The Power of Words- this “slut” won’t lighten up

In the wake of the Rush-Limbaugh-calling-Sandra-Fluke-a-slut debacle, there have been a slew of rants, raves and opinions about health care, religion and many other related topics.  But overwhelmingly the debate circles the issue of slander versus free speech, and the resounding question seems to by why is the word “slut” such a big deal?

I was reading a post about misogynist language and whether we are being “too sensitive” about its use.  Someone had written to the author saying they thought that liberals were perhaps just too sensitive to misogynistic language.  Liberals should focus on the issue of denying women birth control, not on the epithet used to discount the importance of birth control.  We women needed to “lighten up.”   The blog author argued that Rush was just being a big meanie, and we needed to have better manners in our society.  One commentator, called Verbose Stoic, was hesitant to dictate appropriate language to anyone.  He even asked in his comment, “So if I wanted to make a derisive comment about the promiscuity of a woman, perhaps as a general statement of my distaste for what I might consider excessive emphasis on sex, what word should I use?… Again, putting aside any idea that insulting is itself wrong, what insulting term should he have used?”

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

In summation, what Mr. Verbose Stoic wanted to know is “If I am a misogynist for calling a woman a slut, then what insult can I call a woman and NOT be labeled a misogynist?”  Allow me to rephrase his question for you- “If using racial slurs makes me a racist, then what insults can I call those people and NOT be labeled a racist?”

The author’s call for civility, as well as his audiences call that freedom of speech trumps all, both missed the bigger picture of the transformative power of words on our social norms.  Language and action are direct reflections of one another.  They are not separate creatures.  They are the hydra’s heads of ideology.  If you condone constant, unending derision of a group of persons, the obvious and inevitable outcome is the derisive treatment of that same group of people.  It is that simple.  If you constantly demean women by giving them simple, insulting labels such as “slut” and “bitch” and “whore,” then they will be treated like, surprise, sluts, bitches and whores.  This isn’t an anecdotal assumption I’ve made, though as a woman I can provide plenty of personal examples of this casual dismissal of my own abilities, the validity of my opinion and my basic personhood.  But putting my emotional experience aside, let us look at the facts.

A study was conducted by psychologists from Middlesex University and the University of Surrey in merry ole England.  Psychologists took excerpts from popular men’s magazines, as well as quotes from interviews with convicted rapists as found in the book “The Rapist Files.”  Men between the ages of 18 and 46 were asked to determine whether the quotes were from magazines or the rapist interviews, and overwhelmingly they were unable to differentiate.  When given a source, men tended to agree with the statements labeled as magazine excerpts, and disagree with those labeled as rapist interview quotes.  What is chilling is that the statements were occasionally purposely mislabeled by the study.

Our society has completely normalized the hostile sexism directed at women. When a person commits an act of violence against another person, the first step is rationalizing and justifying their actions.  In cases of rape, perpetrators use a common justification- they blame the victim.   What is unique about rape as a crime is that society is more than happy to join in the blame game.  No one blames a driver hit by a vehicle that failed to yield at a stop sign by saying the sign didn’t look serious.  No one blames a person who’s house was burglarized because they invited the thief in with their welcome mat.  But when a woman is raped, the response seems to be, “Well, she shouldn’t have been out with him, and she was wearing THAT skirt.”  It takes a woman, a person with thoughts and feelings, and the ability to make choices about her own person, and turns her into an object.

Rape is not some phenomenon isolated from society at large.  It is a symptom of a larger disease, a result of a systematic, systemic dismissal of women as people.  We have begun to spare rapists the agony of having to justify their crime, by our own acceptance of hostile sexism in our everyday lexicon.   When we can’t tell the difference between a men’s magazine and a rapist, we have a serious problem.

So why should you care about Mr. Limbaugh calling Ms. Fluke a “slut?”  Because this isn’t about Ms. Fluke.  This isn’t about Mr. Limbaugh.  This isn’t about birth control and your feelings about it’s legitimacy or morality.  This is about a lack of respect for other human beings, a deliberate choice to move beyond debating their stance to demeaning them as a person.  What has made this entire debate so devastating to me is the unwillingness to take accountability for our words.  We can say “sticks and stones” but in reality words have very real power, and if spoken often enough and with enough conviction, they lead to action.  We all recognize the danger of hate speech when it is directed at people of a specific race or ethnicity.  The same goes for misogynistic speech.

The problem here is how we think and speak about women as a whole.   Women face an overwhelmingly persistent, pervasive and violent culture of slander.  What appears in one instance as a harmless stereotype, a casual jab, is but one instance in a long pattern of reducing women.  As long as we continue to accept the current cultural norms that are used to objectify and subjugate women, we will continue to see violence towards women.  Look past access to birth control, and instead consider a woman being raped every two minutes, and 1.3 million women annually becoming victims of domestic violence, in the U.S. alone.  That is ONE IN FOUR women in the U.S. who will be battered and/or raped in their lifetime.

Of course I can quote all the facts I want, and it doesn’t mean you will listen.  Hell, for years I didn’t even listen to myself.  I have been called a slut so many times over my life I am sorry to admit that for a long time I had become numb to it’s meaning and effect.  I had “lightened up,” resigned myself to its usage.  The last man who referred to me as a slut muttered it while holding me down against my will and he forced his hand up my skirt.  As his friends pulled him off me, they said if I hadn’t been wearing that little black dress he wouldn’t have done it.  As intelligent, educated and confident a woman as I am, for a moment I actually allowed myself to think they might have been right, that it was MY FAULT this man had attacked me.

We have to recognize the damaging effects of violent sexism and misogyny on women, their self esteem, their status and their safety in our society.  What will it take for other women and men to stand up to misogyny?  Do you need your own emotional experience to give the facts meaning?  How about that of your mother, sister, lover, daughter?  Does it take watching them be devalued and derided?  Or does it take them being assaulted?  Haven’t there been enough women subjected to the violent sexism already?

I believe in freedom of speech.  But I do not believe that freedom comes without responsibility.  We should demand accountability, from the media and each other, for the words we speak and the attitudes they promote.  I am not saying everyone should not have an opinion, I’m saying that we should think before we speak and act.  And if we cause harm, then as a society we should learn to apologize and make amends.  If anything, what we are lacking in our society is education in the field of sociology, psychology and philosophy.  We teach children how to add, but not how or why to be kind, compassionate and caring people.  I will be damned if I will tell my children to “lighten up.”

 

Marriage- the ultimate un-Naming?

We are on our way to base at 0620. It’s early, I’m tired- no, not tired, exhausted- and unhappy, but I am in need of a good run. I open my wallet to grab… my ID… which is not there. DAMN IT.

“Drop me off, we don’t have time, I’ll walk back.”  I know Brad isn’t thrilled, but what are we gonna do? So he pulls over and I get out. I start to walk, shoes still in hand, as he pulls off… with the keys. I don’t even have the energy to curse this time. I dial his number, and as I say “You have my keys” I look up the road and realize there is no way I am going to make it, even I I ran, to meet him and get the house key without making him late.

“Well, I’ll be sitting out front when you get home.”  So I have a 20 minute trudge back to the house to ponder this situation. I start a list in my head of all the ways I have failed as an adult in the last eight months. This is an easy list, I keep a running tab, from things like “failing to suck up and push through doing that job I hated” to “forgetting to put coffee grounds in the maker that one morning” to “not looking like Cindy Crawford when I roll out of bed.”   I just add “locking myself out o the house with no Military ID, no cash and no future.”

I’m not even pissed, I just feel defeated. And I hate that “defeated” is basically my default setting anymore.

I know that I am a capable, independent, career focused person.  I know this, but I have no ability to prove such on Guam.  I have no job here.  I had one.   I will be professional and leave it at that for now.  My husband’s coworkers are always telling me, repeatedly, that I could easily get a job… as a waitress, or as a maid, or a nanny.  The catch.  If I take one of those jobs, I prove that I am just a witless military wife who can’t get a REAL job.  If I don’t take one, then I am just a lazy military wife.  If I balk at taking one I’m an elitist, and deemed an immature military wife.  But I have no chance at getting any professional position equivalent with my experience and skills because, well, I am a military wife and won’t be around long enough to bother hiring.

Notice what all these judgments have in common?  All I am is a MILITARY WIFE.  That is my only identifier.  I could introduce myself and tell someone about my degree, my abilities, my hobbies, my ethnicity and sexual orientation, hell I could even tell them I am diagnosed with formicophilia, but as soon as there is a hint that I am married into the military, that is ALL I become.  I am surrounded by the fucking Echthroi here.

I’m pretty sure the road to defeat began with exhaustion and unhappiness.  I cannot blame my unhappiness on others fully, but the source is my internalization of other’s judgment.  Yes, I realize I shouldn’t care.  I am woman, hear me roar, blah blah blah.  But seriously, being constantly reminded that you are just a second class citizen- on base because I’m just a military wife, and off base because, surprise, I’m just a military wife- gets old fast.    (As for the exhaustion, I refuse to be held accountable.  I plead not guilty by reason of allergies.  Try being chronically allergic to the place that you live, with chronic sinusitis- constant congestion, perpetual sinus pain, and an everlasting headache that swings from low grade annoyance to crippling agony.  Seriously, the level of meds required to relieve me would leave me in a near catatonic state.  The option is to medicate it just enough so that I resemble a functioning humanoid.)

Feeling perpetually useless and ineffective will eventually make even the most exuberant person consider admitting defeat.  What is depressing is that I am not alone.   Chances are, if you are a woman and you are married, you probably have felt this way.  It’s like people want to sabotage a marriage before it begins, telling you all sorts of over romanticized bullshit  about your wedding day being the best day of your life, followed by the punch line “But don’t worry, wedding cake cures a woman’s libido” or “Oh, dating is like a class on being a gentleman, and marriage is the test.  After that, men stop studying.”  Though you don’t think it’s funny, you laugh anyway.  But once you are married, all your friends and coworkers turn into fucking Nostradamus.

Women get one of two lines.  Either “Don’t “lose” yourself in marriage,” like your husband is some black hole who eats you alive, or “Oh, aren’t you glad you don’t have to work/study/volunteer anymore!” like all these years you’ve been just pretending to have passions and interests.  So women go on the defense, because whether they continue on business as usual or drop everything to domestic diva, SOMEONE is judging them.   And husbands?  Do they really get it any better?  They are expected to be unhappy, manipulated by some conniving shrew, or the gallant savior of some dim witted princess.  So if they actually, you know, LIKE their wife, they are whipped.  It’s like some sick joke, society fully expects you to do your duty and enter into holy matrimony, but then hazes you when you get there.  But this hazing never. seems. to. end.  And if you think that gay couples don’t get exactly the same bullshit, you totally underestimate our society’s ability to cast anyone and everyone into gender roles when it comes to marriage.  The only difference is, they get spit on at the same time.  Fun.

So what is a girl to do?  Trust me, when I figure that out, I am selling the book and you will just have to pay for it just like everyone else.  Until then, all I have is my Coping Mechanism.  You put two ice cubes in a glass, then dump ‘em out and fill it with bourbon.  You’re welcome.

http://questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=2039

A thanks to Jeph Jacques.  I can always count on you to understand me.

Why I suck at Risk, or Scary Other-Bear says “You cannot be the best at everything.”

Recently, my husband attempted to play Risk with me.  I say attempted, but many would say he succeeded because we did, indeed, play- and more than that, he won.  But I say “attempt” because it was a less than rewarding situation for us both.  I wasn’t very hard to beat.  In fact, I basically handed him the game.  Not because I didn’t know how to play, not because I had poor strategy.  It was because I refused to take advantage of him, or to be the slightest bit ruthless.  And if you’ve ever played Risk, that is basically the ENTIRE point of the game.

We did not actually finish the game.  It became obvious that it was only by divine intervention that I would make it through the next round, and he threw up his hands and said, “You are TOO NICE.”

As children in the United States, we are spoon fed competition from a young age.  Starting in preschool, we are taught to be brighter, faster, smarter, prettier, funnier, anything-er more than all the other kiddies.  And we can turn damn near anything into a competition.  I mean, spelling bees, really?  Who the hell thought that shit up?

The Ironic Spelling Bee

I don’t think you can argue that competition is anything but natural.  You see competition in nature all the time.  Nature competes for resources, for food, water and space.  Even between members of one species or group you find competition- it why one pack mate is alpha and the other is not, why this one ate more than that one, why this one sprung more offspring than the other…   But it isn’t ALL competition.  If the predator killed all her prey, she would starve.  If the prey had no predator, he would overpopulate and consume all his resources and starve as well.  The bear needs the salmon to eat, and the salmon needs the bear as population control.  And even within a species or group, if the alpha killed all the subordinates, he wouldn’t have anyone to care for all his offspring.  A wolf can only lead a pack if there is a pack to be led.  So nature precariously balances competition and cooperation in a complex dance that is existence.  But the numbers tell the truth- competition is a fine way of living, if you accept losing fifty percent of the time.

The problem is that humans are not like other critters.  We are sentient beings, and unlike any other flora or fauna on this planet we can actually control our environment.   Even the most rudimentary existence, say living in a hunter/gatherer society, depends on human ingenuity to create tools, build homes, force the environment and the other creatures to adapt to us.  It is what makes us human.  So in effect, we remove ourselves from the competition found in the natural world.  We do not have any natural predators.   We can create our own food, make our own space.

And yet, we still have the urge to compete.   The problem is that now we compete over really, really trivial shit.  Since most of us don’t have to worry about starving or freezing to death, we turn all that competitive energy to “being the best.”  Whether its football, geometry, reading, playing the trombone, or even burping the alphabet, we all want to be the best at something.  And you are told that really, you should be the best at EVERYTHING.

I have to tell you something.  You may or may not have realized this yet.  You cannot be the best at everything.  And very, very few of us will be the best at anything quantifiable by our society.

And that is where all of us “losers” come in.  All my life I have told people I don’t like competing because I don’t like losing.  But that isn’t true, not really.  I am fairly bright, but I’m certainly not fast, pretty smart but only kinda pretty, and funny but only to other geeky intellectuals.  And I’m a terrible speller.   So “losing” isn’t a big deal to me, I hardly ever won those competitions.   I don’t even mind competing, knowing I will probably lose.  In my short stint on swim team, I wasn’t one of our top performers.  But I enjoyed the camaraderie of shared self-improvement.  All of us, from the most prized athlete to the kid who signed up because they didn’t have anything else to do, encouraged each other to work harder, become more agile and graceful, therefore faster.  Even the top performers benefitted, having a supportive environment in which to hone their skills, and a network of others interested in their particular craft.  In those circumstances, I love to compete, to challenge myself and improve myself.

But the yardstick we should all be using is our own.  You can’t measure yourself against other people.  We learn to do this at such a young age.  While that might work for wolf packs and bear dens, and it might have worked for humans of bygone eras, it is now a system that leads to destruction.  How else to you explain the exploitation of one socio-economic group against another, the control of one people by another?  Humans have become almost artists and finding and justifying reasons for this, based on race, ethnicity, religious affiliation, education level…  But it all comes down to the same damn reason.  It is the baser instinct of survival, but taken away from the normal survival situation.  Some of us have a malfunction, and feel the need to make survival situations where there are none.  How many times have you heard some zealot for some cause say, “Group B threatens… (insert very important thing here, like ‘moral/social/political fabric’ or ‘liberty’ or ‘future’)?”  You can basically replace whatever they said with “Scary other-bear eat all my salmon!” and it will be an exact translation.

I hear this shit on Fox News ALL THE TIME. They should rename it The Angry Bear News. I'm starting the petition tomorrow.

The strongest motivator for life is incentives.  Any economist or sociologist will tell you as much.  What the incentive is, however, is a point of contention.  For nature, it is access to basic needs- food, water, space, shelter.   In the places, like the United States, where those needs are met for the majority, the society has moved onto other incentives.  It may vary by person, but for the United States society as a whole, the incentive we are TAUGHT to value is Prosperity, the state of flourishing, thriving, good fortune and successful social status… and of course, wealth.    And we imagine these things to be finite resources that we must fight for.  As a species, we have reached the point in our technology where we are able to domesticate, create, even synthesize our survival needs, there isn’t a reason to be FIGHTING for them anymore.  But unfortunately, much like kids in puberty, our technological maturity has outranked our social maturity.  This is really dangerous.  Picture a sexual mature sixteen year old in full hormone rage to hump without regard for the consequences, and then replace that with a scientifically mature world in full evolutionary rage to compete without regard for the consequences.  Scary picture, huh?

Food, water, shelter; they are not finite resources.  Neither is Prosperity.  My ability to complete my education, find a self-fulfilling career and provide for my family does not impede on your ability to do the same.  In fact, I would argue that by supporting each other to self-improve, by whatever means, we will move our society forward.  But we have to learn how to balance competition and cooperation in order to move to the next stage.  But we can’t do that if ALL we focus on is “being the best.”

If someone is the brightest, fastest, smartest, prettiest, funniest kid to win the spelling bee, congrats to them.  But we have to stop assuming that makes them more worthy of access to resources than the rest of the “losers.”  This isn’t just about touchy feeley hippie commune shit.  If we keep competing in the winner/loser paradigm, then we are going to continue to have sexism, racism, religious intolerance, discrimination against gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual and intersex folks, and a growing gap between the educated rich and the uneducated poor.  The world will continue to suffer from genocide, famine, disease and disputes over ideology.  The world is not a giant Risk board to be squabbling over.  If we continue, eventually one winner is going to really have it and nuke all the other losers, and then we will ALL be losers.   As Albert Einstein said, “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

I am going to continue being too nice.  Yes, it means I often end up the “loser.” but I don’t need to win every competition to be a validated valuable person, and neither do you.  Eventually enough of us will figure out how to share the salmon, and when we stop competing over water rights, who’s deity is the coolest and which one of us has the best spelling, then we can focus on the important issues.  Like self actuallization.  Hell, let’s start with the perfect banana bread recipe.  I’m sure actuallization falls somewhere in there.

If this is too ambitious for you, don't worry. Just work on that banana bread for us, okay?

Joy

Brad & Kate

Best Friends

Lovers

Partners

September 23, 2011

Tarague Beach, Guam

Do you promise to foster strength and unity in your union

by loving and respecting one another,

by offering them insight and affection freely

and by recognizing and meeting their physical and spiritual needs?

Do you vow to

 remain their friend,

to talk with them and listen to them wholeheartedly,

remembering apology and patience;

to commit to a lifetime of learning, discussion and adventure as individuals and as partners,

and to create a warm and generous home for them with love and acceptance as a foundation?

Do you joyfully enter into this covenant with them, to be their loving companion through out your lives,

to accept and care for them in the days to come?

I do.

My Love-

I cannot stop the rain from falling on your head, but I can dance in it with you.

I cannot stop the night from descending, but yours is the voice that tenders me to sleep.

I cannot stop the day from dawning, but yours will be the arms I awake to in the brightness.

I cannot ease our journey, but I can hold your hand for the entirety of it.

Before we met,

you and I were halves unjoined.

We were each other’s distant shores,

the opposite wings of a bird,

the other half of an oyster shell.

We did not know each other then,

but I have been missing you my entire life.

We were apart,

yet connected by the longing for each other.

I knew you existed long before I met you.

We are soul mates,

and we are meant for one another.

We are no longer the distant shore.

Our love is the riving running between us,

and we truly know each other.

We will be joined in life and together

in the silent darkness

when death’s white wing

wipes our memory from the waking world.

We are the beauty of uncertainty,

the triumph over adversity,

the laughter in the midst of tragedy.

We are the joy of our world.

Let joy keep you,

reach out your hands and take it when it runs by

as the Apache dancer clutches his woman.

I have seen them

live long and laugh loud,

sent on singing, singing,

smashed to the heart under the ribs

with a terrible joy.

Joy always, joy everywhere-

Let joy kill you!

Keep away from little deaths.

Why we lost in Vietnam, or WHO THE HELL FORGOT THE SAFETYWISE?!

Somewhere in that mess is my fiance.

We read the description.  ”Medium difficulty” it said.  The only warning given was “Swordgrass.”  Okay, we thought, sounds like a good place to start.

Because you don’t go hiking on Guam.  You go “boonie stomping.”  It sounded like a gay time, you envision groups of adventurous islanders bounding through the jungle and bursting out onto a beach somewhere, the golden light shining upon their gleaming faces.

We arrived at the noted meetup to find a motley crew.  There were families with small children.  There was a woman in floral print with her big mutt.  More than a few buzzed head, hard nosed, obviously military types.  And a few Japanese tourists in their khaki pants and tennis shoes who looked as out of place as strippers at a Baptism.  The Fearless Leaders of this wacky pack were all over 60.  Two looked like they had just gotten back from a week at Boy Scout camp, their cargo pants and canvas shirts already stained.  One had on shorts, socks and Teva sandals.  They sat us down to do a briefing of the hike, and the most grizzled of the FL’s looked at us, right at me actually, and snorted.

“For those of you who didn’t heed our warning about Swordgrass and aren’t wearing long sleeve shirts and pants, I pity you.”

Following that pleasant introduction, we sat through 20 minutes of harrowing descriptions of all the things that could go horribly wrong on this hike, only to be reassured that “even a five year old can do this.”  It was like a game of dare.  I waivered between being annoyed and amused, but ultimately we were already here so we might as well see it through, right?

The first part of the hike is about on par with what I had expected.  We take off down a trail into the jungle, about six feet wide, that slowly gives way to a rocky washed out flood plain.  From there, we climb up an incline to overlook the vast jungle before us.  Off to a good start, I think, I feel like I’m finally getting used to the humidity…

“Now the stomp begins.”

The mud here has the consistency of baby poo, and also sprouted Swordgrass. Winning combo.

Wait, what?  What was all that stomping we just did?

And then we descend into the set from Rambo.  Seriously, where the fuck is the “trail?’  No only can I not see a trail, I can’t see anyone in front of me either.  This “swordgrass” is about seven feet high, and it is an instrument of angry cutting hurt.  It is like being covered in a million papercuts, and you are sweating your own salty misery into them.  Then it begins to get wet, and suddenly we are slogging through “puddles” that are up to my knees.  The worst part is that the group has now gone two different directions, and is strung out through the jungle like a toddler’s cheerios.  There appears to be no clear guidance AT ALL.  One older gentleman has fallen behind the group, and Brad and I go back to escort him.  He is probably well into his 70′s and has a twisted ankle that is obviously sprained.  We can’t turn and take him back, because we don’t know where “back” is.  We manage to painfully work our way back to the group, and at this point it’s decided that MAYBE we should turn back around.  Oh, YOU THINK SO?!?!?!

On the return trip, the older gentleman is getting exhausted and his ankle hurts so incredibly that he can’t go for more than thirty feet before resting.  Brad and I are now concerned on top of being pissed off.  We manage to run into one of the Fearless Leaders (doing a great job of leading, I might add) and after managing to get directions on how to exit the swordgrass labyrinth, we hand over the gentleman and leave.  Sorry, old chap, but we are too pretty to die in the jungle with you.

We arrive back at the trailhead to find the majority of the group already long gone.  Are you kidding?  We might have become completely lost in the jungle, and no one would have known.  At this point, my inner Girl Scout goes into a Great Green Girl Scout Hulk rage.  I spend the entire ride home in a rant over proper safety practices when hiking, which Brad has no response to other than a few explicitives to express his agreement.

We return home, grimy, grumpy and ravenous.  A shower seems like a good idea, until I get under the hot water and suddenly my multiple cuts and sunburn do a TKO on my emotional state.  I am crying by the time I get out and look in the mirror.  I look like I played Patty Cake with Edward Scissorhands and lost, and for punishment was flame-broiled.

Lesson: No one does it better than Girl Scouts.

Coconuts and Grass Huts we have not

Life on Guam is not quite the exciting experience I had hoped for.  I spend a lot of time letting my family and friends be alternately impressed and distressed about my move to Guam.  I spend very little time dispelling the myths.  But for your benefit, here are a few clarifications.

Myth- You will live on island time- very low stress.

Fact- I will live on military time, beating my head against island time.  Did I mention that the sun sets at 6?  Not exactly a long day here…

Myth- Guam is such a small island, you’ll go stir crazy.

Fact- Most people essentially live on an island, never going more than maybe an hour away from their own front door for weeks, maybe years, at a time.  And I get an ocean.

Myth- Guam is a totally exotic.

Fact- Actually, except for less “personal bubble” and a lot of Japanese labels on food, Guam is basically like any other town in the US.  Everyone owns a car, there are lots of basketball games in the street, and no one uses turn signals.  Oh, and there are McDonald’s EVERYWHERE.

Myth- You will come back really tan.

Fact- There is NO amount of sun that will get me more than three degrees from albino.

Myth- There will be all kinds of fresh food there.

Fact- There will be all kinds of processed food shipped from the mainlands here.  Sadly, there is basically NO agricultural sector on Guam.  Land is more valuable with condos, apartments and strip malls than with crops on it.  Everything is imported, and it is ridiculously expensive to eat here, no matter what or where you are eating.

Unlike some of my naively American acquaintances, I was not expecting coconut-shelled fashionistas grinding their own corn meal outside their grass huts.  Come on now, folks, this is the lovely year of 2011 and Guam is a US Territory.  However, I was hoping for more of a self-sufficient, local-based economy.  Really, this is an island that runs on Japanese tourist and US military money.  So there are lots of Ramen shops and strip clubs, and no farmer’s markets.  Ironically, there was more of what I was hoping to find here at home, but I guess that is the plight of most of us living abroad.  We march forward into the “unknown” hoping for something novel, only to find that where we land is similar to home in the ways we wish it wasn’t, and nothing like home in the ways we had hoped.

This is for real. People wear these things.

So if you are reading this and still wish you were in Guam, open up a can of Spam, pop a Miller Light, and play some “waves crashing” on your iPod.  Welcome.

The “Yes, you have moved to Guam” reality checklist, vol. 2

1. Guess what?  You are allergic to algae.  Enjoy that.

2. Guess what?  You are also allergic to shellfish, specifically the mollusk type.

3. It doesn’t matter that you are allergic to mollusks, everything here is made with Spam.

4. You cannot judge a Guam Bomb car by it’s outward appearance.  ALL the paint on this island looks like shit, thanks to the salty humidity and sun.

5. When they say “sword grass,” they are NOT fucking around.

6. If there is an accident on Highway 1, there is no detour.  Sit back, turn off the AC, and enjoy you slowly warming Dr. Pepper as calmly as you can.

Military Life and the Militant Wife

Being a military spouse seems, on the surface, antithesis to my personality.  I am a socialist minded individual, not even managing to fit in with the liberals who I find too soft spoken.  I am a very independent woman, some have called me feminist (gasp).  I loath bureaucracies, partially because they are souless but mostly because they are just really fucking inefficient.  I am not a pacifist, but I value wit, wiles and wimsy over brawn.  However, whether ideal or not, I recognize the necessity for a military in our current world theatre.  This isn’t about idealism, it’s about fact.  And the fact is our military needs empathy as much as ammunition, and we need people like my fiancee to provide that balance.  So into the fray I go, whether I like it or not.

And ideology aside, I am well suited for this lifestyle.   For one, I enjoy not just experiencing new cultures, but integrating into them.  As a person who likes to see the common threads in humanity, I can appreciate the patterns found in all the various weaves of culture.  There is always something unique and exciting, but you can always find a piece of home if you look hard enough.  Secondly, despite my emotive nature, I can be extremely pragmatic about daily existence.  I do not hoard objects (or feelings) that do not serve a purpose, and I choose the items which I assign personal value to very carefully.  And the -

Pièce de résistance!!!

I am efficient as fuck.  I had our entire house unpacked in two days flat, minus the tv and computers (only because I didn’t really care whether they got unpacked or not).  I put the most organized unit on our current base to shame.  They WISH they had commanders like me.  On an island with an unemployment rate of almost 15%, where spouses are stationed for years without finding work, I managed to land a job only 10 days after arriving.  Okay, so I’ve been putting out resumes and talking with businesses since March, so really it took me 4 months of tenacity and resolve.  But I don’t think that is any less impressive, really.  I am an efficient, FORWARD thinker.  Thank you.

Despite all this, I do not fit in.  At all.  I am the star peg, and they aren’t even attempting to fit me in the round hole.  I am educated, well spoken and professional, which leads to exclusion from Group A.  I am artistic, earthy and soulful, which excludes me from Group B.  I like to cook, sew and I iron Brad’s uniform for him, so Group C will have nothing to do with me.  And I don’t have kids, so I’m not invited to Group D’s play dates.  I guess I just have to wait and find another oddly misplaced spouse…  Then we can start our own club.  I promise to bring cookies to the first meeting.

The “Yes, you have moved to Guam” Reality Checklist, vol. 1

1. You are sticky all the time, get used to it.

2. No Walmart, both a blessing and a curse.

3. You are not alone in your home.  If you could charge the geckos and ants rent, you’d be rich.

4. Articles about Nebraska are in the “World News” section of the newspaper.

5. Noodles DO belong on pizza.

6. Everyone waves.  EVERYONE.  Even if they look grumpy while doing it.

Back to Essentials

A 700lb limit of worldly possessions forces you re-evaluate the importance of material goods.  With my motorcycle taking up 350 of my allotted lbs, I have just 350lbs of my life to pack.

I remember being a child, and packing a runaway backpack.  I believe this is something most of us did.  In your bag went the important things- in my case, my teddy Sudzie  and all my artwork.  I never actually worked up the nerve to try and runaway, as many other kids did.  I was more pragmatic, and I realized that it was highly unlikely that I could actually manage on my own.  Even at age six I had a notion about how the world worked, and understood that I was not really capable of holding down and job and paying bills just yet.

How simple your world is then, when a teddy and a few scribbles are tantamount in your life.  Your piece of comfort, that reminds you that you are loved and cared for, and your most basic expression of yourself.  And nothing that tied you down- you were still light and lithe, malleable and nimble in mind, spirit and body.

But we grow, and we become afraid of change.  The sound of the wind scares us, so we weigh ourselves down with small securities.  A job, a car payment, a couch and a kitchen table.  And when you ARE capable of running away finally, you find that you have too much you have deemed important to pack into a runaway backpack.

You now have two choices.  You can either give up on running away, or you can get back to essentials.