What they don’t understand about birthdays
and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and
nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two,
and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel
eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday,
only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still
ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven. Like some days you might say something
stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you
might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part
of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will
need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when
she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three. Because the way you grow old is kind of
like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls
that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being
eleven years old is. You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It
takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when
they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve.
That’s the way it is. Only today I wish I didn’t have only
eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I
wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred
and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my
desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting
there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Whose
is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all
the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a month.” “Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.” “It has to belong to somebody, ”Mrs. Price
keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic
buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a
jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I
wouldn’t say so. Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she
doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to
Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes
her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open
my mouth nothing comes out. “That’s not, I don’t, you’re not…Not
mine.” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four. “Of course it’s yours, ”Mrs. Price says. “
I remember you wearing it once.” Because she’s older and the teacher, she’s
right and I’m not. Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs.
Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I
don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling sick inside, like the part of me
that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and
bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven.
Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody
will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. But when the sick feeling goes away and I
open my eyes, the red sweater’s still sitting there like a big red mountain. I
move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil
and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little
to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I’m thinking how long
till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the
schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a
little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price
says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s enough, ”because she
sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it’s
hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care. “Rachel, ”Mrs. Price says. She says it
like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more
nonsense.” “But it’s not –“ “Now!” Mrs. Price says.
This
is when I wish I wasn’t eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine,
eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of
my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like
cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with
my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of
germs that aren’t even mine. That’s when everything I’ve been holding
in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk,
finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I
was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying
like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury
my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of
my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me
until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s just my body
shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you
drink milk too fast. But the worst part is right before the
bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia
Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away
and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything’s okay. Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s
making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be
candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to
you, Rachel, only it’s too late. I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine,
eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one
hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven. Because I want today to be
far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so
tiny—tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
She tried public appearances. She tried being reclusive. She tried leaving the country, and she tried finding a job. But the epic humiliation of 1998, when her affair with Bill Clinton became an all-consuming story, has followed Monica Lewinsky every day. After 10 years of self-imposed reticence, and now hoping to help victims of Internet shaming, she critiques the culture that put a 24-year-old through the wringer and calls out the feminists who joined the chorus.
‘How does it feel to be America’s premier blow-job queen?”
It was early 2001. I was sitting on the stage of New York’s Cooper Union in the middle of taping a Q&A for an HBO documentary. I was the subject. And I was thunderstruck.
Hundreds of people in the audience, mostly students, were staring at me, many with their mouths agape, wondering if I would dare to answer this question.
The main reason I had agreed to participate in the program was not to rehash or revise the story line of Interngate but to try to shift the focus to meaningful issues. Many troubling political and judicial questions had been brought to light by the investigation and impeachment of President Bill Clinton. But the most egregious had been generally ignored. People seemed indifferent to the deeper matters at hand, such as the erosion of private life in the public sphere, the balance of power and gender inequality in politics and media, and the erosion of legal protections to ensure that neither a parent nor a child should ever have to testify against each other.
How naïve I was.
There were gasps and sputters from the audience. Numerous blurred, faceless people called out, “Don’t answer it!”
“It’s hurtful and it’s insulting,” I said, attempting to gather my wits. “And as insulting as it is to me, it’s even more insulting to my family. I don’t actually know why this whole story became about oral sex. I don’t. It was a mutual relationship.… The fact that it did is maybe a result of a male-dominated society.”
The audience laughed. Maybe they were surprised to hear these words coming from me.
I looked straight at the smirking guy who had asked the question. “You might be better poised to answer that.” After a pause, I added, “That’s probably cost me another year of therapy.”
You could argue that in agreeing to participate in an HBO documentary called Monica in Black and White I had signed up to be shamed and publicly humiliated yet again. You might even think I would have been inured to humiliation. This encounter at Cooper Union, after all, paled in comparison with the 445-page Starr Report, which was the culmination of independent counsel Kenneth Starr’s four-year investigation of the Clinton White House. It included chapter and verse about my intimate sexual activities, along with transcripts of audiotapes that chronicled many of my private conversations. But the “B.J. Queen” question—which was included in the show when it aired on HBO in 2002—sat with me for a long time after the audience left and the taping wrapped.
True, this wasn’t the first time I’d been stigmatized for my affair with Bill Clinton. But never had I been so directly confronted, one-on-one, with such a crass characterization. One of the unintended consequences of my agreeing to put myself out there and to try to tell the truth had been that shame would once again be hung around my neck like a scarlet-A albatross. Believe me, once it’s on, it is a bitch to take off.
Had that awkward moment at Cooper Union aired only a few years later, with the advent of social media, the humiliation would have been even more devastating. That clip would have gone viral on Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, TMZ, Gawker. It would have become a meme of its own on Tumblr. The viralness itself would have merited mention on the Daily Beast and Huffington Post. As it was, it was viral enough, and, thanks to the all-encompassing nature of the Web, you can, 12 years later, watch it all day long on YouTube if you want to (but I really hope you have better things to do with your time).
I know I’m not alone when it comes to public humiliation. No one, it seems, can escape the unforgiving gaze of the Internet, where gossip, half-truths, and lies take root and fester. We have created, to borrow a term from historian Nicolaus Mills, a “culture of humiliation” that not only encourages and revels in Schadenfreude but also rewards those who humiliate others, from the ranks of the paparazzi to the gossip bloggers, the late-night comedians, and the Web “entrepreneurs” who profit from clandestine videos.
Yes, we’re all connected now. We can tweet a revolution in the streets or chronicle achievements large and small. But we’re also caught in a feedback loop of defame and shame, one in which we have become both perps and victims. We may not have become a crueler society—although it sure feels as if we have—but the Internet has seismically shifted the tone of our interactions. The ease, the speed, and the distance that our electronic devices afford us can also make us colder, more glib, and less concerned about the consequences of our pranks and prejudice. Having lived humiliation in the most intimate possible way, I marvel at how willingly we have all signed on to this new way of being.
In my own case, each easy click of that YouTube link reinforces the archetype, despite my efforts to parry it away: Me, America’s B.J. Queen. That Intern. That Vixen. Or, in the inescapable phrase of our 42nd president, “That Woman.”
It may surprise you to learn that I’m actually a person.
In 1998, when news of my affair with Bill Clinton broke, I was arguably the most humiliated person in the world. Thanks to the Drudge Report, I was also possibly the first person whose global humiliation was driven by the Internet.
For several years I tried my hand in the fashion-accessory business and became involved in various media projects, including the HBO documentary. Then I lay low for the most part. (The last major interview I granted was 10 years ago.) After all, not lying low had exposed me to criticism for trying to “capitalize” on my “notoriety.” Apparently, others talking about me is O.K.; me speaking out for myself is not. I turned down offers that would have earned me more than $10 million, because they didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Over time, the media circus quieted down, but it never quite moved on, even as I attempted to move on.
Meanwhile, I watched my friends’ lives move forward. Marriages. Kids. Degrees. (Second marriages. More kids. More degrees.) I decided to turn over a new leaf and attend grad school.
I moved to England to study, to challenge myself, to escape scrutiny, and to reimagine my identity. My professors and fellow students at the London School of Economics were wonderful—welcoming and respectful. I had more anonymity in London, perhaps due to the fact that I spent most of my waking hours in class or buried in the library. In 2006, I graduated with a master’s in social psychology. My master’s thesis examined social bias in the courtroom and was titled “In Search of the Impartial Juror: An Exploration of Pretrial Publicity and the Third Person Effect.” I liked to joke that I was trading the blue dress for blue stockings, and the degree provided new scaffolding to hang my life experiences on. It would also prove, so I hoped, to be a gateway to a more normal life.
I moved between London, Los Angeles, New York, and Portland, Oregon, interviewing for a variety of jobs that fell under the umbrella of “creative communication” and “branding,” with an emphasis on charity campaigns. Yet, because of what potential employers so tactfully referred to as my “history,” I was never “quite right” for the position. In some cases, I was right for all the wrong reasons, as in “Of course, your job would require you to attend our events.” And, of course, these would be events at which press would be in attendance.
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In one promising job interview that took place during the run-up to the 2008 primary season, the conversation took an interesting turn. “So here’s the thing, Monica,” the interviewer said. “You’re clearly a bright young woman and affable, but for us—and probably any other organization that relies on grants and other government funding—it’s risky. We would first need a Letter of Indemnification from the Clintons. After all, there is a 25 percent chance that Mrs. Clinton will be the next president.” I gave a fake smile and said, “I understand.”
Another job interview, this one typical: walked into the stark, terminally cool reception area of a hip-yet-prestigious advertising agency in Los Angeles, my hometown. As always, I put on my best “I’m friendly, not a diva” smile. “Hi. Monica Lewinsky here to see So-and-So.”
The twentysomething receptionist pushed her black-rimmed hipster frames up her nose. “Monica who?”
Before I could answer, another twentysomething, in skinny jeans, plaid shirt, and bow tie, rushed over and interrupted: “ Ms. Lewinsky.” Like a maître d’, he continued, “Pleasure to have you here. I’ll let So-and-So know you’ve arrived. Soy latte? Green tea? Filtered water?”
I found myself sitting at a small round table, face-to-face with So-and-So, the agency’s head of strategy and planning. We talked. She kept wincing. This was not going well. I tried to keep myself from getting flustered. Now she was not only wincing but also clearing her throat. Was that perspiration on her brow? It hit me: she was nervous, in full-tic mode.
I’ve had to become adept at handling any number of reactions in social situations and job interviews. I get it: it must be disconcerting to sit across from “That Woman.” Needless to say, I didn’t get the position.
I eventually came to realize that traditional employment might not be an option for me. I’ve managed to get by (barely, at times) with my own projects, usually with start-ups that I have participated in, or with loans from friends and family.
In another job interview I was asked, “If you were a brand, which brand would you be?” Let me tell you, when you’re Monica Lewinsky, that is one loaded question.
In September of 2010, the culmination of these experiences began to snap into a broader context for me. A phone conversation with my mother shifted the lens through which I viewed my world. We were discussing the tragic death of Tyler Clementi. Tyler, you will recall, was an 18-year-old Rutgers freshman who was secretly streamed via Webcam kissing another man. Days later, after being derided and humiliated on social media, he committed suicide by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.
My mom wept. Sobbing, she kept repeating over and over, “How his parents must feel … his poor parents.”
It was an unbearably tragic event, and while hearing of it brought me to tears, too, I couldn’t quite grasp why my mom was so distraught. And then it dawned on me: she was reliving 1998, when she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She was replaying those weeks when she stayed by my bed, night after night, because I, too, was suicidal. The shame, the scorn, and the fear that had been thrown at her daughter left her afraid that I would take my own life—a fear that I would be literally humiliated to death. (I have never actually attempted suicide, but I had strong suicidal temptations several times during the investigations and during one or two periods after.)
I would never be so presumptuous as to equate my own story with Tyler Clementi’s. After all, my public humiliation had been the result of my involvement with a world-renowned public figure—that is, a consequence of my own poor choices. But in that moment, when I felt the depths of my mother’s anguish, I wished I could have had a chance to have spoken to Tyler about how my love life, my sex life, my most private moments, my most sensitive secrets, had been broadcast around the globe. I wished I had been able to say to him that I knew a little of how it might have felt for him to be exposed before the world. And, as hard as it is to imagine surviving it, it is possible.
In the wake of Tyler’s tragedy, my own suffering took on a different meaning. Perhaps by sharing my story, I reasoned, I might be able to help others in their darkest moments of humiliation. The question became: How do I find and give a purpose to my past? It was my Prufrockian moment: “Do I dare / Disturb the universe?” Or, in my case, the Clinton universe.
Despite a decade of self-imposed silence, I have been periodically resuscitated as part of the national conversation, almost always in connection with the Clintons. For instance, in January and February of this year, Rand Paul, the Kentucky senator and a possible 2016 Republican presidential aspirant, managed to drag me into the pre-election muck. He fought back against the Democrats’ charges of a G.O.P. “war on women” by arguing that Bill Clinton had committed workplace “violence” and acted in a “predatory” manner against “a 20-year-old girl who was there from college.”
Sure, my boss took advantage of me, but I will always remain firm on this point: it was a consensual relationship. Any “abuse” came in the aftermath, when I was made a scapegoat in order to protect his powerful position.
So, trying to disappear has not kept me out of the fray. I am, for better or for worse, presumed to be a known quantity. Every day I am recognized. Every day. Sometimes a person will walk past me again and again, as if I wouldn’t notice. (Thankfully, 99.9 percent of the time when strangers do say something to me they are supportive and respectful.) Every day someone mentions me in a tweet or a blog post, and not altogether kindly. Every day, it seems, my name shows up in an op-ed column or a press clip or two—mentioned in passing in articles on subjects as disparate as millennials, Scandal, and French president François Hollande’s love life. Miley Cyrus references me in her twerking stage act, Eminem raps about me, and Beyoncé’s latest hit gives me a shout-out. Thanks, Beyoncé, but if we’re verbing, I think you meant “Bill Clinton’d all on my gown,” not “Monica Lewinsky’d.”
With every man I date (yes, I date!), I go through some degree of 1998 whiplash. I need to be extremely circumspect about what it means to be “public” with someone. In the early years post-impeachment, I once left a front-row seat along the third-base line at a Yankees game when I learned that my date—a guy whose company I thoroughly enjoyed—was actually in another relationship. It was only a green-card marriage, but I freaked that we could be photographed together and someone might call the gossip rags. I’ve become adept at figuring out when men are interested in me for the wrong reason. Thankfully, those have been few and far between. But every man that has been special to me over the past 16 years has helped me find another piece of myself—the self that was shattered in 1998. And so, no matter the heartbreak, tears, or disenchantment, I’ll always be grateful to them.
In February of this year, around the same time Senator Paul put me back into the unwanted spotlight, I became the “narcissistic loony toon,” the latest twist on Me as Archetype.
A snapshot of a scenario I’ve grown all too accustomed to, even as I attempt to move on with my life: A shrill ring interrupts the rhythms of my day. The call—from the doorman of the apartment building where I’m staying in New York—leads me to an exasperated “What? Again?” They’ve reappeared: the paparazzi, like swallows, have returned to the sidewalk outside, pacing and circling and pacing some more.
I hit the computer. Time for a little self-Google. (Oh, dear reader, please do not judge.) My heart sinks. There’s an explosion on Google News. I know what this means. Whatever day I’ve planned has been jettisoned. To leave the house—and risk a photo—only ensures that the story will stay alive.
The cameras have returned because of the headlines: a conservative Web site has gone poking around the University of Arkansas archive of one of Hillary Clinton’s closest friends and admirers, Diane Blair, and has unearthed a cache of memos from the 1990s. In some of them, Blair, who died in 2000, quotes the former First Lady about her husband’s relationship with me. Though Hillary, according to Blair’s notes, claimed to find her husband’s “lapse” inexcusable, she praised him for trying to “manage someone who was clearly a ‘narcissistic loony toon.’ ”
My first thought, as I was getting up to speed: If that’s the worst thing she said, I should be so lucky. Mrs. Clinton, I read, had supposedly confided to Blair that, in part, she blamed herself for her husband’s affair (by being emotionally neglectful) and seemed to forgive him. Although she regarded Bill as having engaged in “gross inappropriate behavior,” the affair was, nonetheless, “consensual (was not a power relationship).”
I field the usual calls from friends who lend moral support whenever these volcanic media stories erupt. They diffuse the tension with good-natured teasing: “So, are we changing your monogram to NLT?” I try to ignore the former First Lady’s long-buried comments. Given my experiences with Linda Tripp, I know better than anyone what it’s like to have a conversation with a girlfriend exposed and scrutinized, taken out of context. But, even so, it begins to gnaw at me. I realize that Hillary Clinton was—unlike me when Tripp was prying loose my innermost secrets and insecurities and recording them surreptitiously—fully aware of this documentation: she’s the one who, according to the memos, asked Blair to keep a record or diary of their discussions for archival purposes.
Yes, I get it. Hillary Clinton wanted it on record that she was lashing out at her husband’s mistress. She may have faulted her husband for being inappropriate, but I find her impulse to blame the Woman—not only me, but herself—troubling. And all too familiar: with every marital indiscretion that finds its way into the public sphere—many of which involve male politicians—it always seems like the woman conveniently takes the fall. Sure, the Anthony Weiners and Eliot Spitzers do what they need to do to look humiliated on cable news. They bow out of public life for a while, but they inevitably return, having put it all behind them. The women in these imbroglios return to lives that are not so easily repaired.
But there is another layer here that is making me bristle: Narcissist? Loony?
You might remember that just five days before the world had ever heard my name the F.B.I.—after my friend Linda Tripp approached Special Prosecutor Kenneth Starr’s office with information about my affair with the president—entrapped me in a terrifying “sting” in the Pentagon City mall. At age 24, cornered in a hotel room on January 16, 1998, with mainly male interrogators taking orders from Starr, I was discouraged from contacting my attorney and threatened with 27 years in jail for filing an affidavit denying the affair with Clinton, among other alleged crimes. I was offered immunity from that threat if I agreed to place monitored calls and wear a wire in conversations with two of the president’s confidants and possibly the president himself. I refused. Confiding in Linda Tripp turned into an unintended betrayal. But this? The mother of all betrayals. That, I couldn’t do. Courageous or foolish, maybe, but narcissistic and loony?
These 16-year-old descriptions of me triggered memories of past anguish, particularly in the area of women lobbing derision at one another. So where, you might be wondering, were the feminists back then?
It’s a question that troubles me to this day.
I sorely wished for some sign of understanding from the feminist camp. Some good, old-fashioned, girl-on-girl support was much in need. None came. Given the issues at play—gender politics, sex in the workplace—you’d think they would have spoken up. They didn’t. I understood their dilemma: Bill Clinton had been a president “friendly” to women’s causes.
It also didn’t help that my case was not one of conventional “sexual harassment”; that charge against Bill Clinton had been made by Paula Jones, who brought a colossal lawsuit against him. My name surfaced only because, thanks to newly won advances by feminists, investigations of such cases were now allowed to cast a wider net. The Jones case became a stick that the right wing used to strike back at the Clinton-supporting feminists: Why wouldn’t they enthusiastically support an investigation into a case of sexual harassment? What if the president had been a Republican? Charges of hypocrisy flew.
A handful of representatives of the modern feminist movement did chime in, obliquely. Yet, instead of any meaningful engagement, we got this: January 30, 1998. Day Nine of the scandal. Cocktails at Le Bernardin, in Manhattan. In attendance: writers Erica Jong, Nancy Friday, Katie Roiphe, and Elizabeth Benedict;Saturday Night Live writer Patricia Marx; Marisa Bowe, the editor of Word, an online magazine; fashion designer Nicole Miller; former dominatrix Susan Shellogg; and their host, Le Bernardin co-owner Maguy Le Coze. The New York Observer brought this coven together to trade Interngate insights, to be recorded by Francine Prose. (Sadly, the gal who would really make this coven complete is missing: Maureen Dowd, or Moremean Dowdy, as I used to refer to her. Today, I’d meet her for a drink.)
Oh, to have been at that cocktail party:
Marisa Bowe: His whole life is about having to be in control and really intelligent all the time. And his wife is really intelligent and in control all the time. And the idea of just having stupid sex with some not-brilliant woman in the Oval Office, I can see the appeal in that.
Imaginary Me: I’m not saying I’m brilliant, but how do you know I’m not? My first job out of college was at the White House.
Susan Shellogg: And do you think it’s tremendously selfish? Selfish and demanding, having oral sex and not reciprocating? I mean … she didn’t say, “Well, you know he satisfied me.”
Me: And where exactly “didn’t” I say this? In which public statement that I didn’t make? In which testimony that’s not been released?
Katie Roiphe: I think what people are outraged about is the way that [Monica Lewinsky] looks, which is interesting. Because we like to think of our presidents as sort of godlike, and so if J.F.K. has an affair with Marilyn Monroe, it’s all in the realm of the demigods…. I mean, the thing I kept hearing over and over again was Monica Lewinsky’s not that pretty.
Me: Well, thanks. The first picture that surfaced was a passport photo. Would you like to have a passport photo splattered across publications around the world as the picture that defines you?
What you are also saying here is that the primary quality that would qualify a woman to have an intimate relationship with a powerful man is physical attractiveness. If that’s not setting the movement back, I don’t know what is.
Erica Jong: My dental hygienist pointed out that she had third-stage gum disease.
Shellogg: What do you think will happen to [her]? I mean, she’ll just fade out quietly or write a book? Or people will forget about her six months from now?
Nancy Friday: She can rent out her mouth.
Me: (Speechless.)
Jong: But, you know, men do like to get close to the mouth that has been close to power. Think of the fantasy in the man’s mind as she’s going down on him and he’s thinking, “Oh my God.”
Elizabeth Benedict: Do for me what you did to the President. Do that.
Me: (Still speechless.)
Jong: I think it’s a tribute to how far we’ve come that we’re not trashing Monica Lewinsky.
The catty confab appeared under the headline SUPERGALS LOVE THAT NAUGHTY PREZ. (Writing inVanity Fair, Marjorie Williams called it “the most embarrassing thing I had read in a long time.”) To me, it illustrates a perplexing aspect of the culture of humiliation, one that Phyllis Chesler recognized in her bookWoman’s Inhumanity to Woman: that women themselves are not immune to certain kinds of misogyny. We see it today in how the “mean girls” at school lurk on the modern playground of the Web (or around a pundit’s roundtable on TV or at a French restaurant), ever eager to pile on.
I still have deep respect for feminism and am thankful for the great strides the movement has made in advancing women’s rights over the past few decades. But, given my experience of being passed around like gender-politics cocktail food, I don’t identify myself as a Feminist, capital F. The movement’s leaders failed in articulating a position that was not essentially anti-woman during the witch hunt of 1998. In the case of the New York Supergals, it should not have been that hard for them to swoon over the president without attacking and shaming me. Instead, they joined the humiliation derby.
I , myself, deeply regret what happened between me and President Clinton. Let me say it again: I. Myself. Deeply. Regret. What. Happened. At the time—at least from my point of view—it was an authentic connection, with emotional intimacy, frequent visits, plans made, phone calls and gifts exchanged. In my early 20s, I was too young to understand the real-life consequences, and too young to see that I would be sacrificed for political expediency. I look back now, shake my head in disbelief, and wonder: what was I—what were we—thinking? I would give anything to go back and rewind the tape.
Like many other Americans, I’ve been thinking about Hillary Clinton. What might happen, I’ve wondered, if she does run in 2016? And what if she wins—and then wins a second term?
But when I think about these matters, there’s a dimension at play for me other than just the fact that we might finally have a woman in the White House. We all remember the second-wave feminist rallying cry The personal is political. Many people (myself included) proclaimed that my relationship with Bill Clinton was a personal matter, not one to be used in a high-stakes political war. When I hear of Hillary’s prospective candidacy, I cannot help but fear the next wave of paparazzi, the next wave of “Where is she now?” stories, the next reference to me in Fox News’s coverage of the primaries. I’ve begun to find it debilitating to plot out the cycle of my life based, to some degree, on the political calendar. For me, it’s a scenario in which the personal and the political are impossible to separate.
In 2008, when Hillary was running for president, I remained virtually reclusive, despite being inundated with press requests. I put off announcing several media projects in 2012 until after the election. (They were subsequently canceled—and, no, I wasn’t offered $12 million for a salacious tell-all book, contrary to press reports.) And recently I’ve found myself gun-shy yet again, fearful of “becoming an issue” should she decide to ramp up her campaign. But should I put my life on hold for another 8 to 10 years?
Being a conscientious Democrat—and aware that I could be used as a tool for the left or the right—I have remained silent for 10 years. So silent, in fact, that the buzz in some circles has been that the Clintons must have paid me off; why else would I have refrained from speaking out? I can assure you that nothing could be further from the truth.
So why speak now? Because it is time.
I turned 40 last year, and it is time to stop tiptoeing around my past—and other people’s futures. I am determined to have a different ending to my story. I’ve decided, finally, to stick my head above the parapet so that I can take back my narrative and give a purpose to my past. (What this will cost me, I will soon find out.) Despite what some headlines will falsely report about this piece, this is not about Me versus the Clintons. Their lives have moved on; they occupy important and powerful places on the global stage. I wish them no ill. And I fully understand that what has happened to me and the issue of my future do not matter to either of them.
It also goes back to the personal and the political. I have lived many of the questions that have become central to our national discourse since 1998. How far should we allow the government into our bedrooms? How do we reconcile the right to privacy with the need to expose sexual indiscretion? How do we guard against an overzealous government demanding our private data and information? And, most important to me personally, how do we cope with the shame game as it’s played in the Internet Age? (My current goal is to get involved with efforts on behalf of victims of online humiliation and harassment and to start speaking on this topic in public forums.)
So far, That Woman has never been able to escape the shadow of that first depiction. I was the Unstable Stalker (a phrase disseminated by the Clinton White House), the Dimwit Floozy, the Poor Innocent who didn’t know any better. The Clinton administration, the special prosecutor’s minions, the political operatives on both sides of the aisle, and the media were able to brand me. And that brand stuck, in part because it was imbued with power. I became a social representation, a social canvas on which anybody could project their confusion about women, sex, infidelity, politics, and body issues.
Unlike the other parties involved, I was so young that I had no established identity to which I could return. I didn’t “let this define” me—I simply hadn’t had the life experience to establish my own identity in 1998. If you haven’t figured out who you are, it’s hard not to accept the horrible image of you created by others. (Thus, my compassion for young people who find themselves shamed on the Web.) Despite much self-searching and therapy and exploring of different paths, I remained “stuck” for far too many years.
No longer. It’s time to burn the beret and bury the blue dress. And move forward.
I will add the pics later.....
Did Amanda Knox Get Away With Murder?
Many people throughout the world followed the case of Amanda Knox who was accused of killing her flat mate, Meredith Kercher in Perugia, Italy while going to college. A lot of people in the United States and overseas who followed the trail, that took place in Italy, claimed the media was biased, especially the way the American media portrayed Amanda Knox as they only reported favorable reports about the accused murderer. There were websites that popped up on the internet supporting her innocence and gaining followers to have Amanda’s side through the trial. Some of the opposition, feel she was given special treatment in the media because of her good looks, others claim she was treated poorly because she was an American who was known for her partying and promiscuous ways. These actions were documented in a prison diary where Knox admitted having intercourse on the train to Italy with a young man she had just met. She had the public asking themselves, “Is she too pretty to have murdered?” But her actions had the public wondering, see figure 1, Amanda Knox is seen smiling in the court room where she is bring tried for murder. In this paper, I am going to present why I think the evidence shows Amanda Knox is guilty but had her verdict overturned because of sloppy police work and the glamorization of Amanda as “Angel Face”.
Figure 1. A photo of Amanda Marie Knox smiling as she enters the courtroom. (The Daily Mail. Barcroft Media)
One of the first things people notice when reading about this case is that there is a lack of a motive. Why would Amanda Knox want to kill her flat mate? There was really no reason. None of Knox’s DNA was found in the bedroom in which Miss Kercher was stabbed to death, according to Nick Squires of The Telegraph. Squires also wrote that Rudy Guede, the drifter that was convicted of the murder, said that Knox was not in the house on the night of the murder. Amanda Knox was questioned after the murder and told police that she heard Kercher screaming the night of the murder but did not have a lawyer present and only knew basic Italian.
As just stated, Knox knew basic Italian but she knew enough Italian to accuse local bar owner, Patrick Lumumba, of the murders, when later another black man would be accused and convicted of playing a part in the murder of Meredith Kercher. Lumumba, an innocent man, was held by police after Knox’s accusations. This can only lead one to think that Knox might have been trying to throw the Italian Police off her scent. No one even suspected Rude Guede of Meredith Kercher’s murder at the time and a lot of locals found it odd that a totally different man of African decent was placed behind bars for the same crime. I think this is evidence of how heartless Amanda Knox was to accuse another man that she knows did not commit a crime and let him sit behind bars away from his young family. It’s either very heartless or the work of a clever fox. Later, Lumumba filed a lawsuit against Knox for defamation of character for $740,000.
When she accused Lumumba, she also admitted to being in the house at the time of the murder, hearing Meredith Kercher’s screams, and recalled covering her ears. She later recounted this statement and said that she was pressured by the Italian police for a confession. Amanda Knox said, in a five page statement, that she was at then boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito’s house the night of the crime. Sollecito could not back up Knox’s alibi as he was on drugs and could not remember as printed in The Telegraph by writer Nick Squires. Even if Mr. Sollecito was very intoxicated the night of the Kercher murder, it’s very suspicious that he did not remember being with his girlfriend or not. If he cannot remember being with his then girlfriend, Amanda Knox, how does he even remember where he was at all that night?
When we focus on Mr. Raffaele Sollecito’s alibi, which is important because he too was tried for Meredith Kercher’s death, we see that he claims to be at home on his computer downloading cartoons and watching the movie Amelie. In Squires article, it tells us that experts examined his computer and there was no such activity that night. Another fact to take note of is that Knox and Sollecito turned off their phones the night of the murder, from around 8:40pm, and turned them back on around 6am. In Barbie Latza Nadeau’s book, Angel Face; The True Story of Student Killer Amanda Knox, Knox rarely turned off her phone just in case her mother in Seattle called, arising more suspicion. One detail that I could not get past was that Sollecito claimed he was too intoxicated to remember if Knox was with him that night, but he remembers he was downloading Amelie.
Figure 2. This photo shows the horrific scene of the crime along with the bathroom. (The Daily Mail. Barcroft Media)
After searching Sollecito’s apartment, the police found a knife with Amanda Knox’s DNA along with Meredith Kercher’s. When questioned about the knife and DNA, Sollecito claimed that Kercher had cooked before at his house, but this was proven to be a lie in court. Why would he make that up? Did he not know Kercher had contact with the knife? Being that Kercher was killed with a knife and there was DNA of the victim of the boyfriend of her flatmate, I do not see why this point was not pushed more in court considering the Italian Police proved that there was a staged break-in in the flat that the murder occurred. Nick Squires of The Telegraph, reports that police found glass on top of clothes that had been scattered on the floor but that the break-in was done from the inside of the flat (3). During the trial, Prosecutors accused Sollecito and Knox of staging a break-in to appear as if a burglary turned into rape and murder. This is commonly done on television shows when one commits murder that is not premeditated. Please see figure 2, that shows how horribly bloody this scene of the murder was. The amount of blood shows just how violent this murder was.
It appears as if Guede, Knox and Sollecito were in the flat, along with the victim, Meredith Kercher the night she was killed. Guede was definitely there as he defecated in the restroom and did not flush the toilet. It was also proven, with DNA testing, that his semen was found inside Kercher’s vagina, on her purse, clothing and left a handprint in her blood. Sollecito claims to have been so intoxicated on drugs and alcohol that he does not remember being with Amanda that night, but somehow the victim’s DNA is on a knife at his flat when searched by police. It was also claimed by the police that his DNA was found deep in the clasp of the bra that was cut off the victim as she was stabbed to death. Italian Police maintain that Knox’s DNA was mixed with Kercher’s DNA on the knife that was considered to be the murder weapon and she did admit to being there when first questioned by police. There was also a bloody shoeprint that did not match Guede’s shoes but was obviously made while the blood was still fresh and this is a clear indicator that there was someone else with Guede there that night. The other party would have heard Meredith Kercher screaming or struggling if she was being raped by Guede and would have possible been found by police or come forward to testify against him, but this was not the case. This shoeprint, see figure3, shows that there was another participant in the flat at the time of Miss Kercher’s murder. The shoeprint was Sollecito’s size and the knife that was found at his apartment was cleaned with bleach, commonly used to clean blood after a violent crime. The bra clasp that had a very small amount of Sollecito’s DNA on it was found six weeks after the crime and was showed in Italian Police video shortly after the crime, being kicked around like clutter. Now for Knox, nothing can take away from the fact that she has no alibi the night of the murder. She has no proof she was not at the flat. In fact, she admitted being there to police and bragged around town to people both Kercher and Knox knew that she found the body and described details that had not been released to the public yet. If Knox was innocent, she was not doing herself any favors be boasting about finding a body as if it was not a big deal. She was also witnessed kissing Sollecito the day the body was found inside Knox’s home. This is not the body language of a young girl who has just lost her flatmate to a horrific murder. When she was brought into the police station for questioning, Amanda Knox was witnesses doing cartwheels and even did the splits during her wait. Not knowing that Sollecito had already been arrested.
Figure 3. This is a photo taken of the shoeprint at the crime that was attributed to Sollecito. (The Daily Mail. Barcroft Media)
What is not widely known is that Amanda Knox wrote an award winning essay while in prison in Capanne. The arrogant author details a violent sex party that is fueled by drugs. This is another example of odd behavior by Knox after the murder. After she was arrested on suspicion of the murder, details emerged that on Knox’s MySpace she had written a fictional story about the drugging and raping of a young woman according to Squires article (3). By the time the appeals trial came, Miss Knox knew fluent Italian which is a testament to her intelligence.
Amanda Knox, Raffaele Sollecito and Rudy Guede were all placed at the scene of the crime by the prosecution during the first trial, and it was supposed that the murder was the result of a sex game gone wrong. All accused parties had a history of drug use and Knox documented her promiscuity in her diary.
Patrizia Stefanoni examined the DNA evidence in 2007 after the murder. Pictures showed her collecting evidence with gloves and she also wore gloves when analyzing the DNA at the laboratory. In a photograph used by the defense, it shows Stefanoni wearing a bracelet outside of the glove that could have transported DNA and contaminated the evidence. She still maintains that there was no contamination on crucial pieces of evidence linking the American student to the murder. Stefanoni told the appeals court that she could rule out contamination on the knife, which she is positive contained Meredith Kercher’s DNA profile.
On October 3, 2011, in an Italian Court, Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito won their appeal and were freed from prison due to lack of evidence. Meredith Kercher’s family gasped in horror as the verdict was read and told press that they felt Meredith had been forgotten during the process of the trial. Amanda Knox flew home in time for Halloween, where she dressed up as a cat burglar, see figure 4, on the fourth anniversary of Kercher’s death, this upsets many who believe she is guilty of the murder and that she staged the break-in.
Figure 4. Amanda Knox shortly after her release from Italian Jail on Halloween 2011, dressed as a cat burglar. (The Daily Mail. Brooks/INFphoto.com)
Between the behavior, pre-trial evidence and post-murder actions, I believe that Amanda Marie Knox is guilty of playing a part in Meredith Kercher’s brutal stabbing death in a sex game gone wrong. Evidence show’s that she was present during the murder and that it was not lingering DNA just because she lived there. Her knowledge of the crime scene shows she knew where in the room Kercher was found, and how she was laying as she died. The DNA on the knife at Sollecito’s flat shows that both Kercher’s blood and Amanda’s DNA were present on the knife and matched the wounds on Kercher’s neck. I believe that if the Italian Crime Scene Police had been prepared to handle a high profile case such as this, properly handled the DNA covered items and interrogated Amanda Knox by the book, then the original “guilty” verdict would have been the final judgment.
Works Cited
Meredith Kercher's Bathroom Sink and Walls. 2008. Photograph. The Daily Mail. Barcroft Media, Perugia. Web. 6 Dec 2011.
Bloody shoeprint in flat where Kercher was murdered. 2008. Photograph. The Daily Mail. Barcroft Media, Perugia. Web. 6 Dec 2011.
Smiling Amanda Knox spears in court for trial. 2008. Photograph. The Daily Mail. Barcroft Media, Perugia. Web. 6 Dec 2011.
Amanda Knox dressed up as a cat burglar. 2011. Photograph. The Daily Mail. Brooks/INFphoto.com, Perugia. Web. 6 Dec 2011.
Nadeau, Barbie Latza. Angel Face: the True Story of Student Killer Amanda Knox. New York: Beast, 2010. Print.
Nadeau, Barbie. "The Italian Job." The Daily Beast 6 Oct. 2009: 1-3. Print.
Squires, Nick. "Amanda Know Won Essay Competition with Story about Violent Sex Party."The Telegraph [Rome] 7 Dec. 2009: 1-3. Print.
Squires, Nick. "Amanda Knox: Guilty or Innocent, Five Reasons Why." The Telegraph. 3 Oct. 2011. Web. 1 Nov. 2011.
Who would have
thought that, the weather pattern, El Nino would have inspired me to write a
journal entry that I would write about years later? I was in 6th grade at Wishon
Elementary and my main concerns were playing, friends and then school. Well, I also really liked Kris Kross and TLC
and I wore T-shirts with hoods, but I digress.
I was getting amazing grades and participating in extra curricular actives
such as; spelling bee, band, and geography bee.
I was really doing well for myself.
But something rare would inspire me more in creative writing.
During a turbulent thunder storm,
in the middle of the night, something awoke me from a deep sleep. In fact, I woke up standing up! My ears were ringing like church bells and my
eyes burning like fire. I ran to the
window to see what that loud noise was that woke me up during this thunder
storm. The tree, it was gone. We had a very tall Italian Cypress in our
backyard that was the tallest in the neighborhood that now was no where to be
seen. Where did it go? My first thought was that a twister had
touched down and taken our tree. But I
soon realized that the flash that was still inhibiting my eye site was from a
lightening bolt and I began to worry because the tree was next to our bird
aviary and we also had a litter of chow puppies. Immediately, I ran to tell my parents who
told me to go back to bed and that I was dreaming. After much convincing, they finally got up
and saw that I was not telling them a tall tale but that the tree was lying on
our patio as the rain continued to pour down in bucket loads all over
Fresno. Luckily, all of our animals were
alive and well. It looks like we have
fire wood for this coming winter thanks to El Nino and the lightening bolt.
In
the morning, I hurried to school to tell all my classmates about my crazy
night. When I got to class, our teacher,
Mr. Mehas told us to take out our journals.
We were told to write about our weekend.
Of, course I would write about the lightening bolt that knocked our tall
tree down to the ground and about how I woke up standing up. I mean, what else would I write about? I was very inspired so I began to write, what
I think, was once of my best stories.
After
completing my journal entry I handed in my journal like if I was handing over a
piece of art that I slaved over for days.
I was very proud of this work and I was excited for my teacher, that I
looked up to, to read and it give me his feedback. I watched him collect the beige journals with
a black spine and stack them in a neat pile on his desk. My hopes sank as if it were an anchor in the
ocean. When would Mr. Mehas read my
journal entry?
The
next day I was still thinking about my great story and how I had this great
line in it where I “ran through the house like a gazelle through the
forest”. I had no clue that gazelle are
mainly found in the desert at that time.
I knew my journal entry was great and finally I see my teacher take out
our journals and slowly pass them back.
It seemed like it took ages for me to finally receive my journal. I looked around at the other kids and then
started flipping through the pages to my last entry. You know, I really don’t remember what it
said but all I know is he pulled me aside and told me that he loved my story
and was going to have me read it to the other 6th grade
classes. Can you say “teachers
pet”? Oh well, my story was well written
and I was about to get my shine on. “Do
I go now? I asked.
I
walked so quickly to the class next to mine that I didn’t even get jitters
about reading in front of my peers. I
knew they would be totally annoyed with my story and how I pranced from class
to class reciting my basic journal entry and how they were not doing the
same. Would I even have friends after
this? Who would play Wagon Wheel with me
at recess? My head was growing fast and
large like a melon. It’s a wonder it
didn’t fall off and roll down the isle between the desks.
I
made my way to the next and finally classroom where the teacher was waiting for
me with candy as a reward for my stroke of genius. A jolly rancher. It was like a trophy to me. I read the story and headed back to class and
then my teacher, who stood tall and proud, asked me to read it for the
class. My class. I read them how I woke up standing up and how
my parents did not believe me when I told them the tree was gone. It was like an epic tale of survival. My classmates thought it was cool but also
kept yelling at me that day knowing my ears still hurt from the sound of the
lightening bolt.
I
jokingly call this my stoke of genius but this real life experience helped me
write a story that was fun a creative that I still remember to this day. I had always been good at reading and writing
as a youth but this was on another level and to have my teacher be so
supportive of my writing really made me feel confident. I also realized I had cool class mates that
didn’t get jealous that I got to run around the school reading my work and
getting goodies. They teased me a little
but were pretty supportive of my work also.
I think it is because I was surrounded by very intelligent kids.
Later
on that year, I wrote a speech as the campaign manager for my friend Stephanie
who ran for Vice President of our school and I also gave a speech for being the
D.A.R.E. student of the year. I was able
to give these speeches with confidence and feel secure with my writing because
I had amazing teachers along the way to help me grow and great inspiration from
a rare occurrence.
Cleofilas,
Carmen and Clemencia are three female characters in Sandra Cisneros book Woman
Hollering Creek and other storiesthat
represent three totally different ideas on love and self worth. The three women left me wondering; what is a
good woman? Is this woman evil? What would I do in this situation? After reading all three stories and analyzing
each character, I have decided to explain my thoughts on each woman’s idea of
love and how that relates how she values herself.
In
our first story, “Woman Hollering Creek”
written by Sandra Cisneros, Cleofiles is introduced to the us as a young girl
who is about to be married off to a Mexican American man. She has an idealistic view of how the
marriage will be as she watched telanovelas all day religiously in her home
country of Mexico. She is excited to
experience marriage and dress fancy like the ladies in the soap operas she
idolizes. Cleo has no idea there is so
much more ahead for her that she is too naïve know about. But, before she leaves, her father reminds
her that he will always be there for here to come back to if she needs to come
back (43). Once she is married, reality
sets in after she already has kids and feels stuck with an abusive husband who
talks down to her while she is also in between Dolores and Soledad, her
neighbors. Cleofilas is admirable
because she tries as hard as she can to make the marriage work because that is
what she believes to be the right thing to do at the time. She reminds herself why she loves her husband
(49). That says so much to what she is
feeling inside about her unfortunate situation with this manor lacking man that
she feeds and cleans, which seems to be thankless tasks. She quickly becomes depressed and the legend
of the woman who drowned her kids in the creek enters the story. Once again, Cleo is strong. She is so blue that she seems to be drawn to
the creek and it seems to pull her thoughts into a dark area where she seems to
be considering taking the lives of her and her children to escape this hell she
is stuck in. But no, Cleo is
strong. She tells her doctor about the
abuses she endures and like a good loving mother should do, she finds a way
out. She goes back to her loving father
with help from the character Felice who happily drives her to the border and
inspires our strong character to take matters into her own hands and be a
strong woman. I found Cleo’s character
annoyingly naïve but amazingly strong in the end. She helped herself out of her situation and I
think many women would applaud her actions.
She envisioned her marriage to be loving and a fairy tale but it wasn’t,
and I believe that the love her family gave her as a child and growing up
shaped her to be able to leave this situation and love herself enough to know
she deserved better.
Carmen,
on the other hand “is a take-it-or-leave-it type of woman” (61). She is the character gossiped about like a
legend in Sandra Cisneros short story called “La Fabulosa: A Texas Operetta.”Carmen
seems like a vibrant, intelligent woman that enjoys the finer things in life
and knows exactly how she is going to get them, by dating powerful men. To me, it seems it is more than just the
material, it’s the fame. The spot light
is what she craves to fill her void. I
say void because she has to have something missing to date the military and not
fall in love. Some people would say she
is playing him while others would say she is just keeping her options open, I
would agree with that but only if I can add that she is missing a sensitivity
chip. That’s how Jennifer Aniston
described Brad Pitt after he left their marriage for his costar Angelina
Jolie. For a woman, not doing to shabby
on her own, to have the guts to live her life the way she did, you had to give
her some credit. She gave them something
to talk about, that’s for sure. In the
end, it is sad because Carmen might have been entertaining and lived a glamorous
life, but she was not searching for love and did not even seem to crave it by
what was gossiped about her. Who doesn’t
want to be loved? Was this her version
of love? Maybe Carmen was misunderstood. Some might say she loved her self more than
she loved those successful men she “dated”.
I think she must have been hurt along the way and she was a living callous
that found a way to be happy with fabulous things her powerful boyfriends could
provide. I am not knocking her, because
at least she was not out to hurt anyone.
Maybe just break a few hearts.
Clemencia,
Clemencia, Clemencia, where do I begin?
Clemencia, the woman with a black soul that is introduced to us in a
very compelling story called “Never Marry a Mexican”, also by Sandra Cisneros,
in which a woman exposes us to her charcoal heart, and obsessive love that is
nothing short of Satan’s thoughts. Her
upbringing molded her into the woman she is today. The way she loves today. Her love is hurtful to women. Clemencia is the other woman and that is what
she likes. She just wants the “sweetest
part of the fruit” (69). There is no
love here in this story for another being.
In this story it’s the selfish thoughts of a brat of a woman turned
psycho when she can’t have what she wants.
She falls for Drew, a married man who gets his wife pregnant and stays
with her over Clemencia. Clemencia feels
like she damn near controls Drew’s life with his wife and he lets her think
this, which leads to some sick thoughts on Clemencia’s part. Sick thoughts of the son born to Drew and his
ginger wife, where Clemencia waits oh so patiently to seduce the son of the man
that left her for this woman, his wife. This
woman, Clemencia, is so shattered inside.
Her love is not sane, sweet, and gentle but the killing kind. She seems to think she is protecting herself
from the ills of love and a normal marriage but she is anti love or anti
marriage and she is reaping what she sews.
She cannot have Drew, whom she wants so badly and you can tell how it
eats away at her heart. I wonder who naïve
is really at this point. Cleofilas from the first story of Clemencia, when
believing Drew really loved her and she wasn’t just some tramp he was having
sex with on the side? I mean, who really
thinks that the man that is bedding her while his wife gives birth is worth a
damn anyways? Clemencia. That is who thinks that she is loved and
cared for by this man. Any strong minded
woman would see she is being taken for a ride by this smooth talker. Clemencia, on the other hand, is insane and
is very damaged inside.
Each
woman, Cleo, Carmen, and Clemencia had their own tale of love in which it seems
each one of their loves went bad in the end.
But, in the end, only one of these ladies shown through to be a heroine
and respectable and that’s Cleofilas.
Her father’s love for her, I think, helped her through her stormy
marriage and gave her the will power to get through it. She is an amazing woman that faced becoming a
mockery in her hometown in Mexico so that her children could live a better
life. Unfortunately, even though Carmen
was not out to hurt anyone physically, she had cold intentions with love and
the gossip mill says she might have paid dearly for that. Even though I see nothing wrong with her
light loving ways, her actions in love might have ended her life. Clemencia, Clemencia, Clemencia with the
black heart. Not strong enough to leave
a man that strung her along so she plotted.
She didn’t have the love inside to know better. I am sure readers will be able to identify
strengths and weaknesses in each one of these interesting characters but, in my
opinion, there are only two women that show healthy signs of self respect and
self worth.
These
are the issues I focused on to show why Sweden should rethink its justice
system and how they treat inmates.
Sweden
takes pride in the fact that they rehab and treat inmates rather than
punish.
Along
with not punishing them the prisoners get all the privileges listed.
I
enjoyed doing the research on this topic because there was plenty of
resources and info online.I had no
idea how the prisons were in Sweden.Although I gave my opinion on the subject in my research paper, and
it was that the prisons are lenient, I am not sure what would really help
the situation.Here in the United
States we have a more conservative justice system and we also have our
problems.I am sure that this is a
topic that is discussed worldwide with passion.I just wish there were more views from
people in different countries on the internet.
But
seeing as how when, Saddam Hussein was captured, he had his lawyer request
that he go to a Swedish Prison, it makes you wonder if what Sweden is
doing is the right thing.
When
I first started reading David Raymond’s essay “On Being 17, Bright, and Unable
to Read”, I first thought he was a problem child that was out to defy the
substitute teacher by refusing to read.After reading further Raymond goes into a brief account of his reading
struggles and how he learned to live with Dyslexia.Raymond associated his reading success with
having friends and even wished for the other kids to like him on his birthday
when he blew out the candles.His candid
account of his progress and therapy is admirable because it gives the reader
some insight into what people, especially children, go through when they have a
learning disorder.It’s clear that
Raymond always knew that his disease made him different as he was the only kid
going to a child psychiatrist in elementary school therefore his parents sent
him to a camp for kids with learning disabilities which Raymond enjoyed.My guess is that he felt like he was amongst
kindred spirits and was able to relax and not have his guard up since he was
made fun of so much growing up.In
brief, Raymond learned to except his disability, learn about others like him
such as Einstein, and write this essay to help us understand him.
When I look at the Cosmopolitan
Magazine covers shown to us in class, I see a pattern of young starlets with
almost identical suggestive outfits on along with various sexual topics laid
out.If you were to lay the covers on
top of each other it might appear that they are made from the same template
because the cover models all have a similar pose with their breasts and thighs
showing, and the article teasers in the same spot.At first glance I cannot even find the cover
models name.With scantily clad women on
the cover and various sex articles I think the message is clear; this is what
you need to look like to be sexy and here is your guide to make guys want to
have sex with you and what to do when you do have sex.Sex sells.
I have purchased GQ before, I don’t
remember who was on the cover but I am sure I have.The men are usually gorgeous on the cover and
the articles range from sports to politics.A well rounded man would be the audience for this magazine, or
woman.In comparison with Cosmo covers,
GQ seems to respect their cover model more by putting their name in the key
position at the top left of the cover where Cosmo usually has SEX.It’s almost like it’s saying that a mans name
and face will sell itself but for a woman to sell magazines she has to use her
body surrounded by articles telling you moves in bed to made it “hotter”.With GQ, the audience gets treated to a woman
on the cover every so often, like Jennifer Aniston.But I think she was naked.I am sure the audience was clothed when they
read the article on Jennifer, of course in fine apparel I am sure since GQ
offers style tips.GQ even breaks down good
eats.
I think the message is clear that
Cosmo’s audience is possibly looking for a mindless magazine to fill some time
and that entertains them.Surely I would
be entertained by an article explaining how I can become a Sex Genius.I do find it odd that to sell Cosmo to women,
they put young lightly clothed women on the cover.I would prefer to see Anderson Cooper or
Miguel Almaguer on the cover.I guess
that’s why I would rather by GQ.A well
rounded magazine for a well rounded guy, or gal.Handsome men on the cover that look distinguished
and are in finely tailored suits.I can
respect that.
“Whose
is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all
the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a month.” 
