The Slacktiverse

It Just Is. So Shut Up.

(Trigger Warning: Cursing, violent language, mentions of sexual and other violence.)

[Izzy]

Possibly the most valuable memory of my childhood Saturday mornings, in retrospect, was not the helpful moral lessons of Sonic the Hedgehog or the goddamn catchy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song ("Leonardo leads! Donatello does machines!"...wow.) but rather the frequently-occurring Apple Jacks commercials. For those of you who didn't inhabit a certain band of early-nineties American pop culture, said commercials featured a puzzled adult demanding to know why a bunch of preteens were so goshdang fond of Apple Jacks, because it doesn't taste like apples; the kids would think *very hard* for a few seconds, and then reply "...we just do!" And then the slogan was "we eat what we like", cue corporation-sponsored rebellion and not thinking too hard about eating a breakfast cereal named for moonshine. As you do.

Not something I expected would be very relevant later on.

Except...I keep running into people who make me want to write a revised version of the script, one featuring a flamethrower and an M rating, because of their obnoxious and entitled pretense that they need, and somehow deserve, to Know the Reasons.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about dark matter or DNA: scientific curiosity about scientific things is awesome, and I'm all for it. Nor am I referring to politics, because accountability is important, nor even to the working world in general. (Although if you really want to ask the college-bookstore clerk how and why the little deactivating-the-scanner thingie works, or why she asks for your student ID, maybe waiting until the line behind you isn't three miles long. Juuuust saying.) These are areas where curiosity is helpful, and accountability necessary.

[Sarah]

Though if I were the bookstore clerk, I wouldn't have the faintest clue how the deactivating-the-scanner-thingie works and would probably give you a blank look anyway.]

[Izzy]

No, what I'm talking about are statements like this:

"But *why* is it awkward and creepy to hit on someone when you're the only two people in an elevator at 4 AM?"
"But *why* is it racist for me to use certain words about people of color, when they use those words themselves?"
"But *why* is it inappropriate to demand that people explain their religion-or-lack-thereof to me?"
"But *why* is it important that people have the right to marry people of the same sex?"

And, to a lesser degree, the Asshole Question Runners-Up:

"But *why* don't you want to go out with me?"
"But *why* do you want/not want to have children?"
"But *why* aren't you coming to this event?"
"But *why* do you like this thing?"

Listen, Questioning Guy. Put your face really close to the monitor and pay attention: what I'm going to say next is important.

BECAUSE SHUT THE FUCK UP, IS WHY.

That's always, *always* my first response. It may just be internal, it may be momentary, but you bet your ass it's there.

The thing is, it's not like these questions don't have answers. Oh, I know you, That Guy--you are, even now, assuming Smug Dipshit Look #71 and preparing to say something about how it's not your fault that people can't answer tough questions. I will advise you to shut up again; I imagine it's going to be a regular theme of this article.

No. People who get asked obnoxious questions have answers. People who get asked the big ones have dissertation-level responses involving any or all of the following: captive audiences, in-group limits, Schroedinger's Rapist, histories of oppression, appropriate personal boundaries, health care benefits, shit being none of your damn business, sentiment, social etiquette, knowing where someone else is coming from when they use a term, power dynamics, AND MORE. Hell, we can probably boil them down.

And then you'll ask "why" again, like a goddamn four-year-old. Except the four-year-old is excusable, because...four. You are not. You need to shut up.

See, if "Macking on a captive-audience stranger at a time when there's nobody else around is anywhere from 'gnaw-my-own-foot-off awkward' to 'extremely creepy and threatening,'" doesn't get through to you? *Fucking nothing else will.* Like, if you're at that level of not-getting-it, if you can't put a woman's possible reaction to that in the context of everything from Tailhook to Ted Bundy, it seems like your options are a) a voluntary Clockwork-Orange-style behavior modification regime, b) just not ever hitting on anyone, please, for the love of God, and c) learning to love pepper spray. I could explain that many, many women are raped or killed by men they rejected, that we haven't all memorized Know Alignment today, and that, even if we aren't worried about violence, it's still *really uncomfortable* to be trapped in a confined space with someone who might go on to pester you and make a scene. And no, we don't know that you won't, and no, we can't just tell, because THIS ISN'T GODDAMN VALDEMAR AND WE CAN'T READ MINDS.

I could say all that. But if you don't get it from the first sentence, it's not going to help, because you suck, and you're determined to suck. So go away.

Likewise, if you don't get that it has got to be very, very different to hear a word from someone who looks like me and to hear it from someone who looks like people who've historically enslaved/raped/tortured/killed other people who look like me; if you don't get that my faith-or-lack-thereof is what works for me and is often a personal decision that I don't want to summarize in two paragraphs to someone who's mostly invested in converting me; if you don't get why being *able* to marry the person I love is a big deal, even if I don't want to do it myself...barring a mountain-top lab and a fortuitous bolt of lightning, there's nothing I can do here. Certainly further explanation isn't going to help--you'll just come back to "but WHYYYYYYY?" like it matters. And like you're entitled to a response. Like explaining it is my job. Which it's not.

So shut up.

As far as the lesser questions go...most of them have answers. Most of them have answers that you don't want to know--Do you really want me to go down the alphabetical list of reasons I don't want to date you? Really?--or that are deeply personal, or that are hard to articulate. I can probably *theorize* about why I like fantasy books or dark-haired men or cherry cordials, but I'm not going to, because a) it's just a theory, b) the reasons will be different for the next person you ask, and c) you don't actually want an answer.

That's the other thing, That Guy. "But WHYYYYYY?" never actually wants an answer.** It's a not-so-clever way to push an agenda--usually an obnoxious one--or express an opinion--see fucking above--so that, if someone actually calls you on being obnoxious, you can just squirm your way back into safety. You weren't saying anything racist or sexist or intolerant or obnoxious! You were Just Asking! And intellectual curiosity is good! So anyone who objects to you Just Asking is a bad evil inquiry-stifling person!

Yeah, intellectual curiosity is good. It's not the same thing as weaseldickery, which is what you're practicing. So shut up.

[Sarah]

see also: Disingenuousness is not an endearing trait. And while you *may* be asking in good faith, there are a whole lot of other people who ask the same kinds of questions who are asking in bad faith-because they want to get a rise of someone, because they want to pick a fight, because they want to make the other person uncomfortable. Etc. etc. etc, as the king in The King and I would say.

[Izzy]

And even if I gave you the benefit of the doubt, which I do not make a practice of doing, there's this: the world does not owe you an explanation. Nobody owes you an explanation. Nobody has to *justify* what they find creepy or awkward or hurtful.* Nobody has to justify their preferences, or their goals in life--except to the extent that those goals hurt others--or their lifestyle. Nobody has to justify not liking you, not wanting to fuck you, not wanting to be around you.

Sarah

Also, as someone who does usually give the benefit of the doubt: I agree. I also think it depends on the relationship between people: I owe my friends more than I owe the person sitting next to me on the trolley or Random Dude at the bar.

[Izzy]

You don't understand *whyyyyy* you can't do or say whatever you like, whenever you like? You don't have to. And sometimes, you don't get to. Suck it up.

*Less angrily: there is a "freedom to swing your fist" thing^[1] here, and also an intent thing, which is the opposite of the usual intent bullshit, I think. If my short skirt offends someone, that's too damn bad; it's on my body, it's not a slur deliberately directed at them, and I'm not making them look. If my saying that Ayn Rand and her supporters are horrible people who have made sociopathy into a political movement offends them...good. I meant it to.

**There are people who genuinely don't get social rules, due to various disabilities, and who need to understand the reasoning so as to not screw up later. That's different. Nonetheless, explaining why X is not okay is still not the job of the person being hit on or insulted or whatever. Ask a close friend who you trust; find a support group; look for Internet resources. But, to be harsh, Random Chick Number 7 didn't sign up for said support group, and most of us don't have the time or the spoons to see the cause; we see the effect, and we're not obligated to have a lot of patience there.

--Izzy and Sarah

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^[1] Common paraphrase of the statement The right to swing my fist ends where the other man's nose begins usually attributed to Oliver Wendell Holmes although there are a number of other similar statements variously attributed to a number of other individuals including John Stuart Mill and Abraham Lincoln.↩

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The Slacktiverse is a community blog. Content reflects the individual opinions of the contributors. We welcome disagreement in the comment threads, and invite anyone who wishes to present an alternative interpretation of a situation to write and submit a post.

Gentrification: as usual it's more complicated than that.

I have a confession to make: I am a gentrifier.

More specifically: A few weeks ago, I was talking to a native Philadelphian who asked me in passing where I lived. When I told her, she gave me a long look and said, "Girl, you in the hood."

"Yeah," I answered. "I guess so."

My neighborhood is poor. One can see this by just looking around, but since you all are not (necessarily) in Philadelphia, here are some quick facts about my little corner of the world:

-The average real estate price for a home is about $52,000.
-The average per capita income is in the bottom 3% of all U.S. neighborhoods.
-56.4% of children in my neighborhood live in poverty.
-Most people in my neighborhood work in retail or service jobs.
-The real estate vacancy rate is about 27%.^[1]

I don't see my neighborhood gentrifying anytime soon, to be honest. It's out of the reach of the big universities, Drexel and Penn, which have reached out their long arms and money to develop other parts of West Philly. We're not one of them.

But, by definition, I'm still part of the gentrification problem. I'm middle-class, making enough money to pay my bills (including those dastardly grad school loans) and save a little. I grew up middle-class as well; my mom's a graphic designer and my dad's a social worker, and while we were never wealthy, we had enough to live on, put food on the table, and go on camping trips once in a while. Now, I live in a rowhouse that my roommate owns with two other single women. We raise the property rates just by being there. And, in a country where race and class are often closely associated, add all of this to the fact that I'm a white girl living in a mostly African-American neighborhood, and the issue becomes…complicated.

One of the "success" stories that I hear sometimes is the Penn-Alexander school, which is in West Philly but south of where I live. The University of Pennsylvania partnered with the Philadelphia School District to form a Pre-kindergarten-8th grade (ages 4 to 14ish, for the non-USians among us) school. It is a success, at least in terms of education, and it's a public school, which is great. But over the years, the taxes and real estate prices in "Penn-Alexander catchment area" have skyrocketed and have pushed many of the original residents out. From all accounts, it still is a diverse school. And many times, families who move out of the area lie on their records just to keep their kids at Penn-Alexander, which says something about the quality of the other public schools in the area.

There's a conundrum here. I want Philadelphia, as a whole, to succeed. I want it to be a city that thrives, that has good schools and green spaces and safe areas to live. But I don't want that to happen at the expense of those who have lived here for years. That would be progress on the backs of the poor.

And that brings me back to my personal dilemma. My neighborhood has its challenges. I get harassed sometimes on the street (that is a whole 'nother post that might be a companion to this one). Sometimes public transportation can be difficult, especially at night and on the weekends. And, yeah, I can distinguish between gunfire and firecrackers easily now. But I like living where I do.

But the question that bothers me is the broader one: can I justify living here when I know that I'm contributing to gentrification?

I don't exactly have an answer to that.

Last year, the blog The DCentrist published a post called "Five Ways to Be a Good Gentrifier". When I looked around for reactions to the piece, I found one on a blog called Post-Bourgie that argued, in part, these were rules for being a good neighbor, not a good gentrifier.

Ultimately, that that is what I want to be: a good neighbor. I'm a visitor in a lot of ways. I realize that my living where I do is not, in and of itself, an expression of solidarity. But if I am to keep living here-and I'm planning on it-I need to be able to put down roots that last. When I read the blog post about gentrification, I recognized myself in some ways: we use the front porch in the summer; we talk (and listen) to our neighbors; if we need something quick, we use the little corner market around the street.

I think that's a good start, but I don't think that it answers my question. I'm not sure that it needs to; still, I'm bothered by the social, economic, and racial implications that gentrification, and my part in it, raises.

--sarah

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^[1] This information is from NeighborhoodScout.com. I'm not sure if this is all up-to-date or accurate, but it's pretty hard to get data on my actual neighborhood instead of West Philadelphia as a whole.↩

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The Slacktiverse is a community blog. Content reflects the individual opinions of the contributors. We welcome disagreement in the comment threads, and invite anyone who wishes to present an alternative interpretation of a situation to write and submit a post.

Camden Resurrected

Easter is one of my favorite liturgical seasons. It calls to mind the heralding of spring (most years, anyway), and it means the breaking of the Lenten fast. For me, Easter means that I go over the Ben Franklin Bridge to Sacred Heart in Camden.

Sacred Heart has a 4:30 am Easter Vigil.

We stumble blearily into the basement of the church, where the liturgy of the Word takes place. Everyone holds candles, but we are in the dark until Father Michael lights a fire to represent the resurrection. Then we light our candles and have a procession into the church for the liturgy of the Eucharist.

By the time the vigil ends, we go out into the sunlight. And then we break the Lenten fast with an enormous feast (usually featuring everything that we gave up).

It’s a celebration, joyful and hopeful, one that visually and aurally reminds us of Christ’s coming to life again.

But in Camden, NJ, Easter takes on another meaning.
Camden is considered one of the worst cities in the US. Its crime rate easily makes it one of the most dangerous. When I lived there, in 2007-08, Camden had 52 murders—out of a population of just under 80,000. If Philly had Camden’s murder rate, we’d be seeing over 700 murders a year.

Beyond that, Camden is economically devastated. The best term I could use for it is “post-industrial wasteland.” When the factories started to shut down post-World War II, people who could get out got out, leaving behind those who couldn’t afford to flee to the suburbs. The city has since been wrecked by poverty and urban decay. There are abandoned homes on every street. About sixty percent of residents are on welfare, and the average household yearly income is about $18,000. The high school dropout rate is astronomical.

And then there are environmental problems. In my old neighborhood, we had a sewage treatment plant for the entire county, a trash-to-steam factory, a concrete plant, a root licorice factory, and a scrap metal yard. If you see an abandoned lot, usually it’s a Superfund site*. On a bad day, when the wind blows the wrong way, the air smells so bad that you want to gag. It’s the Lorax’s worst nightmare.

I could go on, but one gets the picture. Mere statistics won’t do Camden justice.

To me, Easter in Camden means defying all of those statistics.

At Sacred Heart, they’ve been doing that for years. The priest, Father Michael, is in his 70s. At first glance, he’s a little old Irish (really Irish, not just Irish-American) farmer-poet; at second, he’s the man who’s galvanized many people to work for justice and peace in a city that knows neither.

In Waterfront South, the neighborhood where Sacred Heart is, there is a greenhouse, a community garden, a theatre, an affordable housing organization called Heart of Camden, and an environmental education organization called the Center for Transformation.

My friend Andrea, who runs the greenhouse through the Center for Transformation, calls what she does “practicing resurrection.” My old boss, Sister Lucy, who ran a holistic wellness organization, had a card on her desk that said, “We will plant olive trees where before there were thorns." The South Jersey Catholic newspaper once called Sacred Heart “a place for renegades.” I call it a place where people follow Jesus.

I have no desire to romanticize people’s lives there. It’s not easy. When I lived there, I lived in a community house connected to Sacred Heart, and I still often felt isolated from the rest of the world. But I am reminded every time I go back how beautiful my old neighborhood can be.

At every Mass at Sacred Heart, we end with a prayer that says, Heal all that is broken in our lives and in our streets. Easter season in Camden means embracing hope and new life despite the devastation, despite the statistics and the violence and the poverty. It means looking toward healing and pushing back at injustice. And, I think, above all, it means calling the city, and ourselves, to life.


P.S. (If anyone wants more information on Camden, I’d recommend Howard Gillette’s Camden After the Fall. I’ve also written about Camden a couple of times on my blog, and I’ve posted pictures of my neighborhood...I can repost if anyone wants me to.)


--Sarah
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* In government terms: "Superfund is the name given to the environmental program established to address abandoned hazardous waste sites. It is also the name of the fund established by the Comprehensive Environmental Response, Compensation and Liability Act of 1980, as amended (CERCLA statute, CERCLA overview). This law was enacted in the wake of the discovery of toxic waste dumps such as Love Canal and Times Beach in the 1970s. It allows the EPA to clean up such sites and to compel responsible parties to perform cleanups or reimburse the government for EPA-lead cleanups."

In layman's terms: it's a site that is so environmentally hazardous that it needs "super funds" to clean it up. There's another category of hazardous waste sites, Brownfield, that means the land is slightly less toxic. ____________________________________________________________________________

 

The Slacktiverse is a community blog. Content reflects the individual opinions of the contributors. We welcome disagreement in the comment threads, and invite anyone who wishes to present an alternative interpretation of a situation to write and submit a post.