Trigger Warning: Violence Against Women
Hi. My name is Rosie. And I’m a persona.
I exist to protect the person who hides behind me. I allow her to say things she has trouble saying with her real mouth, but I am her True Voice. Through me, the person who writes this blog has found a way to talk about her life and what it’s like to be a woman in what is still very much a man’s world in so many ways.
I can be a bit rough around the edges. Ranty, sweary, short-of-temper, unlikely to take crap. She’s like that too, but my knob is tuned way higher than hers. And I think that sometimes people make the mistake of thinking that the fact that she and I have strong opinions about things and fight for what we believe in means we’re super tough and impervious to harm. I think sometimes people have the impression we’re so sure of ourselves—this real-life-person and I, her avatar—so confident and secure, that words, judgment, implications that we are what’s wrong with feminism, that we see problems where none exist, that we’re too angry and intense and that we spend our energies on all the wrong things…that none of this gets through the armor of this persona and reaches the real person.
But she’s in there, and she’s tired and sad and it’s taking everything I’ve got to help her find the words to admit it. She has learned that life is different now and unless she’s willing to give up on the dream of making positive change, she’s going to have to get used to encountering resistance not just from the faceless Internet, but from friends and allies.
She’s sad and tired and sometimes she feels like giving up, but she’s got hope and she clings to it and it’s what gives me whatever power I’ve got to pull out words when all she’s got are tears. Hope that all this will end up being worthwhile (and faith that it must), and that those friends and allies who doubt and resist will let down their guard and trust that when she says “this hurts me” it does. Hope that the fact that she hurts is enough to make a thing—or even a movement—important enough to them that they won’t dismiss it out of hand or imply that she’s not seeing clearly or that she’s “too angry.” Hope that if they disagree, they’ll remember that it’s not philosophy to her—that it’s something she feels deeply.
Hi. I’m Rosie. And I’m here to tell you that activism isn’t fun. It can be very, very rewarding, but when one of us launches a campaign like the one I helped launched yesterday, we’re putting ourselves out there to be criticized by the whole entire Internet, and if you think I haven’t spent the last 24 hours second-guessing myself, alternately shaking with rage and crying tears of frustration, then you think I’m a lot stronger than I really am. I’ve been told I’m part of the problem and that my perceptions are flawed, that I’m wasting my time, and that I’m aggressive. None of these are firsts, but when every ping from your blog and social media elicits a moment of panic, you know you’re stressed. And when some of the doubt comes from within the tent, that’s particularly hard to take—but it happens every single time. And while it’s certainly healthy to entertain differing points of view, by the time I’ve gone all-in on a campaign like this, I’ve gone over and over it and I know how I feel about it, so the second-guessing is just a mind-game I play with myself. I’m in no doubt, for example, of how I feel about that hotel ad.
And that’s what I left out of my post yesterday: Me. Why this campaign is important to me personally.
When I was 20, the man I was with beat the shit out of me and promised me I would not live through the night. He smacked me around first, then gouged my eyes with his fingers (leaving scars I still see when I look at a blank wall), cut my face with a putty knife, then threw me across the room. Somewhere in there he told me he was going to bury me in a field where no one would find me. About half this he did in front of my two-year-old daughter. That’s just one of my stories of violence, but it’s the one that comes up like bile when I see this image.
A reader yesterday said the ad in question looked like slapstick to him. Someone else said she looked like she was just lying there—no violence implied. Me? At a gut level, without any analysis, I see a dead woman lying on concrete (I get “alley” or “parking lot”) at a glance. When I see this image, I see her story. The story this image tells me is of a woman to whom violence has been done (she didn’t throw that suitcase at herself) and who has been left for dead on a stained concrete floor. On closer inspection, she’s sprawled in a decidedly lifeless way (I now have a copy of the magazine and it looks like she’s in a parking garage—there are oil stains), her hand palm-up. She’s certainly not conscious—not struggling to get up under the weight of the heavy suitcase she accidentally dropped on herself. In fact, to me, it doesn’t look like she’s getting up at all.
And when I see that, I think of all the women who—like me—have had violence done to them but who—unlike me—did not survive it. And I feel sick. And I feel like this is a crass fucking way to sell a product. But at the heart of it, this image causes me pain and given the response I’ve received privately, on the post, on Facebook, on Twitter, and in the comments section of the petition, I’m not alone.
Hi. My name is Rosie. And I’m not as strong as you may think I am. But I’m not alone. For that, I’m more grateful than I can say.
The Standard Hotels, DuJour Media, and Violence Against Women (makemeasammich.org)
Respectful discussion is welcome and encouraged. When in doubt, see the Comment Policy.
My bloggiversary came and went back in late June while I was attending to other things, and while I’d love to do a clever recap of the year, I’m afraid I just don’t have the energy right now. Instead, here are a few things I’ve learned this year as a baby blogger/activist right off the top of my head:
- Blogging is fun! And sometimes hard. But mostly fun!
- I love my readers. The ones I love, that is. You know who you are. Especially you.
- Some of the coolest people in the world are bloggers, and a bunch of them are now my friends. (An alarming number of them are Canadian for some reason. I blame Le Clown.)
- Trolls are really sick and sad and I wish I had a superpower to defend the world against them. But as long as they exist, they serve a purpose in the fight against them, so I’m learning to live with them the way I’ve learned to live with the fact that bacteria grows on my teeth while I sleep.
- When people care enough about an issue, when we join our voices and demand it, change happens.
- This blog is whatever it is, critics be damned, and I love it more than I ever thought possible. (See “I love my readers.”)
- I’m grateful to everyone who was a part of this first year (even some of the trolls, though I’m not grateful for the way they treated me and continue to treat women on the Internet).
Thanks for reading. Thanks for commenting. Thanks for reading even if you don’t ever comment. Thanks for commenting even if you don’t agree (this goes to those of you who do so politely and thoughtfully–everyone else can fuck off). It’s been a particularly rough year, and this blog has been a huge part of getting me through it and helping me to work out where I’m going from here.
Oh, and before I forget: Thanks. :)
Why do we do this? Why do we write about our experiences and talk about misogyny and women in today’s society and put all this out into the world?
I used to wonder that. Why bother? The only people reading are a) people who already agree with you or b) people who honest to God just want to fight with you.
The people who should be paying attention usually aren’t, and if they are, it’s only to argue. Most misogynists don’t even realize you’re talking to them, because no one self-identifies as a misogynist. Even the most ardent among them love women, you see. They have mothers and sisters and everything. Some of their best friends are women. You can’t change the mind of someone who can’t hear you, so these are obviously—as much as we might wish otherwise—not the people we’re talking to.
So who does that leave us with? Are we honestly just left sitting around in a big internet circle talking to ourselves?
I used to think so. I believed that everyone who talked about feminism and the way women are treated in media or in life just wrote blog posts so they could all sit around and agree with each other. Because who else was reading that sort of thing? Just a quick glance at the comments showed people either vehemently agreeing or trolololing. No one else was commenting, so obviously no one else was reading.
Except…I was. Not consistently or anything, because I’m not a big blog reader in general, but I’d get the link in an IM or on Facebook and I’d read it. And the weird thing for me is that I walk away from most articles or blogs neither agreeing nor disagreeing. I would walk away feeling that I had just read something interesting, but I develop opinions very slowly. I would read it, think about it, and then mentally file it away before going back to whatever I was doing.
This annoys some people, I think, who send me links and expect me to immediately jump in with strong reactions, but that’s just not the way I process information, and it never has been. I file it away, and I add to that file as I absorb more and more information on any given topic. Over time, the information all combines in my head when I’m not paying attention, and then poof! like a puff of smoke days or even weeks later, I suddenly have thoughts and opinions on things. But at that stage, I still don’t always feel like I can express my thoughts. When I try, the first time someone counters me, I stumble around my words. “I, uh…well, I mean there was this article I read…it was a few weeks ago…I can’t really remember, but I thought it said…I mean…”
I’m not the world’s best speaker. I can do it if I try super hard, but then add in trying to defend a topic—even one I know quite a bit about!—and I feel so put-on-the-spot that I can’t actually retrieve any of my information. I believe I’m a good writer (it’s my day job, after all), but my first drafts are always just gibberish ideas of what I think I want to say, be it fiction or non. When I write, I can literally look at my ideas, judge which ones have weight, which ones are well worded, which ones I need to rephrase. I can set them aside for days at a time, letting them sink into the page and into my head, then I can easily move them around when I come back to the draft and see if I still think all the things I thought I thought. I see if it still all makes sense, and if it all holds together.
I don’t have the luxury of doing that in any spoken conversation. I thrive in the ability to make my points slowly, not to awkwardly roll them out of my mouth in some collection of words that almost resembles the thing I kind of wanted to say as someone stands ready to shoot them down the second I get them out. As such, I usually avoid discussions on topics I haven’t thought about extensively—and even some I have. If a debatable topic comes up, I usually just shut up, and it’s not that I don’t have opinions or that I’m not smart enough to understand what’s going on. It’s that I’m taking in what everyone else is saying. I’m listening and adding all the information in the room to that part of my brain that collects blog posts and this side’s point and the other side’s point and eventually smashes them together into a big fusion of What I Think—but that process takes a while.
So I don’t comment on blogs. Almost ever. But I’m still listening.
So are a lot of other people. More people read an article or blog than comment on it—that’s just basic math right there—so while comments may look like any given blog post exists solely for the rah rah in the comments, really the people we’re talking to and trying to reach are the ones who don’t leave comments. We’re talking to the girl who gets called a lesbian because she doesn’t want to wear skirts, but is confused about what is inherently bad about lesbians or good about skirts. We’re talking to the preteen or teenage boy who feels uneasy when his friends make rape jokes, but he hasn’t yet pinned down exactly why. We’re talking to our husbands and coworkers and male friends who aren’t dismissive, but find our experiences so alien to their own that they’re unsure how to even participate in the conversation. We’re explaining what it feels like and what it looks like and what it sounds like when we are harassed or put down or dismissed on no basis other than gender.
And we’re talking to women who have never had this experience. That used to be me, too. It was easy to dismiss that “crazy feminism thing” because, well, I had never experienced it, so obviously the people who talked about it were just getting all uppity about every little thing they could latch on to. (Later I would realize that all the times I’d tried to make myself stand out as the Girl Who Could Carry Stuff, the Girl Who Could Work While Her Boyfriend Stayed Home and Cleaned, or the Girl Who Didn’t Wear Dresses were actually a direct result of people telling me what I couldn’t, wasn’t allowed to, or had to do based on my gender.) We’re talking to these women even though they’re only half paying attention. Some people get really mad about that, the half paying attention thing, but you know what? I think that’s fine. If every one of them gets to breathe their last breath having been treated completely fairly in every facet of their lives, then that’s honestly fantastic.
But that is super unlikely. And when they face that inequality—when they actually see it up close after never having had to face it before, what will they do? They may ignore that part of them that says something about the situation doesn’t sit right—and, probably, that’s exactly what they’ll do for a while, because it’s hard to just wake up on Tuesday and decide to believe in the boogey man when you’ve spent your whole life denying that he’s real.
Eventually, if she’s lucky, each of these women will notice that she can’t quite let it go. She’ll try to work out why this situation feels wrong. If there’s nothing there to pull from, then it’s too easy for her to dismiss the feeling as nothing. If she’s even half read a few articles or blogs that cover what gender judging feels like, though, then her brain can recall that, and bit by bit, she can start to feel more confident in calling what is happening to her “discrimination.”
Any time you write a blog or an article that focuses on what could potentially be a narrow target audience, it can feel like you’re just talking to yourself, or to the people who either agree with you or can’t hear you. Remember, though, the silent majority who don’t speak because they feel they have no voice, who don’t speak because they feel they lack anything to contribute, who don’t speak because they don’t understand or even have their own opinions yet. Don’t give up on getting your message across just because you don’t think it’s going anywhere new. We are making a difference, even if we can’t see it yet—or hear it.
…would not have been this blog.
This is the post where I talk about how this site got its name. It’s not a very long story, so I’ll also ramble a bit about other stuff, like the fact that I haven’t posted in over a week because I went on a road trip to California. I fully intended to write at least one post during that time, but it just was not in the cards. I’m not as young as I used to be, friends, and though traveling with a carload of women–all menstruating, by the way, except me (no uterus!)–is a blast in many ways, it takes a LOT out of me. I had as much energy as it took to do my share of the driving and then sit on the beach while everyone else frolicked in the surf like sea nymphs. (I’d have done some frolicking myself, despite my exhaustion, had we made it to So. Cal., but bad traffic cost us a day, and the water in central CA is COLD.) So, yeah. No writing while I was gone, but we did see seals, otters, pelicans, sea lions, and every type of road kill on your Roadkill Bingo card. And when I wasn’t driving, I rode shotgun and made the youngsters ride in the back. Age has its privileges.
Back to the title of this blog. It might have been very much like this one despite the name–although most certainly without all the sammiches. As I said before, I started a couple of other blogs, which are still out there, but this one had been simmering on the back burner of my mind for a while. I just didn’t know what to call it. I worked hard to come up with a good title. I scribbled on legal pads, made mind maps, brainstormed with my boyfriend, but nothing stuck. Then one day I decided to hell with it, I’m going to put something together and I’ll come up with the title later. When I found the perfect header graphic and put it in place, I thought I’d play with some fonts, so without even thinking about it I typed in a working title. You guessed it: Make Me a Sammich. I giggled at myself, and then cocked my head to one side, and then the other, like a dog when it’s trying to figure out a difficult math problem, and then I squinted at it, and kind of twisted my mouth in that way I do when I’m trying to decide whether I can really get away with something that just might be too clever for my own good. Then I giggled again and smirked and nodded and that was that.
In case this is your first time on the Internet, the phrase “make me a sammich” or the more formal “make me a sandwich” is what we on the tubes call a “meme.” Some memes are about kittens who say funny things and spell badly. Others are about Ryan Gosling. This one, the one that gave my blog its name, is about how women were basically created by God to make sandwiches for men.
I’m going to do a whole post on this meme, but you get the basic idea, right? So, my co-opting Mr. Rockwell’s Rosie eating her lunch after a long morning of kicking ass, along with the meme-phrase “make me a sammich,” is basically my way of telling people who come here what they’re in for in what I hope is a humorous-yet-irreverent way that pokes fun at stupidity while shaking a mustard-covered finger at misogyny. Or something. And maybe this blog would have been similar under a different name, but it seems to me that a sort of alchemy occurred when Rosie and the infamous sammich converged and Make Me a Sammich was born. It’s taken on a life of its own, and I’m just along for the ride now.
I call shotgun!
PS: Welcome to all the new folks! I’m still reeling from my 15 minutes Freshly Pressed on WordPress, and I never did get caught up on replying to comments. I was without Internet for TWO DAYS (or at least parts of two days) when it when up, and right after that I had to leave on this road trip. Crazy timing all around, but I’m going to make a concerted effort to get in there and respond to everyone because that’s just polite! In the meantime, thanks so much for reading and commenting and following.