Thinking. It's dangerous. When you think, you realize that you have more potential for moral ambiguity than you realized, or worse, you have less than you want. *sigh*
So... back to the issue of Ellie McLonglip, the ex. I came to the realization that I wanted to meet her to somehow have proof that we're different. I still want to meet her, but this is no longer the reason. The things that I've heard about her and the things that I've seen are proof enough.
Now I want to meet her so that I can find something good about her. Everybody has something that's good about them, right? And part of me wants to befriend her, too, so I can find the good thing and make it come out. I honestly believe that everybody is a good person.
So here I was, at 5 a.m., just out of the shower and in bed with Mo. I knew I should have been snoring by that time, but instead, I was thinking. My thoughts went something like this: I know that she could not have been as close to one of the anthropology faculty members as she was if she hadn't been a good person... right? He told me that the BDSM community destroyed her. That must have meant that there was something good there to begin with... right?
And as irrational as it was, I realized that I wanted to meet her so I could find that former self somewhere underneath the selfish, sociopathic bitchery.
"You want to save her," Mo said to me. That wasn't exactly the way I'd put it.
Or was it?
When Mo made that statement, I was reminded of my feelings for my personal mindfuck ex, Gia. I remembered my concern for her well-being, a concern that has unfortunately persisted for nearly four years after the fact. I will always know that she's not ok, no matter what she says to me, and that she's in New York, and I can't help her.
And even though I know that I couldn't help her even if I were there, that she can only help herself, and even though I know that "good Ellie" might not have ever existed anyway, that I can't save people, it doesn't change the fact that everything in my nature begets a desire, almost a need, to do it, to save people. (Get a look a that sentence structure! My mastery of the English language astounds me, really. OK, it's a run-on, but I couldn't think of any better way to say it.)
Why do we humans have such a penchant for futility? We do things, or consider doing things, that logic tells us will not work, and then we get hurt in the process. Sometimes our irrational desires overcome our survival instincts. Is this what it means to be human? Is this truly what sets us apart from the "dumb creatures" of the Earth, our stupidity and bad survival instincts?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Night Life
I went to a BDSM night at a local nightclub last night. I went there mainly to watch people, but I also had an alterior motive. I hoped to meet my girlfriend's ex, who is a member of the BDSM community here, the one that does the demonstrations at the club. Or, judging from the comments of some of the demonstrators and the disappointing lack of her weird face, perhaps she WAS a member and got booted out by a patent leather, thigh-high, studded stilletto. Who knows.
Anyway, I have always been curious about the ex. Let's call her Ellie McLonglip. I knew that she and my girlfriend (here called Mo) had been together while she had been with a boy (Jonny). I knew that Ellie had manipulated Mo, used her, forced her to do things, all the while neglecting her whenever Jonny was around. I also knew that she had abnormally long labia minora, and you could apparently see them hanging down between her thighs when looking at her (in a standing pose) from behind.
At first I HATED Ellie for the way I knew that she'd treated Mo. And then, over the course of the first few months that Mo and I were together, I realized that Mo doesn't hate Ellie, rather accepts what happened to her while with Ellie. It's fairly complicated, the resolution that Mo's come to, and I'm not sure that I understand it. Nonetheless, I accepted it, and decided that I'd try to see Mo and Ellie's mindfucked relationship the way Mo did.
And then the comparisons started. It turns out that Ellie was also an anthropology major, and she, like I, modeled nude for the college art department (before becoming a prostitute and a stripper and dropping out). "That must be your type," one of Mo's friends said to her. At first, the comparisons didn't bother me. Then, one of my professors, in response to my idea for a senior thesis, talked about Ellie. It was a cautionary tale. He had no idea just who she is to me.
My hatred was renewed. How dare she intrude into my academic life? How dare she make me seem her clone, again, especially in a place with which I so heavily identified myself? It was all very dramatic. But I calmed down after a couple weeks, talked to Mo about it. The two of us came to the conclusion that it might be good for me to meet her.
After stalking Ellie for a little while on the internet, gathering all the info I could find based on her real name and her porn name my feeling that we were somehow the same person began to ease. It was one of the easiest things I've ever done on the World Wide Waste of Time. Ellie didn't exactly make herself hard to learn about, and the more I learned, the better I felt. But I still wanted to meet her.
So, Mo and I went to BDSM night, planning to rendezvous with a friend that Mo had met through McLonglip. This friend (Callie) had grown up with Ellie, been good friends with her for a long time. Until recently, that is. I told Callie of my plight. She promptly responded with, "Oh, you're so much hotter than she is. I actually like looking at your face!" It made my night. Callie, if you read this, please know that your comments are much appreciated. Callie also helped me look around and ask around after Ellie, hence the knowledge of the possibility that she got kicked out of that particular BDSM house.
Still, didn't meet her. Oh well. This will make an interesting first discussion with my new therapist.
The rest of the night, I took note of the discrepencies between the behavior of the male demonstrators and the female demonstrators. The male demonstrators were mostly calm, composed, professional, authoritative. The women resembled lap dancers. They gave a very sexualized performances of clothes-pinning, surface piercing, electricity play, fireplay. The male demonstrators mainly communicated with the subject and did their thing.
And the fake porn faces that a girl I know from school made while being suspended were highly amusing.
Ok... so my anthropology blog is undeniably postmodernist. But all blogs, by their nature, are postmodernist, so I don't feel bad at all. Maybe an anthropology person will read that one day and get it. If not... meh. I'll write another, more intellectual discourse than this one some other time.
Anyway, I have always been curious about the ex. Let's call her Ellie McLonglip. I knew that she and my girlfriend (here called Mo) had been together while she had been with a boy (Jonny). I knew that Ellie had manipulated Mo, used her, forced her to do things, all the while neglecting her whenever Jonny was around. I also knew that she had abnormally long labia minora, and you could apparently see them hanging down between her thighs when looking at her (in a standing pose) from behind.
At first I HATED Ellie for the way I knew that she'd treated Mo. And then, over the course of the first few months that Mo and I were together, I realized that Mo doesn't hate Ellie, rather accepts what happened to her while with Ellie. It's fairly complicated, the resolution that Mo's come to, and I'm not sure that I understand it. Nonetheless, I accepted it, and decided that I'd try to see Mo and Ellie's mindfucked relationship the way Mo did.
And then the comparisons started. It turns out that Ellie was also an anthropology major, and she, like I, modeled nude for the college art department (before becoming a prostitute and a stripper and dropping out). "That must be your type," one of Mo's friends said to her. At first, the comparisons didn't bother me. Then, one of my professors, in response to my idea for a senior thesis, talked about Ellie. It was a cautionary tale. He had no idea just who she is to me.
My hatred was renewed. How dare she intrude into my academic life? How dare she make me seem her clone, again, especially in a place with which I so heavily identified myself? It was all very dramatic. But I calmed down after a couple weeks, talked to Mo about it. The two of us came to the conclusion that it might be good for me to meet her.
After stalking Ellie for a little while on the internet, gathering all the info I could find based on her real name and her porn name my feeling that we were somehow the same person began to ease. It was one of the easiest things I've ever done on the World Wide Waste of Time. Ellie didn't exactly make herself hard to learn about, and the more I learned, the better I felt. But I still wanted to meet her.
So, Mo and I went to BDSM night, planning to rendezvous with a friend that Mo had met through McLonglip. This friend (Callie) had grown up with Ellie, been good friends with her for a long time. Until recently, that is. I told Callie of my plight. She promptly responded with, "Oh, you're so much hotter than she is. I actually like looking at your face!" It made my night. Callie, if you read this, please know that your comments are much appreciated. Callie also helped me look around and ask around after Ellie, hence the knowledge of the possibility that she got kicked out of that particular BDSM house.
Still, didn't meet her. Oh well. This will make an interesting first discussion with my new therapist.
The rest of the night, I took note of the discrepencies between the behavior of the male demonstrators and the female demonstrators. The male demonstrators were mostly calm, composed, professional, authoritative. The women resembled lap dancers. They gave a very sexualized performances of clothes-pinning, surface piercing, electricity play, fireplay. The male demonstrators mainly communicated with the subject and did their thing.
And the fake porn faces that a girl I know from school made while being suspended were highly amusing.
Ok... so my anthropology blog is undeniably postmodernist. But all blogs, by their nature, are postmodernist, so I don't feel bad at all. Maybe an anthropology person will read that one day and get it. If not... meh. I'll write another, more intellectual discourse than this one some other time.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
All things need a beginning...
...and that beginning often includes an introduction. So, here's mine.
My name is Sophia. I grew up in several regions of the United States, including the Southeast and the West. My experiences in both places have made me feel like an outsider, like somebody different. A lot of this has to do with my ethnicity. I am, on the outside (and in all governmental surveys and doctor's office paperwork) Caucasian. However, what the outside fails to convey, despite my long nose, is that I am Greek-American. Though I now identify as Pagan, I was raised in the Greek Orthodox Church, a sect of Christianity that is so Eastern that it seems to have been forgotten by much of the Western World.
As a fourth-grader living in Alabama, the teacher opened a discussion on the branches of Christianity. She mentioned Baptists, Methodists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormans, and Catholics. Always the precocious child, I raised my hand and said, "You forgot the Orthodox Church." The teacher, frowning and very grumpy, replied, "No, that's Jewish."
I was shocked. How could she know so little? "But I'm Orthodox, and I'm Christian."
"I've seen your last name. You're Jewish," insisted the teacher. (My last name ends in -son.) Although I would be proud if I were Jewish, I knew that if the other children believed I was Jewish, it would be another reason for them to ostracize me on the playground. And who was going to believe me over her? She was the teacher, the deliverer of knowledge.
I felt alone and scared in this mostly white, Southern Baptist area, but it was not the first time I had. My single place of refuge, the place where there were other little girls like me, was at church, and even there, as a female, I had very little representation. Furthermore, my sexual orientation set me apart from even my sisters and my mother.
This blog will be an exploration of what it means to be the "other," the one who is different, the person alienated by the culture in which she lives. I want to explore the culture of difference, the people who have come together to share their differences and through them find a common ground.
My name is Sophia. I grew up in several regions of the United States, including the Southeast and the West. My experiences in both places have made me feel like an outsider, like somebody different. A lot of this has to do with my ethnicity. I am, on the outside (and in all governmental surveys and doctor's office paperwork) Caucasian. However, what the outside fails to convey, despite my long nose, is that I am Greek-American. Though I now identify as Pagan, I was raised in the Greek Orthodox Church, a sect of Christianity that is so Eastern that it seems to have been forgotten by much of the Western World.
As a fourth-grader living in Alabama, the teacher opened a discussion on the branches of Christianity. She mentioned Baptists, Methodists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormans, and Catholics. Always the precocious child, I raised my hand and said, "You forgot the Orthodox Church." The teacher, frowning and very grumpy, replied, "No, that's Jewish."
I was shocked. How could she know so little? "But I'm Orthodox, and I'm Christian."
"I've seen your last name. You're Jewish," insisted the teacher. (My last name ends in -son.) Although I would be proud if I were Jewish, I knew that if the other children believed I was Jewish, it would be another reason for them to ostracize me on the playground. And who was going to believe me over her? She was the teacher, the deliverer of knowledge.
I felt alone and scared in this mostly white, Southern Baptist area, but it was not the first time I had. My single place of refuge, the place where there were other little girls like me, was at church, and even there, as a female, I had very little representation. Furthermore, my sexual orientation set me apart from even my sisters and my mother.
This blog will be an exploration of what it means to be the "other," the one who is different, the person alienated by the culture in which she lives. I want to explore the culture of difference, the people who have come together to share their differences and through them find a common ground.
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