3 weeks to life - my time at a chico women's shelter

College is a formative time for most people, where we’re encouraged to dream and believe that the world lies at our fingertips, if only we are willing to reach out and grab it. One of the dreams I cultivated during the two years I worked for Cal Poly Women’s Programs and ran the first and only feminist club on campus (yes, first) was that I wanted to develop education programs targeted at young, rural, female youth across the country. Ultimately, I wanted to build women’s shelters and centers as resource centers and community gathering spots from the ground up; develop the concept, implement it and duplicate it across the country. The idea was that these centers could provide rural young women the vision of possibility and choice in low-income areas where sex education and education in general may not have been much of a priority for young women and those raising them. My first step in that direction was to work at a women’s shelter.

I got a job with an organization called Catalyst Domestic Violence Services in Chico as the night supervisor of a local women’s shelter. I worked at the shelter from 4:30 pm to 2:30 am Monday through Friday, and my tenure lasted three weeks. I realized a myriad of incredible things about the nature of abuse, of the human heart, of my own spirit and my own tolerance in those weeks. I realized that I was entering into the lifecycle of a problem at the end, and that I felt inert in the wake of abuse. I was 22 years old trying to provide leadership and mentorship to drug addicted, abused women who were unable to hold a job or maintain custody of their children. The 12 women in the house fought constantly. No one did their chores—the small amount of responsibility they held. We would stand outside together and smoke cigarettes and I would listen to them complain about each other, and listen to their tragic stories. All the while, trying to problem-solve the lives of people who seemed beyond help; who seemed broken.

I wielded no governance over these ladies. One night, sitting at the dinner table and observing the swirling chaos of the house in the throes of dinner preparation, I refused to tolerate what I was witnessing. My mind turned against the current scene and forced my voice. I told everyone to shut up, yelling at the top of my lungs. They stopped, because I’d never behaved like that. I made everyone leave their tasks, their brooms, spoons and rice and come sit at the table together. I told them they were ridiculous. “Look at yourselves,” I urged. “All you can do is fight and yell and abuse each other, and you don’t see that each of you have endured the same struggles. You don’t see that Shaon and Cleo have lived the same lives, have ended up here for the same reasons. You have an opportunity to connect with each other, share stories, try to learn from the other women here and listen. You have a chance to try to heal. You could be friends, if you’d only support each other.” I told them I didn’t care if they did their chores or not. I didn’t sweep my kitchen floor every night, so I thought it was absurd they would have to. What I did do every day was act like a civilized person and try to respect the people around me.

I don’t know why they listened to me or continued to sit at the table and pay attention to what I was saying, but they did. I worked there for one more week. My last night in the house, those 12 women threw me a surprise going away party. They somehow knew that I was a vegetarian and made veggie egg rolls from scratch, and made chocolate covered strawberries. They used their food stamps to buy the food. They showered me with gifts, from stuffed animals to dried flowers and cards. These women had nothing, and gave up their own possessions for me, to see me off.

I did make an impact. One person, at least temporarily, made a difference. i don't know what I made those women see and i don't know why their compassion bloomed in the winter of that house. but i witnessed it, and it changed me.

again, for the people who say "it can't be done." i've been one of those people.

I guess we just have to decide what it is we want to do.

RANT: feminist / weddings

A note on feminist weddings

I am beginning to think they are possible. After reading some very encouraging articles and blogs today, and realizing that I could look at commitment ceremonies to help guide me (potentially).

I resent that because i don't want a girly, poofy dress wedding and i think diamonds are an extremely effective marketing scheme that i don't fall into, that i'm somehow less of a woman, or that i "must just not want to get married." or be married. my mom actually said to me on the phone last night, after an hour of struggling to explain WHY the importance of flowers is ridiculous to me (consumerism, hello), that i better think long and hard if this is what i really want to do, because i just seem so angry. "it doesn't seem like you really want to be married or that you want to do this, at all, so you better think if this is right for you."

i appreciate the "tough questions." i really do. i forgot that my family has some innate block to feminist ideas/ideals. lovely jefferson said, "it makes me want to say f--- it, let's just go somewhere and get married because i don't think you should have to deal with this." that's why i love the guy.

it's not even that the traditions are humiliating, its just that they're forced. it's like, "oh, you're getting married, please step into this box." um, no thanks. i want to be married, but the wedding industry is enough to make me gag. the creation of false necessities for profit. the encouragement of making women feel inadequate. that's a big part of it. what you currently have isn't good enough. you have to do better and be better than what you are. this is a public display as a prize and a public display of your greatness as a couple.

you know, i had a friend -- a close friend -- who did the same thing. She asked, "Why even get married if it makes you so angry?" The apt question is, "why does it make you so angry?" that is complicated and shaded by my trust issues and my own parents' divorce, but is largely influenced by everyone else's expectations. "you're not taking his name? oh. why not?" my response, often aimed at men: "do you want to change your last name? me neither. you never thought about it? me neither. you wouldn't do it? me neither."

it makes me angry because people automatically think because i love this man and want to spend my life with him, that now i am going to work and fret over stupid little details. i will do what i can to plan an event, but because the wedding industry says i need to dance and have a dj, it doesn't make the idea more attractive to me. what's some of my favorite times, or my favorite scene? I think of sitting on the back porch of Streets of London in summer in early evening, when its still light but not so blistering hot. Pitcher of beer, my guy, some friends, just chilling, talking, drinking, smoking cigarettes, shooting the shit. Casual. Laid back. Real. Who doesn't want to go chill with a pitcher at Streets? That's what I want, but somehow it's not really acceptable. Or/and, i don't know how to get it. (Plus, the food at Streets isn't really the good for a vegetarian. :) )

I'm really surprised I haven't written about this sooner. I think I will have many more feminist rants on weddings to come. Like 8 more months' worth.

Ah, an outlet. It's nice to talk and not have anyone talk back, asking me to justify my strangely feminist and counter-culture ideas. (it's like by being counter-culture, i'm subversive. somehow, a feminist bride is a threat to all the carefully placed cards in the house [of cards]. you know what i'm saying.)