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Today was somewhat ‘meh’. I had to wake up at 6 am to get a medical exam for a potential job (selling books… why do I have to get a physical for this?). I was and still am feeling sensitive about what I saw on Wednesday, so when I left the house in the morning and got the typical cat calls, it really hit a nerve.
Cat calls in Buenos Aires are surprisingly common. As a teen I’d felt somewhat uncomfortable by the creepy old men who continually greeted me (“helloooo”) on the street, but I could never tell whether they were being intentionally creepy or genuinely wanted to wish me a good day. It wasn’t until I moved here that I realised how often men make inappropriate comments to us as we’re walking along. I’ve brought it up to a number of women, but everyone has said to ignore it. “What’s the big deal?” they ask, “as long as you don’t pay them any attention…” In fact, I’ve heard women embrace it. A co-worker once told me, “When I don’t get any cat calls, I think ‘uh-oh’. It means something doesn’t look right that day.” I have to admit that I also slip into that mentality – when I don’t get any cat calls, I think back to this co-worker and wonder if I’m looking shitty.
We all know how objectifying it is, how problematic it is to be constantly under the male gaze, not to mention how sometimes the comments are offensive and hurtful, and how I’ve actually had men get up in my personal space. This ticks me off. But usually, I follow everyone’s advice and ignore it. For a while, I struggled with whether to hold a likely cat-caller’s gaze as a way of challenging him, daring him to call out, or whether to avert my eyes (usually by looking at the floor) and pretend I don’t hear or see anything. Here’s the thing: I’ve found that if you make eye contact with a sleaze ball on the street, even if you try to communicate defiance, they will likely take it as an invitation to call out to you. I find this problematic in and of itself. I don’t like feeling like I have to keep quiet, make myself small, and hope that no one says anything to make me feel uncomfortable. This behavior should be addressed and challenged, not ignored.
Anyway, the point is that today, I finally said something. On two separate occasions, men muttered “preciooosaa” at me as I walked from my house to the subway. The first time, I looked at the man with an expression on my face that clearly relayed my disapproval. The second time, I was so frustrated I swung around and made and angry grunting sound at him (hey, it was really early in the morning and words were not forthcoming). Then another man started talking to me on the way out of the subway. I didn’t want to be rude, so I answered his questions, but I did so curtly. I think it was pretty clear that I was uncomfortable with him. As soon as I could, I said “later” and sped up. But he caught up to me on the mechanical stairs. “No te despidas tan rapido” He said. Something about the way he said it seemed to relay his ownership over me, like he was saying “hey, I’m not done with you yet!” I ignored him. He muttered “preciosaaa”. Finally, I said “You know what, I don’t like being spoken to that way.” By then we were on the street and I walked away. I think I felt so frustrated and dis-empowered on Wednesday that I had to assert myself against this patriarchal and machista society someh0w.
I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. I often wonder what goes on in a man’s mind when he talks to a woman like that. Does he really think it will lead to anything? Is he trying to exert power over her? To show some dominance or sexual prowess? Does he actually think he is paying her a compliment? Making her feel good about herself? I’ve asked a few male friends what they think, but I know these are men who don’t act like this. So they don’t really know. I’ve decided that, if the opportunity arises again and I feel safe enough, I want to ask some guy all these questions after he’s cat-called me. Not in a confrontational way. I think if I understand what is going on, I can address it more effectively.
Also, I called the Buenos Aires goverment’s center for women to see if they could give my any advice, if they offered any support for battered women, of if they could do anything for this woman. They gave me the police’s number, a special number to report partner abuse (basically the same as the police number) and said they could offer counseling if the woman went in. So that wasn’t very helpful. Hopefully tomorrow I can check out the Asamblea Popular in my neighborhood. They might have some ideas, or know of organizations I could contact.
Well, that’s all. Here ends another post that is not about the moon or dreams.
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Today I witnessed a woman being abused by her partner. I have not been able to shake the feeling of rage and disgust all day.
I was on my way to the French boulangerie 6 blocks from my house, with the dog (attached to the leash) in hand. I was walking some twenty paces away from a couple: a blond woman, probably in her thirties and a man, same age, hair cut so short he was almost bald. I don’t know when or why I began to take notice. They were arguing. She was crying, sometimes sobbing high-pitched moans and gasps. She stopped for a moment and rested her head on the wall that lined the sidewalk. He came up behind her, grabbed her head, and said something into her ear.
The motion didn’t look like it hurt. He just held her head. But something in the way he did it was incredibly violent. At once, I knew he was abusive. She got away from the wall and kept walking. I can’t remember what I overheard. I think she may have called him an asshole. He hit her across the back of her head. In broad day light. In the middle of the street. He hit her and was not even ashamed of himself.
I was shocked, I was furious. I wanted to run up to him and beat the shit out of him. I wondered if I could get the dog to bite him. For a split second, I wondered what would happen if I stopped them then and there and confronted him. More violence. He might go berserk. I could get hurt. I could make it worse for her. So I just kept walking.
I was walking faster than they were, powered by adrenaline and the desire to DO something. He must have felt my presence or heard me, because he glanced over his shoulder, and caught my eyes boring into him. I wanted my eyes to communicate all of my disgust and disapproval. I wanted him to understand that that kind of behavior is not acceptable. And in a way, he did. He tried to reign in his voice. He slowed his pace. He let me move on. He called out to the girl, “Come here. Now. Come here.” But she kept walking.
I was walking beside her. In as low and subtle a way as I could I said, “You have rights.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Call the authorities if you have to.”
She said, “Don’t worry, I’m close to my house.”
I kept walking ahead of her. What else could I do? Had I just gotten her into more trouble? I hadn’t been any support at all.
From across the street, I saw her round the corner and slip into the first house on the block. She closed the door before the man made it there. For a second, I was relieved, but then of course he pulled out his own pair of keys and walked into the house.
I memorized the house number and street. I don’t know what to do. I thought about finding resources for battered women in Buenos Aires, going to the house and giving them to her. But I don’t know when she’s there, when he’s not. I don’t want to make things worse. I don’t want to get myself in trouble. If he’s a psychopath, he could get angry and come after me.
I don’t know… Anyone out there have any ideas on how to deal with a situation like this? Is there any way I can help? Should I just walk away?
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I sensed you were in the room again. Everything seemed to be playing itself out behind a gauze of warm light. Maybe that was the candles on the floor. But the sharpness of the red curtain against the creamy white walls and the deepest kind of blue night sky also alerted me to your presence.
Another indicator: I tingle. You’re like a limb coming back to life after the blood flow has been restored. Better yet, I feel you in my belly, in my rib cage, and my chest. You’ve made my cheeks redder and my neck longer. My eyes are as bright as the moon. I thrilled when I wondered how far things could go – we always form and reform our own boundaries. You are the hum of battery powered love, the stinging caress of hot wax….
The sweetest thing is that you’re not just in me. You’re in the funny way he holds his guitar, in her flat round features and how she bounces back and forth, singing and shaking her caxixi. You are in the small crowd, sitting on the floor along the wall. You are the way the song reverberates through the room pulling us all closer. We are a family in our own universe, if only for a moment.
I am not certain about anything. I don’t have any new answers. But, finally, these question marks feel less like impasses and more like possibilities.
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There once was a bird-boy who lived atop a tree, in a smallish bird-boy house. He had gray feathered wings and a sharp orange beak, and when he was 14 he began to grow feathers from his chest and chin too. He lived alone. During the sun’s brightest hours, when the lush, green grass shot up most proudly from under the wet, black dirt and the mat of brown pine leaves, he slept. With the curtains of his bird-boy house drawn tight, he slept. As the sun would set, he’d begin to stir. Every evening, he would serve himself a bowl of whole bran cereal and a small helping of SugarSurge Rats, his favorite brand of sugar-coated rat candy.
When the stars shone brightly, the bird-boy would put on his hoody and fly out into the forest. Each night held a new adventure. Still, there were some things he did often:
-Tag forest landmarks.
-Knock on the doors of rodents’ homes and run away when they got up to answer.*
-Skip rocks on Aguaverde Pond.
-Throw nuts and fruits at the 3 a.m. forest street cleaners.
-Sit shivering on the tree furthest from his house, where he could look out beyond the forest edge.
*Or alternately, pull off an elaborate prank in which he passed himself off as an undercover policeman and tried to convince the rodent at the door to let him into their house without a warrant.
Where his forest ended a vast ocean of grass swelled and rippled in the wind.
He had flown over it many times on commercial air flights. He had always enjoyed receiving his complementary bag of nuts, but that was about the best part of the trips. When he finally made it into the city, he hated it. He went to Vegas and New York, Amsterdam, to Buenos Aires, all of the places that teamed with lights and life in the dead of night. The first nights, he would strut the streets, flash a charming (if slightly vagrant) smile, and show his feathers off to tourists and locals alike. For five bucks, they were allowed to touch his wings. By the last nights, he would sit in his hotel room watching the Sci-fi channel and the free soft core porn on cable.
Once, he had been sitting at a run down all-night diner when a family of four came in. There was a father in his mid-forties, who wore light blue jeans and white sneakers, and was approximating rotundity. His eyes were red and squinted from driving over precarious dark roads. The mother wore a salmon covered polo shirt and khaki pants that puffed out at the waist. She was carrying a grumpy five year old boy in one arm and dragging a half sleeping girl in the other. They sat at the table beside the bird-boy’s. He couldn’t help but stare as the mother ordered for all of them. She made the girl get a salad to go with her burger instead of fries, and she refused to let the boy drink a coke so late at night. The father cut the boy’s food as the child dozed against the booth’s cushion. The bird-boy looked at the bottle of coke in front of him, then at his steak which he had not cut, but had pecked at halfheartedly. He felt desperately sad.
The little children were reviving. A low hum of voices began to emanate from the table. He shifted in his seat. He moved slightly further from the wall and slightly closer to their table. He half turned to them, opened his beak, then stopped. He wanted wanted to tell them that they looked beautiful together, that he had dreamed about them in his wildest dreams, he wanted to ask if he could sit with them. But he froze there, lost in doubt, until the mother began eying him with suspicion. Still, he looked at them, beak swinging half open, half shut. Slowly the rest of the family quieted and turned to look at him. A rush of panic pulled him back to life. There was no getting out of it now, they were expecting him to say something.
“What you looking at, old man?” He squawked at the father, “…” signaling vaguely at the ground below the table. He flung a $20 on his table, and stalked hastily into the parking lot. Later that night, he got in a fight with a leather studded punk outside a club. The father from the diner did not speak Bird. He thought the bird-boy had said he’d dropped something under the table. He crawled around on all fours for a good 3 minutes before giving up.
Now the bird boy does not waste money on trips across the Big Green. He prefers to sit on the edge of his branch and think things out.
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This year it was impossible for me to get my hands on a 2011 Slingshot day planner. Instead, I decided to buy a fairly plain one and decorate it myself. Inspired by my recent trip to Mexico, I decided to make it Quetzal/Quetzalcoatl themed.
Quetzals are beautiful birds that can be found in the tropical areas of North and Central America, namely in the South of Mexico and in Guatemala. Their name means “bird with precious plumage” in Nahuatl. The Quetzalcoatl was one of the principal Mesoamerican deities. He is part snake, part bird, where the snake represents life in a physical form (with all of the limitations that entails), and the bird represents spirituality.
I thought I’d share what my day planner looks like now:
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After the coed WCC session, I was hanging out with Max Berger and we both felt inspired so instead of watching TV we decided to write stuff. We each started with our own piece and after writing for a bit, we switched papers and continued the other person’s poem. What’s written in bold is Max’s, the other stuff is mine.
So this is what we got:
Trends
Palm trees curl
at the tips like
ice cream cones,
their tops are trolls’
hair, pulling upward
like arrows, grounded
only by little plastic diamonds
inserted at the belly button.
Silly dominos that fall one by one
to pieces of untouched Brie cheese.
Holes with no bottles taste
of cherry. Smiles of illusioned cellos
overlooking the distant shores of Capetown.
Mice hair spiked up in sea urchin fashion.
Smells wailing from
behind the kitchen door.
The scent of corrugated cardamom and
gun powder cinnamon
jumps up behind leg hairs
and arm hairs
till the strands stand at attention.
My leg has a crew cut of sorts.
Dance of the Geckos
Goose necks spring up for Weezer concerts.
The ducks smile back from the ponds behind bars.
They are silent, the music is still, we are all there
the lights shine brightly, reflecting off the pool
spliced in with images of newts swimming on by.
Thus, the stars and the eggs become one.
The fear of failure engulfs the life of all turtles
forcing them to stay hidden in their shells for eternity.
What a lost life.
If only they could peak out and see, in the moments before the battle explodes (in that still quiet of cautious stiffing and fluffing of downy feathers) that it is not really a battle, merely a dance about to begin.
Yes! A wonderful dance with choreographed somersaults and meticulously calculated kicks. That snapping bill was only a symbolic expression of the exploited rising up against their oppressors.
And where would the French philosophers be if they could just see how far their little rebellion minds have come.
The scales protecting algerian sooth
the claws of Aexandria’s walls
The cold blood within Gabon’s veins.
Just wait for the dinosaurs to rule once again
vicious teeth, slaves to no bond in which man has settled.
A couple of silly poems devoid of deep meaning, but still kinda cool!
