Being Amber Rhea

Lately, Melissa keeps writing stuff that feels like something piercing my gut and brings a tear to my eye, and then I struggle to put into words what is resonating so deeply and why. Here’s the latest installment. And my rambling commences after the cut.

I know what she means about the conferences. Male-dominated and also suit-dominated - but even that, I think, doesn’t adequately capture my discomfort. I don’t know if there’s a word that does, because I experience it as an unsettled stomach, a deep feeling of distrust, a refrain in the back of my head saying, “I want to get out of here, I don’t belong here.” See: PodCamp NYC; BarCamp Atlanta; PodCamp Nashville; and more. I never really said it as emphatically as I felt it, for fear of not hurting feelings. God, socialization as a woman runs deep, doesn’t it? Even when I know, logically, that that should be the furthest thing from my mind.

At all these events, I see the men, and the properly-appointed women, up there talking about taking back the media, or the power of citizen journalism, and how mainstream media doesn’t get it, and net neutrality, and Creative Commons, and how blogs affect political campaigns… and always in the back of my head, I can’t shake the questions: How do they feel about unabashed sexuality? How many of them would deem me “not safe for work,” not invite me to their garden parties because I don’t challenge the mainstream (as they define it) in the right way? What would they say to a sex worker? When was the last time they made a hooker joke? (It’s not an if, it’s a when; and I surmise that, as it is for a quantity of people so large I wish I could un-realze it, the time is measured in days, not weeks, months, or years.) I don’t want to talk about the strife of old media vs. new media anymore, until I can believe that new media won’t push sex work and sexuality into a corner to sneer at, just like old media always has.

And, passing: Well, for some, all I have to do is mention anything vaguely sex-related at all and it’s over. I can see the look in their eyes change. I can pinpoint the moment, physically, at which they start seeing me differently. And yet, I know to some degree (the actual degree varies from person to person, place to place) I’ve at least got a tiny bit of credibility left, or an “out.” If I got naked for money? That would be all gone, they know it and I know it. And knowing where I lie on the spectrum of their judgment makes me angry at them for subscribing to these gradations in the first place (because, as ever, the worst thing a woman can be is a whore) and angry at myself because something(s), to this day, has held me back from taking that step over the line. I’m angry at myself for passing at all, for not shaking up their assumptions even more.

…And I’m scared to type out that last sentence, because already the imagined voices of my critics are clamoring in my head, telling me I’m reactionary, and see, it was all about Teh Menz™ and The Patriarchy, wasn’t it? But more importantly, I don’t want to be that person, the one who co-opts the experiences of the people with whom she’s supposedly allied and makes it all about her.

Except, this is my blog, and it is all about me, so I’ll take the chance and say the scary/uncouth/unpopular things.

When we were at WAM!, Dacia and I were having dinner that Friday night and talking about the different projects the “internet people” we know are working on. And tentatively I asked something like, “So, is it right for me to figure I’m one of these ‘internet people’ now? Am I a part of this group? I don’t know if I should say I am or not.” She said she thinks I am. So, I guess I am. It feels weird. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t claim it. Plus I’ve always had trouble “fitting in” anyway. But, I felt like I could ask Dacia, of all people, that question - since there we were, two “internet people” of varied levels of “internet famousness” (it’s all I can do to not laugh at myself for even dreaming of self-applying that term…) who have known each other since before either of us were “internet people.”

(Sorry for all the quotation marks.)

Melissa writes:

The women in tech I once looked to for support, though they may have once thought I was a cute enough anomaly to tolerate when I could be their Token Whore Speaker, are not the instant allies the web sisterhood wants you to believe they are. It’s not okay to say this, but I’m scared that for most women, period, feminism is no longer about breaking the rules men have set, but learning men’s rules well enough to seem like they’re playing along. But that’s probably exactly what some women think I’m doing when I take (or took) my clothes off for money. I’m out of reasons to explain why it wasn’t.

It makes me angry that she even would be expected to explain “why it wasn’t.” But we’ve been over that before.

There’s one thing in that quote that made me mentally yell, “NO!” Because, I don’t think that’s feminism. I don’t know what it is, but it’s certainly not the fault of feminism, no matter who might call it that. I’m a feminist, and no one will take that label from me; and I know that being a feminist means disavowing all the back-stabbing jealousy-driven tearing-down of each other so many women are prone to. I won’t lie and say I’ve never taken a jab at another woman’s appearance, for example. But I fucking will not do it anymore. I don’t know the last time I did it, but it wasn’t recently; and I regret that I ever did it at all. And I will fearlessly call out anyone, friend, ally, whoever, who does. Because that’s hypocritical behavior.

Just like looking down your nose at a woman for being a whore. That word. Always an insult. Always said with a sneer. “How dare she?”, the unspoken question.

BUT. I know the women Melissa’s talking about. Just like I wrote about above, that distrust is always in the back of my mind with them. Like the woman at ConvergeSouth who was so pleased with herself, saying some black professor likes her “because [she's] anti-racist” and then lecturing me about why Sex 2.0 can’t be called an unconference. The woman at BlogHer who accidentally sat down at the sex bloggers table and then desperately tried to find an excuse to leave. The guy at BarCamp Atlanta who made some STUPID STUPID crack about Sex 2.0 - thank you for reducing my heart and soul to something to be LAUGHED AT - and everyone in the room laughed like a goddamn adoloscent.

With these people, part of me is always so tempted to say I’m a sex worker and see what they say, how they react, so I can smack the FAIL stamp on them. I know this sentiment won’t be well-received by sex workers. I’m co-opting again, I know. And yet, that’s how I feel in those situations. That’s what I want to do, part of me. Our desires/feelings/gut instincts aren’t always (to use a phrase I HATE) politically correct, and there it is.

So I just… I don’t know where I’m even going. But Melissa, you have been writing stuff that could come straight from my soul, and just, thanks, I suppose.

Oh, one nitpick (related to a mythical Longer Post I keep threatening to write)…

Taylor talks about drag bombs, that he wished he could drop from the sky to hit people rushing head-down to their desks every morning.

I get it… the alt culture (or whatever you want to call ‘em, I really can’t think of a word that’s encompassing of all the diverse strands but I’m too tired/lazy to care right now) folks love to hate on desk job workers. We must be so miserable, working in our cubicles 8 hours a day, living the life we’re told to live, trying to convince ourselves that this is the American dream. We’re not FREE like they are, doing what they want, making things happen. Well guess what. If it’s true that “you are not your job,” I am not my job. And, further? I LIKE my job. In fact I would go so far as to say I LOVE my job. It is stability. It is a community. It is a place I enjoy being 40 hours a week. I left that job a while ago for what I thought were greener pastures, and came back. And now I’m not going anywhere. And I resent people who want to judge me for this, out of what smells to me like some kind of weird jealously or antagonistic reactionism (redundant?). They may say they’re FREE, but I hear “poor.” I will not live like that anymore. I don’t want that “freedom.” I grew up with that freedom, and it was crippling. And I’ve worked too damn hard to be fortunate enough now to have a job I truly enjoy to be dismissed as a “office drone” or some other slur.

Tangential rant over.

Ah, fuck… ENTIRE rant over! This has gotten way too long. More later, I’m sure.