tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39262711019951303002024-03-05T03:58:01.612-08:00West Coast WarpClaudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-79821551015490608082016-07-10T13:28:00.001-07:002016-07-10T13:28:49.090-07:00How Do We Confront Hate?<div class="storify">
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Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-75503470669834131702016-01-12T18:43:00.000-08:002016-09-19T15:49:35.151-07:00I Am The Leaky Pipeline<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
originally published this piece in October 2013 on a different blog during the
emergence of the #ripplesofdoubt hashtag on twitter (curated by the great @kejames) under the title "When
The Only Way To Win Is Not To Play The Game"</span></i></span><br />
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Some of
you may have read this piece before. For those who haven't, this is a long read
about 7 years of relentless sexual harassment, recounted in vivid detail that
eventually caused me to quit a prestigious UCLA PhD program.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I have
done a little editing as of today, January 11, 2016. But not much. Be warned.
This piece is not easy to read, even if sexual harassment does not trigger you.
What happened to me, again and again, was and remains unconscionable. To this
day, I'd love to find a way to hold the guilty parties accountable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">If you
aren't sure what "The Leaky Pipeline" means: it's a metaphor
describing the fact that many women - as well as black and disabled students
and other underrepresented minorities - enter many academic fields as
undergrads and grads, but end up with only a small share of prized academic
positions down the line. The lion's share of those prestigious appointments
belongs to white men, even today. So what happened to all the women and
minorities who set out for an academic career but "fell through the cracks
somewhere", as it's often put euphemistically?<br />
<br />
The answer is: They are and continue to be The Leaky Pipeline. It is not an
accident. It is not our fault. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Here is how it works:</span><br />
<br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
am @ct_la on twitter. I am able to share my story of years of sexual harassment
within academia in detail and with photographic evidence. For one thing, it
happened 25-30 years ago. I also left academia in 1989 and never looked back,
so there’s no need for anonymity. In fact, I welcome anyone who wants to
contact me about what I am sharing here. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">When
I encountered #ripplesofdoubt on twitter, everything that happened to
me a quarter century ago bubbled to the surface, details I had repressed for
decades, in stunning clarity. Before #ripplesofdoubt, I had rarely talked about. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">There was only one thing to do: Record it all.
Share it. For the better part of the last 3 days and 2 nights, I lived in my
office and didn’t quit until the final draft was done. I had re-examined
single incidents over the years, but never before all 6 years of it, back to
back. I forgot to eat. I couldn’t sleep. My computer
developed strange glitches. By late Friday, my vision played tricks on me from sleep
deprivation and emotional exhaustion. I was seeing my twitter avatar
everywhere. I took it as a sign to continue, that twitter needed to see my
story. I pushed on through bouts of unprecedented psychosomatic pain. I
know what happens when long-repressed or denied abuse is suddenly confronted. I
know there wasn’t anything *physically* wrong with me. Every 10 minutes, I had
to remind myself to unclench my jaws and relax my shoulders. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
offer my story with a great big Thank You to @kejames.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">*********************************************</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Sometimes,
a picture says more than a thousand words. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7DasHOWjg0xYR0h69OHHikV1bDhlad0Qqov7mYcgAvjjp54ws1wVcxGZElxTnuIQ5W18Mm99tfweIdfpn9NOFlOmYrFePoPx_ObL0E516vxRhkJ6_FVoPKE60s_MMaz5f0kGZFyhb8_I/s1600/ROIimage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7DasHOWjg0xYR0h69OHHikV1bDhlad0Qqov7mYcgAvjjp54ws1wVcxGZElxTnuIQ5W18Mm99tfweIdfpn9NOFlOmYrFePoPx_ObL0E516vxRhkJ6_FVoPKE60s_MMaz5f0kGZFyhb8_I/s400/ROIimage.png" width="300" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TDaRvziWq-g/UmROvdJWdII/AAAAAAAAAds/1aN56E0T0sY/s1600/ROD.jpg"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</span></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Those
of you who have read enough #ripplesofdoubt </span><a href="http://storify.com/kejames/ripples-of-doubt"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">http://storify.com/kejames/ripples-of-doubt</span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;"> contributions in
recent days, or those of you who have been in my position, literally, can pretty
much guess what’s going on in this picture. Read on if you want to know all the
details. Be forewarned, though. This is not evidence of the incident that ended
my academic career. It was the FIRST #rippleofdoubt I noticed. It continued and
worsened well into my grad school days, seemingly wherever I showed up. When I
quit, 6 years later, I had attended three US universities, including two
graduate programs, earned a BA and an MA and was short one graduate course,
plus a dissertation from a PhD in computational psycholinguistics. It turns out I wasn’t willing to do what was
expected of me to get it. I thought I was Creep Magnet Central. I changed my
appearance and behavior to discourage it. It didn’t matter. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Looking
back on it, I’m not surprised. I was raised to question authority, as well as
pay attention to anything that “just doesn’t look right” or “just doesn’t feel
right”. I entered academia completely unprepared for the grief I would
encounter based on my appearance alone, an attractive, 6-ft tall woman in my
early 20s with a naturally large chest and long hair. This put me on a
collision course with institutionalized sexism in academia from day one.
Through it all, I sometimes questioned my worth, doubted my scientific
abilities. But mostly I questioned and doubted <b>the system </b>that would
permit what happened to me from occurring not only once, but over and over
again, until I couldn’t take it any more without losing my sanity, or my
integrity. In the end, I decided I wanted no part of it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
realize some of you reading this made a different choice and I applaud you. You
are in positions where you are able to do tremendous good. Wield your power and
influence wisely.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
understand if you stop reading right now. <b>What follows is intensely triggering to survivors of sexual harassment, abuse and systemic powerlessness.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">It
is my hope that you will read on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Because you know what? Dr. Creep (from the above pic) got canned and he had tenure. Yes, I set that
in motion, albeit unintentionally. That’s the good part. I’m not naming the
school because I know he is gone. I also don’t have a PhD, or an academic
career. That is the reason for this article. Only a handful of people know what
happened, aside from those involved. I never told my parents any of this; they
have passed now. I have family in Germany who don’t know. Until
#ripplesofdoubt, I hadn’t considered making my story public. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">For,
you see, the above picture was the <b>good one. </b>There was another, details
below. I went out of my way to get every single copy of that one, plus the
negative. (Look it up, kids. “Kodak”, “celluloid”). If social media had existed
then, that would have been the end right there; which is precisely why this is such
an important issue to write about.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">About
the above picture:</span></b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">
Halloween 1983. I am the one on the floor. I was 21, a senior at a major
Midwestern university in a science major. I had my sights set on grad
school and a research career the following fall. UCSB, UCLA, UCB (Berkeley!!) –
I got into all of them. Dr. Creep, center, was one of two crucial professional
references and mentors who paved my way there. Co-incidentally, Dr. Creep also
helped me get into my alma mater’s PhD program and very subtly pressured me to
stay. At the time this picture was taken, I had just started the GREs / letters
of recommendation process. I didn’t know yet I got in. I was also re-inventing
my life in a whole new country, a new culture with new challenges. I was still
self-conscious about my English language skills. Public speaking still
terrified me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
had just accomplished something I had wanted more than anything since my first
visit to the US six years earlier: Be(come) a scientist with the best in the
world. I read everything I could find on and about Wernher von Braun, who passed
in 1977. He had obstacles to overcome so much bigger than the ones I was facing
– or so I thought - and he went on to help put humans on the moon at NASA! The
fact that he was white and male, or that this mattered, didn’t even register
with me. I spent almost all of my teenage years making sure I would look
stellar on US college applications. At the time, about 1 in 1,000 foreign
applicants got accepted into undergrad programs at my alma mater. Those odds
looked good to me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
had help along the way: My parents provided tremendous support and
encouragement. My husband kept me from self-destructing when I realized my
dream came with a price tag too steep for me to pay. The head of the German
Languages Department at the university where I earned my undergraduate degree
was one of the good guys. He worked with me on how to demonstrate to my alma
mater that I did not have to retake basic math and science, since I graduated
from (the former West) Germany’s excellent public education system. He made it
possible for me to earn my BA in two years, plus two summers, which saves a lot
of dough when you’re a foreign student who doesn’t get in-state tuition. He
expected no special favors in return. To this day, I remember the poster in his
office. A pie with an American flag crust top, and a slice cut out showing the
German flag colors. It said: “A quarter of the American pie is German”, along
with information on how German almost became the national language of a newly
minted United States.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
was completely naïve about what was to be an education in something no college
credit will ever reflect. As a woman wanting to join the Old Boy’s Network, you
have to pay your dues. Or, at the very least, grin and bear it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
grew up in an environment that was comparably free from discrimination and
harassment. West Germany in the 1970s meant living in a
homogenous culture that vigorously discouraged exactly that sort of thing, at
least on the surface. The same thing happened in East Germany, for very different
reasons. The core of communism is based on everybody being equal, again, on the
surface. Today, we have Angela Merkel, an East German native of my generation
who took on the task of managing Germany’s reunification and has worked to keep
the EU from disintegrating over the last decade. She is a world leader. I
believe that English-language news media add the adjective “female” much more
frequently than German-language news media. Germans, on the surface,
don’t seem to notice her gender. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Moreover,
German as a language, and Germans as a culture have a built-in system of
“checks and balances” that prevent being inappropriately familiar in social and
professional interactions, perhaps more so in the 70’s than today. English has
no equivalent for it. The German language guides you to be appropriate and
respectful of strangers and peers, socially and professionally, regardless of
gender. This doesn’t prevent harassment and sexism, of course, but it
does make it harder, especially in adult student-teacher relationships. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">It can
also help you lull into thinking sexism and #ripplesofdoubt is a thing of the
past. Before moving to the US, I had extensively studied the US civil rights
and women’s rights movement, as well as American feminism. I expected to be
living in a culture were racism, sexism and other forms of discrimination were
a thing of the past.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">My
guard was down completely. In October 1983, I was extremely vulnerable to the
likes of Dr. Creep.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Which
brings us back to the above picture:</span></b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;"> Yes, I’m wearing a bed sheet. This was
the first Halloween party I was invited to, ever, and I had just seen “Animal
House”. Unfortunately, the party was at Dr. Creep’s house. Up until then,
Halloween was something that existed for me only in Peanuts cartoons. After these
pictures, I never dressed up for Halloween again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">If
the word “harem” hasn’t crossed your mind yet, allow me to <b>explain about the
picture that horrified me so completely</b>, I knew for the first time what
betrayal feels like. It was similar to the one above. On the left is
“Anne”, one of Dr. Creep’s graduate students, who was under the impression she
was in an exclusive relationship with Dr. Creep. She was in the process
of making life plans with him, willing to follow him to the ends of the Earth
and beyond to learn from him. On the right is “Beth”, grad student #2, whose
body language says she had a different plan. Then there’s me, completely
clueless. Who is behind the camera, you ask? That would be “Cristi”, Dr.
Creep’s grad student #3. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">This
is about to happen:</span></b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">
I am looking down on a cauldron of dry ice purloined from the lab starting to
billow. As it does, Dr. Creep stands up, pulls a giant zucchini out from under
the chair, and positions it to point from his crotch at my face, after placing
his foot above my hip area, without touching me, striking a pose of a hunter
proud of his kill. Cristi snaps the picture, I don’t notice a thing, and Ellen
and Beth do nothing. Yes, you read that right. A giant zucchini, forearm-sized.
Dr. Creep had talked a lot about his talent for growing giant vegetables. Yeah,
I totally missed that red flag. I considered all of these people friends or
mentors at the time. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Until
I saw the pictures.</span></b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">
The first thing that went through my mind was “No!! My grad school applications!!”
The second thing was “Where is the negative? Who has copies?” even as I joked
about it, along with everybody else. The third thing was “Who was in on this?”
To this day, I don’t know if it was just Dr. Creep or a pre-planned harem
effort.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
secretly went through people’s purses, offices and in one case searched an
apartment to find the negative and all the copies. The lesson I learned was
that betrayal breeds betrayal. I don’t know if I got them all, but it doesn’t
matter anymore. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Dr.
Creep, if you are reading this, you will recognize the picture. I hope you
enjoyed your forced early retirement courtesy of yours truly. Perhaps you
found gainful employment in the vegetable growing industry. I dare you to call
me a liar publicly. PLEASE do that. Know that I thought about not obscuring
your face, if only to display your insufferably smug smirk to the world. Alas,
social media have a way of bringing us full circle with our pasts in ways only
a few of us even imagined in 1983. I left your face obscured. Let’s see what
happens after I publish this. Your past looks pretty grim from here.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Anne,
Beth and Cristi, you, too, will recognize the picture. Know that I do not blame
you, at all. Your academic careers didn’t fare any better than mine. If you
want to add your voices to mine and #ripplesofdoubt / #ripplesofhope on
twitter, you have a forum here, and an audience that never wants to see another
grad student, male or female, go through what we did. <b>The silence ends here.</b></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
thought getting my hands on all the zucchini pictures was the end of that and I
resolved to be more careful. I cut 30 inches from my hair length and got
glasses I didn’t need. I never wore heels, make-up or suggestive
clothing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Fast
forward several months, right around the time I was starting to get grad school
acceptance letters. I was biding my time to escape what had become an
extremely uncomfortable professional situation. I worked at Dr. Creep’s lab. He
pretty much picked me out of his undergrad psych 101 course and offered me a
job I sorely needed. I didn’t question his motives until after the zucchini
incident. By February 1984, I just wanted to move on. All the
inappropriate behaviors and references I had not noticed earlier were piling
up. The Amazon jokes were starting to grate on me. (No, kids, not amazon.com).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
arrived one morning at the lab to find only Anne, utterly beside herself, in
tears and in a state that led me to believe something terrible had happened.
She was in no shape to work. She wouldn’t talk to me. There was data to
collect, experiments to track. It was a Monday morning, where was
everybody? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">What
would you have done?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Here’s
what I didn’t do: I didn’t try to find Dr. Creep. I didn’t call Beth or
Cristi. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
went to talk to Dr. Ellen, my other advisor and mentor, one of the good guys. I
told her Anne was in distress at Dr. Creep’s lab, and I didn’t know what was
going on or what to do. I really, truly didn’t. That is how the zucchini
incident itself became the freight train that derailed Dr. Creep’s career,
missing me by a matter of inches. Had I felt comfortable enough to go to Dr.
Creep, things would have very likely gone quite differently. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Dr.
Ellen went to talk to Anne that morning and it all unraveled from there. Anne
was in distress because she had discovered that she was, in fact, not in an
exclusive relationship with Dr. Creep, not by a long shot. The future she had
envisioned for herself got torpedoed and sunk that morning. I know how she
felt. What came to light in the weeks and months that followed was that Dr.
Creep had been sexually harassing and/or having sex with at least a dozen
former and current female students, grad and undergrad, who entered his orbit
pretty much the same way I did. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
told you I was completely naïve. I missed All The Red Flags. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
learned that Dr. Ellen was the senior professor who had supported Dr. Creep’s
tenure and was instrumental in getting him to join the faculty. Imagine how she
felt. Sadly, she has passed in the interim, but I know she would be cheering me
on right now. I also learned that Dr. Creep had an ex-wife, a former grad
student and that the divorce involved infidelity. There was a lot of stuff I
didn’t know. But that morning back in 1984, I could instinctively tell that
something was really, really wrong. When that happens, I don’t look the other
way. I don’t slowly back away. I do what I can to help. For the same reasons
I’m writing this article. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
have no idea if any of the women drawn into the scandal welcomed my
“help”. I have played this over and over in my mind and I always arrive
at the same conclusion. Looking back on it now, I’m glad it was me who stopped
you, Dr. Creep. You deserved everything you had coming. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Once
Dr. Ellen became involved, I learned about another part of academia: internal
disciplinary hearings and tenure revocation procedures. By the time all was
said and done, I was already plotting my escape from UC Berkeley to UCLA (did I
mention Creep Magnet Central?). My alma mater flew me back from California twice
to testify and enter statements. Try explaining to your current male grad
school mentor you have to fly halfway across the country for a few days because
you are involved in getting the professor fired who helped you get where you
are now. Yeah, I didn’t do that.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
don’t know if universities keep tenure revocation records for 30 years, but if
they do, it’s all there. From Dr. Ellen I learned that in a long string of
women who appeared in front of the committee I was the only one who said I
didn’t have sex with Dr. Creep, which was true. It never crossed my mind. I was
still struggling with my native country’s boundaries of propriety. It took me a
year just to address my professors by their first names, even though all, male
and female, encouraged it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
did enter the zucchini picture into evidence and that nailed it. I’ve often
asked myself why I didn’t simply destroy the negative and all the copies the
second I got them. The answer is that I knew what happened to me, to all of us
who have contributed to #ripplesofdoubt, was and is very wrong and I held the
proof in my hands. It was a data point, tangible, real, indisputable. It just
took a while for twitter to get here. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Some
of you may consider this a happy ending. I did at the time, reminding myself that
women academics that came before me didn’t even have anti-sexual harassment
policies to protect them and could do absolutely nothing. I considered myself
lucky and set my sights on UCB.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Where
I promptly met Dr. Psychotic and Dr. Alcoholic, both men. That was the first
time I seriously questioned my passion for joining a system that allowed those
guys to become tenured or tenure-track professors. I am sympathetic to your
plight, I really am, but do you have any idea how hard it is to have a
conversation about my professional future with you, when you are not grounded
in reality, or totally wasted and trying to hit on me? I blame the people who
gave you and let you keep your jobs. How could you do that to a group of 1<sup>st</sup>-year
grad students who have enough to worry about as it is? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">By
the end of my first semester, I was on the phone with the schools I had turned
down and managed a transfer to UCLA the following fall, with enough transfer
credits that the year wasn’t a complete waste of my time.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">At
UCLA, I could finally focus on science for a couple of years without too much
grief. But I avoided almost all social interactions with many professors and
grad students, on general principle. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I fell in love with Los Angeles during
that time and set out to build a social life completely outside of academia.
That worked for a while. I learned about research methodology, experimental
design, data analysis and interpretation, skills I value
highly that have passed the test of time. I earned my MA. I discovered a
passion for teaching and inspiring other young scientists, especially foreign
students trying to navigate their way around US academia. I mentored an Olympic
athlete who was struggling academically, and went on to both graduate and win a
Silver medal for the US in the Seoul Olympics. I realized that mentioning the
word “AIDS” in front of a packed lecture hall in the 80’s got everybody’s
attention like a gunshot. I used it as a teaching tool. I met my best friend
who is still in my life. She was one of my students when we met. I was diligent
about keeping our nascent friendship at arm’s length until the course was
finished. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">During
my third year at UCLA, I was starting to feel safer and became a little more
open towards social interactions with my peers, professors and mentors.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Until
the day I got a visit from a tenured professor I barely knew from another
department while alone in my office, who expected me to give him a BJ right
then and there. I wasn’t even surprised anymore. I closed my office door
carefully with him and me inside and blocked the door with my body. I looked
him up and down for a number of seconds to make sure I had read the situation
correctly. I could see that expression on his face, that of a teenage boy
going “oh boy, oh boy, I’m gonna get some!”. When I smiled, his eyes
widened expectantly. That expression turned to dismay, then fear, as I said, sweetly:
“ I’d rather beat my head with bricks than touch you. If you are planning
on raping me, I figure you have about 10 pounds on me and 0 inches. I lift
weights and I kick box, you look like a desk jockey. I have gotten tenured
slime like you fired before. I like my odds. Try me”. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I had long ago learned to
arrange my office layout so I couldn’t be easily cornered. I closed the
distance between us as I mentally calculated the angles I had available to
deliver a kick to his general groin area if he so much as touched me. I was
hoping that he would. He didn’t. I have never seen a guy flee from me so fast.
It didn’t feel like a victory. I didn’t even bother to tell anyone; I had no
time for disciplinary hearings. However, I seriously looked into getting
a cattle prod. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">After
that, whenever I saw a closed office door, I wondered what was going on inside.
I realized that this would never, ever stop, and I decided to get my PhD and
get out. The private sector started to look pretty good. I focused on finishing
my course work, stopped teaching and mentoring, and passed my qualifying exam
for my dissertation. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Then
I ran afoul of Dr. YouThinkTooMuch and his wife, Dr. ListenToWhatHeSays, my two
main committee members. They wanted me to focus on a part of their own research
and the pressure didn’t let up. I understand this is not unusual. If it hadn’t
been for all of the above, it might even have seemed like a good idea to do a
“safe” dissertation and get it done. I also understand that professors have a
vested interest in seeing their students graduate. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">By that time, however, I was
having none of it. If I was going to spend a year of my life on research and
writing, I wanted it to be something that mattered to me, something that could
potentially make a difference, something that could have made all the grief to
date worthwhile. I made suggestion after suggestion, all were turned down. I
was beginning to wonder if the recent incident-behind-closed-doors had come
back to haunt me, if having sex with the guy was what it took to get my
dissertation approved. It could have been telling the guy “I have gotten
tenured slime like you fired before”, which was the first time I had mentioned that to anyone at UCLA. This is the incident I have wondered about
most since I quit. Could that have been it? Sometimes I conclude “No way. The
guy would never admit to what happened in my office”. In reality, though, he
didn’t have to tell the story exactly as it happened. So more often than not, I
think “Yes, that had to be it. It’s the only explanation”. Do I regret letting
that comment slip out in a moment of anger? No. There are some things that I
will simply not put up with, not in academia, not anywhere. There are some
things I simply won’t do. If getting my dissertation approved required
providing sexual favors to a random faculty member, it was a requirement that
was never going to be fulfilled.<br /><br />I recently (2015) checked up on </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Dr. YouThinkTooMuch and Dr. ListenToWhatHeSays. They now run a prestigious lab at UCLA. I have not had the stomach to look at the research they've published for fear I find some of my own ideas there - all those dissertation ideas that were rejected. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I have a recurring fantasy of walking into their lab with two copies of this article, saying "Hello. Remember me? I have something for you. It may prove relevant to your careers. Go ahead. Read it. I'll wait. Then I'd actually wait and see what their reactions would be to me, face-to-face. <br /><br />What do you think, dear reader, do it or no?<br /> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">But back to the story, the bitter end: One
day in 1989, I simply had enough. I can’t even tell you exactly what it was. I
told myself that the private sector still looked pretty good with an MA. Late
one night, I cleaned out my office, left my keys on my desk, and walked out. It
was a huge relief but, again, not much of a victory. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I accepted the first job
in the private sector I got, and I have worked in it or as a freelancer ever
since. Sexual harassment became a thing of the past, mostly because I
picked my employment situations carefully. I haven’t set foot on the UCLA
campus again, even though I live only a few miles away. If I need academic
resources, I go to USC. For many weeks after I quit, I expected to get a call
from… someone wondering where I was. The call never came.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">I
figured I'd had lousy luck in picking programs, professors, mentors. After
#ripplesofdoubt, I now question that, too. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn
that the problem was and is pandemic and ongoing. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">Maybe
I would be heading my own lab or department by now, had I not said “Enough!”
Maybe I could have done more than I have to date to invent the Universal
Translator or help get humans to Mars, if I had stayed in academia. I know that
was the plan. I still want to do all those things, but not in academia. I doubt
the fundamental flaws in our current academic system are fixable in a
meaningful way. I often argue that the best thing to do is to scrap the whole
thing and start over, this time with all adults, who are mentally healthy and
who are capable of separating their sexual urges and prejudices from their
professional behavior, people who deserve positions of power, trust and
authority, who do not viciously and habitually discriminate against those that
aren’t exactly like them. But I’m not at all optimistic about it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">So
consider this: Mars University won’t be riddled with the likes of Dr. Creep,
their enablers and propagators. Those who want to be sexist creeps or worse in
space or on Mars will perish, most likely by “accidental” airlock failure.
Adapt or go extinct, your choice.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">If
that sounds harsh, it was meant to be. Throughout this account, I have done my
best to keep a lid on my anger and sarcasm and simply relate what happened. So
I think I’ve earned taking this one shot. Plus, I believe it to be true.
Sexism, obnoxiousness and survival situations don’t mix. Think about it. <i>If you
were sexually harassed for six or seven years in space or on a Mars colony, at
which point would you invoke the open airlock policy?</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-50783439966011342032015-11-29T17:01:00.000-08:002015-11-29T17:12:19.061-08:00Challenging A NYT Reporter On That Pesky "Gentle Loner" Language<div class="storify">
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Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-87578977055888858702015-09-01T13:54:00.001-07:002015-10-17T15:04:50.251-07:00The Hypocrisy of Burning Man<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It's that time of year again. 70,000 people invade a
fragile desert ecosystem - during a historic drought, no less - paying
at minimum $400 a piece. That's not a typo; admission price has
increased at 16 times the rate of inflation over the last 20 years. This doesn't include the price of travel, food, water and anything else
you have to lug out to the desert.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> There, people participate in an entirely for-profit corporate event and pretend to practice "radical inclusion" and "<span class="text_exposed_show">decommodification", all while failing to see the painful irony of excluding those who do not have the privilege to
afford the price of admission and stay, nor the ten days off from real world
responsibilities. <br /><br />If Mark Twain were alive today, I am certain he would be verbally demolishing the Burning Man phenomenon with his trademark razor-sharp wit and acid-tongued critiques he reserved for the worst of hypocrites.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show">For w</span>hat we have here is the very definition of hypocrisy. This is also the reason why Burning Man has
become a sad joke among those out on the front lines of social change and social justice conflicts,
in the real world.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Newsflash: You cannot change the world by
pretending that the ever-worsening socio-cultural, economic and racial
injustices in this country and on this planet don't exist. You are attending a
very expensive, very elaborate, drug- and alcohol-fueled party in the
desert, and you're privileged to do so. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. At least have the
self-insight to admit all that. Drop the gag reflex-inducing Burning Man rhetoric about how special it all is and how anyone who criticizes the glaring contradictions of Burning Man culture doesn't get it.
(Yeah, I know. Not gonna happen.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I get it just fine. I don't begrudge anyone their ten days of sex, drugs, music, art and narcissism while rolling in alkaline desert sand; spend your vacation money any way you like. <br /><br />But don't delude yourself into thinking you are better or more evolved than anyone else because of it. Attending Burning Man and conforming to its culture is
anything but a radical act. It merely reflects the larger reality of
life in America in 2015: The growing divide between rich and poor and
the tenaciously destructive habit of the privileged to escape, ignore
and erase the marginalized and non-privileged. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/blacklivesmatter?source=feed_text&story_id=1007775409262345"><span class="_58cl"></span></a>In the span of one year, #BlackLivesMatter
- in which anyone can participate for free from anywhere - has done
orders of magnitude more to dismantle white
supremacy in this country than Burning Man has done in its entire existence.<br /><br />You can take that, Burners, and throw it on the ash pile of your privileged self-indulgence.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-54735482791542580182015-07-03T19:39:00.001-07:002015-11-07T16:38:35.518-08:00How I Confront Everyday Racism<div class="storify">
<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="no" height="750" src="//storify.com/ct_la/reacting-to-everyday-racism/embed?border=false" width="100%"></iframe><script src="//storify.com/ct_la/reacting-to-everyday-racism.js?border=false"></script><noscript>[<a href="//storify.com/ct_la/reacting-to-everyday-racism" target="_blank">View the story "Calling Out Everyday Racism" on Storify</a>]</noscript></div>
Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-35855261390686615162015-06-14T19:53:00.000-07:002015-10-17T15:02:05.007-07:00Sense8ional!<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">[Scroll to bottom for tl;dr]</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">[This is a no-spoiler review]<br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">[<b>Update</b> August 27, 2015: <i>Netflix</i> has renewed <i>Sense8 </i>for a second season. Yay!] </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I might not have noticed <i>Sense8</i>, had it not been for all those consistently terrible reviews the Hollywood establishment keeps churning out over the show. Collectively, mainstream Hollywood and "the critics" seem to be quivering with outrage over <i>Sense8</i> like a hound dog trying to pass a peach pit (hat tip to Hunter S. Thompson for the metaphor).</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On the surface, there isn't much outrage at all. Rather, a studied confusion and feigned indifference over the series, proclaimed a failure: Complicated, confusing, long-winded, structureless, tedious, impossible to follow. So studied and feigned, in fact, were those reviews that it made me wonder: What were these people watching that bored them to death... yet felt compelled to rip to shreds in the mainstream industry press? What bothered them so? I mean, aside from the above-mentioned confusion and tedium, which isn't exactly uncommon in Hollywood fare.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So I looked up the series info and happily discovered the greatest news I'd seen in film and TV in many years. <i>Sense8</i>'s co-creator and co-writer is J. Michael Straczynski! I'm aware The Wachovskis get equal credit for <i>Sense8</i>, not to mention the entire cast and crew, as well as <i>Netflix</i> for backing the project.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And yet - if it weren't for JMS's credits popping up, I probably would not have watched it. Nor would I have gotten a <i>Netflix</i> membership just to check it out. (Congrats, btw, to <i>Netflix</i>. After all these years of resistance, you finally got me. And all it took was getting JMS on board to make an original series. See how easy that was?)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">JMS is the creator and writer of my favorite sci-fi and TV show of all time: Babylon 5 (1993-1998). Sorry Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, and all the other greats, I love you dearly, but in my universe, Babylon 5 is the one show to rule them all. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So "J. Michael Straczynski" was all I needed to know about <i>Sense8</i> before I ran off to watch Season 1 (12 episodes). I read nothing else about the show and went with whatever storyline JMS had helped bring to life. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">AFAIK, this is JMS's first show (co)creator credit since B5, so I was in entertainment heaven. I spaced out watching the episodes on purpose, to savor and digest them. I'm currently on my second viewing.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">What can I tell you about <i>Sense8</i> that doesn't either result in spoilers or a 10,000-word long read?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The cast is delightfully diverse. Among them are a trans woman in San Francisco, played by trans actress Jamie Clayton. Her character's name is Nomi. JMS revealed on twitter that it is a word play on "know me". Nomi is joined by an African man surviving in the urban jungle that is Nairobi, a Korean woman leading multiple lives in Seoul, a female Indian pharmacist in Mumbai and a gay Mexican actor in Mexico City. Add to that a patrol cop in Chicago's Southside, an Icelandic woman with a tragic past and a male German diamond thief in Berlin and you have the eight characters whose lives intertwine, being woven into a tapestry of multiple, connected, simultaneous story arcs that also tell a larger tale. Through it all, alternative lifestyles are showcased without being framed in any way as unusual, such as a domestic triad and a madly-in-love trans/lesbian couple. Character development includes families and friends and the daily challenges people face in different parts of the world.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">These 8 strangers scattered across the globe discover they are part of a cluster of sensates, who can see, be, and experience each others' lives. They can also interact to affect consensus reality in ways that non-sensates are completely unaware of. In the larger story they are being hunted by people who know who they are, for experimentation, and for extinction. The survival of the 8 depends on them discovering and learning to use their interconnectedness to stay a step ahead of their would-be captors. In this they appear to be aided by another sensate, played by Naveen Andrews from <i>Lost</i> (nice touch).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">All the intercultural settings were<b> </b>filmed-on-fricking-location. That is one of the best parts of <i>Sense8</i>. It was shot using local cultural backdrops, habits, cues and social conventions for authenticity. I can personally certify that's true for the San Francisco, Chicago and Berlin locations. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Sense8</i> portrays an authentic, global setting and keeps intact our planet's breath-taking human diversity. I have never seen anything like it on TV, and I can't think of anything quite like it on the big screen either. You will see stuff in <i>Sense8</i> that you have never seen before on a TV or movie screen.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The score is original and performed by the Leipzig Radio Symphony Orchestra, one of Europe's best, along with its choir. If you remember the grand score from Babylon 5 by the Berlin Symphony Orchestra, you'll have an idea of the treat your ears are in for.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">If you cannot identify at
least five of the locations on Earth that are part of the opening
sequence the first time you see it, you need to get out more. By that I
mean "out of your country and culture".</span></span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have no clue why people have trouble with keeping the story arcs straight, or why they think the plot is confusing and structureless. The story arcs are in fact, structured and interconnected in a completely novel way for TV. <i>Netflix</i> really made something awesome happen here, and I do hope they make a Season 2. But even if not, <i>Sense8</i>'s existing 12 episodes tell a story that stands on its own, with an ending that leaves the door open for additional seasons. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Fun fact: <i>Netflix</i> is saying that <i>Sense8</i> was illegally downloaded 500,000 times. There are mainstream TV shows that can only WISH they had that many people so interested in seeing their show that they'd go to the trouble of torrent downloading it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Sense8</i> is full of quotable lines, another thing it has in common with B5. For example:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Without the past, there'd be nothing to think about, let alone anyone to think it."</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Who can say if we make the choice or if the choice is what makes us?"</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last, but not least, be prepared for the fact that at some point, this show will get under your skin, grab you by the throat and bring you face to face with your own life in ways that may not be easy to deal with. For me, it was this line: "In the 80s, Gay Pride parades were funeral marches!" </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I've lived in West Hollywood since the 80s and the first friends I made in LA were gay men and trans women, ca. 1985. Through these friendships, I began to appreciate LA, its dangers, its diversity and its creative underbelly, often invisible, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">shaping cultural change</span></span>. I enjoyed that for about three months before the specter of HIV threw a pall over everything. The sex-is-death decade was in full swing, as was stigmatization of HIV as a gay disease. Over the following years, I lost all of my original friends to HIV. Every single one. To this day, I feel that ache, that sense of loss, of people forever erased, when I bike ride around West Hollywood, in neighborhoods where my friends used to live. I have always railed against the silence and stigma around HIV, not to mention the fact that Ronald Reagan didn't publicly acknowledge its existence until more Americans had died from HIV than in the Vietnam War.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And then...JMS's <i>Sense8</i> storyline not only acknowledges the existence of these funeral marches, but includes a beautiful performance art piece that commemorates the horrific times that was life in gay communities across the country in the 80s. I cried my eyes out over that scene. I am grateful to JMS for having brought it to life.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">[tl;dr]</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">J. Michael Straczynski </span>did it again. He created an epic serial that is smashing the boundaries of what we've come to expect from serials - and he did it without showing a single rape scene in 12 episodes. (Go home, GoT, you're done.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-32200642103814652172015-05-14T15:11:00.003-07:002015-05-14T15:13:25.259-07:00My Article in Modern Ferret Magazine (1997)<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In February 1997, Modern Ferret Magazine published my article on the history of ferrets in its 9th issue. I wrote the piece to examine and dispel several myths and to document factual information about the interaction between humans and members of the mustelid family, including the domesticated ferret, over the centuries. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Modern Ferret Magazine was a fantastic resource for ferret owners and, sadly, stopped publication in 2003. A website with more information about the magazine still exists at <a href="http://www.modernferret.com/">http://www.modernferret.com/</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I found a single copy of this issue while going through a closet full of books, journal articles and writings from college, grad school and my early career. I'd long ago lost the original manuscript in a hard drive crash and thought that with Modern Ferret Magazine's demise the article had been lost for good. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've revived the article here in blog format and hope that the font size is readable. Apologies for the typos that slipped past the editing process.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Enjoy. Feedback, comments and questions welcome.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Below is Leonardo Da Vinci's painting "Lady with an ermine" (1489/90). The painting's permanent home is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Czartoryski_Museum" title="Czartoryski Museum">Czartoryski Museum</a> in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krak%C3%B3w" title="Kraków">Kraków</a>, Poland. It is currently being displayed at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wawel" title="Wawel">Wawel</a> Royal Castle while the museum is under renovation. Seeing the original painting is on my bucket list.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDm7EmRUz3utYPlsKZsH7ztQKtmbUVqV-skrpMRPew_jWVTDGsR9RXUKyWVERPeamppaMF8DUON-wGrX7epE6T9pEOmsO90uOPOPoueGibOqFku1-XV-I0JfhLvDj7I8NH7zkN7I23MWnn/s1600/DaVinciLadyErmine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDm7EmRUz3utYPlsKZsH7ztQKtmbUVqV-skrpMRPew_jWVTDGsR9RXUKyWVERPeamppaMF8DUON-wGrX7epE6T9pEOmsO90uOPOPoueGibOqFku1-XV-I0JfhLvDj7I8NH7zkN7I23MWnn/s640/DaVinciLadyErmine.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
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<br />Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926271101995130300.post-79357771059882831322015-01-16T19:13:00.001-08:002015-05-10T13:58:36.562-07:00Hey, Millennials! It's 2015: Your 15 Years of Fame Are Up! What Will You Do Next?<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's 2015 and it won't be long before Millennials will have to cede their crown to a new generation. The leading edge of the post-Millennial generation turns 15 this year. If someone doesn't coin a name for them quickly, they will define themselves, and that definition will be all about owning the 21st century. If you were 15, wouldn't you?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The only reason those born in the 21st century don't have a name yet is because English is really bad at describing the first decade of a century. What do you call that? The Pre-Teens? The Double-Oughts, as they did in the 20th century? How about something more modern, say, the Double Zeros, or slicker, 00s? Before you choose the latter, remember that 00 is used to designate bathrooms in Europe. Yeah, I got nothing, either. Nothing catchy, anyway. As a linguist, this shouldn't be a huge challenge for me. I'm sure other writers have arrived at this juncture and said "Yeah, I'm not going to throw THAT out there".</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">How did this generation-naming thing get started, anyway? Maybe there's some inspiration there.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As far as I can tell, it started with the Baby Boomers (<i>"Wait? Not <b>everything</b> does?"</i> - The Baby Boomers), the generation BORN between 1945 and 1960 (sometimes you'll see 1965). For several reasons that include post-war optimism and medical advances, the U.S. saw a huge spike in births post-1945. This effect propagated, with a slight delay, to other countries post-WWII. Born in late 1961, I'm at the trailing edge of the Boomer generation and I remember one constant from my childhood: Everything was getting super-crowded. Starting school on time for everyone was getting to be a challenge for still struggling economies such as West Germany. There was a teacher's shortage, a classroom shortage, a textbook shortage. I wanted to start 1st grade at 5, which was possible, but had to wait until I turned 6, because too many others who were already 6 weren't in school yet. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This dramatic birth rate increase was an actual spike in the demographic charts and was thus named a baby boom before the Boomer concept ever existed. It was the <b>sheer number</b> of Boomers that earned them notice and a generational designation, one that every subsequent generation tried to imitate. Or at least people never stopped hanging labels on following generations, none of which has equaled or rivaled the Boomers in numbers. So I'm not sure why it was continued.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I suppose one reason is wanting to differentiate yourself from the Boomers and their numerical superiority. To emerge from the shadow of a numerically unequaled generation. Let's not forget advertising and marketing, who like their "target demographics" neatly defined and labeled. This is, in some ways, a doomed effort. With more and more Boomers entering retirement age each year, </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">their numbers and expected unprecedented longevity</span> </span>ensure that Boomers will remain part of the demographic picture, a marketing and voting block to be reckoned with for decades to come.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So where does that leave the post-Millennials? I have a suggestion: Why not drop this whole thing of labeling yourself with a marketable and catchy name and instead embrace the 21st century? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And Millennials? You came in at some point after the whole</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> GenX / GenY mess (does anyone even remember the difference?) - labels used for those born between roughly 1965 and 1985. </span></span>Those labeled as "Millennials" today actually have birth dates in the twilight of the 1900s, yet are defined, curiously, as the generation who "came of age"<b> at </b>the millennium: those born between 1985 and 1999. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">First, that's not how the Boomers did it. They went by their birth dates, not some vague notion about "coming of age" during the 1960s. The "coming of age" label doesn't fit the very trailing births of the 1900s anyway: those who were young kids when the century turned, just like the Boomer label never truly fit me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Second, whether it is true or not, the actual Millennials (born 2000 and after) will look at you as the previous generation trying to appropriate a designation that didn't belong to you yet. Or at least not as fully as it does to those born post-1999. The generation that will contest your Millennial crown is only now getting around to becoming aware of such things. And they will seize upon the one thing that is fully theirs and that of the generations to come: a birth date after 1999.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And with that, dear post-Millennials, you win the generational jackpot. The labels of the 20th century worked only because the definitions of where the boundaries fell remained somewhat vague, with ranges used more often than fixed points in time. There's nothing vague about defining post-Millennials, you are one if you were born 12:01 a.m. or later on Jan. 1, 2000. You don't need any other label than that to embrace your identity and your future. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet generational identity isn't just about dates. Post-Millennials are the first generation to grow up experiencing social media and cell phones not as an emerging oddity, but a daily routine. Even those of us who are early adopters of emerging technologies can't lay claim to knowing what it's like learning to navigate social media or smart phone usage as we grew up. Today's parents are taking social media literacy seriously, and the most precocious teens are already rocking it, with the potential of reaching millions, and soon, billions of people through an online presence. If you were 15 today, and the entire world could be your potential audience, what would you do with that? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Millennials grew up largely without social media or social media-literate parents (your parents probably thought social media were a fad) and the guidance needed to avoid pitfalls such as dangerous encounters, overexposure or divulging embarrassing and private information that will remain public for the rest of your life. One of the more interesting approaches I've seen to teaching responsible social media use is to create accounts for your kids, let them use or post to them while growing up, let them read with supervision, yet keep everything private, limited only to trusted family members until the kid turns 18, with the understanding that the kid will know the difference between responsible, productive social media use and irresponsible, dangerous uses by then. Millennials had to muddle through all that on their own.<br /><br />So post-Millennials, the 21st century is all yours now. You will develop and acquire technologies as strange to my generation as TV would have been to my great-grandfather. You will change the world in ways that previous generations cannot predict. You refuse to follow the patterns of your predecessors. You don't seem to be a good future market segment for gas-powered cars, coffee, tobacco or anything involving throw-away wastefulness - staples of the 20th century. Marketing people don't know what to make of you, and I think you should keep it that way. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, and don't sweat the label thing. You don't have to invent one, because you already have one: a birth date of 20xx!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If there is one piece of advice I can give you from the tail end of the Boomer generation: Don't limit your real life or social media experiences to those in your own age and socio-cultural group; why would you? You have the whole world at your fingertips; all you need to do now is choose wisely how to interact with it. </span></span><br />
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Claudia Taake @ct_lahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17228572239698967427noreply@blogger.com0