On Sex and Violence

"Do you have any sisters?" Jenny asks, interrupting Mark's apology. "Yes, I have two younger sisters", he answers. "Ok- says Jenny- I want you to ask them a question... and the most important thing is that you really listen to their answer. I want you to ask your sisters about the very first time that they were intruded upon by some man, or a boy." "What makes you think that my sisters have been intruded upon?" "Because there isn't a single girl or woman in this world that hasn't been intruded upon. And sometimes it's relatively benign, and sometimes it's so fucking painful. But you... have no idea what this feels like."


When we look at statistics on rape, sexual harassment, and other types of sexual and gender-based violence, it's clear that women are disproportionately the victims of these crimes. If so many women in every single country and context have suffered, or continue to suffer, sexual violence, then it's also clear that we are at risk. A woman I know was raped in the shower when a group of men broke into her home. Another woman I read about was raped and tortured when leaving the parking lot at her office building. That could be anyone, we think. That could be me.

Rape seems like an extreme illustration of the phenomenon, although the word 'extreme' appears inappropriate to describe a crime so common. But still, there are the lesser, more paltry examples of sexual violence that we have become so used to that they barely seem like violence at all: a boyfriend pressuring us into having sex, a colleague or client in a business meeting ogling our breasts instead of listening to what we are saying, walking the streets of a city (some cities more than others) and receiving a disgusting whistle, moan or comment on how fine and how fuckable we are. We don't need to have been raped to understand how disarming it feels to be violated.

Equipped by this new consciousness, I search the dusty drawers of my memory (you know, the ones that keep the souvenirs you'd rather forget about) and I, like any other woman, can find many occurrences of this particular feeling. When I was 10, a man put his hand up my little skirt with little apples on it as I looked at postcards at the market. When I was 15, a man relentlessly tried to get into my pants although I was unresponsive and quasi-catatonic with grief. When I was 18, a stranger masturbated in front of me. When I was 19, my boyfriend made me feel dirty and shameful because I was not a virgin the first time we had sex. When I was 23, I let a guy pressure me into having sex (for the last time). It seems like a lot, although I'm certain it is quite average and I'm not particularly ‘unlucky’ … and this is not counting the guys who grabbed my ass while riding public transportation, or the looks I got when I wore a skirt to certain areas of town. I'm not overly scarred or traumatized by these events, but I still believe they are appalling and unacceptable.

The ingredients that go into this feeling are shame, vulnerability, and fear. We are afraid because this happened to us and it could happen to us again. We are afraid that it could happen to our sisters, our friends, our daughters. And we are right to be afraid. The fear is not only justified on account of the terrifying data and anecdotes, but precisely because it is familiar. It is this fear that leads us to be careful and avoid certain situations where the violence is more likely to happen, even if there are no guarantees. I'm all for taking care of ourselves and our bodies, and I support any woman who will try to protect herself. The fear is useful if it works as an incentive for us to be stronger.

However, this same fear is suspect when used as an instrument of control. Fear can be used to control our sexuality and limit our pleasure, as it has been used since the beginning of time. The message has always been the same: sex is dangerous. Don't have sex or you'll get hurt. As much as I recognize that sexual violence is heinous and painful, I also refuse to perpetuate the idea that sex in itself is dangerous.

Don't have sex or you'll get pregnant and have a botched abortion and die. Don't have sex or everyone will think you're a whore. Don't have sex or he'll break your heart. In fact, don't even kiss him too intently or he'll get the wrong idea and then he won't be able to stop himself (it's only natural). Actually, don't even wear certain clothes or walk a certain way or any man could get the wrong idea. With this kind of warped discourse, it's a wonder we can find pleasure in sex, especially heterosexual sex, at all. Is it possible that we are so paralyzed by fear and shame that we have to re-learn to enjoy sex?

So what's the solution? We don't want to say that the world is a safe, soft, lovely place where women can exercise their sexuality freely without having to worry about rape, abuse, or at the very least, ulterior motives. A certain degree of caution is necessary to navigate these tricky waters. But we also don't want to say that sex is the big bad wolf. We want to enjoy and relish sex... to go wild, really, if we want.

For us to be vigilant about the threat of sexual violence, without being limited in our experience of sex, I think we need to be clear about what we want and like, as well as what we don’t want and don’t like. Maybe if we weren’t so afraid of getting hurt, we could ask ourselves if we really want a particular sexual experience and who we want to share that experience with. If we don’t want it, then nobody should force us into it, whether it is a stranger or a boyfriend or girlfriend or husband. But if we are sure we want it, then we should enjoy it without a hint of dread.

Instead of building a culture of fear about our sexuality, we should be encouraging each other to be thoughtful, assertive, and follow through on our choices about sex (as with everything else). It is most likely that we’ll still be eyeballed and groped, but at least we’ll have the certainty that sex is great, as long as it's on our terms.

Paris, je t'aime

Returning to a familiar place, which through the passing of time has become less familiar, always results in the strangest mix of emotions. Returning to Paris was like coming back to the house you grew up in. You realize it is different, yet it is also the same. Everything seems smaller than you thought it was. You realize it no longer belongs to you, but in a sense, it always will.

I first truly experienced Paris when I was fifteen. I wanted to speak French, read French, eat French, be French so badly that I convinced my parents to send me to boarding school in France for a year. It was the worst and the best year of my life.

My father, the self-proclaimed King of Paris, took me there at the beginning of the school year. I felt excited and nervous as we discovered the machinery of the city, treading the sidewalks of Paris until our shoes were in rags. He dropped me off at boarding school a few days later and that's when the panic began. I was homesick, lonely, anguished... hysterical really. I didn't speak the language and I didn't know anybody. I was depressed and could not sleep. All I wanted was to come home.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that my first six months in France were a haze of despair. I thought I was going mad: I had visions of killing myself, of taking my clothes off in the middle of the street, of dying without anybody even knowing about it. At the same time, I was ashamed of feeling so unstable and wanted desperately to feel normal, comfortable, at least human again. At my lowest point, I let some guy from school that I didn't even know well, or like, take me to his house. I was so desperate for a human connection that I laid in his bed, lifeless, as I let him kiss me and touch me until he finally grew weary and gave up. I spent many days in Paris, like a ghost, asking the city to soothe me in some way.

I came home for Christmas and begged my parents not to make me go back to France. Of course, they reminded me that I had to finish what I had started and promptly put me on the plane back. The following six months were another story altogether. I learned the language, I made an effort to make friends, and, best of all, I conquered Paris. I remember the rush of finally understanding my surroundings. I was exhilarated when waiters and shopkeepers, and then eventually my new friends and professors, didn't notice my accent. Paris blossomed before me and offered all the joy it had been withholding. I felt I was tasting the bread, the wine, the cheese, the pastries, for the very first time. I travelled, I fell in love again, I drank good wines and strong coffee, I smoked weed for the first time. I read the works of Hugo and Balzac and Maupassant and De Beauvoir and Sartre, in French, like I had always dreamed of. Paris became a wonderful tempest of sunlight, culture and love. And, boy, was I thankful. Before I left, I cried and silently thanked Paris for all it had given me, good and bad. I got on the plane back home and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

The first time I returned to Paris after my year there was again in the company of the King of Paris, in September 2001. We were only there for a few days, but I was drunk with excitement. I let the vapors of the Seine fill my lungs and I felt like I was home again. Dad and I were sitting at a cafe in Montmartre, enjoying the afternoon, when the chef, who was listening to the radio inside, came out screaming to tell us that there had been a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York. The attack on the Twin Towers has become one of those "where were you when it happened?"moments for everybody, and of course, I happened to be in Paris. My Paris, as intense as always.

After nearly eight years, I returned to Paris again last week, bringing my eternal sidekick (and husband) A. It was A's first visit to Paris, so I felt overwhelming pressure to show him everything, and to sow a seed of love for Paris that we could share. I was overzealous in my plans, so we walked endlessly under the bright sunlight, in my attempt to show him the true, the powerful, the beautiful Paris. Of course, showing a person in four days what one discovered and savored in years is a failed enterprise from the start. I am sure A loved Paris for its beauty and grandeur, yet I was inevitably frustrated in my desire to show him the little corners known only to true Parisians... the students, the intellectuals, the lovers of life. We ate like there was no tomorrow and literally destroyed our feet covering large areas of the city and taking in all the sites, but I remained inevitably unsatisfied.

I was reminded of the wonderful times I had there but I also somehow felt a little old. It was as though the crooked workings of my tortured teenage soul had given the city a certain boldness I could no longer fully experience. Like the ups and downs of my sensory roller-coaster had become less sharp with age. Paris was still a wonder, yet it was a bit more blurry than I remembered. There were more tourists, more people, less color.

At times, I felt sad. I felt like I was a little girl of fifteen again, arriving from boarding school to spend the weekend in Paris, in my uniform and duffel bag, devastatingly vulnerable and alone. I even went to the building where I used to stay during those first few weekends, and I felt scared and fragile all over again. It's good to be reminded that, as much as we grow, we are not immune from pain... from life. Strangely enough, there were times where I no longer felt like a native. My French flowed ever-so-slightly slower from my tired tongue and I no longer remembered the name of every street, every monument and every park. I also really, really missed my Dad... the one-and-only, the original King of Paris, who had introduced me to all the wonder in the first place.

And yet, there were moments of pure magic… the kind of magic that only exists in Paris. Exploring the streets and bridges at night, with the person who has become my family, had a new charm of its own. I came to Paris as a grown-up for the first time, and therefore had to get to know Paris again, as a grown-up. Paris had changed, and so had I, so it took us a couple of days to feel comfortable with each other again. Paris is no longer the extreme whirlwind of emotion that I knew, but it remains a refuge, a bastion of inspiration, a dwelling of my heart. It is an old and much-loved family member that challenges me in new and ever-changing ways. J’aime Paris. Et Paris, m’aime aussi.

Who I'm Not

Who am I? This much you know by now: I am Ava and I am in my late twenties. I am twenty-seven, to be precise, an age in which we are meant to know where we are going in life. Our teens are the hormone-induced chaos of separating our beings from those of our parents. Our early twenties are a sort of draft of what is to come, when we are still allowed to make a few mistakes and even change our paths entirely. Our late twenties, however, are an age in which we are meant to have a few things figured out. But really, no one's really got it figured out just yet. Even as I try to decipher who I am, I find myself going more through a process of weeding out who I'm not.

I am not a "lawyer", although technically I am, meaning that I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night, covered in cold sweat and shivering, after dreaming of being back at work at a conventional law firm. I dream that it is my first day back at the glass offices of Monster Law Firm and I am at a meeting with Supreme Bitch #1, listening to her as she icily gives me the plethora of rules about what to wear, write, talk about, etc. I'm taking notes in a delightful new notepad I got at MoMa with an Edward Hopper reproduction, when suddenly SB#1 takes notice and starts lecturing me on how I must use a plain white or yellow notepad because anything else would be extravagant. I suddenly feel the unbearable weight of my ill-advised decision to return to this rigid, fascist world, and I stand up, curtly apologize to SB#1 for taking up her precious time, and run out... as fast as I can. As I walk into the bright sunlight, I open my arms as if to hug the gleaming waves that surround me, and I experience the purest sense of joy and relief. And I wake up.

Being in my late twenties has come to mean that I'm also no longer a tortured soul. Yes, my name is Ava and I was a tortured soul through most of my teens and late twenties. As other tortured souls may acknowledge, those of our kind tend to be text-book overreactors who are so starved for meaning that they will agonize and linger and create drama over many a simple situation. This means that I dated the wrong guy, and then the wronger guy, and then the wrongest guy... and then stayed with him for a five-year tug-of-war. Oh, and then I started all over again with another wrong guy. This means that I literally bored my dad to sleep during a conversation about what I should be doing with my life... at fifteen. This means that I travelled the world, took on lovers, slept with strangers, chased after boys who didn't care about me, identified with star-crossed literary heroines... you name it. I loved bold gestures, surprise endings, torrid romances. Lately, however, I've been feeling quite calm and content. It's a nice change.

I was born in a city of earthquakes and fear somewhere in Latin America. When I think about my city and my adult life there, all I get are blurry speedy visions of traffic, noise, and smog. Sometimes I can go further back in time and remember the sunny afternoons of eating lime sorbets and playing with my sister as a child, or going to the zoo where the crowded (and almost inhumane) spaces where the animals were kept in made it much easier to look at them up close. I remember the jacaranda trees in my grandmother's back yard and how much I loved sleeping over at her house on Fridays so my parents could have "date night". I also joyfully remember playing hooky in high school to take the subway downtown, check out the museums, and eat fried food from street carts. When I was a tortured soul, I rejected my relatively privileged upbringing and went to the massive free concerts at the center square, to shout and laugh and drink, and feel young and rebellious and alive. I almost begin to feel nostalgic, but then I get real. I remember poverty, inequality, crime rates, pollution, corruption. My city is like a dear old lover who broke my heart.

I am also not scared anymore. I spent most of my life, as any bonafide tortured soul, being scared of not being successful, or accepted, or happy, or extraordinary. The fear of being ordinary may have been the worst. Even when things are good, a true tortured soul is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The contentment I lately experience has turned me into a believer, an optimist, a shiny-happy person, if you will. I know there might be hardship or heartbreak in my future, but for now I trust that things will be more or less okay. I know this is a strange time to be saying so, being that the world is facing the worst economic tsunami in history, war, famine, etc., but I finally feel like things are going to turn out fine.

My husband A plays a role in that, I must say. It's a tired cliche but I always meant to achieve this contentment on my own, you know? As a hard-core feminist, I never bought into the whole Jerry McGuire "you complete me" bull, where another person is supposed to sweep in and finally make us happy. I know we are supposed to make ourselves happy and whole. I think I was in the process of getting there when I started dating A. Things were easy, breezy, straightforward and healthy from the beginning, which was definitely new for me and my old tortured soul. A's goofy, smart, tender ways warmed my heart from the very start. I admit that feeling so deeply loved has contributed to my more tranquil and balanced stance on life.

I look out the window and see the late-afternoon sun embracing the new leaves on the trees. It's mid-April in England and for the first time, I genuinely love my life. I'm no gloater and I shall spare no details on the disasters of my past, present, and future, but now I will take in this lustrous hour and enjoy the moment, for once.