Don’t Ask Me to Smile, Please: An Experience at the Comic Book Store

Dear Sara,

Yesterday, I went to my favorite comic book store in Greensboro to pick up a copy of Sandman Vol. 3 before heading to my friend’s album release party.

When I walked into the store, the man at the counter was very friendly, saying, “Welcome! If you need help finding anything, let me know.”

As a woman who spends a decent amount of time in male-dominated stores like GameStop and Home Depot, I appreciated this gesture. At GameStop, I’ve been treated like a confused girl looking for a present for her boyfriend. And I’ve also been told, and I quote, “You want Dead Space? That one’s pretty scary. Are you sure you want to buy it?”

DID I STUTTER GIVE ME THE GAME PLZ THANKS.

At Home Depot, if I’m with a male friend and ask an employee, most often, the employee will reply to my male friend rather than to me.

This man at the comic book store was being helpful and treating customers equally as they walked into the door.

So, I went browsing, curious if I could also find Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Amory Wars. After I was done browsing, I went to the section with the Sandman comics. While I was close to the counter, I heard the man speaking to a female customer who was checking out.

Man: Alright. Are you a college student? (students get a 10% discount)
F. Customer: Yes, I am. -goes to pull out student ID-
Man: Oh, no. I believe you. No problem! It’s enough for you to say “Yes.”

The man then smiled and finished the transaction with that girl. A couple of minutes later, I went to check out. This is how my transaction went:

Man: Are you a college student?
Me: Yes, I am. -hesitates for a moment to see what he’s going to say-
Man: Well, I need to see your ID. (He says this kindly and with a smile, so I was good with that.)
Me:-goes to pull out ID-
Man: Or you could just give me a smile.
Me: -laughs- I can do both. (Smile and show ID)
Man: Oh, no, that’s enough. Here you go!

So, I finished this awkward exchange and leave the store. Honestly, I just wanted to show that man proof that I qualified for a discount. I didn’t want my face to be commodity that earned me a less expensive comic book.

But, still. I didn’t call him out on it.

As I walked away from the store, I felt increasingly guilty. I had a few reasons for not calling out the sexism of asking a woman to smile.

1. I didn’t know if he would get angry, thus making me feel uncomfortable to go to that store again.
2. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of other customers.
3. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time if they wanted to check out during my “This is Why This is Not Okay” speech.

I identify as a feminist, but I feel like I should’ve said something. I don’t think this man had a malicious intent or that he was creepy. I think he’s from a generation in which that was how you learned kindness toward women. But, it boils down to this:

Are male customers asked to laugh for a comic book discount?

It’s one thing to be kind, and it’s another to reinforce the idea that women will use their bodies to manipulate others, ex. a woman crying or flirting in order to get out of a speeding ticket.

I will not use my body to get out of 10% of my comic book.

I wonder what else can be done that we can have productive conversations about sexist behaviors in public. I wish I could’ve said, “Sir, I’m sure you have no intention of offending me, and actually, I think you’re trying to be kind. But I want to be treated like your male customers. I am smiling not because you asked me to, but because I am happy today. Here is my student ID.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. There are so many pressures that probably made it more difficult for me to stand up for myself. But I want to start having kind conversations with others when I witness sexism and not just blog about it. We are all participants in the patriarchy, including myself. So, I turn 23 next week. I want 23-year-old Jamie to stand up for herself and others but also realize that doing something sexist doesn’t make someone innately terrible.

It simply means a conversation needs to happen.

I don’t care if men hold open doors for me as long as they don’t get offended when I open doors for them.

And I don’t care if I have to show my student ID.

Sincerely,

Jamie

Noise: The Trouble With Calling Myself a “Writer”

“You just have to be at peace with what you are and what you really want to be. Like, a lot of people will say like ‘I’m an aspiring artist’ or ‘I’m an aspiring writer.’ No, you’re a writer. You’re an artist. If you’re doing that shit every day, that’s what you are. Just own it.” – Danny Sexbang

Leave it to me to find inspiration from a man named Danny Sexbang. Honestly, though, there’s a surprising amount of wisdom buried among the incessant cursing and fart jokes of the Game Grumps. The quote above changed the way I talk about my writing, although it’s taking a little more time to change how I think about it.

I’ve spent more time than I would prefer talking about myself over the last week. Even blogging feels a bit odd–an exercise in either vulnerability or narcissism. Either way, I’m not entirely comfortable with it. But given that it was the first week of class–and given that I had a first date this week–I found myself answering a lot of questions about who I presume myself to be.

Taking Dan’s advice, I have begun identifying myself as a writer. Funny thing about telling people that–inevitably, the next thing they ask is, “Well, what do you write?”

“Oh, this and that… Mostly stuff for class recently. I don’t really have time to write for myself.” Hm… I didn’t much like that answer. Let’s try that again.

“Well, I’ve started a couple short stories, and I keep a blog with a friend of mine. Other than that, I mostly write for class.” Better, but it still sounds like I’m mostly writing what other people tell me to.

Frustratingly enough, that’s not far from the truth. Most of the writing I do is assigned. And when I’m not doing that, I’m editing other people’s writing for work. This blog and the occasional blurb that I jot down in the corners of my notebooks are the only writing I really do for myself anymore. And even then, they tend to get the least attention. 

As I hinted at in my last post, writing seems to quiet the anxious noise in my head so I can really listen to what’s going on in there. But that’s only really true when I’m writing because there’s something in my brain that needs to get out. When I write because someone tells me to, it feels more like whispering amid the rushing scream of city traffic.

So here’s the plan. If I’m going to “be at peace” with what I truly want to be, I’m going to have to come up with some better answers for when someone asks me, “Well, what do you write?” And since I’m a terrible liar, it’s going to have to be true. So here I am, standing over all that noise, ready to pluck out the weird and wonderful shit that somehow works its way out of my brain. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a lot of incessant cursing and fart jokes. We’ll see.

Sincerely,
Sara

New Semesters, Last Semesters: Mostly Me Fangirling About Melville and Hawthorne

Dear Sara,

Starting a new semester is always intimidating, but this one seems really promising. I’m taking Feminist Pedagogy, British Romanticism: England in 1819, and American Lit Pre-1900: Literary Marketplaces. I’m so happy with the way this semester has been going.

Imposter Syndrome is, of course, a difficult thing to treat. We all encounter feelings of inadequacy, I think, during our time in higher education. But, being in classes I genuinely enjoy and studying things I want to be the focus of my MA and PhD work truly helps.

Currently, I’m reading some works by Percy Shelley, doing some historical overviews of early nineteenth-century Britain, watching a 1939 Joan Crawford movie, and reading things by and about Nathaniel Hawthorne–including an essay by Herman Melville. And it’s wonderful. Grad school has its ebbs and flows.

As you know, I love Melville. In the essay “Hawthorne and His Mosses,” Melville writes,

He who has never failed somewhere, that man can not be great. Failure is the true test of greatness. And if it be said, that continual success is a proof that a man wisely knows his powers,–it is only to be added, that, in that case, he knows them to be small. Let us believe it, then, once for all, that there is no hope for us in these smooth pleasing writers that know their powers.

These may seem like platitudes, and perhaps they are, but I like to remind myself not to approach a new semester holding grudges about my past shortcomings and to not enter the semester expecting flawlessness.

 

Also, Melville and Hawthorne= best bros.

A papered chamber in a fine old farm-house–a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage–surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian ponds,–this, surely is the place to write of Hawthorne. Some charm is in this northern air, for love and duty seem both impelling to the task. A man of a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch voice rings through me; or, in softer cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds, that sing in the larch trees at my window.

Appreciate the love. And Melville continues after a break in writing:

Twenty-four hours have elapsed since writing the foregoing. I have just returned from the hay mow, charged more and more with love and admiration of Hawthorne.

Yep. Those precious writers. Those precious, 19th-century humans.

Alright, now that that is over, I just wanted to say that I hope that the new semester is really kind and really exciting for you. (Also, I hope that you are inspired by things or people whenever you may or may not walk through a hay mow.) This is your last semester! Can you believe it?

Love,

Jamie

 

 

 

A Letter to Kishi Bashi’s 151a: A Hit Record Collaboration

Dear Jamie,

For this week’s blog, I contributed to a collaboration started on Hit Record by my friend, Matt. Matt asks for contributors to write letters to their favorite albums, create voice-overs for other letters, or provide illustrations or music to pair with the letters.

To access just my letter, click here.

The access (and contribute to!) the whole collaboration, click here.

Sorry this is late! I ran into some technical difficulties with Hit Record.

Sincerely,

Sara

Well, That Happened: Tales from a Chapel Hill’s Children’s Hospital Patient

Dear Sara,

As I’ve discussed in previous blog entries, I have juvenile dermatomyositis, and I was in and out of UNC’s Children’s Hospital throughout my high school years. I was usually admitted for IVIG treatment–a way of shutting down my immune system and replacing my unhealthy cells with the healthy cells of donors. I’d have to sit for over 12 hours and read or sleep or call my friends to stay entertained while the IV in my arm was at work filling my veins with what we called “liquid gold” due to the expensive nature of the medication.

After 12 hours, I was free to walk around the hospital without my IV carrier, which was always a relief. It would be later in the evening at that point, and going out into the hospital’s common area would always lead to something bittersweet. You’d hear tiny children crying, and maybe you’d see a dad pulling his young daughter around in a tiny red wagon to cheer her up. (That was one of my favorite moments.)

Each time I was admitted, and I was admitted around every six months, I’d spend three days undergoing treatment. So 36 hours on the IV. Interesting things happened while I was on the IV. Here is what happened in just one weekend.

The Hunger Games Girl

Okay. So this was probably on day 2 of 3 IV days. At this point, I was bored with sitting in my hospital bed, my arm hurt from having the IV returned to my arm after day one  Fun fact: IVIG burns. As one can surmise, I was a bit cranky, and also I was an angsty teenager. What a combination. Well, I’m sitting in my room when one of my nurses, and I always chose the same floor during my visits because the nurses all knew me, opened my door and asked if I wanted to meet someone from The Hunger Games.

Being a good sport, I said yes. So, this girl came into my room. She was dressed really well and had a book in her hands. She introduced herself and asked me if I’d read The Hunger Games. I said, “No, I haven’t.” She then asked me if I’d seen The Hunger Games. I laughed and said, “Sorry. I haven’t.” She then explained that she was one of the tributes in the movie.

Unsure of how to proceed with this interaction with the IV’d girl who knew nothing (Jon Snow), she said, “Do you want me to sign this book for you? I said, “Sure. Thanks.” She then left and proceeded down the hall to what I presumed to be a toddler’s room.

 

 

The Rejected Chapel Hill Basketball Player

I said no when the nurse asked if I wanted another visitor later that day.

The Harmonica Man

The next day, I was asked if I wanted a visitor, but this time, I saw an older man standing behind the nurse. The next thing I new, this man with a harmonica was playing me Beatles tunes. Now I knew why I heard the child next door laughing maybe half an hour ago.

This man, unlike my first visitor, really cared about giving joy in what is often a joyless place. This was day 3 of the IV, and it hurt. I was weak and wanted to go home. But this man just wanted to make as many kids as he could happy. And he had a huge bag of plastic harmonicas he was giving to each child he saw. And he wasn’t above playing harmonica for a 15 year old. It was great and genuine.

 

 

Other Hospital Shenanigans

• During one treatment, I walked downstairs and ordered coffee from the hospital’s Starbucks with an IV tube still stuck in my arm. I had only newly discovered the joys of black coffee. The barista was pleased with my determination for caffeine.
• One time, I had IVIG treatment while I was in college. It was during my freshman year during the spring. My doctors mentioned how much they loved Flaming Amy’s Burrito Barn in Wilmington.
• Pretty much all of my medical interns were attractive.
• One time, I had to get an MRI because I contracted aseptic meningitis from my IVIG. As a very large man pushed me down the hospital hallway and into the elevator in a wheelchair, I said, “Y’know, this really looks like that scene in The Shining. Like, if this was a tricycle instead of a wheelchair, it’d be spot-on.” I’m glad my meningitis brain was at least interested in Stephen King references.
• The best part about MRI machines in children’s hospitals is that there are Spider-Man stickers inside the machine. The worst part is that the stickers end up at, like, your belly button once you’re completely in the machine because they’re meant to be looked at by tiny humans.

My immune system sucks, but I’ve gotten to see some interesting things because of it. I spent a good deal of my adolescence in hospitals and at appointments with my rheumatologist and dermatologist. I also spent a good deal of time in physical therapy–and that came with many good stories, like the pastor who often yelled “Oh, Jesus!” during therapy or the military man who called me nothing but “Web M.D.” as an inside joke.

 

Without a feel-good message at the end like “Enjoy your struggles because you’ll enjoy them later,” I want to end this by saying that, sometimes, you’ll find yourself in weird, amusing situations in your life, even if the room is sterile and you aren’t allowed to leave without carrying a cart of IV fluid with you.

Sincerely,

Jamie