Silvia Preview

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 237 a pipe cleaner and then unraveling you again. It was less of a massage and more of being made into bread. And the most astounding part of it all was that, when it was finished, the woman had French braided my hair and I hadn’t even noticed. We walked out of the room and I felt dazed. It was the oddest combi- nation of euphoria and violation, but the euphoria was totally winning. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate or sexual about it, so the vio- lation was purely a reflection of my own emotional clumsiness to being touched that way. It made me keenly aware of the hands-off bubble I tend to activate when I’m out and about, and how the leap between belted-and-tucked to Thai massage and mammogram is like the Grand Canyon. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. Maybe it’s a me thing. It’s definitely something. It’s hard not to speculate that the presence of this Grand Canyon might account for some body image issues. It’s tough transitioning from zero to naked with no prep. Just ask anyone currently suing our President. My doctor might be thinking that reminding me to get my annual mammogram is really just about smart, preventative health care, and it is. But what she doesn’t know is it’s also the closest thing I’ve found to a real Thai massage stateside, and a great reminder that sometimes I have to get out of my comfort zone to get into my comfort zone. I could do without the pit wipes, though.

ALONG WITH HAVING A LONG VAGINA COMES A LONG LIST OF RESPONSIBILITIES by Laura Magnani DURING MY ANNUAL gynecological exam, my gynecologist let me know that I have a long vagina. He cheerfully made this announcement while inserting the speculum with the same finesse as Buffy the Vampire Slayer planting a stake in some guy’s heart. “Ah,” I replied. “Thanks.” So, I have a long vagina…I begin to wonder how long. Isn’t it supposed to be either wide or tight? I don’t know why, but the idea of having, at least what seems to be an interstate corridor between my thighs fills me with joy. My uterus has had this secret gift all along and no gynecologist before had ever let me know. My imagination went wild. So, what he’s saying is…if I was a guy, I would have a very large penis! It’s obvious, I am above average. I have a superpower. I have a super vagina. “Please cough,” the gynecologist asked. I did as I was told, then jumped back to thinking about the future of this newly-discovered virtue. My mind could already imagine a model of my vagina, my long vagina. The fallopian tubes, uterus, and ovaries molded in plastic ready for Dr. Sanjay Gupta to examine even the smallest

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 239 detail…not to mention interview. If I had my choice though, Dr. Oz would interview me, and sit in one of those armchairs I always wanted for my living room, next to Kathy Lee and Hoda. “So, how does it feel to have such a long vagina?” Dr. Oz would in- quire. “Well, it’s a lot of responsibility, but I know it’s not too long to han- dle,” I would respond in all seriousness. “You’re an excellent role model and I wish you the best of luck in your work. Thanks for taking the time to speak to us. And now for this com- mercial break.” My new-found talent could open up a whole world of opportunity. With my long vagina, I could lead a nation. I could start a political move- ment, the “Democratic Vagina Party.” I could even become an actress in an entirely new category of porno films dedicated just to me, “The Long Vagina” or “5th Avenue Vag.” I got dressed while the doctor filled out some paperwork, feeling re- newed and inspired. There wasn’t enough time in the day. Suddenly, my life felt full of commitments and goals that needed to be achieved for the good of the country. “See you next year, ma’am,” he said, shaking my hand goodbye. “Thanks. Listen, earlier you said, well, that I have a long one, right? Well, what exactly does that mean? Like compared to other women who have short ones?” I asked with sincere curiosity. “You really want to know what difference it makes?” he asked, scruti- nizing me. “Yes Doctor, for better or for worse, just tell me. What’s the differ- ence?” I was starting to feel alarmed and needed to know. “Not a fucking thing.”

240 Backless Paper Gown Syndrome TREATMENT If you suspect you have BPG, prior to seeking medical care, have a family member or friend wrap your entire body in thick cotton gauze (which you may want to steal extra of while waiting the 75 minutes for your doctor to arrive). You may keep your head gauze-free so that you can drive. Put on your regular clothes over your mummy wrap. When the nurse insists that you put on the backless gown, you’ll be toasty warm—you won’t even be startled when the doctor puts his semi-frozen stethoscope on you. It’s also not a bad idea to wear a nice piece of jewelry, for example, a tiara, to dress up your gown.





Shut the F Up, Doc Syndrome OR CENTURIES, women have experienced what they thought Fwas a form of temporary laryngitis whenever they visited their (pri- marily male) physicians. It turns out, however, that this is not the case and in fact, the problem is that medical professionals have ex- perienced selective hearing loss when it comes to women patients. Case in point: a woman tells her male doctor that she needs an IUD, and he hears that she isn’t old enough or smart enough to make that decision for her- self. Symptoms and signs STFU, Doc Syndrome has three primary signs: (1) Doctorinterrupting, in which a physician does not allow you to get out more than one sentence before leaving the exam room to check on someone who has better health insurance; (2) Doctorsplaining, when they restate your description of your symptoms, sometimes accompanied by an interpretive dance; and (3)

244 Shut the F Up, Doc Syndrome Doctorspreading, the combination of manspreading and demanding you shake their hand, despite the fact that they’ve been around sick people all day and are literal Petri dishes of germs. While it sounds as though this is a condition that affects only doctors and perhaps other health care professionals, not the women who visit for health problems, as we all know, all problems are women’s problems.

MY THERAPIST SAYS MINDFULNESS IS NOT THE SAME AS MIND FULL OF THINGS by Frankly Frankie MOST PEOPLE HAVE a therapist nowadays and it is fairly normal to say, “I had to see my therapist last week; my husband was driving me crazy.” It is kind of like having a secret friend, except you pay a lot of money for it and—let’s be honest—they won’t even say “hi” to you if they see you on the street. Still, I think it’s worth it. However, I have had a few questions lately. For example, why do I get so confused? I go in wondering if my marriage is working and I leave won- dering why I am always dieting. Sometimes I cry, which feels good, but when I really sob, snot runs out my nose and my eyes turn red. I think, “Shit man, why am I paying so much money for this torture?” Leaving my appointment and taking the bus home is the worst, as peo- ple think I have been in a street fight. I feel like I have too. Why does my therapist always have the best seat? I mean, who is doing the work and who is paying for it? Just saying. Some sessions I go in ready to talk and then I totally derail the conver- sation and talk about my kids the whole time. Right when there are five

246 Shut the F Up, Doc Syndrome minutes to go, I say, “Oh yeah, and I am having an affair.” The look on her face tells me right away that I have to come back and pay all over again. Shit. I am wondering how many sessions it will take to fix me. Five, ten, maybe fifteen? Is there a guarantee? Or at least a punch card that makes my 20th visit free of charge? Have you tried couples counseling? Oh, that was fun. Have you ever tried the mechanical bull? Lots of thrashing around, yelling, weird body language and in the end, we all fall to the ground and walk away with our heads down in defeat. I recommend you go to couples counseling before there is a bull in your relationship. Why do all therapists have the same nod? What are they saying—”Yes you are right,” or “Yes I get it but there is no help for you”? The worst part is, I just want to know what to do. Sometimes I just want a “yes or no” answer. Like, “Should I leave my husband?” I mean, obviously she has heard how horrible he is from me so, why won’t she just say “leave”? Then again, I also hate my kids, my sister, and definitely my mother-in-law, so maybe she is right in remaining silent. One time I came to therapy with a list of things to talk about, and by the end, I had a longer list. Mindfulness is all the rage right now. However, my therapist is trying to tell me mindfulness is not the same as a mind full of things to do all the time. I told her my mind works day and night and is so full it could ex- plode. Why does my therapist always ask me what I want to do about it? I told her over and over again, I am here because “they” won’t change. I tried to send my husband to therapy; he won’t go, so I sent my teenage daughter. Now she loves it and I pay twice the cost. I bet my teenager gets the good seat. Once my therapist gave me homework. “What do you mean I have to work on this at home?!” I asked her. No, no! It is hard enough doing the work in her office. I can always tell when the session is over. That friendly, open, tell-me-

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 247 anything face changes. It is oh-so-subtle, but after you go for a long time, you can see the ten-minute mark. First, it is a slight shift in her chair, maybe a change in the leg that is crossed. At five minutes, it is her note- book closing with a comforting “Okay.” On the hour she is standing by the door. I sometimes don’t even remember how she got from her comfy seat to the door so fast. The funny thing about therapy is, I spent a lot of the early sessions explaining why all her suggestions would not work. I just wanted to justify my shit. Once I felt like the situation I had gotten myself into was defi- nitely not my fault, I started to explore change. Here is some free advice: don’t pay for the extra sessions to justify your shit, she won’t even say “hi” to you on the street. So, therapy has helped me understand that life is confusing, but change is hard and can be expensive.

THIS WOMAN NEEDS A DOCTOR WHO LISTENS TO HER by Leigh Anne Jasheway I HATE GOING to the doctor. When I’m feeling sneezy or achy, I’m more likely to drink herbal tea, take a long nap, and then, if all else fails, visit my dogs’ veterinarian. At least she speaks my language. And, she al- ways calls me a good girl and hands me a treat between cleaning out my ears and checking my anal glands. If only she took my medical insurance! Not just my problem When it comes to women and medical professionals, I am definitely not alone in my dislike of the healthcare system. While women are more likely to go to the doctor, we’re also a lot less likely to feel that the person in the white lab coat understands us and pays attention to what we’re saying…es- pecially if that person does not have a vagina (or aspire to have one). O-o-the-gyno This disconnect is particularly true when it comes to “female troubles,” the cute name given by society to medical conditions affecting over 51% of the U.S. population. Wouldn’t it be great if erectile dysfunction, over- active sex drive, excessive sweating, and male pattern baldness were re- ferred to as “male troubles”?

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 249 For years, I only saw male gynecologists because there were very few women doctors around (yes, I AM that old). When I was 17, I had my first gyno exam because I needed to get a prescription for birth control pills. The good old boy doctor who smelled of cigars and may have been wearing a cowboy hat told me how lucky I was to have “child-bearing hips.” I. Was. There. For. Birth. Control! After he put me on the pill, I experienced morning sickness every month for years. Every time I’d make another appointment to express my concern, he told me I could either put up with the symptoms or be preg- nant and experience “the real thing.” Because tossing my cookies at break- fast wasn’t real enough for him. Through the years, it seems that most of my gynecological issues— ovarian cysts that felt like they would explode if I moved, the lack of a period for 2-1/2 years when I was a long-distance runner, galloping PMS—were dismissed as figments of my imagination. I will admit that I have a great imagination, but I try to save it for writing stand-up sets or humorous essays, not making up complaints in order to get attention. If I want attention, I can always get another dog. It’s not all in our heads It’s not just gynecological issues that cause women to feel alienated and dismissed. In a review of gender bias in chronic pain management done in 2001, for example, researchers concluded that women were more likely to be inadequately treated by healthcare providers and less likely to be prescribed pain killers because of “a long history within our culture of regarding women’s reasoning capacity as limited.” (If you’re keeping track so far, women have attention-seeking, overactive imaginations and limited reasoning as additional “female troubles.”) When asked if she thought an- ything had changed in the almost two decades since the original study, one of the original researchers, Anita Tarzian, said, unfortunately, she did not. She noted that many women feel like they’re being gaslighted every time they seek health care. Damn.

250 Shut the F Up, Doc Syndrome Isn’t gaslighting the job of our government? It doesn’t help that women are physically different from men—this ap- parently confuses some doctors, especially if they’re over 60. I’m not just talking about the reproductive differences either. For decades, doctors didn’t recognize heart attacks in women because our symptoms are differ- ent. Our hearts, lungs, brains, and hormones—they all have some gender differences, as do our eyes, ears, skin, and the ability to tolerate the Indy 500 and endless games of beer pong. I once worked with a physiologist who told me that for a long time, researchers measured body fat by strapping people to a chair and dipping them into a pool. It’s called the “dunk test” and I believe they got the idea from the Salem witch trials. But here’s the thing: originally, they only tested men, and only had data on men, so when they discovered the existence of another gender and started testing women, they were confounded. First, because women have more subcutaneous (that’s Latin for “under the cutaneous”) body fat, we tend to be more buoyant. And second, depending on the time of the month, our bodies can either be denser or lighter—as I like to say, “bloat floats.” Medical researchers could NOT figure that out. I bet a woman got in the dunk tank and mumbled, “Hey, I’m on my period. If that mat- ters.” Suddenly, the light bulb went on. Standing up for yourself in your backless paper gown Fortunately, some things have changed, at least since I’ve been responsible for my own health care. For one, there are a lot more women doctors in every specialty, so if you don’t have a veterinarian, you still have good choices. And, with the internet, we can all do our research before showing up in a doctor’s office. I’ve found that many doctors like it when their patients are informed—it saves them from having to slyly log onto Web MD to figure out what’s wrong with us. But just like everything else these days, we women have to stand up for our rights. Not only do we need to be informed, but we also need to speak up and insist on being heard, even if we have to yell into the stethoscope.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 251 And sure, like Elaine in an old Seinfeld episode, we may end up being labeled a “difficult patient,” but our health is worth it.

252 Shut the F Up, Doc Syndrome TREATMENT Other than speaking in a lower-pitch and perhaps carrying some balls in your pocket, the best way to treat STFU, Doc is to bring your own inter- pretive dancer with you every time you have a medical appointment.





IDENTITY AND CULTURE



Gotta Be Me Syndrome OTTA BE ME SYNDROME is characterized by feeling out of Gplace at work, in the community, or while visiting the Supreme Court. Symptoms and signs The syndrome may be caused by a number of factors that are common in most women’s lives, including: being too thin, being too fat, being too “normal,” having insufficient eyebrows, not speaking English as a first lan- guage, not speaking Man as a first language, being a slut, being a virgin, being a tease, being too old, being too young, being “just a friend,” not enjoying Frank Sinatra music, worshipping the wrong god, worshipping no god, speaking your mind, not speaking your mind, cursing like a pirate, being too uptight, having cellulite, being in a cell, having been born into the wrong body, having been born into a disabled body, having been born

258 Gotta Be Me Syndrome penis-free… In other words, being who you are when the world insists you be something else. In recent years, women have marched and rallied to support Gotta Be Me Syndrome and demanded that the world accepts us as our authentic selves. Unfortunately, the word “authentic” (worthy of acceptance) and the word “woman” (must be mutable, depending upon the circumstances so as not to piss anyone else) seem to be antonyms. This would explain by sufferers of GBM often feel bi-polar until they consume an entire choco- late sheet cake washed down with two light beers and some self-loathing.

NO, I WON’T FIX MY SMALL ASIAN EYES by Bernice Jing Ye THIS IS TYPICAL when I, a first-generation immigrant of Chinese de- scent, meet someone new. “Where are you from?” “Seattle.” “No, no, no, where are you REALLY from?” (Rolling my eyes, I know where this is going) “China.” “NOOOOO…. you look way more Korean to me. I always know the difference!” Oh, do you? Even I cannot tell the differences between Korean and Chinese women anymore. They all look exactly the same to me, someone who was born and raised in China. This is mainly because most Chinese and Korean girls get plastic surgeries from the same Korean doctors. By the way, we Chinese are fully aware that while we are good at manufac- turing, we are not up to par with design aesthetics yet. Korea is #1 when it comes to that. Maybe it’s worthwhile for me to explain this with my personal story. Growing up in China, I was a very awkward teenager. The worst part of it was my big, thick glasses that were wearing my face instead of vice versa. I hated them. I couldn’t see shit. Because I actually have perfect

260 Gotta Be Me Syndrome vision. I was a really good kid—never made any trouble, was always studying. I won 1st place in every single competition: math, writing, gluing things onto other things, you name it. I was killing it in elementary school. Then I turned eight, and all of sudden everyone around me started telling my mom: “You daughter is so smart. She is going to have a great future. If you fix her small eyes.” For those of you who don’t know, Asians are obsessed with big eyes. Not just big eyes, but with “double eyelids.” 'Double eyelids' refers to the crease that the majority of non-Asian peo- ple have across the top of their eyelids, but many Asians do not have. So many girls get double eyelid surgery in high school. Many consider this to be “survival surgery” in order to get a job and be happy. The Chinese are so obsessed with double eyelids that they always talk shit about Lucy Liu, and how ugly she is, and why Americans love her so much. Of course, the eight-year-old me was terrified at the prospect of “fix- ing” my eyes. I don’t want anyone to cut my eyes open! I figured if I was as smart as they said I was, I could figure something out. Maybe if I hide my eyes behind glasses, people will finally stop picking on them. If I cannot get bigger eyes, maybe I can at least have more of them! After that, I can escape to America where Lucy Liu is considered beautiful! I was determined. I was so determined that I decided to pretend to need glasses. I faked every single question the optometrist asked me until I had a -4.00 prescription. I was dizzy for 15 years. The irony is, the only way I could see things was to squint my eyes, which—er, you know, made my eyes even smaller. Guess what? I successfully got those glasses, and I also successfully es- caped to America. When I first arrived in the U.S., I settled in Indiana to go to graduate school at Purdue. You probably think Indiana is a place Asians only go if they are adopted and have no choice. But Indiana actually has a very special place in my heart. I showed up

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 261 barely speaking any English. I was such a FOB. I didn’t know how to say any of the food in a restaurant so I ate Subway for the first month because I could just point. But every time a white person saw me, they would always say, “Wow, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve never seen.” And I was immediately like, “I love you America.”

An Open Letter to The Perfect Woman by Erin Sanchez TO THE WOMAN who washes her bra after every wear, I’m not a hater. It’s just that, well, the rest of us are having a hard time living up. See, I’ve noticed your impeccable manicure on Snapchat and your per- fectly weeded garden on Facebook. I wasn’t aware it was possible to have both. My garden hasn’t been tended in months and still, my nails are a wreck. To the woman who always remembers her reusable grocery bags: Good for you. I keep forgetting mine and constantly carry the burden of global warm- ing on my shoulders. I’ve also seen your Pinterest-perfect baked goods. I bake, too, but usually, only after my bananas have over-ripened because I’ve snacked on chips more than on fruit. To the woman who actually finishes all her make-up before she leaves the house and doesn’t risk causing a multiple car pileup on the freeway: how do you do it? No matter how early I set my alarm, I never seem to have enough time to get everything done. By the way, how does your make-up still look flawless at the end of the day? After 20 years of wearing the stuff, I’m still trying to figure that one out. To the woman who doesn’t have to constantly pull her pants up, her

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 263 shirt down, or otherwise readjust her clothing a hundred times a day: who’s your tailor? Not that I’d go even if you told me. After all, “dry clean only” instructions don’t exactly wield much power in my house. To the woman who has all of her body hair removed on the same day: you get a gold star. Me? I shave in zones. Partly because I don’t have time to shave all my zones in one session and partly because my hot water heater can’t keep up. Side note: do you have any tips for razor burn? It’s just that when I saw that picture of you in a bikini in Greece, your skin looked like silk. And I could see a lot of skin… Second side note: who’s your personal trainer? Not that I’d go even if you told me. To the woman whose husband seems to be highly skilled in the art of Instagram photography: is there a course on this or something? My hus- band always kneels down to take my pictures—an angle that captures my extra chin—and I’m running out of usable social media material. To the woman who answers emails and returns phone calls the same day she receives them: okay, seriously, you’re making the rest of us look bad and you’re contributing to society’s need for instant gratification. To the woman who frequents the 5 a.m. spin class: enough said. To the woman who’s on time everywhere she goes, whose “woke up like this” selfie looks like my “this took all day” selfie, who volunteers, who shops at the farmer’s market and cooks all organic meals… I don’t mean to sound bitter. I don’t hold any of this against you. I just need to know if you’re real or if you’re a figment of my imagination im- poster syndrome. I need to know that you aren’t, in fact, actually perfect so I can feel a little more normal. You have a junk drawer, right? I mean, we all have junk drawers, don’t we? Where we toss our nearly dried out pens, batteries we’re not sure are charged or dead, keys we don’t know what they unlock, and broken items we have the best of intentions to fix…someday. It’s where we toss our flaws, our imperfections. Hidden away—out of sight and never to be seen by the likes of house guests. So, what’s it going to be? Are you willing to reveal your junk drawer? Do it for the sisterhood. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

264 Gotta Be Me Syndrome TREATMENT First thing every morning—before you shower or have your coffee—re- peat this mantra, “I am an amazing freak of nature and the world is lucky I’m here!” Then put on your thigh-high boots or your cultured pearls, and go out into the world where you should speak as loudly or softly as you want in the language you want while doing whatever tickles your fancy at that moment.





I Do Have Rights, Right? Syndrome VERY WOMAN’S EXPERIENCE with this syndrome is Eunique. In fact, the severity of symptoms can be heavily influenced by the country of origin, culture, religion, and the ability to keep one’s mouth shut in the face of inequality and stupidity. Symptoms and signs The primary cause of I Have Rights, Right? Syndrome is identifying as female. While most women suffer symptoms later in life, some start de- veloping irritability and swearing when they are young, especially if faced with unequal dress codes or rules about not being able to ride a bike or eat a banana because the “boys can’t control themselves.” An estimated 75 percent of women experience one or more of the fol- lowing symptoms by the age of 60: insomnia (especially while protesting overnight or being held in prison), depression, repression, oppression, heavy profanity, weight fluctuations, anxiety, headaches, thinning hair,

268 I Do Have Rights, Right? Syndrome thinning patience, lack of bail money, and ugly crying.

IRANIAN PRISON: THE BEST PLACE TO GET YOUR BODY BIKINI READY by Jasmine Eftekhari I WAS IN prison, again. This must have been my 7th or 8th time. Hon- estly, I’m not too sure, not only because I barely remember my life before the previous arrest, but because it all feels the same. It’s like drowning in quicksand, over and over again. It’s all so similar that you lose track (like each time you finally decide to be more optimistic and then your period comes and all you can do is swear, cry and eat gallons of ice cream). You probably think that going to prison, especially for political crimes as in my case and in a country like mine, is an unbearably heart-wrenching experience. Well, I can tell you that it’s not like that all: it’s much worse. But if it’s possible to see a positive side to death—which for me is the only thing for which there are no remedies—then I should be able to see a bright side to being a Persian ex-con comedian. You see, going to jail, especially right before summer, is an optimal and guaranteed way to get yourself ready for swimsuit season. For now, let’s ignore the fact that in Iran women aren’t allowed to wear swimsuits and swim in the sea like the rest of you. I mean, can you believe that in just five weeks in jail, I lost 24 pounds? I was talking about it this morning with a friend of mine who is struggling to lose 20 pounds after

270 I Do Have Rights, Right? Syndrome giving birth. Here’s what I recommend: Publish an article tomorrow on the girl who was beaten by the morality police because she did not wear her headscarf. Be sure to add the hashtag #GirlsFromEnghelab to your piece because you don’t want to get released before you lose those extra pounds. Another good thing about going to prison is that it helps you become more popular, in my case with other women. It’s a great way to make new friends, especially for someone like me, who struggles to have women as friends and tends to build friendships only with men (even at the risk of being called “slut” by other women). I made some friends in jail who loved me so much that they ate all of my meals and sometimes kept me from sleeping for more than 72 hours. It was so considerate of them to motivate me to reach my target weight faster. I don’t want to reveal their best trick, they used it to keep me on my toes, elevate my heart rate and to help distract me from my hunger and fatigue. Ok, I’ll tell you, but don’t let this amazing secret get out. Besides, it was just a silly prank. So, they pretended to be high on drugs and in- fected with HIV, and they threatened me with syringes in exchange for money and food. Hilarious! Of course, they did it to distract me so I wouldn’t think too much about people on the outside, but I fell for it every time! It goes without saying that the best thing about this unique and in- formative experience in jail, is that I got to take a break from my relatives and coworkers—imagine weeks on end without having to listen to my mother criticize my lifestyle or without having to pretend to be busy so my lazy colleague wouldn’t ask me to do his job. Sure, every now and then you think about not being able to see the people you love and would like to hold and hug every second of every minute of every hour of every day you’re in there… but you can easily get past it thanks to those helpful friends you made inside your cell. For someone like me who writes satire for a living, going to jail is truly a gift.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 271 First, I learned a lot of swear words and offensive expressions that help me to better understand the comments left under my posts on social me- dia. Then I encountered so many comical and paradoxical situations that I can easily come up with at least a month’s worth of funny stories. For example, Iran’s Islamic law says that you can’t keep a person in jail who has not been tried and convicted, but I had been inside for months and when my trial finally arrived, I was found innocent!!! Other perks include: • Not needing to pay for a gym membership and dieticians • Losing weight at the expense of those Iranian people whose deli- cate sensibilities have been shaken • Finding new ideas for your work thanks to those very same people (see above) who don’t want to see the truth of their situation What’s more satirical than that??? In the end, I would like to tell you that there are positive and negative aspects to every human act, in every injustice, in everything. But none of what I wrote above is true. Going to prison for an ideal sucks. Being condemned for a thought sucks. Spending the best moments of the year (New Year’s and my birthday) in a 6×6 ft cell with someone who could barely stand because of all the drugs she had taken sucks. Living in Iran sucks. But I can see a positive side of all this: When I will finally live in a free Iran, as a free woman, I will feel happy. Infinitely happy. And I will savor every moment of my life fighting for other women and men in the world who were once like us, suffering injustice. Here it is. Even just a minute of the life that I will have, is worth months in prison. Being able to walk through the marvelous streets of my city without a headscarf is worth months in jail for having fought against the mandatory headscarf in Iran.

CYNTOIA BROWN AND THE BULLSHIT WOMEN’S PUNISHMENT GAP by Leigh Anne Jasheway “If your husband complains that you’re trying to smother him, you’re not holding the pillow over his face tight enough.” I READ THAT once on a greeting card and it made me laugh so hard, I thought I might pee right there in the card aisle of the store. But the truth is, the sentiment also resonated deeply with me. At the time I was married to a man who I thought might kill me. And not with laughter, which is the way I want to go. Given my circumstances, I honestly did entertain thoughts of smoth- ering him. I also thought about poisoning his pudding. And occasionally, I thought about covering his back with estrogen patches in hopes that he’d become a nicer person—but I would have had to shave it first and that might have awakened him. One of the reasons I was finally able to leave that marriage was the fear that if I didn’t, I’d end up in prison for attempted murder (I’m fairly sure that I, a vegan and a pacifist, would have failed to follow through with my intentions). Other women are not so lucky—they are forced to protect themselves from partners who commit domestic abuse and end up paying the price. For example, according to one study, 67% of women in California prisons

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 273 for killing their domestic partners reported that they had been attempting to protect themselves or their children from harm when they committed the crime. Despite the fact that 1 in 4 women in this country will at some point in their lives be victims of severe violence in an intimate relationship, society would be more comfortable if we did NOT stand up for ourselves because it’s not very… ladylike. Just look at the flak Congresswoman Ra- shida Tlaib got for using profanity… while the man she used it toward has been accused of sexually abusing or harassing twenty different women and bragging about it using profanity! So back away from the pillow and put away the rat poison! Perhaps just send a nicely worded restraining order scented with your best perfume. We don’t want to make the boys uncomfortable. Cyntoia Brown learned the hard way that protecting yourself from abuse can ruin your life. Cyntoia, who had been sold into sex slavery as a young girl and forced into a life of prostitution and sexual violence, killed a man with whom she had had sex when she was 16 years old. She thought he was reaching for a gun. After her trial, she was sentenced to 51 YEARS in prison. We all applauded when her sentence was commuted, but she’s already served 15 years. On the other hand, let’s just pick a man at random… I know, how about, George Zimmerman, who killed Trayvon Martin in 2013 because he thought the Skittles in Trayvon’s hand were a gun. (I know I make that mistake all the time. I see the packages of Skittles in the grocery store and think, “Why are all these guns here in the candy aisle?”) George was AC- QUITTED. That seems fair, right? According to the National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women, the average prison sentence for men who kill their domestic part- ners is 2 to 6 years. Women who kill their partners are sentenced, on av- erage, to 15 years. So, unlike our salaries, when it comes to prison time for protecting ourselves, women get much, much more. Yay, us! The sentences are even longer for women of color, which Cyntoia is. In the past two years, millions of women have spoken up about their

274 I Do Have Rights, Right? Syndrome sexual assaults and other #MeToo moments. One of the underlying mes- sages of the movement has been, “Believe women.” And yes, if neighbors, police, lawyers, judges, hospitals, etc. would believe us when we say we’re experiencing domestic violence (even if we don’t have bruises), as the meme says, that would be great. But we also need to start addressing the inequities in a judicial system that seems to think only those with a penis should be allowed to get angry enough to kill someone in self-defense. Fortunately, I may have hit on the perfect solution, thanks to having been pre-law in college and watching tons of reality shows. If women get outrageously longer sentences for self-defense, we need to hide the gender of anyone coming to court. Follow me here: We could have the judge and jury sit in those big red chairs that swivel around like they have on The Voice. But they wouldn’t be able to turn around until the verdict was reached. Of course, this approach would also require voice camouflage technology and the use of “they” pronouns, but I think it could work. Or, if those chairs are too expensive, all defendants could dress in full-body gender-neutral dragon costumes for the length of the trial. Don’t scoff. My weird ideas would not only solve gender inequality in the courtroom but racial inequality as well. When it comes to the judicial system, it’s time we think outside the box. Thousands of women’s lives depend on it. Now, I’m going to google “gender-neutral dragon cos- tumes” and see how much they cost.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 275 TREATMENT Home remedies and lifestyle changes are frequently the best ways to cope with the symptoms of I Have Rights, Right? Syndrome. The best home remedy is to find yourself a new home (or family, church, city, state, coun- try, or planet) when yours have the same rights as a sea urchin. As for lifestyle changes, while exercise and keeping your thermostat at 50 degrees to prevent yourself from overheating are good suggestions, the best approach is to wear a pair of Groucho Marx glasses and a bowler hat when in public, on the off chance you’ll be mistaken for a dude and al- lowed to do whatever you want.



A Broad Abroad Syndrome F YOU’VE EVER AWAKENED in a strange bed but been fairly Icertain you weren’t drunk or sleeping with a random person the night before, you may have A Broad Abroad Syndrome. The primary symp- toms may include, but aren’t limited to: repeated airport pat-downs, euphoria, riding public transit with livestock, euphoria, accidentally leav- ing your passport and credit card in a bathroom in another country, eu- phoria, and discovery that Babel did NOT teach you everything you need to know about a new language (after having accidentally ordered a herd of goats instead of a bottle of wine) but who cares? At least you’re not at home watching Project Runway re-reruns! Symptoms and signs Although the exact root of A Broad Abroad Syndrome is unknown, most scientists think it relates to a process called wanderlust which may begin

278 A Broad Abroad Syndrome in childhood with exposure to too many National Geographic documen- taries. This can cause an uncontrollable urge to learn things about other cultures, sample new cuisines, trek to out of the way places, and see whether your passport will get you back into your own country when you get home. There are other possible theories as to what can cause A Broad Abroad Syndrome, such as: • The desire to put as much distance between you and your family as possible • Drunk dialing Expedia or Travelocity • Witness relocation • The need to find an affordable place to retire with your 27 cats • A recent break-up with your partner or your country

VIGNETTES OF MOVING AND LIVING IN THE US by Sujata Agrawal THE DREAM Growing up in India, America was the land of dreams. It was Riverdale in Archie comics, Hollywood in the movies, Mickey Mouse and his pals at Disneyland, McDonald's double cheeseburger with fries and a coke, Levi’s jeans, and Nike shoes… the list is endless. Like a woman’s To Do list, but fun and exciting. I first visited America in the early 70s and often thereafter. As my visits to the U.S. became more frequent, American culture became more famil- iar. Seventeen (the magazine) was my bible as I entered my teens. I had wallpapered a wall in my bedroom with ads cut out of the magazine. Windsong and Coriandre were the perfumes I wanted, and I would have killed to have Maybelline roll-on lip gloss! I would often dream of what it would be like to live there with my alluring scent and shiny lips. Although it took a long time, I did make it here and a few years ago, I finally moved from Bombay to Seattle. I left behind the crowded beaches of the Arabian Sea to live near the geoduck-filled shores of Puget Sound. Although both cities are surrounded by water and are divided into two distinct areas, that’s where the similarities ended.

280 A Broad Abroad Syndrome “Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore” is what I said aloud, but no friendly Lion or Scarecrow came to my side to sing, dance, or comfort me. Actually, Seattleites on the street rapidly crossed the street upon hearing my Dorothy-woes. THE CULTURE America is a friendly country, maybe even a bit too friendly. At least that’s what I used to think in the early days. I had to get used to strangers smiling at me as I went about my day-to-day life. The first time it happened, I was going for an early morning walk when a man jogging towards me smiled and said, “How are you doing?” I was perplexed. But I thought, did I know him? How could I? I had just moved here. I didn’t know anybody here. He was long gone by the time I got through asking myself all these questions. I discreetly put away the pepper spray and continued walkng. A little later, a woman passed by and gave me a smile and a nod. That’s so weird, I thought. A few days later, another stranger said: “Boy, it sure is a beautiful day!” Yes, it certainly was, a rare sunny day in Seattle. This time, I was more prepared, so I nodded and said with a smile, “It sure is.” Soon I was getting into the hang of things and happily saying “Hi!” to the driver when getting on the bus and yelling a confident “Thank you!” as I got off. THE TRAFFIC The two cities and countries have completely different definitions of the word “traffic.” Here it is so organized. There are clearly marked lanes, and everyone stays within them. People signal when they want to turn, and they even signal if they are changing lanes. For heavens’ sake, there are even crosswalks where pedestrians walk across the street. I wish the intri- cacies of American traffic law were applied to dating: men forced to use their blinkers upon every movement, giving women clear warning signals of their approach. Google, are you reading this? Not many know that crossing a road in India is an acquired skill that combines speed, dexterity and absolute confidence that cars will stop for

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 281 you by simply raising your hand. Not that it’s hard to get the cars to stop since they rarely travel faster than 5 miles per hour. In India, there is no such thing as traffic rules. The only rule is to keep- ing moving. If you see a space, however small, that allows you to move forward or sideways, you move or are honked at. A three-lane road is ac- tually a five-and-a-half lane road. And you have to watch out for motor- cyclists who believe that they have the same ability as the Knight buses (in Harry Potter) to squeeze themselves through any gap no matter how thin (so India and the U.S. have one similarity here). Let’s move onto public transportation—in one word, Wow! I would have never imagined buses that are so clean and comfortable, not to men- tion air-conditioned in the summer and heated in the winter. People stand in line and get on in an orderly manner—there’s no jostling, no shoving. And the best part is you don’t get pinched as frequently. Taking the bus in Bombay requires multitasking. You must simultane- ously protect your boobs and your butt from the “pinchers,” while pro- tecting your wallet from sticky-fingered locals. On the bright side, it gives you the chance to get in some daily exercise. First, you run after the bus, timing it, so you jump on without injuring yourself. Then you can get a good stretch by squeezing like a contortionist to find a seat or avoid smelly armpits. Most people like to finish this fitness challenge by elbowing their way towards the exit to ensure they can get off at their desired stop. THE BUSINESS OF LIVING In Bombay, I grew up in the same neighborhood and lived in the same apartment with my family for nearly 40 years. In Seattle, living alone was both adventurous and intimidating. But, soon I got used to strange men knocking at my front door at all odd hours. The first step was to find an apartment. With no idea of what I was sup- posed to be looking for, I turned to my best friend—Google! I chose an area called Belltown as the place to begin my independent life—it was close to downtown, and well connected by public transport. Using Google maps, I created a grid of five blocks. Then my other friend Zillow pointed

282 A Broad Abroad Syndrome out every apartment building that fit my filters. It was time to pound the pavement visiting apartments, dozens of them. It was a huge lesson in understanding the size and layouts of studios, urban one-bedrooms, and regular one-bedrooms and what-have-you. At the end of the tenth day, I had found my dream apartment with a gor- geous view of the Puget Sound. The first night I spent in my apartment, I only had a borrowed table, a footstool and a single mattress on the floor. There were bread, eggs, mayo, and butter in the fridge, and I couldn’t have been happier thanks to the help of my new body pillow, Mr. Snug- gles. Cooking is not and has never been my forte. In Bombay, we have a cook who makes fresh food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! I would tell him what I felt like eating, and it would magically appear on the table. Here, I mentally rolled up my sleeves and decided to take a stab at cooking by making basic simple Indian food—potatoes with cumin. But I was not prepared for the sheer variety of products and produce available here. Safe- way was like Aladdin’s cave, filled with a treasure trove of every imaginable kind of produce! Standing in the vegetable section, I was bewildered by the selection of potatoes on offer—russet potatoes, Yukon Gold potatoes, Idaho potatoes, New potatoes…—Help!!! Making a strategic decision, I walked over to the freezer section, pulled out a packet that said, “Simply Potatoes—Diced Potatoes” and left the battlefield to fight another day. Now, I am a veteran of not only Safeway and Trader Joes but also the many farmer’s markets that spring up in the summer months. THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME There is an image pinned on my bulletin board—it’s of a woman in a yoga warrior pose, hilariously titled “Worrier Pose” with questions in bubbles around her—”What do I want?” “Is everyone looking at me?” “Am I do- ing this right?” “Am I doing anything right?” etc. I put it up to remind me of how far I’ve come in the last couple of years. The fear of the unknown and unfamiliar can shackle you and keep you from exploring and living new experiences. When you embrace the

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 283 unknown and the unfamiliar, you are richly rewarded. Though I left my personal Kansas by moving away from Bombay, I was able to build a new home in Seattle, the literal Emerald City! All you need is courage, and most important, friends.

ACCESS IS SUBJECTIVE by Laura Hamilton IT WAS OUR third day as obviously American tourists, and I had grown so comfortable with being manhandled by unknown men that I started viewing my boobs as convenient handholds on a pudgy cliff face to allow others to secure a better grip on me. As long as they weren’t using my lady bits or my front-butt as my husband likes to call them, for leverage, I was cool. “Don’t worry madam,” said one of the four smiling men with his hands on my butt, “To us, you are like a sister.” Sure I am, I thought with a mental eye roll, and up the dusty steps into the perfume shop, we went. At 140 pounds, I promised myself that I would lose enough weight to be more manageable for others before our trip to Egypt, but then pastries happened. No matter where you go in the world, there are pastries, so many pastries, around every corner, and if you don’t try them now, you probably never will. My biggest fear I’ll have on my deathbed is not to regret the risks I didn’t take in life, but the pastries I didn’t try, which may be one and the same depending on who you ask. I had easily packed on a good 15 pounds since my husband and I decided to uproot our lives in San Francisco and travel the world for a year. We had Airbnbed our way across 17 different European countries over the last eight months, and by this point, my belly was by far my biggest souvenir.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 285 At a size 10, I was by no means obese or even chunky by American standards, but when your legs don’t work, that is a lot of dead-weight to transfer around. I have needed a wheelchair to get around since I was 18- years-old as I have a form of Muscular Dystrophy that causes the muscles in my arms, legs, abs, etc. to weaken, and sometimes disappear entirely, over time. As you can imagine, this obviously presents me with some unique logistical challenges when trying to explore a diverse list of places and cultures, but not as many impossibilities as you would think thanks to some delightful culture shocks. Egypt was definitely one such place. When we arrived at our hotel in Cairo on a semi-paved sandy road, we were met with a 2-foot-tall curb from the door of our sedan taxi with no curb cuts. Even my husband had trouble scaling the thing with our single suitcase. Before coming, I of course, made sure that our hotel was wheel- chair friendly, but as is often the case, such safe environments exist as is- lands among rough seas of non-access that you must find a way to paddle your way through on your own. Our taxi driver came around the side and started pulling me out ragdoll style with such speed it caught us both off- guard. With some help from my husband, they successfully had lifted me a good 4 feet higher than I had begun, safely planting me into my wheel- chair on the sidewalk. My husband and I were in a mix of shock, amaze- ment, confusion, and gratitude as we tipped the driver well, and he went on his way. It’s important to understand that strangers rarely help us with any heavy lifting when we’re out and about, and for good reason. First of all, we rarely find ourselves in need of such help. My husband and I have always lived, and often traveled, comfortably in a first world environment. By this point in our societal evolution, most first world cities and countries have invested a decent chunk of money into providing step-free access to most necessities. The castles in Prague and the aqueducts in Istanbul may still be off-limits to me, but I can at least get close enough to read about them at the entrance. The second reason is that, because we’re not used to having to help one another in big ways, no one thinks to do it, or they are afraid to. There have been numerous occasions where I have turned down

286 A Broad Abroad Syndrome the kind offer of strangers to lift me up or down some barrier in the States because me missing out on going to the thing in question is a bummer, but not essential, and I desperately want to avoid any risk of injury to this nice person or myself, and the $12K bill from the emergency room for a cracked ankle that follows. No thanks bro, I’m cool. From my travels to 2nd world countries, I’ve learned that an inherent can-do attitude and kindness often replaces the lack of infrastructure that my existence normally hinges on. This is entirely cultural. When people live in a place where stairs to everything are a given, the fact that I can’t navigate them on my own and that I will need serious help is also obvious. During my week in Egypt, I got to see and do things that I never would have dreamed of in the States, and it had nothing to do with the location itself. My blonde hair became a beacon for help because I clearly had money to tip anyone who would volunteer to lift me here and carry me to that. It was amazing. I ate anywhere and everything I wanted: my favorite was a simple fresh bread dinner while watching the Nile at sunset from our hotel balcony. We traveled in a horse-drawn carriage around the pyr- amids without even asking if it was possible, though I did decline the camel. I’d like to see that happen with the carriages that surround Central Park, a trip to the Comedy Cellar in Greenwich Village, or maybe a ride on the cable cars back in San Francisco. I can almost guarantee such re- quests would be met with a, “Seriously?” to “Nice try sweetheart,” by its operators. I have never been so liberated in all my life, and all it took was money and a wonderful culture of people who think outside the box, who knew? If my dollar traveled nearly as far in the states, I would gladly hire a kind soviet-era woman by the name Olga with thick thighs and a backpack on her shoulders that fit my dimensions perfectly. Together, we would climb to the basecamp of Everest and finally ride that cable-car. Stretch goals. One of the questions I was asked frequently upon returning from our adventures was what places were the most accessible, and I tell them “Egypt” with an asterisk. As I type this, I’m literally trapped in my apart- ment complex in Seattle because there are 4 inches of snow on the ground