Archive for September, 2006

10.5 ounces of pure passion, pleasure, and pulchritude: a love story

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 10, 2006
in Athletics and Fitness and Clothing and Fashion
. 10 Comments

Well, I’m officially, madly, intensely, laugh-out-loud in love.  We only met on Friday afternoon, and this morning, we had a three and a half hour, 19-mile date to the top of Mt. Wilson and back.  I woke up this morning well before dawn, gently kissed my sleeping wife goodbye, and ran off with my new lovers.  Well, to put it more accurately, I ran with my new lovers on.Tn628_3159m

I have spent years looking for a truly lightweight trail-running shoe.  I’ve dreamed and dreamed about a racing flat that can handle the dirt.  I don’t like to wear a shoe that weighs more than eleven ounces, and I am fortunate enough that my body can easily handle a light shoe that doesn’t offer a lot of cushioning or motion control.  I’ve spent years destroying my regular road shoes by taking them up in the mountains, through streams, over rocks.  I’m lucky if they last 250 miles in the backcountry, which meant a new pair of trainers every six weeks.  That gets expensive.  But I refused to wear the big, clunky, trail shoes.  They felt like combat boots.  So, I wasted money and fantasized about the perfect fit.

At last, at last, I’ve found the absolutely perfect shoe.  Ask anyone who runs seriously; the search for the dream shoe is an endless one (largely because manufacturers tend to discontinue one’s favorites every few years).    I wouldn’t accept advertising on this blog from most sources, but if Asics wants to advertise their gorgeous, perfect, incredibly sexy Gel Trail Attack IIs here at my eponymous site, I’ll let ‘em do it for free. (Yes, orange and blue shoes are sexy.  Ask my family and friends who went to the University of Virginia.)  In a decade or so of serious running, I have worn many brands and models, but I have never instantly bonded with a shoe as I have with the Trail Attacks.  I know that love at first sight isn’t supposed to happen to old married guys, but it has happened to me and I am deliriously happy.

I took four minutes off my best time, round trip, this morning.  Some of that credit goes to the training, some to the footwear.

If my wife would let me wear my new shoes to bed, I would.  Well, maybe not, but I’ll let them rest right beneath my bedside table where I can gaze at them fondly and pat them lovingly when she’s not looking.

A long post about mental illness and transformation: replying to the Happy Feminist

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 8, 2006
in Addiction and mental illness and Memories
. 17 Comments

I’m a bit nervous about putting this post out there. Here goes.

On Tuesday, the Happy Feminist wrote a long and powerful post about her gradual realization that her father meets the clinical conditions for Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  As often happens after a diagnosis is made (or at least conjectured), the person making the diagnosis (in this case, Happy Feminist) experiences the tremendous relief that comes from having everything suddenly make much more sense.  Happy writes very candidly and eloquently about her experiences growing up with a profoundly narcissistic father, and I honor her honesty and her forthrightness.   Happy concludes her post:

I guess this post has turned into something of a therapy session but if feels so good to have a coherent explanation for things that were not only hurtful, but awfully confusing to me as a young kid.  And the other good part is that I am feeling the first stirring of pity I have ever felt for this person.  Being a narcissist sounds like it is ultimately even more miserable for the narcissist than for anyone else.  The narcissist’s fear of rejection causes him to behave in ways that ultimately lead others to reject him.  It’s an awful cycle, a terrible self-fulfilling prophecy. And there is no hope for the guy because he will never in a million years admit the underlying problem.

I left a comment beneath that post that sparked another post from HF today.  What I wrote was:

From the other side of the coin: years ago, I was diagnosed with a whole "personality disorder cluster". This was back in the days of the DSM-III, and I was one self-destructive, self-involved, egocentric puppy. One shrink had me pegged as "narcissistic personality disorder/borderline personality disorder" with (drumroll…) "psychotic features."

I don’t think the good doc was far from the mark. I also worked my ass off in therapy and had a religious conversion, and while I can’t say I’m free from narcissism altogether, I’m a damn sight better off than I was. Change does happen, though it is always a matter of both grace and willingness.

I’m grateful that HF responded well to that.

One rather obvious distinguishing characteristic of this blog is my repeated insistence that human beings, particularly men (the sub group of humans with whom I am personally far more familiar, having lived as one for nearly forty years) are capable of far more dramatic change than many think possible.  I know that some of my readers find my repeated "calls to transformation" to be tiresome, repetitive, and annoying.  I have no doubt that some folks who might otherwise have become regular visitors to this blog have left in exasperation, because my conviction that we can and should transform is so obvious and so heavy-handed.  Trust me, I’m working to tone it down.

Obviously, at least in the blogosphere (but not in the classroom), I rely a good deal on my own personal experience.  I often allude to a troubled past, sometimes only in generalities.  (I call it "colorful" too often.)  I don’t like sharing details out of respect for the people in my life who read this blog, and out of respect for the fact that my underage youth groupers are also regular visitors.

But my belief that self-destructive, self-absorbed, clinically narcissistic men can become radically new people is born of personal experience.  As I wrote at Happy’s place, I’ve got lots of experience with the mental health system.  Between 1987 and 1998, I was hospitalized six times against my will.  My behavior had become so unstable in one way or another that I was a danger to myself and to others, and I was "placed on hold" in a variety of public and private locked wards.  Four times I was released within 72 hours, but on the other occasions my holds were extended, as I presented a continuing danger to myself and to those around me.  At my nadir, I narrowly avoided a court hearing that could have resulted in me being placed on a conservatorship, with another adult making long-term vital decisions about my care.

The episodes that preceded these hospitalizations were dramatic, pathetic, and characterized by violence and histrionics.  Alcohol and drugs were involved a couple of times, but not always.  But for years and years, even when I wasn’t getting hospitalized, I struggled with poor impulse control, with profound and obsessive self-involvement, and deep, agonizing despair.   Though my serious battles with mental illness first manifested when I was a nineteen year-old sophomore, I managed to graduate from college, go to grad school, finish a variety of degrees, and get a full-time job.  I also got married twice in those bizarre and turbulent years. I was very much a "Jekyll and Hyde"; polite, easy-going, and self-effacing in public and incapacitated with fear, rage, self-loathing, and pain when alone.

I can’t count all the therapists I saw in those years.  In and out of hospitals, I saw psychiatrists and social workers, MFCCs, MFTs, LCSWs, MDs, Ph.Ds.  I got many diagnoses, but usually I got hit with what I mentioned at Happy’s place: a particular cluster of personality disorders.  If you read the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, I was usually described as having a heavy-duty case of "cluster B’ disorders: Narcissistic, Antisocial, and above all, Borderline Personality Disorder.  Lots of summaries are out there, but this jives with what I usually saw written on my medical records (I always kept copies of my medical records, and for years studied them with obsessive fascination):

Antisocial: This personality disorder is characterized by irresponsibility, inability to feel guilt or remorse for actions that harm others, frequent conflicts with people and social institutions, the tendency to blame others and not learn from mistakes, low frustration tolerance, and other behaviors that indicate a deficiency in socialization. Less-precise labels psychopathic personality, psychopath, and sociopath are often used as synonyms.

Borderline: This personality disorder is characterized by some of the following symptoms and traits: deeply ingrained and maladaptive patterns of relating to others, impulsive and unpredictable behavior that is often self-destructive, lack of control of anger, intense mood shifts, identity disturbance and inconsistent self-concept, manipulation (form of coping) of others feelings for short-term gain, and chronic feelings of boredom and emptiness.

Bold emphases are mine.  Doctors frequently added phrases I remember vividly, like "with psychotic features or "prone to micro-psychotic episodes." 

These descriptions were me, completely and utterly and unmistakably.   Those who know me now will surely think I exaggerate.  But ask my first wife.  Ask my second wife.  Ask a great many other women I dated in that time period.  Ask the friends with whom I spent every waking moment for a month, and then cut dead without reason or explanation.   My first two wives were both undergrad psych majors.  My first wife was the first to call me a sociopath, but not the last. And though at times I would be crippled by guilt, for extended stretches (months), I would pass through my life as if in a dream, caring no more for those who loved me or needed me than for perfect strangers.  (Actually, like Happy’s Dad, I was often much more concerned with perfect strangers, the sort who wouldn’t actually make demands on me, than I was with wives, lovers, friends or family.)

And pharmaceuticals?  Don’t get me started.  Forget what I took illegally, I can remember being prescribed (at various times, for various reasons): Elavil; Anafranil; Lithium (for three years); Prozac (with the lithium);  Haldol (tough to write a graduate paper on Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo while whacked out on Haldol, but it can be done); Wellbutrin; Thorazine( can’t write a paper on that, though I tried); Klonopin (my favorite, yum); Valium; Buspar.  I got addicted to benzodiazepines fast, and getting off those — well, let’s say that’s the toughest drug I’ve ever had to kick.  I am sure there were other meds I was on, but don’t remember. If you know anything about psychotropic drugs, you can tell that they were trying to treat multiple different things in very different ways.

My spiritual rebirth, which began after a June 1998 suicide attempt, changed me at my core.  I have no clinical or rational explanation for what happened.  I know only that in despair in what I believe will be the last ward I will ever be locked in, I got on my knees and asked God to take over my life.  I had prayed those words in a similar posture before, but never with such abject despair, such brokenness, such certainty that I was close to death.  And though I didn’t get a white light right away, I got a sense of peace that has only grown and deepened.

But God coming into my life did not make my personality disorders and addictions magically disappear.  God’s grace enabled me to get quiet and still enough to do the work I needed to do to transform.  His grace also gave me the sense that it was possible to achieve lasting, enduring change.  I went to therapy still (for four years after my rebirth), but this time, I worked and didn’t play games.  I went to twelve step meetings.  I began going to church.  I went through a prolonged period of voluntary celibacy.  I prayed constantly.  I began working out more intensely.  And the changes in my character, in my heart, in my world view began to come.  They are still coming.

I know we live in a confessional age.  We’re cynical about "once was lost, now I’m found" narratives, and rightly so!  We’ve heard them too often, and we’ve been burned by the likes of the lamentable James Frey.  But if the alternative to conversion/transformation narratives is a sense of helplessness about the possibility of real change, I’d rather the marketplace continue to be flooded with stories of hard-won miracles.  In some ways, my story is fairly mundane; in other ways, it’s fairly dramatic.  And if nothing else, my story makes clear to me (and perhaps to others) that addictions, personality disorders, and mental illnesses can — through a combination of grace and exhaustive, long-term effort, be overcome.   Especially with mental illness, a clinical diagnosis only describes the past and the present, not the future.   Where there is even a tiny spark of willingness to change (and inside some pretty rotten, crazy people, that spark can be found), there is reason to hope.  I don’t write to give false hope to those who love the mentally ill and the chronically addicted.  But as one who has worn the handcuffs, felt the restraints, been locked away and medicated to the point of incontinence again and again, been divorced multiple times, and spent tens of thousands on therapists, I know that change can happen.

When I was in the grips of my narcissism, I thought I was the exception to all the rules.  Today, I know that I am just another man with just another story.  I may still be a wee bit more neurotic than the average bear, but I’m not the volatile self-mutilating sociopath of my youth, either! I may never fully understand all the details of my earlier condition or of my conversion experience.  But I know that if change could happen in my life, well, it can happen for others.

Friday Random Ten: hard to be randomer

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 8, 2006
in Friday Random Ten
. 1 Comment

This week’s FRT has seven of my tunes, two that belong to my wife, and one of indeterminate origin (in other words, I can’t remember which one of us downloaded it).  I will be very surprised if any of my readers have ever heard of the first track, which was the #1 song in Austria in the summer of 1983. (A summer I spend in the city of my father’s birth, and where I fell — rather pathetically and tragically — in love for the first time).    #4 is an old favorite, and #6 has become my favorite song from one of my favorite artists. 

1.  "Codo",  Et Cetera  (unless you know early ’80s Austrian pop, you’ve never heard this — guaranteed)
2.  "Somebody Got Murdered". The Clash
3.  "Bad Reputation", Joan Jett
4.  "Miller’s Cave", International Submarine Band (Gram Parsons)
5.  "Beautiful", Snoop Dogg
6.  "The Back of Your Hand", Dwight Yoakam
7.   "I’m Still In Love with You", Sean Paul
8.  "Thief", Third Day
9.  "The Lion and the Unicorn", The Men they Couldn’t Hang
10.  "Wisemen", James Blunt

Bonus Track: "Dirty Blvd.", Lou Reed

“No right to be assumed harmless”: more on men and suspicion

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 7, 2006
in Men and Masculinity
. 89 Comments

The Carnival of the Feminists #22 is up at Redemption Blues.  Lots of good things to read.

In my "letter to a young pro-feminist" post of yesterday, I wrote:

Don’t be hurt or frustrated if you encounter people who are initially suspicious of your professed egalitarianism.  In our deeply sexist culture, men are "guilty until proven innocent."  That’s our own damned fault, frankly, and the sooner we cheerfully accept the burden of proving ourselves innocent, the better off we’re all going to be.  (I’ve blogged about this before.)

Rex commented:

I really can’t agree with you on "guilty until proven innocent". Males are not born sexists, homophobes, rapists, or what have you.

Sorry, but I’ve read far too many articles and reports about countries and cities in those countries where "guilty until proven innocent" is the default operating standard and it’s nothing short of hell.

And Jeremy replied, nicely:

Yes, the principle "innocent until proven guilty" is vital to a free society, but it only applies if you are in court being charged with a crime… you do *not* have the right to be assumed harmless. If I’m walking home late at night and a woman takes the trouble to keep her distance from me, well, it really sucks that she’s acting as though I’m a potential threat but guess what, I just have to deal with it. I *don’t* have the right to demand that a passing stranger treats me the way I would prefer them to.

The bold emphasis is mine, not Jeremy’s. It’s an important point he makes, and a good one.

I wrote nearly two years ago about the frustration of the "good guy" who is judged by the actions of others.  I wrote:

First of all, the obvious point is that women’s intuition, while not entirely the stuff of myth, is not so powerful that it can automatically separate "good guys" from the bad. No woman can walk down the street and as she passes a man, know with certainty that he isn’t a threat. Given the high incidence of rape and assault and harassment and other forms of mistreatment, a woman would be a fool to leave herself continually vulnerable. The old adage "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me" seems to apply here. When a simple smile is so frequently misunderstood and construed as a sexual invitation, American women generally do have to operate on the assumption that men are guilty until proven innocent. 

I stand by that today.

When I hear my brothers complaining that women don’t smile enough at them, or don’t respond to their "innocent hellos", I am reminded of my white friends who are bewildered and indignant when people of color point out their white privilege to them.   Men who complain about being "guilty until proven innocent" are demanding to be seen as individuals, separate from their perceived sex and the history that goes with it.

While "innocent until proven guilty" is an excellent guideline for courtroom proceedings, it doesn’t translate nearly as effectively into public life and relations between the sexes.  When men complain that women are suspicious of their intentions merely because they are men, they are forcing women into the role of the district attorney, the one shouldered with the burden of proving guilt.  In a society where women, rather than men, are overwhelmingly the victims of harassment and assault, those who have suffered most are the ones being asked to lay aside their prior experience and knowledge and approach each new male in their lives with a blank slate, free from judgment.   That’s a hell of a weight to ask women to carry, and a hell of a risk to ask them to take, again and again and again.

In our culture, where rape and harassment and abuse are so common, men have lost the right (if it ever existed) to insist that women should be able to differentiate (in a matter of seconds) between the harmless and the threatening.   A man is entitled to a presumption of innocence from a jury in a courtroom, but not from his classmate with whom he tries to strike up what she ought to know is just an innocent conversation!

Is it frustrating to be viewed with suspicion merely because of one’s sex?  Heck yes. (Is it frustrating to be viewed as a sexual object merely because one is young and female?  Ask around.)  Men ought to be angry that they need to "prove their harmlessness".  Indeed, they ought to be enraged!  But our anger is rightly directed not at women who have been the victims (individually and collectively) of predatory males, but at those men who have "poisoned the well" for everyone else.  Rather than demand that women "smile more" or "trust more" or "just know that I’m a good guy", men need to channel their frustration at being "pre-judged" into a commitment to end what it is that causes women’s suspicion in the first place.   

Holding other men accountable, challenging sexist and objectifying language and behavior in yourself and in other males (whether or not women are around) is the single most effective thing men can do to change the culture of "guilty until proven innocent."  Rape, assault, and harassment are allowed to flourish not merely through the actions of a few "bad apples", but through the unwillingness of the "nice guys" to challenge other men.  Silence is, in practical terms, tacit consent and approval. 

There’s more to being a "good guy" than not raping women.  Good guys hold themselves and other men accountable, in public and in private.  That’s a high standard to meet, particularly for the young.  But it’s only by meeting that standard that men can help to change the culture.

Thursday Short Poem: Smith’s “Alone in the Woods”

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 7, 2006
in Poetry
. Closed

I’ve been trying to think of poets whom I admire whose work I’ve never selected for a Thursday Short Poem. One who came to mind this week is the late Stevie Smith.  I don’t like all of her stuff, but she has some gems, and this is one of them.  It reminds me a bit of some of the work of my favorite misanthrope, Robinson Jeffers, who often celebrated nature over humankind.  (I’ve had his work up many times, especially this beloved tribute to my home, one of the two poems I want read at my funeral).  In putting up this poem, I think momentarily of the endearing, often buffoonish antics of the late Steve Irwin, who died in nature, struck by a creature apparently alarmed at his "fuss and his fume."

Alone in the Woods

Alone in the woods I felt
The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees
Nature has taught her creatures to hate
Man that fusses and fumes
Unquiet man
As the sap rises in the trees
As the sap paints the trees a violent green
So rises the wrath of Nature’s creatures
At man
So paints the face of Nature a violent green.
Nature is sick at man
Sick at his fuss and fume
Sick at his agonies
Sick at his gaudy mind
That drives his body
Ever more quickly
More and more
In the wrong direction.

Taking the “no scale” pledge, and a gym endorsement

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 6, 2006
in Athletics and Fitness
. 10 Comments

First off this evening, I’ve gotten a few comments this week from John Swapceinski, the founder of Rate My Professors, below this post.  He’s defending RMP, and I’m honored (genuinely) that he stopped by.

This is the week we find out the truth.  Over the summer, I decided to try and kick my diet and exercise level up another notch.   I added another day of Pilates, kept three days a week of boxing classes, tried some new lifting routines, and upped my running mileage back up to around 45 miles per week.  My body has gotten much stronger and harder in the past two months, but at the price of a huge time commitment.  That was easy on a summer school routine, but now things get dicier: I’ve got seven classes to teach, my volunteer youth ministry picks up again, and I want to spend good quality time with my wife.  And I really want to find a way to average at least 7 hours of sleep per night.

I’ll report whether I can keep this up.

Whatever I’ve been doing diet wise and exercise wise, it’s working.  Though I am not as fast as I was in my hardcore running days of the late 1990s, I’m carrying much more lean muscle.  I feel fitter than I ever have.  And — this is the best of all — I  haven’t had a cold in months.  For years, I got a cold every couple of weeks (possibly because I was too thin and living off Power Bars and Diet Coke).   Now, I’m getting lots more fresh veggies, am pumping in lots of soy product and vegetarian protein supplements, and I feel great.

I’ve decided to take a break, however, from getting on the scale.  After all these years, I still have to fight against my compulsiveness and my anxiety.  The scale and the mirror are both triggers for me at times.  Years ago, when I was going through a particularly hard time around body issues, I had to take a "no-scale, no being naked in front of the mirror pledge".  The latter may seem particularly silly, but as embarrassing as it is to admit, I still battle "body image dysmorphia" day in and day out.  I’m no longer starving myself or mutilating my flesh, and that’s a plus. I like my body a lot these days.  But I realize I am in a better position to love it when I don’t study it too closely, or weigh myself too often.

I wonder — has my father’s death in June contributed to this noticeable uptick in an already exhausting workout schedule?  Am I avoiding productive grieving through exercise addiction, or am I appropriately channeling my pain into something healthy?

In any event, after once last climb on the scale this afternoon (177.7 pounds), I’m taking the pledge: no scales for the rest of 2006.  I see a few of my students and friends at the gym, and they see me.   A couple of them read this blog.  If you see me heading for the scale, folks, please feel free to stage an intervention!  I’ll buy you coffee if you do!

Oh, and let me make a plug for my boxing gym, which has just moved to a new location.  Pepe and Mauricio, who run Classic Kick Boxing, are two dear and amazing men; they’ve become good friends to us.  If you live in the Pasadena area and want to try learning this remarkable sport (or just want to get in better shape), give these lads a call.  In six months, they’ve given me a lot of laughs, made me sweat, and given me a pretty damn hard left hook.

A Letter From a Young Pro-Feminist: Responding to Ryan

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 6, 2006
in Feminism and Men's Movement
. 23 Comments

(Note: I’m experimenting with writing longer posts without sticking key phrases in bold.  Long-time readers are welcome to weigh in on whether or not they find the presence or absence of bold type preferable.) 

While I was on "blog hiatus" last month, I received this e-mail from a fellow named Ryan:

Hi. I am a 17-year old teenage male living near Los Angeles. I am emailing you today because I have had a set of questions floating around in my head ever since I decided to become a feminist a few days ago, but especially since reading " Some thoughts on pro-feminism, young men, and always taking women’s emotional temperature."

I want to know why you think a man should call himself "pro-feminist" instead of just "feminist?" What do you think about having both words subsumed under the term "gender egalitarianism?" I’ve often thought of just calling myself that, but that would be different because if people (including people who are at least somewhat sexist but don’t really know it or think it) would simply think "Oh, I’m a gender egalitarian as well," when really they would not likely share with me a radical conception of gender equality…

How should I confront others (guys and girls) when they do or say sexist things? I once called someone who said something sexist outright a sexist. She didn’t understand at first, and I had to explain it to her. The exchange, in retrospect, was less than adequate. How should I have responded?

How ought I go about finding relationships with less-sexist or perhaps even outright feminist girls at this stage and when I get to college?

Gosh, Ryan sounds a lot like some of the boys I know in my All Saints youth group!  He asks some important questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them.  (Forgive the "Rilke-esque" title of the post).

1.  I use the term "pro-feminist" because when I was first coming into the men’s movement, that was the term that was used by the men I most respected.  The leading organization of "feminist men" in the USA remains NOMAS (National Organization for Men Against Sexism); they identify themselves as "pro-feminists."  The term is used also by Michael Kimmel, whose work (particularly his magisterial Manhood in America) has more or less single-handedly created the academic field of men’s studies.

Another wonderful Michael, Australian Michael Flood, has a handy-dandy "FAQs about Pro-Feminist Men" available on his website.  In response to the same question Ryan asks, Flood writes:

Feminism is a movement and a body of ideas developed primarily by, for and about women. Men can never fully know what it is like to be a woman. If we call ourselves "feminists", we run the risk of colonising feminism or looking like we’re saying we’ve got all the answers.

Some feminist women argue that men CAN call themselves feminists, as long as they live up to the same standards as women who are feminists — to support the equality of women and men. Nevertheless, most pro-feminist men use the label "pro-feminist" rather than "feminist". We believe that there is plenty men can and should do to support feminism, and we don’t need to call ourselves "feminists" to do it.

I certainly don’t correct men who self-describe as feminists.  But for all of these reasons, I prefer to call myself "pro-feminist."

2.  As for calling other people — men or women, young or old — on their sexism, that’s a tricky one.  Indeed, the post of mine that Ryan mentions earned me a lot of criticism for "going too easy" on a young man struggling with his own sexist behavior.  I wish, Ryan, I had an easy "how to" manual to make confronting sexism easier!  Here are some general guidelines:

a.  Before you challenge a sexist remark or bring up someone else’s misogynistic behavior, make sure you are clear about what you want to say.  Simply announcing "That’s sexist!" isn’t going to be helpful if you don’t have a clear response to the inevitable riposte of "Why?"  With a friend, it’s often better to bring up the offense at a later time, after you’ve had the opportunity to reflect on exactly what it is that you found so troublesome about their words or their actions.

b .  Recognize that for a man to call a woman on her own sexism is highly problematic from a feminist standpoint. This does not mean that pro-feminist men can never criticize women’s words or behaviors!  It does mean that we have to recognize that one of the features of a sexist culture is that it gives men permission to evaluate women without their consent.  If a young man (or a man of any age, really) starts writing up "sexism tickets" and giving them to his female friends, he risks a profound disconnect between his beliefs and his behavior.  Whatever the nobility of his intentions, his actions will very likely come across as paternalistic, patronizing, and (not surprisingly), chauvinistic.  Sometimes it’s better to begin by asking questions, trying to discover the intent of the person who made the sexist remark.  Frequently, just by allowing folks to talk out loud about their beliefs, you’ll find the right "trail-head" into a productive discussion.

3.  Ryan’s third question is about meeting young feminist women now, while he is presumably still in high school, and later when he gets to college.  It’s an important question.  While I suppose it is possible that some men adopt pro-feminism as a guise, hoping to use a facade of sensitivity in order to meet more women, most young men like Ryan don’t see anti-sexism as a strategy to get laid.  At the same time, no matter how sincere their politics, young people do want to meet prospective romantic partners who share at least some of their views.  So here’s what I’d say to Ryan:

Congratulations on making a commitment at a young age to living out an anti-sexist, pro-feminist life.  That’s very commendable.  As you probably are already aware, many people (both men and women alike) will view your decision to "come out" as a feminist man (or a "gender egalitarian",if that’s the term you end up using) with derision or suspicion.  You may encounter people who will ridicule you, question your masculinity, and question your motives.  They will insinuate that you are gay, or that you are just trying to get laid, or that you are filled with toxic self-loathing.  You must remember that every man who does public anti-sexist work is hit with one or all of these accusations.  You aren’t alone.

One obvious way to meet like-minded young men and women is to take courses on women’s studies or gender.  Most colleges have such courses, and while you are still in high school, you can enroll (ahem!) in your local community college. You’ll meet lots of folks close to your own age who share some of your views.  It can be enormously refreshing and liberating to feel surrounded by folks who believe as you do, particularly when you come out of a place (like your average American high school) where your beliefs have set you radically apart from your peers.

You can do volunteer work.  Right now, Feminist Majority has a Feminist Campus project with a Student Action Network.  They even have a Feminist High School Project!  Check it out!

Trust me on this: there are many young feminist women out there eager to meet young pro-feminist men.  Obviously, for a number of reasons, you may have to spend some time "proving" your feminist bona fides.  It’ll quickly be clear whether you can "talk the talk", but feminism is also about "walking the walk" in public — and in private.  Don’t be hurt or frustrated if you encounter people who are initially suspicious of your professed egalitarianism.  In our deeply sexist culture, men are "guilty until proven innocent."  That’s our own damned fault, frankly, and the sooner we cheerfully accept the burden of proving ourselves innocent, the better off we’re all going to be.  (I’ve blogged about this before.)

In any event, Ryan, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.  I’m grateful that you wrote to me, and I ask you to keep in touch.  Peace, my brother, and courage.

“I feel…”: the introduction of emotion in the classroom

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 5, 2006
in Feminism, Feminist Pedagogy and Teaching
. 28 Comments

This morning, I gave my first full lecture in my women’s history course. In a course that is supposed to cover women in American society from the pre-Columbian period to the present, I have precious little time to deal with Native American women. I pick and choose anecdotes from a few important tribal groups: the Iroquois (we discuss their "menstrual temples") and the Arapaho (we talk about their apparent belief that a woman who died in childbirth deserved the same honors as a warrior slain on the battlefield). It’s challenging stuff, and I confess I go through it fairly quickly.

After about thirty minutes of lecture, I stop the class and ask if there any questions.  After dealing with those, I ask something else: I ask the students to talk about how the material we’ve just covered makes them feel. I stress that I’m not asking for intellectual analysis (that comes on the papers and the exams); I’m not asking for original insight. I’m asking for gut-level emotional responses.  At first the students seem shocked by the question, but pretty quickly they get rolling:

"I’m angry that I never learned this stuff until I was in college."  "I’m sad about the fact that my mother never taught me about menstruation, and she always shames me for it even now."  "I’m excited to think that there’s a completely different way to think about issues of reproduction, life and death."

The deliberate introduction of "feelings" and "emotions" into a classroom is controversial.   Many of my colleagues assume that the primary job of the professor is to impart information and teach students to reason.   Developing critical thinking skills, they argue, involves teaching students to restrict their emotional responses to the material.  "Feelings are not facts", we are supposed to say, urging our students to adopt the dispassionate "view from nowhere."

Many of my colleagues who teach women’s history or gender studies are ambivalent about encouraging strong expressions of emotion in the classroom.  They are fearful that the academic validity of their courses will be called into question if they value feelings as much as rational arguments in class discussions.  A classic criticism of women’s studies is that as a subject, it lacks intellectual heft; encouraging students to explore their emotional responses seems to add fuel to the anti-feminist fire.

I’m willing to defend the intellectual credibility of my sylllabus.  My past women’s history students will assure any doubters that the course is rigorous and demanding (three major papers, journals, a final).  But they will also admit that I push my students very, very hard emotionally. The feminist journey is not just a cognitive one that happens from the neck up — it is one that is felt in the heart and in the bowels.

I’ve often felt that I have an easier time integrating a discussion of emotion and feeling into class discussion than do some of my female colleagues.  It’s not that they don’t teach the same subject at least as well! It’s that when female teachers invite students to share their feelings, they risk being stereotyped as soft and insufficiently rigorous.   Though my MRA critics are surely convinced that I am intellectually soft, I worry less about their opinion than those of my colleagues and my students.  And I find that in both student and peer evaluations, the willingness to encourage emotional work in an academic setting is quite well-received.  I suspect that at least to some degree, my maleness allows me to "get away with" challenging traditional pedagogical rules.

I always put time limits on the "feeling discussion."   There’s a clear line between a classroom and the Oprah show, and though I am willing to walk up to that line, I’m not willing to cross it completely.  Those students who are made uncomfortable by blunt and powerful expressions of emotion from their classmates deserve some protection as well!

Thanks, Officer Watkins: reflections on getting a ticket.

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 5, 2006
in Class and Politics
. 17 Comments

This morning on my way to the college, I got my first ticket in a dozen years.

Exiting the 210 freeway, I failed to come to a complete stop while making an otherwise legal "right on red" onto Hill Avenue.  Seconds later, I saw the Pasadena Police  motorcycle behind me, red lights a-flashing.  Instantly, I felt my heart begin to race.  There’s something about being pulled over that’s enormously anxiety-producing! 

But as I brought my car to a stop, I said to myself: "Hugo, you absolutely deserve this ticket.  You know what you did, you’ve done it a thousand times before without being stopped, and it’s high time you got slapped for it."  As I was taught to do by my high school driver’s ed teacher, I kept my hands on the wheel until the officer (a very nice fellow named Watkins) got to my window.  I gave him my license and registration, and answered the inevitable question: "Do you know why I stopped you?"

"Yes", I told him.  "I made a right on red without coming to a full stop."

"That’s right", Officer Watkins said.  "Why didn’t you stop?"

For about one thousandth of a second, I thought about making up some sort of fanciful story.  I thought about techniques I’ve heard for talking your way out of a ticket.  (Mind you, I’ve been pulled over a few times before and let off with a warning.)  But this morning, I knew damned well I deserved the ticket, and I gave Mr. Watkins the only possible, plausible answer:

"I wasn’t paying attention. It’s completely my fault."

I remember the last time I got a ticket: it was September 1994, and I was living in West Los Angeles.  I was pulled over for rolling through a stop sign just north of Santa Monica Boulevard. I deserved that ticket too.  In the twelve years since then, I’ve driven at least 200,000 miles in the USA and Britain.  I’ve owned or leased four or five cars, and rented dozens.  And I’ve broken the speed limit thousands of times, rolled through thousands of stop signs, made at least eight hundred unsafe lane changes, failed to yield, failed to signal, failed to wear my seatbelt.  All without being ticketed once.  Based on the accumulated weight of my motoring sins, I earned today’s citation ten thousand times over!

After Officer Watkins had given me my ticket, I thanked him.  I made sure to do so after I had signed the citation, so he would not confuse my gratitude with an effort to talk my way out of the consequences of my errors.  I told him, honestly, that I had needed a "wake up call."  I also told him that I appreciated the work that he and his fellow officers did, and that I hoped that he would have a safe and happy day.  Had I been in my home town on the Monterey Peninsula, I would have offered my hand — but I decided against it this morning.  In any event, I wanted to make it clear to him that at least one person he pulled over today was grateful to be held accountable, and thankful for these men and women who do such a thankless and yet necessary job.  As a traffic cop, you meet a lot of people — very few of whom are happy to make your acquaintance.  I was happy to meet Officer Watkins this morning, and I wanted him to know that.

I’ll pay the ticket gladly when it comes.  It’s not that I enjoy paying fines, mind you.  But I know that the money I will pay will go to help support vital services in the county and the community.   I know that I have deserved innumerable citations in the past for unsafe decisions I’ve made behind the wheel from Pasadena to Perthshire, Carmel to Carmarthen, Fort Lauderdale to Fort William. Whatever the cost of this ticket, it’s a small price to pay for my many mistakes in the past.  And if it has the effect I hope it has, it will remind me to be a more attentive driver.

Officer Watkins, you may just have saved my life and the lives of those whom I love.  Thanks.

Anniversary acorns

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 3, 2006
in Athletics and Fitness and Marriage
. 5 Comments

This morning, I did a very early run from the Eaton Canyon Preserve parking lot to the top of the Winter Creek trail on Mt. Wilson; it’s a solid 15-16 miles.  (First half all uphill, second half, all down).  I got a bit altitude sick, even though I turned around at about 5000 feet elevation.  I start to get light-headed at a mile high, which makes me quite a "lightweight" in the eyes of my friends.  I ran alone, always a questionable decision in the mountains, and it was very hot even at dawn.  I could feel the arriving humidity from Hurricane John as I climbed towards the summit.

But I don’t blog on a Sunday to share details of the run.  On my ascent I noticed these two spectacular and very large acorns, still on the branch, lying on the trail directly in front of me.  Anniversary_acorns (Click to enlarge the picture.)

I brought them home for my wife.  Tomorrow, September 4, is our first wedding anniversary; it has been a joyous, challenging, remarkable year.  I am blessed beyond all measure and beyond deserving.  The acorns will go on our bedside table.

A very long post about male self-loathing, popular music, and passive-aggressively defusing women’s anger

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 1, 2006
in Men and Masculinity, Music and Relationships
. 53 Comments

One more post on this Friday afternoon.  Nothing again until Tuesday.

I think this post may be an important one.  (Warning: lots of profanity a-comin’.)

The writing project I am working on at the moment concerns a book about men, certainty, and accountability.  It’s slow going; writing a book proposal and sample chapters is different from blogging!  Still, I’m getting some good ideas and some good support, and in due course, this project is going to turn out well.  I am quietly confident of that.

I go back and forth between playing music while I write.  When I blog from home, I just open our Itunes account and let the party shuffle bring out a gloriously random mix.  When I need to do some serious writing, I turn down the sound to minimize the noise that goes into my head.  But just before I sat down to write, two songs I’ve recently downloaded came on, back to back: James Blunt’s "Goodbye My Lover" and Blue October’s "Hate Me."  Both songs have been getting quite a bit of airplay, and they were catchy enough that I paid $.99 each for ‘em.

In both songs, the male singer seems to be cataloging his own shortcomings.  As popular and over-played as his music is, there’s something seductive about Blunt’s material, and his "Goodbye My Lover" ends:

Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
I’m so hollow, baby, I’m so hollow.
I’m so, I’m so, I’m so hollow.

The "Hate Me" song concludes:

And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered “How can you do this to me?”

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
For you
For you
For you

And so here I was, trying to write my damned chapter, and all I could think of us how angry these two songs were making me.  Mind you, I paid for ‘em, and they are fine tunes.  But in our contemporary culture, the last thing we need is more celebration of male weakness!   

I admit that as I age, I’ve grown less and less interested in what’s on the pop charts.  I flip through radio stations from time to time, and the Blunt and Blue October songs are two that have caught my ear in recent weeks.  But am I wrong in saying that in recent years, we’ve seen a marked increase in the number of what my be called "I’m such a hopeless piece of shit" music?

I’ve been told that the band Staind began the trend, particularly with their huge 2001 hit It’s Been a While. That song, which was inescapable on pop radio for months, included these lyrics:

And it’s been awhile
Since I can say that I wasn’t addicted
And it’s been awhile
Since I can say I love myself as well
And it’s been awhile
Since I’ve gone and fucked things up just like I always do
And it’s been awhile
But all that shit seems to disappear when I’m with you

And everything I can’t remember
As fucked up as it all may seem
The consequences that I’ve rendered
I’ve gone and fucked things up again

A couple of things strike me about these songs:

One, almost all the anger seems to be directed inwards.  In earlier eras of rock music, young men were angry — at women, at their parents, at injustice, society, conformity, whatever.  But the lyrics to these modern hits reflect a very specific kind of self-loathing that didn’t seem present in the "hot hits" of my youth.  There’s no blaming of others — the message seems to be one of mea culpa,mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Two, there’s no real possibility of reconciliation, transformation, or solution.  Blunt finishes his song with "I’m so hollow", leaving no sense that this is something that he thinks he can change.  The writers of these songs are very articulate about their own shortcomings (which they spell out in nearly pornographic detail).   On the other hand, they are completely mute about the possibility of redemption or change.  Blunt’s hollowness is not a character flaw that can be overcome through attention and effort — it is an inherent part of his character, and it is apparently why he and his lover have had to say goodbye.  In the Blue October song, the narrator is newly sober, but reflects only on the myriad reasons why he drove his girlfriend away.  There is no desire to reconcile, only the fervent hope that his ex will forget about him forever and hate him as much as he already hates himself.

As someone who teaches and writes about men and masculinity, I’m struck by this growing phenomenon of male self-loathing in popular music.  On the one hand, I find something very positive in it.  The songwriters have a kind of insight that seems to have eluded an older generation of male performers.  They don’t blame others for their problems, they take full responsibility for their catalogue of shortcomings.  In the Staind song:

And everything I can’t remember
As fucked up as it all may seem to be I know it’s me
I cannot blame this on my father
He did the best he could for me

Taking responsibility for one’s failures is surely a step towards maturity.  If these lads have figured out that it’s not all their parents’ fault — or that of their girlfriends — they’ve learned a valuable and important lesson.

But in and of itself, acutely accurate insight into one’s own psyche is useless unless that insight serves as a catalyst for change.  Indeed, insight without action is particularly galling.  It’s one thing to not recognize one’s own flaws, another to wallow in them in joyful misery!  The writers/singers of these songs have no interest in saving the relationships, only in mourning them.  They have no real conviction that they could actually change and stop being "hollow".  There’s a kind of masochistic celebration in all this "See, I know I’m an asshole.  But at least I acknowledge it!  And I can’t do anything about it!"  The self-pity is neck-deep and rising.

There’s another aspect to all of this "Self-Hating, Passive-Aggressive Male Pop."  As many women find out, lots of men use self-loathing as an effective tool for deflecting female anger.  Women very often express profound exasperation with their boyfriend or husband, only to have him hang his head and say "You’re right.  I’m a worthless piece of shit.  I’ve always been shit.  I can’t believe you stay with me."   If he fought back (not physically, mind you), a constructive discussion might take place. But if the fella says worse things about himself than his wife or girlfriend would ever say about him, then he cleverly tries to steal her thunder.  She’s forced to either agree with him or to bite back her own anger and begin to comfort him.   Many women find out sooner or later that male expressions of self-loathing are usually a passive-aggressive technique designed to avoid conflict.  It’s a technique that invariably undermines and eventually destroys the relationship.  It leaves both partners depressed and exhausted.  And it has no place in a healthy relationship.

Here’s my first draft of a theory about this music: it reflects an increased self-absorption and passivity on the part of many young American (and perhaps English) men.  Growing up in a world where women seem increasingly confident — and increasingly willing to demand accountability and responsibility from their brothers, lovers, boyfriends and husbands — these young men feel overwhelmed.   And rather than rise to the exciting challenges of a new and unprecedented period of sexual egalitarianism, these young men want to continue to behave recklessly and irresponsibly and self-indulgently.  Knowing in advance that this sort of behavior will exasperate, enrage, and disappoint the women in their lives, some of these lads (of the sort in the Blue October and James Blunt songs) decide on a "reverse pre-emptive strike."  They will simply announce in advance that they are hopeless, hollow, and incorrigible.  That way, any woman foolish enough to hang around is only getting what she deserves, because after all, the guy was open and honest with her about his myriad shortcomings and his utter unwillingness to do anything about it. 

Frankly, as a man who is dedicated to seeing men transform their lives and take responsibility, this is not a hopeful trend.

Thoughts?

A Friday note on ageing and sports

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 1, 2006
in Age and Sports
. 4 Comments

The first week of school has come to an end. This morning, we boxed and Pilate-ed, and now I type with the phone to my ear as I wait — and wait — and wait — for an actual person from British Airways to speak with me.

Let me note that Lauren, long of Feministe, is back to blogging at Faux Real.

We watched the final set of the gripping Agassi-Baghdatis match last night.  The endless remarks about Agassi’s age (36) grew tiresome.   I’m three years older than Andre, and bristle at the commentary that suggests that he is some sort of wonder senior!  Of course, this is all relative.  I remember my father grumbling years ago when commenters marveled at Jimmy Connors’ great success in his last US Open appearance.  "You’d think he was 80, not in his late thirties", my Dad complained.

I’ve been a sports fan as long as I can remember.  When I was a child in the Seventies and an adolescent in the early 1980s, my sports heroes were men much older than myself: Rick Barry (basketball),  Bjorn Borg (tennis), Niki Lauda (auto racing), Joe Montana.  I remember the shock I felt when Boris Becker won Wimbledon in 1985; Becker was a few months younger than myself, and he was the first athlete younger than me to win a major triumph in a sport about which I cared.  (I remained a devoted fan of his for years).

Each year, the number of athletes still playing who are older than I am diminishes.  (I’ve become a big Roger Clemens fan in recent years, and I loved watching Martina Navratilova prolong her doubles career for so long.)   The superstars whom I admire are increasingly much younger than myself, a reality which I find surprisingly hard to adjust to.  As a kid, I longed to throw like Terry Bradshaw or shoot like Dr. J.  Despite my lack of any discernible athletic talent, I could fantasize about what I might become when I was older.  Those fantasies were gone before I even entered high school, but I could still look up to college and professional athletes as heroes.  It’s hard to have as a hero a lad young enough to be your son.  That’s not to say I can’t admire younger men and women, just that the adoration I had for athletes in my youth has vanished.  Sometimes, in fits of nostalgia, I miss my boyhood heroes.

Tomorrow, after my spiritual, calisthenic, and family obligations are completed, I shall park myself in front of the television and watch hour after hour of college football.  My beloved California Golden Bears have higher hopes at the start of this season than at any point in my lifetime — and that has me very excited indeed.  I have a copy of the Cal football media guide, and I note that most of the players on the team were born between 1985-1987. When they were born, I was already at Cal, and the age that they are now…  ‘Tis an odd feeling.

Friday Random Ten: Randomness Returns! UPDATED

Published
by
Hugo Schwyzer
on September 1, 2006
in Friday Random Ten
. 5 Comments

Returning to an FRT with eight of my songs and two from my wife’s collection.  Hitting "party shuffle" on Itunes and asking for ten recently played songs from our library produced this selection.  (I bet y’all could figure out that #4 wasn’t my song).  2,7,8, and 10 have been favorites of mine for years.  I don’t like most Commodores songs, but #2 here is an exception. #5 reflects my periodic fondness for the old "Oi" sound and its modern manifestations. The Wailin’ Jennys are my new favorite group.

There’s a poem to be written by some clever soul using just the titles of these songs.  I suspect it could easily be rather salacious. 

1.  "I’ve Seen it All", Bjork and Thom Yorke (from the superb "Dancer in the Dark")
2.  "Sail On", Commodores
3.  "Swallow", Wailin’ Jennys
4.  "Check on It", Beyonce featuring Bun B and Slim Thug
5.  "Take ‘Em All", Ultima Thule
6.  "Kiss You All Over", Exile
7.  "Good Ole Boys Like Me", Don Williams
8.  "Don’t Follow", Alice in Chains
9.  "Laid a Highway", Tift Merritt
10.  "Nothin’ But the Wheel", Patty Loveless

Bonus Track:  "Sleep the Clock Around", Belle and Sebastian

UPDATE:  In response to my suggestion above, my brother, the family master of verse, has produced the following (with repetition permitted):

Kiss you all over

Don’t follow, swallow, ‘take em all.
Sail on, swallow, I’ve seen it all.
Good ole boys like me laid a highway.
Check on it, swallow nothing but the wheel.