concerned), this is not a body type that the American fashion industry tends to keep in mind. According to the clothes you find in virtually any store, be it a Walmart or a Prada, American women come in one shape only–a stick. Sometimes it’s a very thin stick and sometimes it’s a very fat stick, but it’s still a stick.
Jeans, the staple of casual style, are unfortunately no exception. Here’s what happens when you have a big ass and you try to wear jeans. First of all, any size that actually fits around your ass and zips all the way up will generally be way too long for you and much too loose around your actual waist. When you sit down, the back of the jeans rides down and everyone from London to France can see your underpants. Your thighs, if they’re nice and juicy like mine, will be constricted by the jeans and it’ll sometimes hurt to sit. Putting the jeans on and taking them off will be a Herculean effort. Usually, the jeans will be way too tight in general your body will literally spill out of them at the top.
Needless to say, I don’t like jeans very much, and most girls with my proportions don’t either. So if we want to wear jeans like everyone else does, we have two options:
Be really uncomfortable.
Starve ourselves, because that’s the only way to rid a curvy body of its curves.
Needless to say, neither of those options sound particularly appealing. So during the warmer months, we wear lots of skirts and dresses. But fall, winter, and spring pose a problem. Many girls, myself included, prefer to wear leggings because they’re comfortable and stretchy and fit our proportions. Unfortunately, however, many people seem to believe that leggings are “not pants.” Why? Because they’re form-fitting. This has apparently even inspired a Huffington Post article (which, then again, may not be saying much).
What this means is that if you want to wear leggings, you must always choose a top that’s long enough to cover your butt, because God forbid anyone be able to discern the outline of your behind–not that jeans hide it either. However, when you have a large ass, it’s pretty hard to find tops long enough to cover it up completely, meaning that this style is best suited for stick-women, too.
Well, what can I say. I apologize deeply for the fact that my body isn’t of the shape that this particular culture values, and I offer my condolences to anyone who has ever been offended by the sight of the outline of my ass when I wear leggings.
Actually, just kidding. I’m not fucking sorry! This sartorial snobbery is ridiculous. Here’s a quick guide to identifying whether or not something qualifies as clothing. Does it cover up all the body parts that need to be covered up? If yes, then–ding-ding-ding!–it’s clothing.
And if you’re one of these rabid “but but but leggings aren’t pants!” people, then I’d suggest that you issue yourself a stern reminder of the fact that not everyone’s willing to starve to gain the ability to dress themselves in the way you’d like them to.
Still not convinced? Well, find me a pair of jeans that will fit these T&A, and then we’ll talk. 😉
I read one of the advice columns in this month’s Cosmo. A woman was writing in and asking if it would be okay to wear a top that reveals her tan lines to work, provided the top was modest and work-appropriate. The response was, no, it wouldn’t. Why? Because you wouldn’t want your boss to think that you spend your free time lying around at the beach:
Even though the best of us can fall victim to zebra skin by accident, exposing your sun stripes at work would be flaunting your bad judgement (baking does lead to skin cancer, after all). Perhaps worse, as far as your boss is concerned, it suggests you spend lots of your free time being at one with your beach towel–not exactly impressive.
“Not exactly impressive?” What does that even mean? Apparently, you shouldn’t let your boss know that you actually have fun on your days off. Oh, heavens no! You ought to be at home, catching up on emails.
(As for the skin cancer thing, I’d just like to point out that even if you wear sunscreen, you’re eventually going to get a tan if you spent a lot of time outside. Trust me, my mom slathers my little brother and sister with sunscreen obsessively, yet at the end of the summer they still have those cute little freckles and tan lines.)
Naturally, I immediately thought back to an earlier post I wrote about why adults are always so miserable and try to make me as miserable as they are. Now I’m not surprised. Apparently, once you’re all grown up and have a job, you’re not even allowed to have a good time when you’re off work. No wonder adults are always in such a crappy mood, and no wonder they want to warn me that in a few years I’ll be in a crappy mood too.
What shocks me is that Cosmo isn’t exactly a serious, business-y magazine. It’s mostly read by people who like to enjoy themselves every now and then (or every day/night, as the case may be). If even Cosmo is saying that you can’t have fun once you’re a grown-up (or, at the very least, that you have to do it in secret), what’s the world coming to?
This doesn’t even make sense to me, because I would hope that my boss would want me to come to work refreshed and in a good mood. I would want him/her to know that I’m not going to be asking for time off to go see a therapist about how miserable I am because I never have fun.
(I’m hoping, perhaps in vain, that since I’m going into the mental healthcare field, things will be different for me. After all, if there’s anyone who knows that relaxing and having fun is absolutely necessary, it’s a therapist. In my opinion, therapists should be able to model healthy behavior for their clients. If a client casually asks me what I did over the weekend and I’m forced to either lie or confess that I spent the entire time huddling over my laptop in a corner, crying, and biting my nails off while my husband played with the kids, that’s not good.)
Where did we go wrong? Why is it that in other countries and cultures, it’s perfectly normal to take a nap after lunch before coming back to work? Why is it that the United States is the only country I could find that does not mandate a minimum amount of paid vacation time for all employees? Why is the United States one of the only developed countries that does not offer paid maternity leave (to say nothing of paternity leave)?
One thing that never fails to surprise me about American culture is how fixated it is on work. Russians, for instance, seem to view work mostly as a means to an end (money, security, providing for one’s family), whereas for Americans, it’s an end in itself. I rarely hear my parents talking about work when they’re home, and the only time I’ve seen them doing work-related things at home is when my dad starts maniacally writing some sort of equations on a napkin. My parents don’t have smartphones or tablets. If you send an email to their work address on Friday evening, you won’t receive a response till Monday. And yes, they go to the pool on weekends, and evenings, and any other time they fucking feel like it. That, in my opinion, is how it should be.
I apologize for the complete lack of posts lately; I’ve been busy volunteering and exploring New York City, where I am currently located. However, I’ve decided to crawl out of my Russian-food-and-thincrust-pizza-filled cave in order to comment upon this:
What are we looking at here? Silly-looking men holding cartons of milk? Not so simple. These are a series of new ads released by the Got Milk? advertising campaign. The ads showcase the fact that milk can supposedly help reduce symptoms of premenstrual syndrome (PMS) and feature men making pseudo-sarcastic statements that reference the fact that women are supposedly very moody while on their periods.
The ads point to a website, EverythingIDoIsWrong.com, which is a slick, sardonic guide for men to help placate their bitchy wives and girlfriends during that time of the month. The tagline of the site is, “Your home for PMS management.”
Here are some revealing screencaps from the site, helpfully annotated with my comments:
Attention, men! Because you are from Mars and women are from Venus, you need a special vocabulary to speak with them.
I find this one especially ironic given that women’s concern with their weight has much more to do with societal pressure to be thin than it does with PMS or with making their partners’ lives miserable.
Sorry, men, you’re just going to have to deal with the Evil Women in your life always blaming you for everything.
Because clearly, the only things women care about are gold, silver, and chocolate.
I’ve written about this peculiar menstruation-related misogyny before, except that in my previous post about it, it was being perpetuated by and for women. This ad campaign, on the other hand, targets specifically men and sets up a “yeah bro I know what you’re going through” vibe with its audience.
I won’t repeat what I said in the previous post with regards to the validity of this whole PMS = bitch business, but I will add that these ads rise to a new level of chutzpah, because they somehow manage to turn PMS into a men’s issue. How do they do this, you might ask? After all, it is women, not men, who must deal with the inconvenience of bleeding out of their private parts every month, getting cramps, and feeling fatigued and nauseous. Right?
Wrong! The crappy thing about periods, apparently, is how difficult they make life for men. I mean, duh.
Furthermore, if these fictional men’s concerns do actually contain a semblance of truth in them, maybe it’s time that we recognize the fact that menstruation isn’t to blame here. Rather, the culprits are bad communication skills and a general lack of ability to promote healthy relationships. After all, the relationships hinted at by the men in the ads are anything but functional. Maybe the cure isn’t milk, but a good couples’ therapist.
But of course, it’s much easier to chalk such issues up to women being Complex Demanding Creatures who will never be satisfied by anything their partners do for them, especially not when it’s That Time of Month.
Honestly, this may come as a surprise to you, but most intelligent women find themselves much more pissed off about crap like these ads than about being on their period (or about their partner not taking out the trash/putting the toilet seat down, as the case may be). After all, this is so reductionist. The message to women is, You are your hormones. The message to men is, Deal with her PMS and you’re home free. In the end, advertising campaigns stand to gain from portraying men and women in this way, because the less people understand what really causes conflict in relationships, the more they’ll attempt to buy Stuff to solve all the problems.
And no; just like diamonds, flowers, and chocolate, milk is no panacea.
[Well, now I have two entire posts tagged with “menstruation” on this blog. I’m proud. Also, if you happen to really miss my writing, here’s my short-form blog, which I update much more frequently.]
You would think that most people have this depression thing figured out by now. Almost everyone knows at least one person who has it. And by depression, I’m referring to major depressive disorder—not feeling sad, not having the blues, not going through a breakup or divorce, not losing your job, not having PMS. Major depressive disorder.
Anyway, apparently some people still aren’t clear on how to deal with a friend or family member who’s depressed, so I’ve written this list of things not to say to them. Seriously, please don’t say these things.
Why are you so miserable all the time? Would you like a detailed description of my brain chemistry? No? Then don’t ask this question. Also, quit it with that annoying mildly-offended tone. My emotions aren’t a personal attack on your values.
You know, I was depressed once, but I just pulled myself out of it. You know what, good for you. I’m truly happy that you were able to do that. But not everyone can, ok?
Stop being so sensitive. Lower your blood pressure! Now! Can’t do it? Wow, you’re so lazy, relying on doctors and medications to help you do something the rest of us can do ourselves.
But what could you possibly have to be depressed about? Depression isn’t “about” anything. It just is.
You’re just trying to make my life difficult. Actually, I’m just trying to get by and stop wanting to kill myself. Your life is quite honestly the last thing on my mind right now.
You just need to get a boyfriend/get out more/exercise/eat better/sleep more/take herbal pills/get laid/do art. Actually, yeah, tried all those. Let’s leave the medical advice to my doctor, shall we?
Why can’t you just go out and have fun with us? Because I get exhausted starting at 7 PM, because you and your friends bore me, because I don’t want to be asked why I’m not smiling all night, and because being depressed isn’t like going through a breakup–it can’t be solved by drinking or dancing or having sex with random people.
But you’re so young! Ahhh, this one always gets me. Suicide is the third leading cause of death for teenagers and college-age adults, right behind car accidents and homicide. So clearly I’m not exactly the first young person in the history of human society to be depressed.
You just need to learn how to control your emotions. Yes, that’s what therapy’s for. Thanks for the protip, though.
Why do you have to ruin everyone’s mood all the time? Because you’re letting your mood be ruined by the fact that someone in your vicinity has an illness. Also, if you’re so concerned about your mood, imagine what it’s like to live inside my mind 24/7.
Smile! Or else what? Will I fail to do my duty by Brightening Someone’s Day? Are you offended by my neutral facial expression?
Now, a disclaimer: this post was meant more for the purpose of humor (a sense of which I do, believe it or not, have) than anything else. So don’t get on my case for hating on healthy people. However, if someone you care about has depression, you might want to take my suggestions into account. Saying stuff like this only makes people with depression want to isolate themselves from you every more than they already do. Might earn you a dirty look, too.
So, now that you know what not to say to a depressed person, you might be wondering what you should say to a depressed person. Look out for a post regarding that.
Today is Dillo Day, a Northwestern tradition that dates to 1972. It’s a music festival that happens each year on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. We get to see several musicians, including some very well-known ones (B.o.B. this year) for free.
Of course, because Northwestern is a college, it is only natural that Dillo Day is more known for being a drunken shitshow than a music festival. The drinking often starts before noon (or even on Friday night) and continues till everyone is semi-conscious in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Actually enjoying the music is nearly impossible, unless you also happen to enjoy being hit on and groped, pushed and stepped on, and presented with some great views of people making out or having sex in public.
And now I’ll make a confession. I find drunkenness, and drunk people, disgusting. It’s not that I merely find drunk people annoying and inconvenient. I find them, and their lifestyle choices, repulsive. I don’t understand why the hell you would want to end your night getting intimate with a toilet bowl, or why you would want to be too far gone to even remember some of the supposed “best” days of your life.
My issue isn’t so much with the alcohol itself, though my relationship with alcohol has always been sort of hard to explain. My parents are social drinkers; they can hold their alcohol well and rarely get drunk. When they do, they’re louder, more social, quicker to laugh. In other words, they’re more fun. I’ve never actually seen them get very drunk, although one summer my dad went to Israel without us to see his friends and apparently had quite a bit to drink one day. It happened to be the same day that our fridge broke down, and my mom, completely clueless in terms of household appliances, called my dad long-distance and hysterically explained the situation, her fears regarding the baby formula going bad, and so on. My dad’s response was, apparently, a hearty “I don’t give a fuck!” and a dial tone.
And that was the worst of it. I’ve never seen my parents stagger, throw up, or hand their car keys over. I’ve never seen them down multiple shots in a row. (In fact, the only time they drink vodka is at dinner parties with friends, when every shot taken comes with a toast of some sort of emotional significance. Meaningless drinking this is not.)
Consequently, my own experience with drinking has been quite different from that of most people my age. I enjoy wine, mixed drinks, flavored vodka, and champagne. I like to drink wine with my parents over dinner and I can’t imagine New Year’s Eve without champagne. I like to be a bit tipsy, enough to make things a bit cheerier, and myself a bit more bubbly. But I have never been drunk, and I don’t plan on it. (In fact, I was furious a few weeks ago when a friend of mine suggested, laughing, that my friends will “make” me get drunk on my 21st birthday. Excuse me? Nobody can “make” me put anything in my body that I don’t want to put there. Any friend who tries to force anything on my body, be it sex or drugs or alcohol or a piercing or what have you, is no friend of mine after that.)
Last night, thinking about the shitshow that today would inevitably be, I found myself wishing that I were normal, that I could have fun in the way that everyone else can. I wished I wanted to do what they do. But I’ve never been that person. I’ve always been serious and I’ve always preferred to be completely in control of myself at all times. My disdain for drinking to excess is as natural a part of me as my preference for Pepsi over Coke, or the fact that I like to sleep on my stomach and not on my back. How do you change these things?
There are no words to describe such a feeling of isolation, which is one of many reasons I don’t talk about it often. I never fails to shock me how easily I’ve accepted everything else “abnormal” about me–my diagnosis of depression, my bisexuality, my foreignness–but I cannot accept this.
And most of all, I just want to understand. I complain about these things and my friends tell me with a shrug, “That’s just how people are.” But why? Why take an opportunity like an all-day free music festival and turn it into a drunken mess you’ll barely remember afterwards? I even understand drinking and partying when you’re bored, but why on a day like this one? Why is this desire as natural for them as my aversion to it is for me? I want to understand this in a sociological and psychological sense. But I don’t.
I sound like a boring, prissy goody-goody with a stick up my ass. I know I do. But the funny thing is, I’m really not. When I’m in a genuinely good mood, which, thanks in part to my shitty environment, is not often, I’m always laughing and making jokes. I love dancing and trying to sing, exploring Chicago with friends, and frequently acting like an idiot. I’m known to occasionally skip class and go tanning on the beach, and to write my papers the night before they’re due because I was too busy hanging out with friends before. I love fun. But I hate partying. The two aren’t one and the same, you know.
So there you have it. Dillo Day is a disgusting boozefest, and it’s not for me. I guess that makes me an outsider as long as I’m at college (and possibly for quite a while longer). I don’t understand why, as a culture, we are fixated on the idea that people should be moronic and depraved until they turn 30. I want to know why our society believes that being an idiot in your 20s is some sort of prerequisite to having a happy, successful, and meaningful life–and why everyone thinks I’ll “regret it” if I don’t follow this path. I want to know why college students are required as if by law to drink and party and smoke pot and have a lot of casual sex (another thing I really don’t enjoy), or else they’re boring and “lame.”
I’m fucking tired of being judged. It makes me really angry. Stop.
I am going to do something I rarely do–label something with an “ism.”
A post on CNN’s health blog, The Chart, points out that oral sex can increase cancer risk–valuable information, to be sure. But for some unknown reason, the blog frames the information like this:
Here’s a crucial message for teens: Oral sex carries many of the same risks as vaginal sex, including human papilloma virus, or HPV. And HPV may now be overtaking tobacco as the leading cause of oral cancers in America in people under age 50.
“Adolescents don’t think oral sex is something to worry about,” said Bonnie Halpern-Felsher professor of pediatrics at the University of California, San Francisco. “They view it as a way to have intimacy without having ‘sex.'”
Actually, the author of this blog and the professor quoted in it might be surprised to know that adults also occasionally engage in oral sex, so this might be a “crucial message” for them as well as for teens. In fact, sometimes these adults even view it as a way to have intimacy without having ‘sex’!
But of course, there’s no need to miss another valuable opportunity to insert a “kids these days” reference into a completely unrelated topic. Which is, yes, ageism.
On another note, since when does a random doctor or professor get to unilaterally define “sex”? Just because oral sex undoubtedly carries risks doesn’t make it equivalent to, say, vaginal or anal sex. Different people ascribe different significance (or lack thereof) to different sexual behaviors. To many people, oral sex is not as “serious” or meaningful as penetrative sex. This doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be aware of its risks, but it does mean that no higher authority can or should try to define “sex” for everybody.
Evanston, Illinois, which is where I go to school, has a stupid housing ordinance that states that no more than three unrelated people may live together in a house or apartment. It’s intended to ensure proper upkeep because, apparently, people who aren’t related to each other don’t care about the state of their housing, whereas people who are related do. (???)
Anyway, up until now, Evanston has not been enforcing the rule. But now it’s going to. Hundreds of Northwestern students will be evicted this summer because they live in houses or apartments with more than three unrelated people.
And today, the Daily Northwestern reports that the Northwestern administration will not attempt to lobby Evanston’s city government regarding this issue despite the fact that it directly affects so many students.
The Assistant Dean of Students’ response? Students should move farther away from campus.
Let me give you some background on Evanston. Although it’s obviously safer than some Chicago neighborhoods, there were eight homicides in Evanston in 2010 compared to just one in 2009–something that the University and the city police don’t seem to be too concerned about. Every couple of weeks, the entire University community receives an email alert regarding a crime that has just been committed on or near campus–muggings, assaults, break-ins, you name it. Last year, a man attempted to assault a woman in one of our academic buildings.
And with all this, the University administration thinks students should move even farther away from campus, risk even longer walks home in the dark, and live even further apart from other students–all to avoid getting off of its ass and lobbying against an outdated and useless rule.
Landlords, too, will be hurt by the enforcement of this law. The first Daily article I linked to mentions the fact that many of these houses and apartments really aren’t of the quality that families moving to a supposedly wealthy place like Evanston would be looking for. Many of the houses for rent near campus used to be for sale–until their owners realized that nobody’s going to buy them. Without students to fill these houses and apartments, many of them would probably be left empty.
Furthermore, Evanston officials have stated that the reason they’re starting to enforce the ordinance is to crack down on student parties. First of all, that won’t work–the number of people living in an apartment doesn’t determine whether or not those students have a party; that’s preposterous. In fact, if people have to live with fewer roommates, they may be more likely to throw parties so that more people come over.
Also, as the Daily article mentions, having students live in concentrated areas makes it easier for the police to patrol those areas. If students start living miles away from campus and having parties there, not only will that piss off even more Evanston residents who otherwise wouldn’t have had to deal with it, but it will also make it harder for the police to stop the parties.
But, most importantly–at least, to me–the hope of stopping college students from partying (something that’s never going to happen anyway) is not worth jeopardizing their safety. Evanston isn’t a small town in Ohio. It’s a city that’s located close to a major metropolitan area. It has very real crime issues. I am shocked that for how much money I’m paying to go here, the Northwestern administration won’t stick up for its students and battle this ridiculous ordinance. Instead, it’s asking us to move farther away from campus, dilute the sense of community that is already so fragile at this school, and expose ourselves to a greater risk of becoming the victims of crime.
I should’ve invested my $200,000 wiser.
[Update] Several of my friends have pointed out that this ordinance was probably originally enacted in order to prevent minorities (who ostensibly have lower incomes and would benefit from being able to share houses or apartments with other people) from moving into Evanston. I’m still looking for a credible source confirming this, but if it’s true–and it probably is–then that’s just one more reason to repeal the law. If the city of Evanston is using a racist law to attempt to control student partying, that is ridiculous. Not to mention that the law probably does disproportionately affect minorities.
This Jezebel post caught my eye the other day. It’s called “Dressing for Depression” and basically suggests ways to put an outfit together when you’re depressed. As you might know, one of the symptoms of depression is that it becomes really, really hard–sometimes practically impossible–to do simple everyday things, such as getting dressed. This post aimed to make it a bit easier while, unfortunately, utilizing ridiculously flippant language to discuss a serious disorder.
When I first read it, I didn’t really know what to think. I try not to get offended at things before I give them some serious thought, so I did. And although I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse the author of ableism (like some commenters did), I think she could’ve been a lot more sensitive with her writing.
First of all, the title. “Dressing for Depression.” Depression is not a social event, or any kind of event at all. It’s a pervasive state of despair, fatigue, and self-loathing. To a person who actually has depression (and not merely the blues), “dressing for depression” means dressing for everyday life.
[Update: Apparently, Jezebel changed the post’s name to “Dressing When You’re Depressed.”]
Second, the way the post begins is this: “Maybe it’s SAD. Maybe it’s clinical. Maybe you’re in a breakup. Or maybe you just have the blues. Whatever the reason, it’s better to wear clothes (trust me).” Saying it this way basically equates SAD, clinical depression, breakups, and the blues. These things are not equal. If the author stuck to breakups and the blues, the rest of the post would be pretty appropriate, but SAD and clinical depression are disorders, not mood states, and as such, they’re not considered part of a healthy, normal life. Breakups and the blues, on the other hand, are a routine part of life for most people and can be overcome without medical treatment.
Later on, the author writes: “Basically, there are two real options: wallowing and rallying.” Actually, if you’re actually clinically depressed, there are two options: wallowing and having someone force you to see a psychiatrist. Suggesting that people with depression can “rally” and “pick themselves up” and “put on a good face” and all that other garbage is so ridiculously belittling and offensive. Depression isn’t simply a disorder that makes you put yourself down; it’s also disorder that prevents you from picking yourself up.
For those who apparently can magically rally themselves despite having a serious illness, the author has this advice: “Go crazy. Think garter belts, and false lashes, or perfume. Yeah, it sounds weird, but sometimes desperate measures are called for! Fake it til you make it — and, as we all know from “The King and I,” you may fool yourself while you’re at it.” Fake it til you make it is what people tell depressives when they find themselves too inconvenienced by the presence of someone with a mental disorder.
Even without the cutesy and belittling language, the post is rather useless. Good clothes, contrary to the author’s suggestion, don’t help most depressives feel better. I would know; I have a closet full of them, and I was depressed for years.
One commenter said it well: “You know how I dressed for depression? In a hospital gown. Way to trivialize a serious illness.”
So, yesterday this little gem was posted on Salon.com, an online news magazine that I generally like a lot but that, unfortunately, frequently falls into the trap of sensationalism. The piece, by Holly Kretschmar, describes the author’s experience with cooking and eating her placenta after giving birth to her first baby–a course of action recommended by her doula, which I understand is some sort of earthy midwife whose services Kretschmar was inspired to engage after she miraculously conceived despite fertility problems and a doctor’s estimate that her chances of conceiving naturally were .0001 percent. Apparently, this arbitrary, albeit fortuitous, glitch is reason enough to throw out the concept of science entirely and resort to all manner of cuckoo rituals.
Anyway, the doula recommended a placenta recipe and Kretschmar enthusiastically tried it, chronicling her experience in this article that Salon for some unknowable reason decided to publish. The piece went into terrific detail about how the placenta tasted and what texture it had, and Kretschmar, a vegetarian, pontificated on the joys of eating of oneself: “It occurred to me that this meat of mine was truly sustainable, a renewable resource created without killing. In a way, our culinary experiment was the ultimate act of consumption: eating life without taking life.”
I’m not even going to go into the numerous reasons this entire enterprise is repulsive (for instance, that silly little taboo called cannibalism), because, when it comes down to it, Kretschmar made a personal choice to eat her own placenta. Okay. It’s a free country. But the more important question (at least to me) is this: why the hell write and publish an article about it?
The fact that she finds it interesting is not (or should not) be enough. Plenty of people find their bowel movements interesting, but I’ve yet to see a published article about that. Websites like Salon generally have standards for publication, the standards we all learn in journalism school–newsworthiness, timeliness, and impact, for instance. Articles about personal experiences that ought to be kept private, like bowel movements and, yes, placenta eating, just don’t make the cut. Usually.
To me, it seems that this article served a dual purpose for Kretschmar and for Salon. The author gets to exhibit herself to the world as some sort of new-age open-minded hippie and satisfy her own need for attention, and Salon gets to drive up pageviews by disgusting and angering its readership. (A quick peek at the comment thread of the article confirms this result.) The only party that doesn’t win in this scenario? The readers.
This is exactly what’s wrong with journalism nowadays. It used to be that publication was reserved for the best of the best–articles that could inform or inspire. Then blogs and other social tools appeared on the scene to fill the niche of personal media. And then, respectable publications like Salon decided to steal blogs’ audience by publishing just the sort of self-serving drivel they’d previously (and rightfully) ignored.
I’m not saying blogs don’t serve a purpose. They do. Perhaps Kretschmar’s friends would’ve loved to read about her foray into placentophagy. But the rest of us don’t need to know, and most people who read websites like Salon are intelligent enough to know a blatant publicity stunt when they see one. Give us more respect, Salon.