femininity, gender expression, feminism, and cognitive dissonance

I have come to realize that most of the things that are considered to be physical hallmarks of femininity have to do with not being in the world and having experiences. 

Meaning, these hallmarks of femininity are indicators of someone who is sheltered, kept indoors, away from the elements, and away from the world. 

Women wear makeup, because we don't have to sweat or go outside in the rain. We wear high heels because we don't have to run or walk anywhere. We wear dresses because we don't have to run or climb. We have long, perfectly styled hair because we don't have to worry about it getting caught in things. We wear painted nails because we don't have to use our hands. White women are deemed prettiest, because they don't go out in the sun. We shave our body hair because we don't need protection from the elements. We don't have scars because we don't come into contact with danger. We can't have wrinkles because we shouldn't age. We have to be thin, because we don't have to be strong and resilient in the face of life's challenges.

God forbid we actually went out and did anything.

This realization has caused me to struggle with how typical expressions of femininity play out in my feminism and in my gender presentation. Most of these typical feminine expressions are very impractical (as in, they take a LOT of time to execute), and many of them are designed for the male gaze (for example, heels put the body into lordosis*, pushing out the backside, which is also the position that female mammals assume when presenting themselves for mating behaviour+). 

I struggle with the idea that women can participate in these feminine rituals solely for themselves. This is not to say that I believe that it's impossible - I know and respect a number of people who fully believe that women can and do engage in feminine expressions to satisfy themselves and no one else. I'm just saying that I am incredulous. Yes, wearing makeup or wearing heels can make you feel better about yourself. But is it an intrinsic feeling better? Or is it extrinsically motivated, even in the smallest way?~

As a result of this line of thinking, I have made many changes in my gender presentation over the years. As the wonderful artist, writer, and all-around amazing thinker Clementine Morrigan^ once said of her gender presentation, I want to simultaneously celebrate and subvert femininity. I am very proud of the fact that I don't shave my body hair, or typically wear makeup, or typically dress femininely, or wear heels. But I do wear makeup sometimes, and sometimes paint my nails, and sometimes I like to wear skirts (especially because it throws people off when they see skirt + leg fur). This typically happens when I go out, and yes, I'll admit, I do it because I feel better about myself, but I feel better about myself because I think these things will enhance others' appraisals of my appearance. The result of this is an experience of cognitive dissonance whenever I "femme" up my appearance. 

I'll end by making it very clear that I respect however anyone wants to present their gender identity, and that I do not believe that engaging in feminine beauty rituals makes anyone a 'bad feminist.' That helps no one. We live in a world where, unfortunately, women are still valued for their appearances moreso than the contents of their hearts and minds, and there is a lot of pressure on women to present as typically feminine. I have no issue with others' gender presentations or identity - femme, masculine, androgynous, or anything in between - you do you, and for goddess' sake, love yourself and be happy with who you are. I just struggle with these thoughts sometimes, and thought I'd put them out into the world to see what comes echoing back. 

* http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3206568/

+ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lordosis_behavior

~ (I am incredulous but also relish conversation and debate so if you'd like to speak to me about this then please engage me.)

^ http://clementinemorrigan.com/

products vs. processes and the myth of infinite consumption

Odds are if you've spent some time around me you've heard me rant about the process-oriented nature of human beings and how stupid consumerism is.

Now, if there's one thing that I can't get behind, it's people who stand up on soap boxes and preach at you while not acknowledging their own participation and complacency in the very systems they are criticizing. So allow me to make the following disclaimer:

DISCLAIMER: I fully acknowledge that I benefit from capitalist, consumerist society. I enjoy it, to a degree. Most mornings I buy a coffee from Cafe Plenty. I really like to go out to eat. Once or twice a year I buy shoes that are made in China or some other low-income country where individuals are being exploited. Sometimes I buy things I don't need.

*exhale*

There. Now that I've got that out of the way...

We all have an ache inside of us. Well, I say 'We all.' What I mean to say is that, I suspect that here in the developed world, many of us, especially us younger gens, have an ache, an emptiness inside of us. An itch that can't be scratched. Why else would we sanctify notions like fulfillment, unless we experienced some sort of emptiness? What is fulfillment without a certain space to be filled? I feel it; the drive to improve, the yearning for love, for happiness. The deep, desperate desire to live a good life, a passionate life.

I'd hazard a guess that you feel it, too. Even just sometimes, when you're alone with your thoughts, trying to fall asleep, thinking, "What am I doing? What's it all for? What would I do if I could just drop everything right now and attend to this emptiness inside of me?" It's something existentialists and philosophers have been mulling over for years.

What is this emptiness? I believe that it stems from the knowledge that we have limited time. It's the ever-present implicit knowledge of our impending death. I know, a bit melodramatic. But in all seriousness. We are all painfully aware, at all times, in the darkest recesses of our minds, that time is running out, so we'd damn well better make the most of it. We'd better find love, fulfillment, acceptance, fun, happiness, comfort, passion, all those things that we long for and strive for, the end to all of our actions. Because time is running out.

I believe that human beings are fundamentally process-oriented. We are most fulfilled by processes. What do I mean by processes? Well, I mean anything that unfolds over time. A walk in the forest. A conversation with a friend. Enjoying a favourite meal. Listening to music. Swimming naked in a cool lake. Creating or appreciating art. Making love. Processes.

But the thing is, processes are hard. They require a certain amount of energy and dedication - some more than others. And many of them, the more social ones in particular, require being a warm and caring person around whom people would want to spend their time. It's hard.

Products, on the other hand, are easy. What's easier than going out and buying something? Assuming that you have the capital, of course (whether that comes from working two minimum wage jobs at 60 hours a week or having it handed to you because of your socioeconomic status). It's just so easy to go out to a store and buy something, even if you don't need it.

Advertisers and corporations, I think, pick up on this. They know that we're process-oriented beings, but that processes are harder to get at, and a hell of a lot harder to sell. So they disguise products as processes. You're not buying the makeup, you're buying the self confidence that the model exudes when that handsome man gives her the eye. You're not buying the car, you're buying the winding miles of driving down empty coastal highway. You're not buying the shirt, you're buying the approval, regard, and envy of your peers. Products disguised as processes.

So we try to fill this process-shaped hole inside of ourselves with products. And when that doesn't work, what do we do? Buy more products, of course.

And so the myth of infinite consumption is created. But the real myth is that we'll have enough stuff so that somehow, someday, we'll be happy. We'll have the big house, the cottage, the three cars, the massive entertainment system, the designer clothes, etc. etc. etc. etc. until we die, surrounded by all of our stuff.

And not only does this lead to extreme alienation and unfulfillment, but it harms our planet. Because hot damn, that new iPhone 7 is out and I need it in order to (insert process here) so I'll just chuck my iPhones 1 through 6 into the nearest landfill. I'll just throw these old products away. But, as we know, when it comes to our planet, there's no such thing as 'away.'

This is something that I have come to realize. This is why my phone looks like it's made out of lego. This is why I try not to buy products (unless they're absolutely hand-made, like the bracelet I got in Costa Rica, or if I absolutely need them, like winter boots). This is why I spend a the majority of my paycheques on concerts, meals with friends, and travel. I'm not saying that I am a perfect person - goodness knows I could do without most of the things I have, and sometimes I do slip up and make unnecessary purchases. But I'm trying.

Next time you feel that hole opening up inside of your soul, ask yourself if it's really product-shaped. Because I have a feeling that we're all being tricked into denying our process-oriented nature, to the detriment of our minds, spirits, and planet.

ricochet robots and the myth of static intelligence

My family is big into board games. I played a game over the holidays called Ricochet Robots. If you've ever played the Legend of Zelda Ocarina of Time, it's basically like that chamber in the Ice Cavern where you have to push the blocks of ice into their proper spaces while using the walls and stalagmites as barriers. But with robots. 

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, basically, the way the game works is like this:  The point is to get the proper robot in its proper space in as few moves as possible. But, when you move a robot in one direction, it keeps moving in that direction until it hits a barrier, at which point it stops. If you take a look at the board it might give you a better idea of how this works:

image stolen from http://codehats.co/blog/2014/01/18/robots.html

So basically, a tile is flipped in the middle, and that tells you which space you have to get that colour robot to. In this picture, the tile in the middle is the blue moon. So, you need to get the blue robot to the blue moon space. The first move is to move the red robot up. Then you move the green robot over to the right. Then you move the blue robot (using the red and green robots as barriers) and get it to the blue moon. You have a timer that counts down, and everyone around the table just yells out how many moves they think it takes, and the first person who identifies and shouts out the fewest number of moves wins. In this case, it's eight. 

Needless to say, I was terrible at this game. (My cousin Mike could do incredible things - yell out 'twelve!' accurately without having had time to serially count the moves. His girlfriend Amy was giving him a run for his money, too. They're a good match.) Spatial thinking has never been my strong suit. But as I was playing the game, I could practically feel new neuronal connections forging themselves. It's not that I'm stupid, or that I could never be good at a game like this. It's just that I haven't honed that part of my intelligence. But as I continued to play the game, I was getting more and more answers, faster and with greater accuracy. I in no way approximated the performance of others around the table, but I felt damn good about learning.

If I had played this game a few years ago, I would have felt crushed in the face of my inability. I would have felt terrible about myself. Instead, I was able to see the game for what it was, and what it wasn't. It wasn't a measure of my worth as a human being, nor was it a measure of my intelligence. It was, however, an opportunity for me to learn and develop an aspect of my intelligence that I often neglect in favour of other aspects.

Over the years I have put a lot of stock in the label 'smart'. I grew up around kids who were fiercely intelligent and we were told that we were smart when we were younger. Marks in school were my way of measuring my self-worth. I felt completely ineffective in every other department of life - looks, sports, popularity, arts, you name it - but if I could just get good marks, I could cling to the belief that I was worth something. Big surprise, then, that when I got poorer marks, I felt like jumping out of a window. I put so much stock in good marks as a measure of intelligence, and as a measure of self worth, that any poor mark was a negative reflection of my intelligence, and therefore my worth as a person. 

So, I began to fear failure, because failure was a sign of my overall ineptitude. I would shy away from challenges, even things that I loved, like playing music, because my failure in any domain was tantamount to my failing as a human being. 

Research by Carol Dweck and colleagues* has actually lent evidence to the fact that praising children for being intelligent implants in children's minds the idea that intelligence is static. These children tend to care deeply about performance and see performance as a measure of worth. These children shy away from challenges and miss out on valuable learning opportunities. Children who are praised for effort, on the other hand, relish a challenge and see failure as a learning opportunity. 

It has taken me too long to realize that, contrary to what I believed as a child, intelligence is not static. It is fluid and can be changed with practice, and especially, challenge. I am still undoing the damage that the myth of static intelligence has wreaked on my mind. Now in graduate school, I am less concerned about individual marks than my overall learning experience. I am not afraid to make mistakes and try to grasp things that are just beyond my reach, because I have come to find that that is where real learning happens. More than ever before, I am putting myself in situations where I am forced to bend my brain in ways it usually doesn't, just to force the growth of new synapses. I don't want to be held back by my fear of failure anymore. 

So, if anyone wants to play a game of Ricochet Robots with me, or any other spatially-oriented game for that matter, I accept the challenge. I may get frustrated, and I may have to actively stave off those feelings of being a failure that still seep in at the edges of my consciousness, but damn it, I'll play. And I'll improve.

It is just a game, after all.  

* http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/75/1/33/

An Inimitable Game: the impossibility of artificial intelligence

I just saw the film The Imitation Game, about Alan Turing, fore bearer of cognitive science and artificial intelligence. First of all, let me say: SEE THIS FILM. It is one of the best I have ever seen. I was a wreck by the end of it. Turing was a genius and did so much for humanity and I just feel so scraped away and raw inside. So inspired. This film focused on his efforts in breaking the codes that the Nazis used in WWII. He was a genius, an enigma himself. 

I have to do something with my life. 

Damn.

Anyways.

I was (and remain) most familiar with Turing's work on the possibility of creating an artificial intelligence, having read Can Computers Think? and Computing Machinery and Intelligence during my undergraduate studies. In the work of his that I have read, he lays out a test for intelligence - the eponymous Imitation Game, also known as the Turing Test. He posited that, given the proper speed, amount of storage, and code, a digital computer could fool a human judge into believing that the computer itself was a human being. He was sure to reiterate that he was merely talking about the possibility of such a machine being created, and he had no reason to believe that this was not a possibility - after all, rudimentary digital computers existed in 1950, when he wrote Computing Machinery and Intelligence. For Turing, it was all a matter of memory and processing speed, something that the future would likely provide - the mechanics were already in place in his time.

I was (and remain) of the mind that we will never be able to create anything like strong AI. 

By strong AI I mean anything like sentience or consciousness. My reasoning behind this runs thus: Even the most powerful computer that can seem eerily like a human consciousness under the right circumstances is not consciousness. Take Jeopardy's Watson as an example. It seemed to have a personality, and certainly had the ability to respond to difficult trivia questions with an expertise that often outstripped its human counterparts. Surely someone who performed a Turing Test on Watson would be fooled into thinking it was a human. In my view, however, there is a difference between recalling vast amounts of preprogrammed information from a massive store and delivering it with a jocular preprogrammed personality and actually having intelligence. 

"But," you cry, "Aren't you being a bit chauvinistic with respect to your definition of intelligence? Doesn't defining intelligence necessarily preclude anything other than a human from having intelligence?" 

To which I reply, nope. I think a frog is more intelligent than the iPhone 7, or whichever one's out now. Yep, a frog. Probably even a fish. Humanity has yet to program anything with the intelligence of either. 

"Wait, what?" you cry, "What about all of the cool robots that exist? I hear about them all the time in the news."

I suppose my break from Turing's line of thought begins at the outset of his definitions of Machine and Intelligence. He defines intelligence as thinking, and he defines the mark of thinking as fooling a human into thinking that you're thinking (or, the Turing Test). 

To me, intelligence is so much more than this. Intelligence is consciousness. Consciousness is the ability to navigate through the world, to filter through billions upon billions of inputs and somehow selectively attend to just what's important. John Vervaeke, a beloved professor of mine from undergrad, would call this relevance realization. Though sentient beings can indeed become overloaded, we (and by we I mean all sentient beings, humans and frogs alike) have the ability to hone in on what matters to us, whether "matters" is defined as what's needed for survival, or if it's defined as what it takes to get that person from the other side of the room to notice that you exist. 

Furthermore, we can learn from what we encounter. (Turing's explanation for the possibility of a Learning Machine stems from the possibility of creating a child-machine that can eventually learn new propositions, but as I said, we have yet to program anything with even the intelligence of a frog, so I think a child is way out). 

I also believe that consciousness is necessarily embodied. 

"What?!" you cry, "Now, that's chauvinistic. Requiring a body for consciousness? That definitely precludes a machine from ever having consciousness."

Perhaps. But I believe that the experience of consciousnes is borne out of the physical/chemical dynamical system that is body-consciousness. I believe that all the aspects of the body (including the brain) - neurotransmitters, action potentials, hormones, proprioceptive system, sensory systems - are all required for the emergence of the phenomenological aspect of human consciousness. A programmer would need to program in all of these systems in order to achieve consciousness. Consciousness would have to emerge from these systems. Somehow.

"Somehow?!" you explode, "What the hell? Now that's a cop-out if I ever saw one."

Well. Yes. But if I had the answer to that 'somehow' I would know how to create consciousness. And frankly, I really don't.

Sentient beings are faced with billions upon billions of inputs, that require billions upon billions of decisions, every day. Inputs from the world, through every integrated system that we have in our embodied consciousness. Every second, our world, our inputs, our premises, change. We have to selectively ignore a great deal of extraneous information in order to zero in on what actually matters to our situation. Our world is messy and chaotic, every problem space has a million different paths to get from point A to point B. So far, as astounding as they are, the computers that we have still deal with discrete sets of data as input and discrete functions for decision making. A programmer would need the most giant RAM in the world and the fastest processor in order to approximate anything like relevance realization. And that would still be a pale approximation. 

It's not that a computer with the right processing speed, size of store, and coding could never be programmed to perform its functions rapidly in order to recall preprogrammed information, in order to present it in a way that answers discrete questions that are posed to it. A computer could definitely do that. They do, now. And they'll only get faster and built with more memory as time goes on.

But, that is not the game that we are playing. 

The game that we are playing is much more complicated than that. It is so much more than working with discrete pieces of input to perform discrete functions in order to churn out discrete outputs. It involves sifting through a messy world with constantly changing circumstances, and somehow filtering through it all and making some kind of sense of things, oftentimes with little to no direction or programming. 

How the hell do sentient beings do this? I have no idea. I don't think we ever will. It is an inimitable game. 

how do we engage in critical discourse with the willfully ignorant?

It hurts my brain to think that there are still people in this world who do not acknowledge the existence of racism, sexism, or any other systematic prejudicial institution.

You know the type.

"Feminism is bad for men! Why do you think men have to fight so hard for child custody?"

"People can be racist against white people too!"

"Feminists want superiority, not equality."

"I'm fine with gay people, I just don't want to see them being gay."

"I just don't see colour. We live in a post-racial world. I mean, Obama."

Now, there's a difference between people who are ignorant because of circumstance, and people who are willfully ignorant. There was a time in my life when I was ignorant of and oblivious to certain societal issues, and I'm sure that there are many more that I am currently oblivious to. But whenever I hear someone from a marginalized group tell me that my behaviour is problematic, I damn well listen. It's hard, and I feel like an asshole, but I know that it's the right thing to do. And it doesn't matter if I disagree or don't understand. Given the certain facets of privilege that I enjoy, obliviousness is built into the nature of who I am. It takes someone who doesn't enjoy a facet of privilege to point out that privilege in the first place. 

It's the people who flatly deny their privilege that make me want to tear my hair out. 

And they're everywhere.

How the hell are you supposed to engage with these people? Goddess knows that it's not the responsibility of marginalized groups to educate the majority, because it's frustrating and hurtful and can be very traumatizing. So who is responsible for educating them? Are they even educable? If they're so willfully ignorant, what's the point? Do we just give up, for the sake of our own sanity?

Hell no.

Yes, it's frustrating. Yes it can be fruitless to try to engage in debates with people who are so committed to wearing blinders. But all the same, I think it's important to stick to our guns. 

Of course, there's a time and a place. Getting in a tweeting war with an internet troll is probably not going to do anything other than make you want to vomit (preferably on the troll in question). Nor will it likely be worth your while getting into a shouting match with a white-hetero-cis-abled-male-etc about how the fact that they've experienced hardship does nothing to take away from the fact that institutional power structures exist. 

But there is a lot of middle ground between beating your head against a wall and giving up. Disengaging from a conversation does not mean disengaging from an issue. Just because you back away from a fruitless (and potentially damaging) conversation does not mean that you're a traitor to your causes. 

The most important thing is that we don't shut up in the grand scheme of things, that we keep talking about it, that we weave critical discourse into the very fabric of our lives, and not let one instance of willful ignorance do anything to dampen our convictions. 

Practice personal safety, count every victory, lean on your allies, and never let anything put your fire out. 

Small, dangerous, beautiful things

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I do to contribute to my own anxiety. Yes, there are sometimes environmental circumstances that exacerbate it, and perhaps I do have some strange body-chemistry thing going on that predisposes me to it, but at the end of the day I have to accept responsibility and acknowledge the fact that there is a lot that I do to contribute to my own anxiety.

It's been helpful to me to try to create a list of these little things that I do so I can be better aware of them. It's also been helpful to me to try to engage in activities that help relieve a little of the pressure, a trephination of sorts.

I'll share with you a piece of stream-of-consciousness writing that churned out of my head during a period of anxious energy.

I can't seem to shake the marvel at small things. Small, dangerous, beautiful things. Asking along the axis of my own existence. My line grows shorter with every breath. My hand draws more and more steady as the time of the killing draws near. I write in charcoal on the eyes of my enemies. I breathe in the fumes of their fear. I stand in the wake of no man. I quiver in no one's shadow, save the sun's, such a cool penumbral glow for such a bright hot star. I sense my unrealized sisters' sorrow in its rays. Like warm tongues on flesh, like needles in the crook of every elbow. Don't stop to think, just let it flow out of you like blood. Create a space for yourself in the midst of all that's been taken away. Take it back. Let yourself realize your worth. Let yourself understand the singular beauty of your mind. Create art. Destroy art. Let your creations be destroyed, just let go. Feel the freedom in giving in to the unknown. 

Passion vs. Addiction - thoughts on socially sanctioned obsession

The word passion, in the Romantic sense (and not romantic as in flowers and chocolates, but Romantic as in moodiness, demons, and emotion over reason), refers to an all-consuming feeling; being overwhelmed. There is a self-destructive edge to the word, which itself sounds so much like the bite of a knife blade or the hiss of an igniting fire.

Passion. 

In colloquial terms, we often characterize passion in a much more banal and pale sense. We talk about passion as being synonymous with love or even affinity. But passion is so much more than this. Passion contorts. Passion harms. Passion consumes like fire with a brightness that eclipses reason and forethought.

And yet, passion is sanctioned, even celebrated, in society. We yearn for it. We try our best to cultivate it. We describe the leaders in any field as having passion, and often view it as a requisite for success.

What is the difference between passion and addiction?

Like passion, addiction consumes. Like passion, addiction can make people willingly harm themselves in order to go just that little bit deeper, to get that little bit closer. Dancers dance until their bodies break. Musicians lock themselves in rooms until their records are complete. Programmers spend every waking minute in front of too-bright computer screens, trying to solve problems no one has even considered formulating. Artists and scientists of all kinds push away the ones they love and alienate themselves, all in the name of their craft or work. And of course there is a physiological component to passion, a rush of endorphins and neurotransmitters, the body's endogenous psychoactives.

Perhaps the notion of passion as distinct from addiction comes from characterizing passion as something that someone can share with others. In this sharing, the object of passion becomes something beautiful. The suffering inherent in passion gains meaning that can be appreciated extrapersonally. The dancer performs his piece to a loving audience. The musician releases her album to the world, bearing her heart and soul in a way that would not otherwise be socially acceptable. The programmer creates a piece of technology so revolutionary that it will change the way of the world as we know it.

But the addict is alone, even when surrounded by peers, even when sharing his passion with others.

What is the object of passion for the addict? What is the end game of the addiction? Is there something to be performed, something to be released to the world? Something beautiful to behold after so much suffering?

Perhaps passion is object-directed addiction. The object of passion can be shared with the world, cathected, purged. Passion burns around the core until the final result is pure carbon, a diamond. But for the addict, the passion burns and burns until it burns everything away.