| |  | | | | June 14, 2016 | Letter No. 38 | | | | | | | | | | | | Dear Lennys,
I originally wrote a version of this intro last week, before the terror attack unfolded in Orlando this weekend. I went to bed around 4:30 in the morning on Saturday (I needed to finish season eight of The X-Files), and right before I went to bed I saw a breaking-news item about a shot fired at a club. I hate to admit that I did not think much about this. Shots are fired all the time in our gun-soaked country, and I've become numb to it. But when I woke up the next day and saw the reality of what had been going down while I slept, I felt sick to my stomach and just wanted to get back to sleep and wake up in a different world where these things don't happen. Or at least a world where we do something to stop these senseless massacres from happening over and over again. Last week when Hillary cinched the nomination, I was optimistic that we were making slow but steady progress toward freedom from gender norms and inequality. Now I am not so sure.
It seems like whenever we take a few steps forward, we take steps back. Nowhere has this been more evident than in the recent trial against sex offender Brock Turner, who, despite being literally caught in the act by two other men, still got a sentence that did not fit the gravity of his crime. Roxane Gay writes with her characteristic strength and power on the subject, noting that Turner received only six months in jail, now reduced to three, because the judge believed that he had a bright life ahead of him (swimming! Stanford!); because he had never committed any other crimes (that we know of); because this was just a one-time mistake, as if our prisons aren't already filled with men, mostly poor and nonwhite, whose crimes were less severe than getting caught in the act of assaulting an unconscious woman, and yet they were afforded no such luxuries. No one saw a bright future in their lives; no one saw anything at all.
A step forward: Actress Lena Waithe writes an essay about how a vintage tee helped her realize that fashion could be more than wearing the latest labels or keeping up with her classmates, that it could tell a story about her identity to the world. For queer and gender-non-conforming people, clothes that fit well both physically and mentally can often be hard to find and can make a huge difference in the wearer's life. On June 20, HBO will release Suited, a documentary produced by our very own Lena and Jenni, about the people behind Bindle & Keep, who specialize in making beautiful bespoke suits for men, women, and everyone in between, and Lena Waithe's essay was inspired by their mission. When not even the most sacred spaces are safe, when we can all die at any minute at school or at church or at the church that a gay club can become, every little thing counts.
Elsewhere in the issue, Lenny's editor at large Mikki Halpin writes an essay about what it's like to have a real-life Don Draper as your dad: a charming, promiscuous, ultimately cold rogue. And, surprise, it's not super-fun! At his memorial, a picture slideshow showed his many wives — all four of them — and by default showed his infidelities and shortcomings. Although she was estranged from him at the time of his death, Mikki realized that in many ways, her father was just a product of the culture at the time.
I am also really excited that we have an excerpt from artist Lisa Hanawalt's latest book, Hot Dog Taste Test (plus an interview with her over on lennyletter.com!). Lisa's art is weird and wonderful, and you'll fall in love with the magical universe she creates. Finally, we have Rachel Katz, who runs the women's initiative at the David Lynch Foundation, with an essay on how transcendental meditation can help domestic-violence survivors heal and feel at peace with themselves.
I hope reading this issue will bring some peace to you all as well. And I hope that for every step backward our culture takes, we have the strength to push forward.
To donate to a GoFundMe account set up by the Center Orlando to help the victims of this tragedy, click here. For more information on donating blood to help survivors, visit oneblood.org.
All my love,
Laia | | | | | | | | | | | | White Crime | | | | By Roxane Gay | | |
On June 10, singer Christina Grimmie was shot and killed by a white man who then killed himself. There was no security at Plaza Live, the venue where Grimmie was performing. Orlando police chief John Mina said, in a BuzzFeed interview, "This isn't a crowd that you would suspect would be carrying guns into an event like this." What goes unsaid is that there is a crowd "you" would suspect would be carrying guns into a different kind of concert. At a rap concert, for example, security is always visibly present. There are often metal detectors. This kind of security is simply a reflection of this country's overall attitude toward race and crime.
When black men commit crimes or are alleged to have committed crimes, we immediately learn of their every misdeed from the womb forward. We see their mug shots. We are treated to a recitation of statistics on race, criminality, and incarceration rates. Rarely are these men seen as human, treated as human. They are not sons, fathers, brothers, or friends. They are not men. Instead, they are criminals, and worse, there is no hope for their redemption, there is no possibility that they are anything more than their misdeeds, their mistakes.
Black men receive sentences that are 20 percent longer than white men's sentences for the same crimes. There are disparities along racial lines for all issues related to sentencing, including who gets life without parole for both violent and nonviolent crimes and who is sentenced to death.
Even when black men are victims of crimes, they are scrutinized and treated as criminals in waiting. Black boys in particular are never allowed to be boys. Manhood is ascribed to black boys because we are part of a culture where innocence and blackness are seen as antithetical. Look at Trayvon Martin. Look at Tamir Rice. Look, even, at the preschooler who climbed into the Gorilla World exhibit at the Cincinnati Zoo. A gorilla from the exhibit, Harambe, was killed in order to save the boy, and immediately afterward speculation began about why he entered the enclosure, as if there could be a reason beyond a child's curiosity and naïveté.
White men who commit crimes don't have to suffer such indignities. Instead, they get the Brock Turner treatment. Turner—someone convicted of sexual assault—who was sentenced to a paltry six months in county jail for the crime of rape. He will likely serve only half that sentence. In justifying the inadequate jail time, judge Aaron Persky said, shamelessly, "A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him. I think he will not be a danger to others."
This is how whiteness works. Turner is seen as human, as a victim in the crime he committed. He is a "good young man." He is allowed to have both a past and a future and this past and future are worthy of consideration. His crime is a mistake, not a scarlet letter, not a reflection of his character.
Brock Turner assaulted a woman behind a Dumpster in an alley. His victim was unconscious. He lifted her dress. He removed her underwear. He penetrated her without her consent. Turner took at least one picture of her breasts with his cell phone. Brock Turner was only stopped because two passersby noticed him and intervened. Before Turner committed this sexual assault, he had tried to kiss the victim's sister, who rejected him. Twice. That's when he found the victim, who was drunk and alone, and before long, unconscious. Brock Turner's crime is revolting. His crime is deliberate.
The victim wrote an eloquent and impassioned statement about her experience, about how she has suffered, about the repercussions of Brock Turner's crime. Her words were not enough to overcome the power of Brock Turner's whiteness.
In the aftermath, Brock Turner is remorseless for everyone but himself. He doesn't seem to understand that he has committed a crime. In his statement to the court, he was preoccupied with how his life has been changed. He states, with flagrant arrogance and immaturity, "I wish I never was good at swimming or had the opportunity to attend Stanford, so maybe the newspapers wouldn't want to write stories about me." He says this as if he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, as if he is a victim of his blessings and good fortune, as if the true travesty here is the damage to his reputation. That sort of deluded attitude is what whiteness allows — a haven from reality and consequence.
Letters of support from Turner's family and friends illuminate his willful ignorance. His supporters mourn for how he is suffering, for how his life has changed, how unfair this all is. Turner's grandparents wrote, "Brock is the only person being held accountable for the actions of other irresponsible adults." His father lamented how Brock is a changed person, how the man's life has been ruined for "20 minutes of action." His mother is so upset she cannot bear to redecorate her new home and she is bereft that her son's "dreams have been shattered." His sister made it clear that Turner's actions were "alcohol-fueled." A friend, Leslie Rasmussen, doesn't think Turner's life should be ruined because of "the decision of a girl who doesn't remember anything but the amount she drank."
This is how whiteness works. It provides shelter. In most of these letters of support, everyone and everything must shoulder the blame but Brock Turner, the convicted sex offender.
This is how whiteness works. It provides protection. It took months for the Santa Cruz Police Department to release Brock Turner's mug shot. Instead, the most prominent image of Turner was a school photo in a suit jacket and tie, his hair cut neatly, his smile wide. He wasn't referred to as a violent criminal but as a Stanford student, a talented swimmer with ambitions of reaching the Olympics.
This is how whiteness works. It provides instant redemption and unearned respect. Too many articles refer to Turner as the ex–Stanford swimmer instead of labeling him as the rapist he is. Too many articles enthusiastically offer his résumé of accomplishments even though he is only 20 years old. He hasn't been alive to accomplish that much.
I grew up in quiet, "idyllic" communities like Oakwood, Ohio, where Turner is from. I know all about these upper-middle-class environments where white children are raised believing they can do no wrong, where those same children are denied nothing, and where they grow up entitled and never learn that they should be otherwise. These are communities where good, wholesome kids drink and do drugs and make trouble. Everyone looks away because they are good kids who are "just having fun." High grades and athleticism and sharp haircuts and "good" families excuse all manner of bad behavior.
I was a victim once. The boys who raped me were boys like Brock Turner. They were athletes, popular, clean cut. They came from good families and so did I. There is some benefit in reminding people that criminality lurks in all kinds of places and that goodness provides cover for all kinds of badness.
As sad as it is to say, there is nothing surprising about Brock Turner, his family, and their reluctance to place the responsibility for Turner's crime squarely on their son's shoulders. That's not how they were raised. His whiteness allows his family, his friends, and far too many people who are following news about his crime to see Brock Turner as the boy next door. The white boy next door cannot possibly be a criminal, and so he isn't.
Were it that black men received such indulgence. Everyone lives next door to someone.
Roxane Gay lives and writes in the Midwest. | | | | | | | | | | | | Finding My Fashion Identity with One Old T-shirt | | | | By Lena Waithe | | |
I've been a label whore since I was five years old. Not because I was born into a wealthy family, and definitely not because I knew what a fashion designer was; I was infatuated with name brands at an early age because my mother has been obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses for as long as I can remember.
She was so determined to make sure my sister and I wore nothing but the best, she would strap us in the backseat of her old Buick and drive an hour and a half to Kankakee, Illinois, from our home in Chicago to go shopping. And when I say "go shopping," I don't mean that in the literal sense. We didn't drive to a mall, find a parking spot, and then go inside and ask the salesclerk where the children's section was. We drove to my mother's friend's house and proceeded to try on clothes that her three daughters had grown out of. This was basically the black bourgeoisie version of taking us to the Salvation Army.
While my sister and I were busy upstairs trying on hand-me-down expensive dresses and overpriced denim overalls, my mom was downstairs drinking wine and gossiping with her friend. After a few hours, we would have at least three huge bags filled with designer clothes — free of charge. Now, of course, we would then pile into the Buick and drive back to our modest house on the South Side, but we had a trunk full of the finest clothes money could buy — so it didn't matter what our financial situation was at the time, because inside we felt like a million bucks.
It was during that time I learned the importance of doing whatever you had to do to acquire great clothes, and as I got older, my addiction to them only got worse. In high school I was a slave to name brands. Tommy Hilfiger was a favorite. FUBU was still a thing. Ralph Lauren was huge, and because Jay-Z was at the height of his career, every self-respecting teenager had at least one Rocawear hoodie in his or her closet. And since I was still a budding lesbian at the time, everything was at least three sizes too big. Whenever I look at old pictures of myself, I always wonder why my mom let me leave the house every day looking like an extra from a Wu-Tang Clan video. But since she had such a fear of my sister and me getting pregnant in high school, she was probably relieved that I would rather hide my body than show it off.
Sneakers were also a big deal. They had their own caste system. If you wore K-Swiss, it meant you probably had a single mom who worked two jobs and knew paying for groceries was more important than you being the most popular kid in school. That was me. If you wore Jordans, chances were you lived with your mother and your father, and they didn't mind paying for them, or you had a parent who couldn't afford them, but they would use half their disability check or tax return to pay for them just so you could have a fresh pair the day they came out.
Speaking of coming out, that's exactly what I did freshman year of college — not to my friends and family or anything. Just to myself. Between the baggy clothes, my large collection of sneakers, and my enormous crush on Mariska Hargitay, it was pretty clear that I was a full-blown lesbian at this point. But I still didn't know what kind of lesbian I wanted to be. Yes, there are different kinds. But for the sake of this piece, I'll just focus on the two categories I knew I didn't fall into.
I wasn't a Stud: a woman who wears men's clothes and usually has a short haircut. And if you're not paying super-close attention, you could mistake her for a guy. I definitely wasn't a Fem: a woman who can pretty much pass for straight. On any given Sunday you'll catch her in a pair of skinny jeans, high heels, or even a dress. When I realized there was a new fashion playing field, I had an identity crisis because I had spent the last four years of my life picking out clothes that would impress my classmates, not display my sexual orientation. Once I got to college, it became quite clear that no one gave a shit about what I wore. So I spent most of my time wearing sweatpants and hoodies.
But during college, I hit a major milestone in my homosexual journey. I secured my first gay friend. He obviously wasn't the first gay person I'd ever met, but he was definitely the first gay person to take me under his wing and show me the way. Not only did he give me my first tour of Boystown (that's the part of Chicago where all the gay people dwell), he also introduced me to my first thrift store.
As soon as I walked in, I was accosted by a scent. It was a combination of old clothes and patchouli — so I was a little apprehensive at first. But after walking around for a bit, I spotted some cool hats (I was really into hats at the time) and a pair of ripped jeans I could have sworn I had seen in Janet Jackson's "Love Will Never Do Without You" video, and of course there was a huge section dedicated to every hipster's Kryptonite … vintage T-shirts.
I had never seen a real vintage tee up close before. I had no idea how intoxicating soft cotton and a faded print could be. There were so many rows of them that I just picked a color and started sifting through them like a secretary flipping through a Rolodex. I decided to start with the blue section first, and to this day I thank God I did, because after a few minutes of digging, I happened upon a vintage Hill Street Blues T-shirt with a large MTM logo just underneath the title. Of course it was two sizes too big, but being the huge Mary Tyler Moore fan that I was (and remain), I didn't care. It only cost me fourteen bucks, and it's still on my short list of things to grab if my house ever catches on fire.
This purchase was more than just a lucky break. It was the first time I bought a piece of clothing that actually meant something to me. It made me think of all the hours I spent watching Mary Tyler Moore reruns on Nick at Nite. I was in awe of this magical woman who was such a boss that her production company produced her show. The shirt wasn't expensive. It wasn't made in Italy. And unless you were a TV buff, you wouldn't understand its significance. But it made me happy every time I put it on. It said something about who I was. It gave strangers a glimpse into my personality without my ever having to say a word.
At 21 I had finally figured it out: my fashion should help tell my story.
I also realized my newfound love for thrift shopping wasn't too different from my mom taking me to her friend's house all those years ago to try on her daughters' clothes. In both cases, I was filling up large plastic bags with stuff someone had either grown out of or no longer wanted. The very thing I used to be ashamed of had become one of my favorite pastimes. Now I think of it as a twofer — because not only am I getting a bunch of great clothes for very little money, it's also a gentle reminder to call my mother.
I'm 31 now, and I admit I still spend way too much money on clothes. But I try to spend large amounts only on signature pieces that I know I'll keep forever. I'm convinced that's a lesson no one really learns until they turn 30. I don't know what it is about that age, but all of a sudden you just have an aversion to spending money on trendy overpriced clothes.
My style continues to evolve, but these days, harem sweatpants, vintage T-shirts, and Jordans are in heavy rotation. As I get older, I want to be stylish and comfortable. I still haven't quite figured out what "lesbian category" I fit into. I'm guessing I'm either a Soft Stud or a Justin Bieber. I know "Justin Bieber" isn't a real lesbian category, but he and I have a very similar style, so I think he should be. Yeah, that settles it — I'm definitely a "Justin Bieber." Lifelong mystery solved.
Lena Waithe is a writer, producer, and actress, and she's currently obsessed with a show on BET called Chasing Destiny. | | | | | | | | | | | | When Our Fathers Left | | | | By Mikki Halpin | | |
| (Photos courtesy of the author) |
I couldn't watch Mad Men. I couldn't even really listen to people talk about Mad Men. So much of the talk was about Don Draper, his hotness and his promiscuity, and while I can appreciate Jon Hamm's blue eyes and sharp jaw, I could not deal with his character. That's because Don Draper and my dad are pretty much the same guy.
My dad didn't come from poverty, like Draper, but his childhood was rough. His mother died when he was young, after having five children in quick succession. His father, by all accounts, was an abusive, alcoholic asshole. My father's older brothers and sisters all left home as soon as they could, leaving my dad and his brother Peter, the two youngest, to fend for themselves.
My dad left home early and finished school on his own. I don't know all the details of his young life, because the stories I've been told conflict with each other, and many of the players are dead now. But I do know that when he and my mother went to get my grandfather's permission to marry (my dad was under 21, the legal age at the time), it was the only time my mother ever met Thomas Halpin Sr. It was the last time my father ever saw his father.
Like Don Draper, my dad maximized his good looks and charm to get through the world. He was smart — Ivy League–educated — but it was his Steve McQueen–meets–Mr. Brady vibe that made an impression on people. These were the qualities that made him successful, and he expected them of his children. Straight As, good at sports, and good-looking. My dad assessed my outfit for my first formal dance and suggested different shoes, bemoaned my braces when I got them, and commented on every haircut. I did my best.
My dad didn't restrict his comments on appearance to me and my siblings. When I was thirteen he told me my friend Sherry was pretty after she came over for a swimming date. We took my friend Jan to a Dodgers game when I was eighteen; he thought she was pretty too. I went to Weight Watchers while I was still young enough to appreciate a trip to Toys 'R' Us for a present if I'd lost a few pounds.
In my teens it felt as if everyone in my family retreated to some other world, one free of judgment: My brother got into Dungeons and Dragons and became a born-again Christian; my mom became a super-feminist and was off at N.O.W. meetings and protests; my sister, always an animal fan, expanded her pet collection and did biology experiments in the garage. I took the bus to Hollywood to punk shows and spent the rest of my time in my room feeling vaguely angry.
I didn't figure out how much my dad cheated on my mom until I was in my freshman year of college. I suddenly realized my memories weren't innocent. Once in third grade he took me on a day trip to a playground "in the city" and sat with a lady while I went on the jungle gym. I'm just going to call her "the lady" because I can't remember her name. We went to the lady's house for iced tea after that. Driving home, he said, "I know we had fun today, but we don't have to tell Mom about the lady, OK?" I nodded. When I think back on this, I have a stomachache. I think I had a stomachache at the time, but I'm not sure if I did. I remember sitting in the front seat of the car — a rarity — and nodding.
I suppose I took that secret pretty seriously, because I never did tell anyone. My dad was around less and less, but I went along with the premise that it was work-related. After college, I had a fellowship and got an apartment on my own in Venice. It was still the era of landlines — so when I got the new phone book, I looked myself up to see my name on the page. It was there, right below my dad's. His had an address that was not where my parents lived. You always feel psychic in retrospect, but I knew instantly that this was not some other Lawrence Halpin, and that it was bad.
I called the number and he answered. "Is this the voice of the woman I love?" he asked, gaily. "No. It's your daughter," I said, and then I definitely had the stomachache that I have right now. I'm not sure if I hung up the phone and he called me back or if we stayed on the line as he began making excuses.
Here are some of them: He was in New York at our apartment there on a business trip, with a colleague, and he thought the colleague's wife was calling, so he was pretending to be her husband as a joke; the Los Angeles phone number was ringing in New York because they had a corporate apartment in downtown LA near the office and had had the number forwarded.
I was in shock, but even in the numbness I realized that, although he had obviously been lying to us for years, right then he was being the worst liar ever. His scrambling around to make excuses just made it more and more clear that I had caught him doing something really bad. I had to hang up to stop his babbling, but the conditioning to believe one's parents is strong. Just in case, I called the phone company to ask if what he'd said could possibly be true. I pretended I'd called a number forwarded to New York and was worried I would get the long-distance charges and got the guy to check the line. That number was definitely in Bel Air, he told me, and it was not forwarded.
I rarely attended family events because I was worried I'd be deemed a failure — not successful enough, not pretty enough, not something enough — but I went to Thanksgiving that year. My mom, my brother, my father, and I all showed up at the restaurant in separate cars. (My sister was away at school.) At the table, my dad explained, awkwardly, that he was going to move to a "corporate apartment" to be closer to work. My mother cried and said she didn't know what was happening.
It was like both our parents had abandoned us and had not even bothered to get their stories straight. I knew my dad was lying — there was obviously a woman involved — but I didn't say anything. I felt guilty, because I was the one who had busted him and made all this happen. I had just turned 23, and I didn't want to see anyone at the table ever again. I guess it's a testament to our collective inability to get into anything emotional that we spent the rest of the meal discussing other topics. After dinner, we all got in our cars and went to our various homes, scattered around LA.
My brother and sister and I spoke on the phone a few times over the next few months and into the spring (I think we all skipped Christmas), trying to piece together what had happened, what was happening. My brother, who is nicer than me and my sister, went to the Bel Air apartment and met the girlfriend. My sister and I both stopped talking to Dad, although he showed up, skulking, at her college graduation. "He's like paparazzi, taking sneak pictures," said my friend Skip. "Can't he just own up to it?" I was too busy pretending not to notice my dad's presence, which my mom was doing masterfully. She hadn't said a word about the entire situation since that night at dinner. I guess she was pretty good at ignoring things by then.
At first there were mixed reactions to the divorce, which isn't surprising in my huge family. The divorce was actually the issue more than the cheating — we're Catholics, so, of course. But when my dad tried to get the marriage annulled as well, there was a real schism. Most of his sisters were horrified and angry. They called me to say they were disappointed and disgusted, but that I should remember that I still had a true family with them. Some of his sisters are still in touch with my mom, because Irish Catholic ladies from New York have a strong bond, I suppose. His brothers mostly sided with him. My Uncle Tim is still kind of pissed at my sister and me for cutting off our dad. "Why can't they let Larry be happy?" he complained to my cousin Mary Ellen.
Then what I'd call the Draper years truly began — they'd been going on for my dad all along, apparently, but things were out in the open now. I kept up with what he was doing mostly through my brother, and it seemed like he had a new girlfriend every few months — but my brother isn't big on details and I didn't really want to know. In a moment of weakness, I invited my dad to a work event, where he hit on a novelist and writer I idolized.
At some point he married the woman I had caught him with, who seemed to think we were all teenagers. She sent me and my sister matching pink sweatshirts from Nordstrom. Back then you could exchange gifts for cash, which we did immediately. My dad called regularly: on his birthday and on Father's Day. I realized he was doing it so he could tell his friends that he had talked to his kids. It made me a little sad for him, but not enough to pick up the phone. He didn't call on my birthday.
I moved to New York in 1996, and after 9/11 he called, breaking his twice-yearly schedule. I answered, because it seemed like you should at least reassure your parents that you are OK after something like that. He told me he was coming to New York with his wife. Not the sweatshirt one. "That didn't work out," he said sorrowfully. "But I'm really happy now." I didn't ask for more information. I imagined a series of women like my mom: charmed, and then traumatized when he left. My friends asked if I was worried he would have more kids, but I knew he had had a vasectomy. I wondered if he had done it so he could seduce with abandon, without fear of leaving a trace. I told him I didn't want to see him.
He got married a couple of times after that, but apparently the last one stuck — he was with her for ten years, until his death, and helped raise her son. At his memorial, my brother created a slide show of my father's life, which, amid golf shots and basketball games, flashed images of all the weddings. The second and third wives went by pretty quickly, but there were multiple pictures of him and my mom, happily cutting the cake and posing outside the church, along with proud pictures of them with my brother, sister, and me as babies and toddlers.
I felt mean and triumphant, thinking that his last wife, sitting front and center watching the slide show, was seeing the truth for the first time. She had known him for only ten years — I had known him for more than 40. She thought of him as the love of her life, but I knew him better than she did. My friends and I, huddled in a corner, smirked bitterly, comfortable in the coven we'd formed when all our fathers left.
Later on I asked my brother what he had been thinking with all the wedding photos, and he looked blank. "I just put in all the pictures of Dad I had," he said. He had truly loved our father, and that's why I even went to the memorial: to support him. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone's feelings, but I was glad he had. I was glad that everyone there had seen my family, the family my dad bailed on, and they weren't just seeing my country-club dad who they'd met in later years, the one who called me on Father's Day in order to lie to them.
My dad's generation went through something at the same time that my mom and her contemporaries were discovering feminism. My theory is this: white men were beginning to lose some of their power, and they reasserted it by sleeping around. I know it's also related to the pill, and divorce, and the aftermath of the sexual revolution, but those were all things that passed my parents by, at least initially. They got married at 18 in 1960 in order to have sex. Divorce almost got my dad thrown out of the family. The sexual revolution wasn't present in their Simon and Garfunkel record collection. Cheating on his wives was my dad's rebellion.
By the time Mad Men ended, it seemed like everyone was more obsessed with Sally than with Don. I almost started watching, for that, but too much time had passed to dive into it. I feel the same way about my dad, for the most part. When I was younger, I did the usual and dated men just like him, compulsive seducers, able to slip in and out of love like going from room to room in a hotel.
I'm over that now. I've realized these guys are often the sons of men like my father, who wanted to be happy and who assumed it was the job of a woman to make him happy. If she didn't, on to the next. I wonder if he figured out by the end that that wasn't true.
He committed to his last wife, and didn't cheat on her, as far as I can tell. Maybe he'd realized you can get more out of staying than out of leaving, sometimes. I guess I've realized that too. I was speaking with him sporadically when he died and considering actually meeting up in person. I talk to my mom and my brother and my sister much more regularly than I used to. And if he called me this Father's Day, I think I would pick up.
Mikki Halpin is Lenny's editor at large. | | | | | | | | | | | | Hot Dog Taste Test: An Excerpt | | | | By Lisa Hanawalt | | | | There is something magical about seeing someone succeed at the exact thing they were meant to do. Artist Lisa Hanawalt is living that magic. Exhibit A: when Lisa was ten years old, she wrote in an essay for school, "I want to be famous for drawing horses someday." Cut to 22 years later, and Lisa's done just that. Her penchant for drawing anthropomorphic animals, horses especially, led to the creation of BoJack Horseman, one of the most innovative shows around. But even before BoJack, Lisa was bringing her unique artistic sensibilities to websites like the Hairpin and magazines like Lucky Peach and The Believer.
Now, with the release of Lisa's new book, Hot Dog Taste Test, we get to enjoy all the weird and wonderful characters of her universe in an easy-to-carry format! Just kidding, but it IS great to enjoy her naked birds, weird food experiments, and personal comics in one excellent book that you'll keep coming back to. We are thrilled to excerpt some of it here for you — and check out our interview with Lisa on lennyletter.com!
—Laia Garcia
| | | | | | | | | | | | How Transcendental Meditation Helps Survivors of Domestic Violence | | | | By Rachel Katz | | |
As a Transcendental Meditation (TM) teacher, I've worked with inmates at Rikers Island, veterans, and women and children in the shelter system. But I have specifically gravitated toward teaching survivors of domestic violence, because I have friends and family who have experienced it. That my loved ones have been victims of abuse sadly reflects the statistics: every nine seconds in the United States, a woman is assaulted or beaten, according to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. Abusive relationships occur across all socioeconomic, cultural, and educational backgrounds.
Many survivors say that their physical wounds heal, but the emotional and psychological damage far outlasts the relationship. Studies have shown that practicing TM can help to relieve the painful aftermath of trauma. When the New York City Family Justice Centers invited the David Lynch Foundation, where I teach, to be a part of the services offered to its clients, I was honored by the opportunity, and I've been there ever since.
TM is a form of meditation, practiced twice daily for about 20 minutes, seated with the eyes closed. (There is no particular pose required.) It's very simple, but it's important to work with a teacher at first in order to perform the practice easily and comfortably. On the first day, the teacher gives each student a sound, or mantra, chosen specifically for her, and instructions on how to use it effortlessly. This is followed by group classes over the next few days. It does not involve concentration or contemplation. Even if the active mind is busy and full, overwhelmed by unpleasant thoughts, we use our mantras to transcend those thoughts and settle into a state of restful awareness that is a natural part of our consciousness — we've just lost access to it. During meditation, students experience both their minds and bodies as peaceful, clear, and blissfully free.
Often the women I meet have some resistance to the concept of closing their eyes and spending time alone in their head. After all, that is where painful thoughts and memories lie. The enjoyment of just being can seem challenging and abstract. But with each meditation, their bodies are able to heal deeply rooted traumas, and their brains begin to function in a healthier, more integrated way.
You might be surprised to know that we spend a lot of time in class laughing. We laugh at how good it feels to have a sense of freedom from within, and to be free of self-punishment as well as external abuse. In the past, for many of my students, it just didn't seem possible to feel anything but exhaustion, fear, anger, hurt, confusion, numbness, being overwhelmed. But with TM, they begin to let go of those negative feelings, and the energy they spent holding on to them is released.
Recently a young mother asked me to meditate with her before a court date where she would have to be in the same room as her abuser. The last time it had happened, she'd been so nervous she couldn't speak. This time was different. She walked in calmly, but not coldly. She knew she had every right to be angry and sad, but she was no longer going to be intimidated. She spoke with an ease and deliberateness, and she noticed people in the room treating her with more respect. She respected herself. She wasn't distracted by worries or doubt — she saw her path and stayed its course.
Of course survivors need other resources, but I've found that TM is a powerful way to help my students focus on their own needs and desires and not anyone else's. Survivors often neglect themselves and put others' needs before their own. But you must take care of yourself. It's like they tell you on an airplane: you must put on your own oxygen mask first — secure your vital needs — before you can expect to help anyone else. When a survivor is living with symptoms of trauma and stress, it can be challenging to know what she needs and wants; it can be hard for her to sort what she wants to accomplish.
By starting the day with TM, her first waking moment is an act of self-care, and then in the late afternoon, she meditates again, to recharge for her evening. When the nervous system is able to restore itself through deep rest, research shows that the effects are increasingly sustained throughout the day. Progressively, this style of functioning for the mind and body naturally empowers the survivor to make the best choices for herself without much deliberation and with more confidence.
While the circumstances under which I meet my students are painful, I love the work I do. To witness their resilience and healing is nothing short of a complete joy.
Rachel Katz is the lead teacher for the David Lynch Foundation's Women's Health Initiative. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | The email newsletter where there's no such thing as too much information.
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