Few words seem more damaging to women than those social judgements.  Slut.  Whore.  Bitch.  somehow these character summations have more affect than physical threats or dangerous experiences.

I could wax philosophical about why women are so consumed with how perception affects their social status, or why social status and survival are related for females.  Instead I’ll talk about why men wield such terms.

As recently as the last 1000 years, the average life expectancy for a male human was about 45 years.  This means that I would be considered quite the ancient at 31.

With so little life to enjoy, the biological imperative pulsed through every fiber of the male human being.  The drive that says “MUST reproduce, MUST create genetic heir, MUST ensure heir reproduces,” was (and in many cases still is) the most elemental force in a man’s life.   As such, there are those horror stories about men who slave their lives away to produce and support an heir, only to find out that this child is not their own.  They’ve wasted their lives supporting someone else’s genetic offspring, and look the fool in the process.

to avoid this, men have tried to create and support social controls that create such stigma around female promiscuity that any action that might endanger the male genetic legacy is taboo.  This is further punctuated by the discovery of several dangerous sexually transmitted diseases in the last hundred or so years.  The fact that not only can a male’s genetic line be tainted or destroyed, but his body can be threatened by female indescretion is enough to inspire many males to support the most restrictive social structures as a means of self preservation.

What behaviors do we still stamp with these seals of group dissapproval?  If a woman has several random sexual partners (random meaning that she has no romantic attachment or interest in long term relationship) we will brand as a “slut.”  A woman who engages in sexual practices that are taboo because they may be dangerous or unhealthy, such as extreme or destructive bondage, unusual fluid exchange, or activities based in humiliation men will often term as “nasty” or “dirty.”  A woman who considers or engages in sexual practices for monitary gain rather than love is seen as using her sexuality as an easy form of commerce, she would be labled a “whore.”  A woman who fills any of the previous expectations, but then refuses to behave according to her label would be called a “bitch.”

I can stand firmly behind my belief that these social terms evolved out of basic biological needs.  In my own life, I’ve thought these terms about women I was close to, but only when I felt threatened.  For instance, while my ex girlfriend and I were dating, we were quite sexually active.  during that time, the concept that she had cheated on partners before me, or that she had been sexually active in her past was inconsequential.  However, after our breakup I was shocked at how quickly she replaced me with a new partner.  The transition seemed so seamless, that the word “slut” began to flash in my brain like a neon sign.  and so I asked myself “how long between our relationship and a new relationship would a woman have to wait to not be considered a slut?”  most men would say “more than 6 months or so,” which we can see is long enough to establish the absence of either pregnancy or STD.  When I also considered that she had lived with me, and possibly only had sex with me in order to keep that arrangement, the word “whore” came unbidden to my mind.  Particularly when evaluating that her next partner was trying to offer a similar relationship.  The taboo of having sex for comfort or monitary gain creates an almost instant stigma.

The problem is, these terms while designed for self defense, are a form of judgement.  They offer us the ability to look at a situation and see the outcome, and judge the character of the person involved.  All sexual relationships, even committed ones, are very dangerous.  We open our vulnerabilities to one another, and expose ourselves to a multitude of dangers in that physical embrace.  As much as the frightened part of my personaly wants to judge, stigmatize, and distance myself from that danger, I would only seek other relationships that would also be dangerous.

These terms are a sort of verbal police force.  We trust them to work for us, to defend us, to keep the bad people at bay.  But they are self serving, flawed, and often they adhere to rules established in an outmoded time.  My bruised arms and cut knuckles can testify that, while I’m protected by the police, I believe strongly in training myself for my own defense.

Part of self defense is learning to read character.  To judge in the moment, listen to one’s instincts, and make appropriate decisions that will quickly save lives.  If i cannot rely on my own judgement, even while being swayed by emotion, I cannot expect to live longer than my ancestors.

social structures are easy.  they’re safe and comfortable.  the real cutting edge comes from putting oneself in harm’s way, from walking the dangerous path and learning to trust.  I leave the terms to others, rely on them, trust them, use them as you will.  I must use my hands and instincts and not place trust in four letter words

Binghamton NY is where I was born, where my Dad grew up, where my family immigrated to.  My great-grandfather worked for Endicott Johnson, my uncle probably still works for IBM.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090403/ap_on_re_us/hostage_shooting

as Yahoo News says:

“…the Binghamton area was the home to Endicott-Johnson shoe company and the birthplace of IBM, which between them employed tens of thousands of workers before the shoe company closed a decade ago and IBM downsized in recent years. “

Some days I see the walls of my pit, brown and ragged earth, extending to the sky.  The exposed and twisted roots of stubborn weeds, the wriggling of worms and grubs, the smells of fresh loam - these overwhelm the very thought of clouds and blue sky.

In my dreams I fly.  I have since I was a child.  Before I knew humans could even do such things, my dream self would perform wall-walks and backflips, free of the chains of gravity and the limitations of human weakness.  And yet, here I am, in my cell made of Earth and clay, denied flight.   Just looking at the sheer scale of those walls can overwhelm me.  They’ve been there as long as my dreams have existed.

I know what kind of effort is needed to climb free.  I know that I’d have to dig, hand over hand, scraping and bleeding to find purchase in the sucking soil.  I know that I might reach a halfway point, and find myself too weak to continue, and lay in that pit knowing it was my grave.  I would know that I was weak.  I would know that I had failed.  I would know the absolute measure of my weakness in full detail.

And the height of those walls is daunting.  They scrape the sky.  They extend as I look at them, leaving me in the musty shadows, leaving me a low creature in every sense of the word.

Can I somehow succeed?  Can I overcome?  Though even those who profess to love and have loved me think so little of what I am and what I’ve become?  Can I see the distaste in their eyes or worse, the distaste in my own as the mirror shows it to me?

And yet, what is that judgement except fear of future failure?  What is that distaste except the sour remnants of the bile of jealousy or the fear of introspection?

I am what I am:  a creature of the earth born to fly.  This world - my life - has scarred me in many many ways, and stripped those feathers that many others use to ride the thermals of life to ever higher heights.  Even without those feathers, I am still a force, a series of passions leashed together by purpose, with the hope of surmounting those walls above.

There is something of life, seen in glimpses from the corners of my eyes, or tasted in drops and crumbs, something I’m meant to be and to have.  I’m meant to have my visions realized in a way that they make a difference.  I’m meant to have a woman beside me who understands what I am, and can walk in step with me where my life takes me.  I’m meant to defeat this demon that has plagued my family for generations, to see myself thin and fit in my 31st year and no longer bound by mountains of flesh.  I’m meant to apprehend happiness, to sieze joy, though all around me is sadness and waste.  These things I know at my unquestioning center.  These things I see in my unscarred face.  They are reflected in the mirror image of my face as it was seen in the days before my parents were conceived;  as I’ve known them in the thoughts I had before there were minds to think.

What matters most is that I climb, and if I die climbing, so be it.