My Strangest Job: I Was as a Pirate Cigarette Girl

Probably the oddest job I’ve ever had was when I dressed-up like a pirate, strapped a tray of over-priced cigarettes, candy, and light-up toys to my shoulders, and sold them to drunk people in San Francisco bars.

It was early 2009. I’d just quit my nice corporate Costume Designer job in San Diego, so I could finish my bachelors degree. My goal was to switch my career to something more meaningful and less soul-crushing. So I’d traveled back up north to Oakland, to finish my diploma at the college I’d started it at 11 years prior.
Of course, this was also when the economy had just tanked into a recession.

When I got to Oakland, I applied for flexible jobs I could work while in school full-time. I applied to all sorts of things. I had tons of retail and food service experience, it should have been a cinch. But, given the economy, NO ONE was hiring.
I went from a salaried job to having an ice cream shop not even call me back. The financial cushion I’d worked to save was running out, made worse by the fact that when I gave 3 weeks notice to my design job they let me go on the spot. (Lesson: NEVER believe a company who says their employees are “like family”. You’re not. You’re just a cog in their machine.) After getting no bites for months, shit was getting desperate. My credit cards could only keep me afloat for so long.

Then I saw an ad on Craigslist. A company called Peachy’s Puffs was hiring. They wanted girls to be the classic “cigarette girl”, to dress up in costumes and work parties and bars. Heck yes, I thought. I am a sucker for retro anything, and I love dressing in costume, so I was sold.

I applied, interviewed, and got the job. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The job turned out to be… interesting, to say the least. The company’s history was great, it had been started by one enterprising young woman in 1988 who called herself Peachy D’Ambrosio. She’d sold the company by the time I worked there, but they retained the name Peachy’s Puffs.

Their website looked pretty slick and had glamorous photos of the girls.
What I found in reality was not glamorous in the least.

Here’s a little snippet of what it was like to be a Peachy’s Puff in 2009:

It was 8pm on a Friday night and after being in classes all day, I drove out to San Francisco and parked my car near the Peachy’s Puffs office. I punched in the door code, then descended the stairs to the basement level office space. The office was also our dressing room, and it was a sad, run-down, florescent lights and scuffed linoleum floor affair. A funky old vending machine dispensed soda and beer.
I set my huge tote bag of costumes and supplies down at one of the dressing stations, got out my curling iron, and plugged it in. One girl was already there, she was brand new, and this was her first night. I said hi, and she meekly replied, shyly hunched over, applying her eyeliner. I knew she wouldn’t last at this job past tonight. This gig was not for the shy or meek. Poor dear.

I shimmied on my pirate outfit, it was a ice blue and white lacey dress meant for a sexy Marie Antionette costume, but I paired it with a pirate hat topped with a huge, jaunty blue feather, fishnets, and knee high black Fluevog boots. I started to curl my hair, and other Puffs rolled in soon after. A brassy new gal with a Jersey accent sat down next to me. Her name was Cindy, she’d just moved from the East Coast, and she was just working this job until she could find a waitressing gig. Next to her was a petite gay boy named Alexander. He wore a perfectly fitted bell boy costume with super short shorts, and he only worked the Castro neighborhood (the “gay” neighborhood of San Francisco.) I’m sure he made a ton of money there.

Cypress as a Cigarette Girl Pirate. This is a photo from my first night, when I wore one of the costumes from the staff closet.
Cypress as a Cigarette Girl Pirate. This is a photo from my first night, when I wore one of the costumes from the staff closet. It was soon replaced by my own costume.

The rest of us were assigned our routes, and I got North Beach, again. More senior girls got first dibs on the best routes, and while you could make money in North Beach, it was also super sketchy due to all of the strip clubs in the area. Cindy and the meek girl were also on my route. After finishing with hair and make-up, we counted in the items in our trays, and our driver, Matt, told us it was time to get going.

We drove away in Matt’s 90’s sedan that reeked of weed, while he blasted metal through the stereo. He dropped me off first, on a street lined with bars. He wrote down on scratch paper the names of the bars I was to go to, and what corner I’d meet him on at 10:15. I had his cell number plugged in my phone just in case. Then he drove away to drop the other girls off at their sections.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my heavy tray, fixing a glow stick that had fallen over and turning my electric pink “tips” sign outward, and walked into my first bar. It was pretty packed for so early in the night. As I did with every bar, I acted like the cartoon character of a cigarette girl, bubbly and bright and cutesy cute. If you know me, you know how difficult this was- I hate selling things, and I hate being fake. But I had to fake it to do the job, so the little voice in my head yelled “WORK IT, GIRL!” and work it I did. I talked to everyone in the bar that I could, charming the folks who looked hungrily at my M&Ms, dodging snarky looks from ladies who were there with their boyfriends, and coyly cutting short conversations with men who were just flirting and wouldn’t buy a thing. Most people were nice or neutral to me, but some just gave me disgusted looks. I knew wearing a skimpy outfit and selling crap in a bar made some people look down on me. I tried to blow it off and keep moving. With all that work, I sold only one pack of over-priced peanuts. So on to the next bar I went.

I efficiently worked my way through my list of bars, sold a decent amount of items, but it was still early, people would buy more later on when they were drunk. I stood patiently on the ending corner for my ride. Matt pulled up to the curb, and I jumped inside. We picked-up the other girls on their corners and off we went to our next routes.

This string of bars was a little more spread out, and a bit confusing because I wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood. The first bar was a two story monolith I’d never seen before. It was frequented almost exclusively by transgender women and the fellas that love them. It was a bit slow, but I sold some chocolate bars to a couple of gorgeous ladies who begged their “daddies” to buy them treats.
The bar after that was a rocker dive, and the bartender exchanged pirate jokes with me, then gave me a free shot because he knew “how hard my job was”. Then I walked down the bustling main drag in North Beach, and things were really beginning to hop. People were filing in and out of bars and strip joints flashed their neon signs.

At a tiki-themed bar, I took a brief break to dance to “Groove is in the Heart” while wearing my tray. Afterwards a drunk jackass grabbed one of my candy bars and threw it across the room. I panicked, as each over-priced thing on my tray would be charged to me if it went missing. Luckily I found it on the ground, and it looked fine, so back on my tray it went.

At the next bar, a gorgeous sit-down place with stained glass windows and a spiral staircase, a darling Irish guy, on vacation I’m sure, chatted me up right when I walked in. He had that starry-eyed look when he saw me, and I practically melted when he said in his fabulous accent that I “looked like the girls back home.” He tried to sweet talk me into hanging out with him all night. And I almost threw down my tray then and there… but, no. I had a boyfriend and I was working. Time to move on.

Walking to the next location, I took a wrong turn for a moment, accidentally walking down a dark street, when I realized I was alone there, I panicked and started to briskly walk back. A guy in a car also spotted me, and like a perfect predator immediately pulled to the curb and tried to call me over. I walked faster, and made it back to the populated street. I took a big breath to calm down my thumping heart.

A group of guys standing outside the next bar started to chat me up when I approached. At first I wasn’t sure if they’d buy something so I entertained them.

“What’s your name?” one of them asked.

“Lulu the Merciless.” I said in a Betty Boop voice.

“No, what’s your real name.”

“That is my real name.” Coy smile.

I saw their eyes dart right behind me, and I realized one of their buddies had snuck behind me, lifted my skirt, and taken a cell phone picture of my butt (I wore shorts underneath, thank god.)
I told them all they were uncouth and stormed away to my meet-up location.
I noticed my hands were shaking a bit. Breathe. I needed a drink.

The next route was a simple one, as the two clubs were huge and packed with people. The first was in an industrial district, booming with house music, and I sold a few things. This was the perfect time of night to sell my $10 packs of cigarettes. People’s laziness and drunken nic fits had overrided their outrage at the price.

At my last stop, there was a line to get in. The bouncer lifted the velvet rope for me and let me inside. The Hip Hop blared in this sparkly, posh, multi-room dance club. I really wanted to make some more sales at this place, this was go time. But as I walked around I quickly got the hint that I was invisible here, who knows why, maybe these people didn’t like pirates. Barely anyone would even look at me, and no one would speak to me. Still hopeful, I walked through all the rooms, then just sat, dejected at the bar. I ordered a whiskey sour and got off my throbbing feet for a minute. What a bust, and this is the prime time of night for people to buy things. Damn.

Matt picked me up outside at 2am and we drove back to the office. Cindy was chatty as ever, bragging about her score of selling 5 cigars AND the vibrating penis-shaped lighter to one group of people. The meek girl was crumpled against the corner of the back seat, sunk into herself, eyes glazed over. Yep, that one was done for.

At the office, we deliriously counted our trays back in, and our percentage of the revenue was calculated. We got some measly cut of it, around 25% at the most. The office manager handed me my $65. I sighed. She told me that was actually really good, most people made less.

Looking around at my co-workers in their ragged, 2:30am haze, I realized this job was for people on the precipice. It was for people in between something else, or, for those who felt they were running out of options. And it was difficult, emotionally and physically taxing, and disheartening for most. As most jobs that have to do with bars, nightlife, exploitation, and low pay, it felt like we were teetering above a dark abyss of desperation. I had my toes firmly on the ledge, but I could see how it might push a younger or more delicate person over.

I changed out of my pirate costume and said my goodbyes to the motley crew of Puffs still packing up their gear. I slumped back into my car, my back and feet were beyond sore, and I made the groggy drive back to Oakland at 3am, not much money in my pocket, but at least it was something.

Soon after I found a stable retail job, blessed be. But from that day forward, whenever I see a cigarette girl in a bar, I always buy something from her and give her a tip.


Belly Dance: It’s Harder Than it Looks, but You Should Do it Anyway

Take enough belly dance classes and you’ll see her: The nervous but glowing newbie, bounding in in her $12 jingly hip scarf and yoga pants, inspired by some video she saw of a belly dancer where she thought “I can do that!”

She comes in and is ready to SHIMMY. Because, of course, she’s going to pick that up in the first class, and in no time she’ll be a brilliant dancer, awing her friends and family with her amazing moves.

But then, in the midst of the class, she realizes how crazy freaking HARD belly dance is. Her hips won’t shimmy, she can’t figure out how to make a belly roll happen, and when she tries the movements she looks nothing like the other dancers. Her enthusiasm turns from joyous to deer-in-headlights.
So after a couple of frustrating classes, she never returns.

This is, of course, a tad of an exaggeration, but similar experiences happen all the time.

I have to admit, I had no idea how hard belly dance was going to be when I took my first class. I grew-up studying ballet, tap, modern, jazz, and swing dancing. I had lots of performance experience. I was going to breeze into class and pick it up in no time, I just knew it. I’d always been a very “hip-oriented” dancer. I had this in the bag.

But then, those first few classes, I became so frustrated.

Belly dance uses muscles I wasn’t used to activating. I could not, for the life of me, activate my glutes separately in order to make my hips lift, belly rolls from down to up just weren’t happening, and walking while doing a vertical figure-8 was the most mind-boggling thing ever.

But, I would not be dissuaded! I took classes once a week, I supplemented with videos so I could practice more at home, and I shimmied while doing everything: The dishes, vacuuming, and even unconsciously in public. Eventually, my muscles activated, and my body got it down. Months went by, and my movement vocabulary started expanding, it felt more and more comfortable in my skin. What bliss! Finally, I could shimmy shake it like I’d always dreamed! But I think it took me, even with my years of dance experience, about a year of hard work to feel like I’d reached a more intermediate level.

I think we do have this perception in our culture that folk dances are less disciplined, less complex, and thus easier to do than the dances we perceive as high art forms: Ballet and Modern. But that’s not really the case.

I don’t want to dissuade any potential belly dancers from taking classes because they’re hard. Quite the opposite. Things that are challenging are SATISFYING. This dance is a complex flower that will slowly bloom for you over time, not some cheap dime store entertainment to be fiddled with and then discarded. You will get an awesome workout, you will get more in-tune with your body,  and you will look badass while doing it.

I feel blessed that my first teacher was Dilek Hoss, who was teaching Suhalia Salimpour technique Level 1 style classes. It was very meticulous and technical, and while it wasn’t as immediately gratifying… I took a 6 week class and didn’t learn much in the way of choreography, only drills… I know it made me a better dancer. A strong foundation is where it’s at. Yes, that means LOTS of “boring” drills.

So there it is. If you want to belly dance, realize it’s going to be challenging, it’s going to be a journey, but if it sings to you in your heart, you should DO IT.

Comic Con in the 90’s

I recently came upon the most amazing thing: Boxes that had been stored in my mother’s basement, untouched for 16 years.
I left them there in 1998 when I cleaned out my bedroom and headed back to college up north. They are amazing time capsules, full of a riot of items from my past: teenage notes, bad poetry, photographs, and more.

The thing in these boxes that I had been pining for the most was my comic book collection, left behind sheerly because of it’s bulkiness.

Inside the comic boxes I found not only a shit-ton of mostly X-Men issues (my Sandman comics are supposedly forth-coming) but random memorabilia from the San Diego Comic Cons I attended in the 90’s. I found badges, buttons, two issues of Sandman signed by Neil Gaiman and one comic signed by Dave McKean, a signed Elf Quest ashcan, and other random bits. Holding these things in my hands I had a flood of lovely memories resurface about my days immersed in the amazing comic book land of the San Diego Comic Con.

A few of the treasures I found:

BtU8DoyCcAAMQSv.jpg large

Before the mid-2000’s Comic Con was much more low-key than it is now. You could comfortably walk the aisles without being crushed in a sea of nerddom, you could get through lines in a reasonable amount of time, and everything was just a little more laid back (it was also way easier to use your friend’s pass to get in! shhhhh.)
It also wasn’t all over the news, I don’t remember having any concept that anyone outside of the little comic world really cared much about it.
Back then my friends and I just had a ball of a time looking at comics, getting things signed, and just lollygagging all day long.

Favorite Con story from back then: Glen Danzig used to attend the Con every year. A friend of mine, who was a snarky little punk rock boy, made it a yearly tradition to find Danzig and harass him about being short. Danzig would then chase him through the convention center.
“Oh, there goes Kevin being chased by Glen Danzig!”

I remember the 1994 Comic Con most vividly. I was 14, and had grown out of my superhero phase (but I still love X-Men forever;  80’s-era mohawk Storm is my girl.) I also had gained a certain consciousness about comics and their representations of women that irked me. It seemed like all the female comic book characters had impossibly small waists and boobs that defied gravity, with absurd clothing that barely covered these parts (they must have had superhero-strength-double-sided-tape.) Some booths at the Con hired women who tried to fit these beauty standards, and they lingered in the aisles, tasty eye-candy for the leering hetero-male nerds. I sneered at all of it.
On top of this, every pretty woman in a sci-fi TV show had her sexualized image plastered all over the con. Posters of Gillian Anderson in lingerie laying across a bed were all over the place, and in later years Seven-of-Nine’s busty Borg figure was around every corner.
I was so over it, even at 14. I thirsted for diversity, something non-exploitative, something unique and creative.

In late ’93 I had discovered a beacon of light in the land of spandex, pecs and boobs… At a small comic show I’d found Sandman, issue 51. I still remember when I picked it up from one of the vendor tables. I was drawn in by the beautiful and gloomy cover art. I flipped through, entranced by the looming Dream character and his sister Death (who is adorable, gothy, and has small boobs). Yes, I’d jumped on this train late, finding it at issue 51, but I was a youngin’, so I had an excuse.


So that year at Comic Con, I was on a mission: To find more Sandman and things like Sandman.


That year the Con was like it was every year, full of spandex superheroes. But then while walking down one of the aisles in the artist section, I came upon the booth of a particular art agent. This booth was covered in Sandman-esque art… and on closer inspection, some of Dave McKean’s pieces were, in fact, hung behind the table. His work is stunning, but even more so in real life, the texture of his multimedia pieces is quite something. My heart lept at this discovery, and I rabidly sifted through the boxes of comics on the table, deciding which ones I could afford, but wanting them all.

While in my mild panic about not being able to buy everything (or much of anything, really) at the booth, I was approached by a gentle-looking, bespectacled young man.

“Hi. Can I draw you? I’m not a creep, I swear.” and he grabbed a small portfolio that was sitting on the table next to the comics I was riffling through. Inside were gorgeous dark, but classical-style paintings of figures draped in fabrics. His name was Paul Lee, and he had the same art agent as Dave McKean.
Of course I said yes, and he snapped quick photos of me posing against the concrete walls next to the bathroom. My hair was extremely long back then, wavy honey blonde and down to my hips. Paul said I looked like I’d stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. I didn’t exactly know what that meant at the time, but later I realized what a compliment it was.
Paul and I became friends that year, and he really was not creepy in the least; I was also introduced to his lovely wife, Wendy.

And so it was, every year I came and hung out at the booth with Paul and Jon J. Muth and the host of characters who frequented there (I met Dave McKean, but he didn’t hang out much.) Each year Paul snapped pictures and then painted me when he got home, but sadly, he didn’t take pictures of many of the paintings before they sold. (Darn it, Paul!) I do have pictures of a couple of them from 1998 though:



Paul and I at Comic Con in 1997:


It was fun to be an art model, and while attending I slowly built-up my Sandman collection to a respectable size. One year I even got a couple issues signed by Neil Gaiman himself. I stood in line with hordes of others, while Neil, wearing sunglasses inside, exhausted his writing hand to appease us all.

Then I moved away to go to college, and my trips to Comic Con became less frequent. Years later, I worked for a Halloween costume company and was given free passes every year, but the Con just wasn’t the same as I remembered. It had become an over-blown circus, just getting from A to B on the convention center floor was enough crushing insanity to give you a panic attack.

So I haven’t been back in years. Every year I ponder it, but now I live even further away, and I’m not quite sure if I can handle the insanity. Maybe one day, if the mayhem and hype ever calms down, I’ll go back.

But I know, cynically and wistfully, that it will never be as amazing as when I was a teenager.

the sandman gallery 09 paul lee

This is a painting of Dream from Sandman that Paul gifted me one year in payment for modeling. I still have it hanging on my living room wall.

30 Days of Happy Songs

Because why the fuck not.

I’ve been working on my write-up about this year’s Faerieworlds Festival, and just feeling pretty glowing and good after a fun weekend of camping and frolicking.
I want to keep the good vibes going, but also help deflect some outside negative energy I’m being exposed to right now, which can be exhausting. So a happiness challenge seems like a good motivator to keep positive and dance in my kitchen more.

I’m familiar with the 100 Happy Days thing that’s been going around, and that’s lovely. I’d like to tailor the concept to a shorter period of time and make the focus something that inspires, like music.

So for the next 30 days, I will be posting a happy song to my twitter feed every day, and I’ll do song round-ups on here every one or two weeks.

If you’d like to join in a post your favorite up-beat songs, please do! Or, you can just listen and smile (and shake your head at my sometimes odd taste in music).

Find my tweets: #30DaysofHappySongs

And my twitter—> @cypressmatrix

And here is the first song, inspired by a camping trip by the ocean with my mom and boyfriend the other week…

Omission is the Bane of My Gluten Free Beer Drinking Existence

You can file Omission beer under Things-That-Say-They’re-Gluten-Free-But-Are-Really-Not.

(And you can also file this post under “First World Problems”.)

Omission claims the gluten in their beer is removed enough to be safe for people with celiac and gluten sensitivity to drink, but I disagree. And new FDA regulations actually prohibit them from calling the beer “gluten free.” but they dance around with language in their marketing to still make the beer seem gluten free, or safe for celiacs. Additionally, stores and bars continue to sell it as gluten free. Crazy pants.

Why do I care that it’s not really gluten free? I could just not drink it, right? There are plenty of other GF beers out there. But, sadly, this beer is so popular that’s it’s often the only gluten free option at many bars, restaurants and stores. 

And before you assume that I’m being a trendy gluten-free hypochondriac who has to go crazy about my food just for the hell of it… I urge you take in these factoids:

– If you have celiac disease, or severe gluten sensitivity, eating or drinking even a tiny bit of gluten really, really sucks. It can cause projectile vomiting, major intestinal distress, neurological symptoms, or, as in my case, can cause you your whole body to freak out and then you’re couch-bound for 2 days, with a longer full recovery period. Some (lucky) people don’t feel the damage happen, but it can seriously damage their intestines regardless.

– Some research suggests that people with celiac disease that eat gluten even just once every month have a 600% greater chance of death. Other research suggests it takes up to 6 months to fully recover from being glutened. Seriously.

So my concerns about drinking this beer are not due to me being a hypochondriac. I wish I was one, really. Then I’d just get some therapy and go back to drinking real, gluten-filled beer. Preferably a porter. A glass of Fat Tire’s 1554 would be AMAZING.

Oh, how I miss you, real beer….

But back to why I can’t stand Omission.

Omission is made with gluten-containing grains, then they take out just enough gluten to pass the legal gluten free standards. (or some say it just fractures some of the gluten particles and makes them harder to detect by the tests… who knows.) It apparently makes it taste more like “real” beer than other brands, which is why it’s so popular. But I’m not touching that stuff with a ten foot keg hose. No sir, no way. Omission is probably  great for people who are just a bit sensitive to gluten and want a beer. And yay for them.

But, you say, one of the CEOs of Omission Beer actually has celiac disease! Well, I can’t speak for this person, but I think they are probably nuts. Around 41% of people with celiac disease are actually asymptomatic. So he might not react severely like some of us do, and the silly man might be damaging his intestines with this beer without even knowing it. Or maybe he’s a masochist. I have no idea.

The internet is full of people saying they’ve gotten sick from this beer. And I believe them more than I do someone who is trying to sell me something.

Honestly, the existence of this beer would not bug me if it weren’t for the fact that it’s the beer every grocery store and bar and restaurant has decided to offer as their gluten free selection. It’s often the ONLY ONE they offer.

It’s like a sick joke the universe is playing on celiac sufferers.

Everywhere I go this beer is all I have to choose from. And when I tell the bartender or clerk why I won’t drink it, they look at me like I’m nutters. Then I get all Sad Panda and have to order cider. I like cider, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want cider when what I really want is a beer.


There are so many other yummy gluten free beers out there. Like Harvester (made in Portland!), Bards, Green’s, etc.. So there is no excuse for this take-over by the fake gluten free beer.

Okay, now I’ve vented, and I’m going to go cry in my cider.

A Letter to the Man Who Liked My Dress

Dear man who complemented me on my dress on 1st street,

I know the act of complementing a woman on her outfit seems rather harmless and arbitrary in of itself.

You were going about your day, and decided to compliment a pretty girl by telling her you liked her dress. Harmless, right? And the fact that she ignored you means she’s just a stuck-up bitch, of course.

I know you were quite miffed at the fact that I ignored you, as evident by your choice to then shout at me from the Dairy Mart parking lot.

I had chosen to wear a dress that is above the knee in public and therefore I should expect attention, right?

But I am writing this letter to explain that you, and men like you, need to know that these supposed compliments are not randomly harmless. They are a form of sexual harassment. Yes, of course, you can argue that you were just paying me a compliment on what I was wearing, but believe me, there’s more to it than that. And yes, on the list of things said to me by random men on the street, this doesn’t rank highly. But any harassment is not okay.

The thing is, I knew from the tone of your voice that it was not my dress that you were commenting on. It’s really just an okay dress, plain black racerback, knit material, and it falls just above my knee. It’s really nothing special. What I knew you were actually saying was that you liked my body IN the dress, how it showed my shoulders, and draped loosely over my very curvy hips and butt, but not so loosely that it didn’t compliment their shape.

I had debated wearing the dress before I left the house, because wearing any kind of dress by myself outside makes me anxious. But it was the first day of summer, a gorgeous sunny Saturday afternoon, and I wanted to walk a few blocks to the coffee shop and sit outside in the breeze to read my book and sip an iced drink. I just got the dress, and it’s quite comfy and cute, seemed perfect for a summer day.

I always have to think and strategize what I wear outside, as a woman. If I’m walking alone, sometimes I’ll wear one thing, if I’m going with a male, I’ll wear something else, if I’m going with a lady friend, it’s perhaps a different outfit.
But even all this strategizing sometimes has little effect on the outcome. I am still a target when I walk in public, even covered head-to-toe. I have been harassed an incredible number of times in my life (and also threatened and attacked)… the first time I was harassed was at the age of 4 (I’m not kidding.) So I’ve tried lots of different sorts of outfits and been able to test their effectiveness of making me feel safe or not. And I never, ever, walk by myself at night. I could be wearing clothing that has the same coverage of a burka and I’d still be putting myself in harms way, believe me, I’ve tried it many times. I’m lucky to still be alive.

I’ve gone through times when I’d wear whatever I wanted in public, riding buses in Oakland in mini skirts, feeling confident and sassy, my pepper spray tucked in my purse, comments and stares be dammed. Then, I’ve gone through other periods, where perhaps  a particular encounter with a random man had scared me to the core, and those times I feel like wearing a trash bag, I wrap myself in dowdy clothes and try to fold into myself while in public. But, even then, I’ve found that I still get harassed. Wearing that baggy outfit that’s covered in cat fur can’t save me from men like you… because it’s not about my outfit, really. It’s about power. It’s about socialization and how men and women act in the public sphere.

When a man came up from behind me and put me in a choke hold  at 8am on a Monday morning in 2001, I was wearing pants and a loose t-shirt. I screamed, and no one acted like they heard me, even though I was on a main street.

So, I figure, why not just wear the dress I want to wear?
Some terrible sexual harassment actually happens in Egypt, where women wear a lot of clothing, so clothing isn’t actually the main issue.

Walking to the coffee shop, I even purposefully avoided the main street for as long as I could (as I always do while walking alone in any outfit). I took the back streets through my neighborhood, which was actually a far more beautiful walk, everyone’s gardens are in full bloom this time of year. Even there, in this lovely lush green wonderland, I have to focus on calming my anxiety about walking by myself. PTSD is a bitch.

Walking in public as a woman often feels to me like a scene from some nature show, where the little gazelle is approaching the watering hole. She’s so thirsty, but she knows watering holes are a dangerous place, there could be a lion waiting in the brush, ready to leap out at her. So she creeps to the water’s edge stealthily, her eyes are wide and panoramic, her ears twitching, looking for any tiny sign of movement, ready to bolt. I am a woman and I have lived my whole life in a sea of potential predators. I hate thinking of men this way, but it’s due to life experience, sadly. And this alertness and mistrust has, actually, saved me from getting attacked at the watering hole many times over.

Then that day I cut up to the main street, which I had to cross to get to the coffee shop. It’s a busy thoroughfare, and it took me a moment to be able to find a break in the traffic. As I got to the end of the crosswalk, I saw you approach coming the opposite way on your bike. You had to pause while I crossed, and I knew that situation was ripe for you to linger and take in my shape and notice my aloneness.

As I said, I’ve been harassed by men countless times. I’ve gotten to the point where I can sense when a man will harass me even before it comes out of his mouth. So every time my inner alarm starts to sound around a man, I always try to will him not to do it… I think “don’t harass me man, don’t do it…” And then, of course, they almost always do.

So I knew you were going to harass me even before you did. And that, really, made it all the more irritating, because I was quite disappointed in you.

“Hey, I really like your dress…”

Now, you may wonder why I didn’t just thank you for telling me my dress was pretty. This is a conundrum I’ve often faced. It depends on my mood how I’ll respond to men like you, and I’ve also found that it really doesn’t matter, because either way it could go wrong. 

Your tone was creepy, and I knew it was my body you were commenting on, not my dress. I’ve responded with a “thanks” to comments like this before, just to try to deflect the perv.
But, if I say thanks, that can be seen as an invitation to keep talking to me or to follow me. I’d like to skip that annoying and potentially dangerous interaction if at all possible. Having to shake you off is even harder than just not engaging in the first place.

If I say nothing, that can be seen as an affront. But often silence deflects. Not always though.

I’m not really the one in control there, which is the entire point of harassment. It can escalate because of any little thing. Heck, I’ve been chased and threatened by men I didn’t even know were there 2 seconds before. So no, I know it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d acknowledged you or not.

This time, you were offended by my silence, as if I was obligated to engage with you.  I am not obligated to do so. So you yelled aggressively  “I could have at least gotten a smile!” from the parking lot of the Dairy Mart.

No, I will not smile at men like you.

I love smiling, I’d love to skip down the sidewalk in my pretty dress and smile at everyone who passes by. My prickly exterior has been layered on my skin from years of abuse. I want so bad to take it off. But I won’t, because I don’t feel safe. Because of men like you.

Your comment shattered the secure, calm feeling I was trying to cultivate while walking to the coffee shop. These comments are not compliments, they effect a woman’s whole experience while walking outside. My senses became heightened again, I hoped you wouldn’t follow me on your bike, which you luckily didn’t.

The story of an acquaintance’s experience popped in my head. She ignored a harasser on the bus recently and he followed her home and beat her up in her own front yard. All cuz she didn’t smile at him when he wanted her to.

I sat outside the coffee shop and enjoyed my iced coffee and read my book, “Savage Beauty” (I totally covered up the title of that one while I was walking, didn’t want it to elicit any comments from anyone) the biography of Edna St. Vincent Milay, an amazing, brazen, intelligent writer. Edna wouldn’t put up with shit like this either.
I enjoyed my afternoon at the coffee shop, my icy drink and book and cigar. You didn’t ruin that for me, I’m used to finding joy even in unsafe places, I’m a veteran of this war.

Walking home, I cut a different direction, avoiding the Dairy Mart, as I’ve figured that’s probably not a good place to walk by alone, too many random men getting beers and smokes in the afternoon. I tried to center and breathe while walking, doing my metta meditation:
“May I be free from danger
May I have mental happiness
May I have physical happiness
May I have ease in living.”

I tried not to tense when I saw any other men or cars pass by. But I did a little anyway.

Experiences like these won’t keep me from wearing dresses when it’s hot (I will not swelter in a muumuu when it’s 80 degrees outside) or keep me from taking walks by myself. I am so sick of this shit, but I’m gonna live my life. And I’m going to get my story out, create dialogue and affirm that all the women who feel like I do are not just paranoid or over-reacting.

I just hope that one day, men like you will get it. You will stop it. You will let me be so I can happily stroll down the sidewalk.

Then I will smile.

In the mean time, here’s a guide to properly complimenting women without objectifying them.

And this awesome video:

Louise Brooks Memes

I’ve decided the world needs some Louise Brooks quote memes.

Louise Brooks, if you’re not familiar, was a modern dancer, writer, follies girl and silent film actress.
She was a brilliant, but troubled woman who came from Kansas and became a smashing success in Hollywood, her charms seducing many, including Charlie Chaplain and Greta Garbo. Eventually, crossing the wrong people got her black-listed from Hollywood, and her life fell apart, only to be resurrected in later life  when she bloomed as a writer.

I’ve adored Louise ever since the age of 16 when my mom found her biography at a yard sale and brought it home for me to read. Her image was my first tattoo.

That biography is an amazing read, I highly recommend it: Louise Brooks, by Barry Paris 

And, there are a few biography films around, this is one:

And now, some delicious memes for your enjoyment. Feel free to take them a re-post where ever you like.

Louise Brooks Conquer

Louise Brooks bore you2

only Louise Brooks

Cypress' blog on dance, art, passion, and life.