The Post-Thesis Zombie

Where's my medal?

Hello dear readers,

It has been a while, I know. Some of you undoubtedly thought my procrastinatory instincts had finally gotten the best of me and that I had abandoned this blog. True, The Wayward Orientalist has been on an extended hiatus while I was busy with the writing I was paid to do (yay journalism!) and the writing I was paying to do (yay grad school!).

But finally, after about a year of trials and tribulations (some of which were documented here), the thesis beast has finally been slain, thus ending my academic career once and (hopefully) for all. This victory, however, came at a price. I have had to sacrifice many things over the past year, including:

Don't blame me

It happens every so often. A male acquaintance will do something that makes me uncomfortable—whether an unwanted touch, an objectifying comment or a wolf-whistle—something that triggers a deep-seated sense of apprehension in my stomach. But as soon as I protest, the expression of my discomfort backfires as it all becomes about their hurt feelings.

"You're exaggerating!"

"That's not what I meant!"

"I can't believe you're treating me like I'm a random guy in the street!"

My standing up for myself becomes a betrayal of whatever bond of camaraderie said person thought we had. In their eyes, I suddenly turn into an overreacting harpy for responding so seriously to something so insignificant.

But for all the men who have ever gotten huffy at me for setting boundaries, those who have joked that "come on, I'm not gonna rape you" when I turned down a ride home, I wish I could have said:

Don't blame me.

Blame them: