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Why should I perform your erotic capital?

by treenaorchard August 4, 2020

The responses to my public writings about dating have been very varied. I’ve had lovely emails, article comments, and DMs from women and men who support and relate to my experiences about sexuality, gender and digital life more broadly. The trolls, incels, and conservatives who ‘believe in equal rights, just not feminism’ have also crawled out of their lairs to mansplain and misogynize.

Some examples of my non-fan mail, which I have shortened for posterity but kept all original, rather poor grammar intact (the “an” though):

“Men quit. Western women are free to go girl! Really, go. Away.”

“I’m not sure you have learned the most fundamental lesson from using the bumble app: It is hard to approach a member of the opposite sex knowing that most times you will be rejected for reasons not readily apparent…Perhaps we live in a matriarchal society, an hypothesis I suspect you are not willing to entertain under any circumstances.”

“I believe in real equality and wish sexual harassment and all the other related crimes don’t exist. But I can’t get behind this whole man-hating, victim playing movement…I would not hire a feminist that’s for sure. Because the moment I promote a male instead of her, she will play that card, instead of taking responsibility for her shortcomings and put in the work to earn it.”

I have responded to more than a handful of these visionary male commentators. DON’T READ THE COMMENTS—I know, but sometimes I can’t help it! When I respond, some guys backtrack in cowardly silence, while others retort with more lame bullshit. About half of those who reply to my replies come back with pleasantly insightful clarifications of their initial position or just say, basically, thank you.

Given what I have learned about the men who read my work, I didn’t think their messages would continue to bug me. Yet, a seemingly ‘innocent’ one I received two days ago has really irked me. FYI: we didn’t “meet” anywhere and we were among 45 participants in an Equity, Diversity & Inclusion webinar.

Hello Dr. Orchard,

I had the privilege of meeting you in today’s meeting on gender equality, etc. It’s seven months that I am in Canada and I have not been able to find a partner. Reading your research area and expertise, I was wondering if you could help me familiarize myself with the dating culture here and maybe introduce me to any dating platform you deem functional/legitimate or any other means you think works. I hope you do not find this email awkward.

My response to this oh-so-awkward email included the following:

Hello X,

The dating culture in London is complex, fun, and takes time to learn about. Looking for a partner is a very specific aim, whereas dating is more open-ended and what I would recommend when using dating apps or online sites that are more causal in nature- like Tinder, OKCupid, Bumble, Plenty of Fish, and so on. I suggest using broad parameters regarding the distance you will travel (taking Covid parameters into consideration) and the age range of your prospective dates. Use current photos ONLY and mix it up to ensure you are presenting the kind of person you are seeking, whatever that may be (i.e., active, family-oriented, hard- working, cultured, travelled, etc). Include an interesting, original profile that doesn’t just list what you “want” but who you are as a person.

Best of luck

🙂 Treena

Why has this message gotten under my skin? Because it makes me feel like a service provider. I feel like a purveyor of free knowledge and resources to a male stranger who has not demonstrated what he has done to find anyone. It feels like lazy -and yes, awkward- passive consumption of the dating/erotic capital that I earned the hard way by living it, writing it and incorporating it into my professional life.

Erotic capital is a term that includes experiences related to the sex industry, aesthetics, caregiving, and different pleasure economies (i.e., sex toys, BDSM, travel, leisure, dating). British Sociologist Catherine Hakim (2010) argues that erotic capital is something women participate in more significantly than men (for all sorts of reasons, among them gender inequity), which often leads to its denial in patriarchal culture. This is reflected in the non-fan mail I received, where my dating experiences are decried as ridiculous because I am a feminist and because they violate what men think my dating life and my ideas about my dating life should look like.

[insert history geek] Over 150 years ago, Karl Marx (1867) distinguished between the capacity to do work (labour power) and the physical act of working (labour). The lonely hearts club man in question has the capacity to engage in dating labour but is asking me to labour for him through the ‘gentle’ request for my expert knowledge. You want to know the real pisser? Despite being fully cognizant of the inequitable whir of gender and labour all of this represents; I chose to respond and in such a nice way!

WTF?

Friends, this is a perfect example of three things: (1) The slippery slope of symbolic violence, whereby structurally-mediated inequities are misrecognized by marginalized community members as their fault; (2) My desire to see if/how he will respond for shits and for professional insights; and (3) I’m nice, too nice sometimes, which is closely linked with the small ‘p’ pity I felt for the guy.

Long story short: If you want to benefit from someone’s experience and expertise, acknowledge their time, energy, and include at the very least a thank you. An indication of how you will follow up with or perhaps reimburse them for their work is also a good thing to do. We see this increasingly on social media platforms, where folks who use sites like Instagram to generate income are requesting that users sign up for Patreon memberships. These memberships range from $5-$25/month and are a fabulous way to pay the people who provide information and entertainment to us on the regular.

None of us are doing it for free, nor should we.

Works Cited

Hakim, Catherine. “Erotic capital.” European sociological review 26.5 (2010): 499-518.

Marx, Karl (1867). Das Kapital: Kritik der politischen Oekonomie. Volume 1: Der Produktionsprozess des Kapitals (1 ed.). Hamburg: Verlag von Otto Meissner.

August 4, 2020 2 comments

Day in the Life

Toad Totem

by treenaorchard July 22, 2020

Since Elliott’s harness arrived two weeks ago we have been enjoying daily jaunts outside. The first jaunt begins around 6-6.30 am, which I affectionately call “Morning Glory.” But prior to putting the pink flamingo straps around her neck and under her arms, there is much preparation. It’s amazing to see how intent she is to get me up: endless jumps on the bed with pleading eyes, many loud meows, and repeated trips up and down the stairs wailing all the while. Once upon a time, these dramatic antics were about being fed but not anymore. Now it’s strictly about the business of getting outside.

But I make her wait until I take my vitamins, select an essential oil for the diffuser and set it up, turn on my computer, find a YouTube ‘healing music’ video, open the front door and the living room drapes, check my phone and go to the bathroom. Why do I make her wait? Because I’m at her beck and call 99% of the time and, frankly, I love the neurotic push and pull we create. I exclaim loudly that she’s “too much” and then say, “We’re going outside”, after which she cries and gets in my way as I walk around the kitchen. Then, I say, “Just one more thing” as I complete my mundane morning checklist.

Prior to the arrival of the harness, I didn’t spend much time outside. In fact, I had convinced myself that I’d let the yard ‘take care of itself’ until the Fall, when I’d pay someone to clean it up. How ridiculous, but also understandable. It’s been fifteen years since I owned a house and a yard is a lot different than taking care of houseplants. I felt inexperienced and embarrassed that I don’t know more, especially because all the women in my immediate family have always had green knowledge, sprouting everywhere. So, I retreated and watched the grass turn brown.

“Don’t worry, everyone’s grass is brown right now,” most people said, which made me feel better but also kinda stupid. Surely I can figure some things out, weed at least. Now, during the morning glory escapades I grab my floral gardening gloves and tackle different spots in the backyard, along the side of the house, and even at the front, where I’m very visible. What we must look like! My hair in wild curls because of the humidity, wearing what I wore to bed (t-shirt, underwear) with a hoodie and pants or shorts with Elliott getting her lead tangled, straining to get further and often straying into the yard of the quiet neighbours to my left.

Honestly, I think they’re glad to see us outside because it shows that we care about the property. I daresay that was a bit of a concern given the relative abandon I showed the yard in the first few weeks. How small life can seem when the looks of people I don’t even know register as significant. I’ve felt more than surveillance though, to be sure; there is a sense of community too. The woman and her son next door lost their cat last week and I dropped off a card for them early one morning. It was a nice thing to do and they appreciated it deeply.

But then the woman, who was clearly grieving, was weirdly chattering to me while day drinking, which was triggering – memories of my mom and myself. Her jiggly face and false happiness were so familiar. ICK. Not the look per se, but the churny emotions I felt upon seeing her. Luckily, I didn’t have far to go to collect myself. Small things can open up into larger ones in a second. Trauma and life itself are like that. Those origami ‘fortune teller” squares we made in elementary school come to mind. Remember? The kind that sit on your fingers and move in and out while the ‘customer’ selects options from the crystal ball that unfolds into an 8 x 11 piece of paper at the end.

While weeding this morning, Elliott and I got a little surprize. Actually, it was a fairly plump surprise – the size of small apple, a lumbering toad. After I disturbed his habitat he loped off, sticking close to the fence, and was gone. Elliott tried to scoop him up but was unsuccessful. Slow Spring flies are more her hunting speed! After the toad left we resumed our morning unison at the far end of the driveway, where the weeds are especially thick. I was thankful to see the toad, which is connected with water elements and symbolizes:

Cleansing
Renewal, rebirth
Fertility, abundance
Transformation, metamorphosis
Life mysteries and ancient wisdom

If the toad appears, it can mean:

It’s a time to tread more lightly in your daily life
Consider going camouflage or working undercover to achieve a goal
Your vocalizations, speech and writings may have more reach than you think possible
You are being protected
You may be more empathetic or absorbing of your environment than you think

These life-affirming attributes and associations feel in line with where I’m at. Although sometimes scattered and stressed, mainly I am holding my own space and doing it well. I feel happy, loved, and am learning- yes, it has to be learned- to let the sunshine flow into my streams of blood, oxygen, and breath that make it all possible. To allow myself to feel happy is an affirmative action of self-love, strength, and harmony. A totem is a sacred item that represents various people, places, and things. As a totem animal, toad is a magical nymph that transgresses and thus knows much about the water and the land. This is good wisdom that I let beam through me.

July 22, 2020 0 comment

Day in the Life

Healing through Ink

by treenaorchard July 14, 2020

Tattoo representation of "home" aka Saskatchewan

A few hours ago, I made a mistake. I realized this while waiting for my tattoo artist to come downstairs with the design for my next piece. After she left, it was hard to concentrate on mundane things like looking at the people walking by on the street because I was caught in trauma’s sticky web. I bounced from one soft corner of my brain to another reviewing, in lightening speed, the potential side-effects of my mix-up and how to lessen them. Would I have to cancel my trip? Was it really that big of a deal? How could I have messed this up?

I was thankful that my design was taking a while. I was also thankful for the loud woman with brassy hair and short shorts who entered the shop seconds after my artist went upstairs. As she described the complex tattoo she wanted to the increasingly withdrawn guy at the desk, I sunk my eyes into her white legs and sockless feet. I wondered about the “fiancé” she mentioned and what he looks like. Was this marriage #2? I bounced around some more while waiting for the flashing light that held my fate.

There would be no yelling, no blaming, no holding up of historical sins for all to see, only measured acceptance. More than that, there was love. Yes, I had made a mistake, but it wasn’t the end of the world. It just meant that our plans would shift. I was ok, safe and still loved. How phenomenal! I felt embarrassed for the scars that robbed me of this kind of care and grateful for the work I have done to be able to receive this love.

We all have our shit, but we don’t all learn how to claw our way out. That’s how it feels, like you are using your actual self, claws fashioned of your own hardship and grit, to haul the heavy stuff up to the surface where it can be released. So many feelings – the heated belly of anxiety, the flicker of pride, the anticipation of new ink- were whirring around as I walked up the stairs. My last stop before sitting in the chair is always the bathroom, where I take my last pee and ready myself for what is to come.

Streams of sound layer the room
The male artist talks to his client
The male artist and my artist talk
Heavy music plays loudly
Alongside the TV’s blare

I silence it all with a hidden smile
For Leonard lives inside my ears
I know all the words, all the pauses
Broken thrones and bare moonlight
Beam through as I breathe in and out

Pain is essential to the passage
Into a newly marked body
Remembering is important too
All the feelings inherited
The deeds blindly repeated

The sounds cascade around my head
While tears stream inside my mask
No one can tell and if they can it’s ok
This is a place of transformation
And reckoning
My tattoo cocoon

After the first 75 minutes I begin to sputter
The pain is too much for even Leonard to numb
Landscape details and sky are all that remains
It’s better to do in two sessions my artist says
A compassionate, wise response
Just what I need in this tender moment

I walk home feeling hungry and strong
I also want to cry and release the residual pain
Earlier, I posted something about feeling the pain to heal it
Did I know that I would need this message?
Probably, such is the oracle of trauma
Which resides in the damndest of corners
Waiting to be summoned

I walk by the modest houses on my street
The clapboard ones with poorly constructed additions
My eyes fall upon a group of lilac coloured flowers with no petals
Standing upright on their green stalk in groups of threes
Like tiny castles gathered over their dominion
In the amber sun I am reminded
Nature knows, she always knows

As I hurry home , I seem to notice everything:
The woman and her two small kids
Two strangers in the bus stand, one of whom holds a subway sandwich in her right hand
The woman with the flappy blouse who keeps trying to control her shirt in the wind
The backwards floral designs of the church windows; what does it look like inside?
The woman watering her front yard who apologizes for leaving the hose on the sidewalk
The large white dog that pulled his owner hard in the evening sun
The slim woman talking loudly on her phone while her dog dutifully chugs beside her
The pretty glisten of the reflective lights on a parked car
The six matching trees in the front yard of the Berkeley apartment complex

Such is the gloshing (which is not a word, I know), wild chemistry of life, my life.

Hallelujah, Leonard.

July 14, 2020 0 comment

Day in the Life

Designing Calm During Covid-19

by treenaorchard July 7, 2020

Apartment with a beautiful, balanced design

While clipping my fingernails in the bathroom sink a couple of days ago, I heard my neighbour across the hallway blow-drying her hair. For over a decade, I have listened to this sound almost every day. Yet, it struck me as something profoundly different that morning. It ceased being the white noise of apartment living and became a symbol of connection. The sound lets me know she is there, which is so comforting in these times of solitude.

I began to think of other familiar sounds, like the steady street traffic and firetrucks that often zoom through my gentrifying neighbourhood. The melodic ding of the bells from the Gothic church across the street that ring on the hour, which infuse my life with regularity. There’s also the regular wailing of the street folks who stream into our yard in ragged twos and threes to fix dope and suss out things to steal.

Why do these things matter? How are we re-situating ourselves amid the uncertainty of iso?

The coronavirus has travelled from a market in Wuhan, China to Europe, parts of north Africa, the Americas, and several countries in the southern hemisphere. For some reason, maybe because it originated on the other side of the planet, I didn’t anticipate that it would reach Canada so fast or that it would be as tragic as it has been. As the winter of 2020 melts into an alien spring, I struggle to find myself inside the solitary bubble of daily life.

In some ways, the shift to working at home full time hasn’t been that difficult because I often work here, where some of my best writing happens. But, I no longer labour in my apartment on days and during hours of my own choosing. This is the only place I am permitted to live, work, and re-place the other pieces of my life that normally happen outside these walls. Writing and other tasks don’t always flow with ease under these new conditions.

Maybe it’s OK that my productivity is inconsistent because I’m supposed to be doing more than work anyways. This is a marathon not a sprint, right? Stories abound about the various pandemic hobbies people are picking up, including watching movies, knitting, gardening, and board games. I’ve got Netflix mastered but haven’t yet unravelled the secrets of the tarot cards I ordered, nor have I acquired the “Covid abs” I joked about several weeks ago.

Alongside creative writing, what has eased my troubled spirit during the pandemic is Pinterest. Yes, Pinterest, specifically images of mid-century modern and urban boho interiors. In June I’m moving from my apartment into a killer three bedroom Edwardian home, which I am over the moon about. Searching for décor and renovation ideas is the happy constant in my days, which tend to bleed into one another rather seamlessly.

Initially, I saved the images in my Pinterest account. But, then I began posting some of them on Facebook and Instagram. Don’t forget to get FREE Instagram Followers or buy Facebook Page Followers on reputable websites. Check out this dramatic little bathroom with shiny teal tiles and a huge quartz tub. Look at this sunny, plant-filled living space with Danish couches and a Mexican throw. Isn’t this room sweet, with its earth tone circles painted above an artfully messy bed with a grey cat that matches the art deco wardrobe?

Friends and followers alike commented about how calm the images made them feel. The collective interest in these designs got me thinking about the relationship between space and wellness. None of the pictures feature people, just empty spaces. Actually, they’re not empty, they’re masterfully orchestrated and part of what draws people in is their composition. Good design is fundamentally about balance, whether it’s through symmetry, asymmetry, or radial distribution.

It makes sense that people are gravitating to images of balance, which is an aspect of life during these strange days that is really hard to navigate. These beauteous rooms may also resonate with us because they are soothing places to spend time in, even if it’s just for the few seconds of scrolling through an online feed or two. We need easy things every now and then. We also need, or want, nice things and these pictures are inspirational from a consumer standpoint. You’re welcome, Wayfair!

At a deeper psychic level, the attraction to these images might also be connected with the principles of sensory grounding. Many of us use smell, sight, touch, sound, and taste (not applicable in this instance though, unless devices become edible!) to anchor ourselves, whether it’s in counseling sessions, yoga, or other wellness activities. Becoming centered and aligning our minds with our bodies is a powerful way of reminding ourselves that we are here and we are safe.

Much of my “free” time during isolation hasn’t felt very free. In fact, it seems like a burden to redistribute the handful of things that now count as my life across an increasingly large expanse of time. Insert tumbleweeds.

Moving through these recalibrated routines can also be hard emotionally. The one exception is my design time, which feels boundless and exciting personally and in a collective sense given the restorative beauty generated by my Pinterest images.

These creative pursuits also feel curative in the original sense of the Latin term curare, which means “take care of.” Allowing myself time and space to cruise through the endless pictures is a form of self-care, and it’s a practice many of us engage in on a daily basis. These reflections on finding or designing calm during Covid are a small reminder of the things within our reach that might be overlooked as sources of solace in these unsettling times. There is solidarity in tranquility. Thank you, Pinterest.

July 7, 2020 0 comment

Day in the Life

My Mother’s Jacket

by treenaorchard June 29, 2020

Moving is fundamentally about deciding which material items stay and which go. Some of my decisions in this regard echo Marie Kondo’s joyful approach to “tidying up” in the sense that I actively engage in a dialogue about what my stuff means to me. Such discussions do not involve the items easily tossed into the “donations”, “no”, or “garbage” piles. Nor are these materialistic monologues about the things I have decided I cannot live without, literally. These narratives circle around the objects, clothes, papers, jewellery, books, and decorative items I’m on the fence about.

The betwixt and between things are often from the past, which is not something fixed or over. The past is a moving force that constitutes the generative DNA of the now.

The more we learn about ourselves the more we can re-read yesterday’s cards and see new things in the tea leaves. That is one of the gifts of healing. We won’t always forgive everything that has happened, but we can see deeper into the eye of time – that wild friend of the cosmos. When we do this, we are dancing with the universe in ways that enable us to lead our destiny.

For a long time, the many pains I suffered caused me to rewrite my past. There were no happy memories, no gentle loving moments, only sadness and shouldering other people’s issues. Even though it wasn’t true, part of me felt like I needed to do that to the past in order to own the present. Some of this is linked with our rather binary cellular design, which is intended to protect us from danger and encourage us to trust our instinct. Flight OR Fight. Yet, we live most of our waking time in the land of the grey, which makes complex experiences and our orientation to time itself hard to navigate sometimes.

While unpacking, I found a bunch of photos that spanned my most early days until the 1990s. I ran my fingers along the curved, thick edges and marvelled at the people, bad and cute haircuts, places, and feelings that surfaced as I went through the stack repeatedly. I was happy to not just see the smiling faces, including mine, but to register that that little girl was me. She is me. There was much good in those early days, which I was allowing to register. It was like taking that puzzle piece I had been carrying in my purse for years and attaching it to the increasingly complete jigsaw that is my life. It felt really good.

Yesterday, I unpacked the final two boxes. They were layered leftovers from other containers and I dreaded organizing them. It actually took very little time to “yay” or “nay” the contents, until a black dress coat interrupted the flow of decision-making.

My mom bought it many moons ago but can no longer wear it. Instead of giving it away, which she couldn’t bring herself to do because of how expensive it was (which she has told me countless times over the years), she insisted I have it. I have never worn it and even when she was a size ¾, she barely wore it.

This coat is a symbol of my mother’s struggle for her own body, her own happiness, her own self. I don’t think she was happy when she bought it, but it was a mark of achievement, however fleeting. The past is a powerful place for her, full of both turmoil and freedom. She has done a tremendous amount of work to leave many of the harmful bits a little further away, which I’m thankful for.

I continue to carry her coat from place to place, like a hallowed inheritance. I’m still figuring out what it means to me, then and now.

June 29, 2020 2 comments

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Why should I perform your erotic capital?

Toad Totem

Healing through Ink

Designing Calm During Covid-19

My Mother’s Jacket

Dr. Treena Orchard