Yes. Yes, yes, yes. 

Roxane provided little context for this anecdote, so I can't speak to her particular reasoning for donning the uniform. But I am well familiar with this phenomenon in my own life. Here's my uniform story.

When I lived in San Francisco, I adopted the habit of wearing the same two identical pairs of denim shorts, a rotation of three black tank tops, and a denim jacket every day. I wore that outfit every single day for the nearly six months I lived out west. The habit was made possible by that city's relatively consistent weather and a casual work environment, and entrenched by a bold desire to place comfort before fashion (the horror!). Friends would comment on it occasionally, teasing me for my "Canadian tuxedo" or for not wearing warmer layers during the foggy months. But by and large, the outfit went unnoticed - in its predictability, the uniform was both unoffensive and uninteresting.

Wearing the same clothes every day was not without its occasional existential crisis. When pulling on those shorts became so utterly boring I wanted to scream, I would tell myself that this outfit was sensible and modest, flattering and durable, and that not worrying about fashion gave me time and money to spend on more important matters. But the truth was that I wasn't really dressing that way for the pragmatism. I was trying to be ignored.

The light, airy, strangely-shaped apartment I shared in San Francisco with two friends sat atop Potrero Hill, on the western edge of the city. Out our front window, you could see the lights of the modest downtown twinkling and, on the rare clear night, the Bay Bridge illuminating its own path across the river. Our apartment perched above a cafe, where early each morning I would grab a free cup of coffee and begin my walk to work. I'd stumble down the steep hill past the local restaurants, whose gates and doors were just being unlocked by first-shift employees. Initially I greeted and smiled at these predominantly male workers, a moment of solidarity among the few conscious beings in the sleepy neighborhood. But when their return greetings quickly took on innuendo, especially as they realized I walked the same path past their place of work every morning and therefore provided near-endless opportunities for harassment, I recoiled. 

I retreated into myself, closed off. I wore headphones and pretended to ignore their leering eyes on my bare, if hairy, legs. I stopped wearing skirts, scarves, anything with color. I tried to disappear. So strong was my desire to just walk down the goddamn street uninterrupted that I altered my appearance to what I perceived to be the most nondescript version of myself. Did it help? No, not really. But it felt like something I could do, something I could control, when faced with the powerlessness of being harassed. If nothing else, I could draw as little attention as possible. 

That wasn't my first experience with harassment, of course - far from it. But the regularity and vulgarity of the verbal attacks left a mark. And since leaving that city, the uniform has lingered. I still wear the tuxedo, alternated lately with a rotation of black stretchy shorts more appropriate for biking the hot streets of Brooklyn. Even in New York, my hometown, the city that taught me that expression can be the source of immense freedom, and where everyone stands out as much as they blend in, I do my best to disappear. 

Of course, a woman wearing bland clothing is still a woman, and as such, a target. Two nights ago at a dingy venue in Williamsburg, I repeatedly asked a drunk man to stop dancing on me. I placed a hand on his chest and slowly pushed him back, feeling his muscles under my fingers, well aware that if the situation escalated he could easily dominate me physically. When he returned to his beefy friends, they mocked my behavior, my words, and my outfit. I was wearing my all-black uniform at the time, my best attempt at remaining unseen. But they saw through the uniform to the woman underneath, a woman worthy of victimization. The uniform betrayed me, because the idea that sartorial choice can eliminate gender-based violence is obviously a fallacy. 

So yes, Roxane, I do feel that way, and always. Is it ceding to the patriarchal culture of harassment to alter my appearance in reaction to the behaviors of threatening, ignorant men? Is it internalized shame and victim-blaming that leads me to react in such a way to aggressive male attention? I don't know. Maybe. Probably. It's irrelevant. This is my frontline defense. I have my coping strategies. Whether or not they work for me is no one's business but mine. The relevant question is how to dismantle a culture that at once provokes, demands, and punishes such behavior.

Some other questions I have: What is the relationship between femme expression, visibility, and harassment in the context of this issue? How can we also engage with body size and sizeism within conversations around clothing choices, personal expression, and the male gaze? Why is the average lifespan of denim shorts about 3 months? 

Certain populations in this country are told that what they say deserves to be heard. Certain demographics are lauded for having strong opinions, for pushing the envelope, for speaking loudly and standing up for what they believe in.

Do you know who these people are? Guess. GUESS. (Hint: Not women. Not POC. Not LGBTQA. Also, they look like a lot of the folks perpetuating anti-protest rhetoric on my newsfeed.)

Now, please understand that I certainly recognize that my white privilege, my Ivy League education, and my strong personality empower me to speak and be heard in many situations. I am entitled to a platform in many communities, increasingly even on this blog and especially as I try to raise awareness of my writing and work. I believe that I deserve to be listened to, and that makes me entitled. I constantly examine this position, hoping to continually use this entitlement in solidarity with folks less privileged than myself. (And if you have constructive things to say about how this essay is not pursuant to that goal, please engage with me!)

And I was also taught my whole life that what I have to say is less important than what white men have to say. I was taught this by the media, by gender expectations, by visions of leadership that did not represent me or my female peers. I was taught: glass ceiling. I was taught: stay quiet. I was taught: make me a sandwich.

From what I have gathered and learned from my incredible friends and peers organizing an enormous effort to shut down Kelly's lecture, my experience is not unique. Many of us in marginalized or oppressed communities feel that our voices are not valued. Some have, in recent years, been taught this in not-so-subtle fashion by the New York Police Department. Violence and oppression from the police is status quo in New York City today. I have felt this impact to an extent myself, having been exposed to sexism and verbal harassment from the very people allegedly keeping me safe. This state of fear is a direct result of Ray Kelly's "proactive policing," including stop-and-frisk.

It has taken me years to develop a sense of my voice, and to find comfort in speaking my mind. I find empowerment in feminist, activist, and anti-racist communities who echo and amplify messages that guide my decision-making every day. I work and aspire to one day claim those descriptors myself. 

But despite the growth and proactivity of progressive communities, we are not living in an equal society. We are not living in a world where anti-racism is "the visible opinion," as some horrible person wrote on Brown University Compliments. We live in a world where oppressed communities ARE OPPRESSED. THAT MEANS THEY ARE NOT LISTENED TO. And an auditorium at Brown University, though we so desperately wish to believe ourselves special and unique, is not absent the context of our not-at-all-colorblind society. 

I am not at all surprised that many folks opposed to Kelly's policies didn't even entertain asking him questions. Why? Because I was never taught that if I simply ask a well-thought-out question, someone in a position of power will listen to me. Because collective action, chanting, and protest is many communities' only hope of being heard in a society that is simply unwilling to acknowledge their voices. 

I don't understand the logic that if those opposed to Kelly would just ask him questions, somehow some greater truth would be told. That is simply a privileged understanding of how politics and debate operates in our country. The only truth is the truth of human experience. And human experience in New York City, under the military control of the NYPD, is in desperate need of a new "visible opinion." Human experience has showed us that stop-and-frisk is destroying communities and lives. Asking communities affected by or opposed to that policy to stay silent IS OPPRESSION.

I so wish we lived in a society where I could expect that, given a platform and time for Q&A, Ray Kelly could engage in conversation with students positioned against his racist policies. Unfortunately, as a New Yorker who is far too aware of the direct consequences of white male privilege, I strongly disagree that such a space could have ever been created today.

In sum, thanks to my Brown friends for fucking shit up. 

Who's the "we" here?  The first we refers to doctors; the second, to taxpayers.  Ah, taxpayers!  The everyman; the voting population; we government-supporting, rights-defending Americans!  But wait - "we" apparently don't include "low-income families", the kind who "buy junk foods and sugary beverages" and have "poor diet quality", and make us pay for their health care.  Apparently taxpayers are also healthy-eating, soda-eschewing, junk-food-abhorring skinny people.  I never knew!  Does that mean I don't have to file this year?

So anyway, if it's so "easy" to improve the diet of SNAP participants - and thereby defeat obesity, remember! - how do we do it? 

Alright Bittman, let's play ball.  Who's to define what foods play a "constructive role" in a person's diet?  Do Cream Cheese Brownies play a constructive role in my diet?  Or Lemon Cheesecake with Sour Cream Topping?  Or Cheese Souffle? Jeez, How to Cook Everything sure has a lot of non-constructive recipes.  See what I did there??

And as for Ludwig's claim that there's "no rationale" for allowing SNAP benefits to be used to purchase soda...well, I don't really need to be nuanced about this.  All of us see advertisements. All of us are affected by them (even healthy - read: thin - people).  Some of us drink soda, some of us don't.  If the medical establishment really thinks that soda is so unhealthy that it should be illegal for people to buy it, then MAKE IT ILLEGAL TO PRODUCE SODA.  But that probably wouldn't be as easy as limiting the purchasing power of a politically and economically unempowered population.

Alright, one more - stay with me! 

I don't disagree with Bittman here.  It would be great to expand farmers market incentive programs and to increase the value of SNAP benefits for buying produce.  That would be wonderful!  Let's do it!  

I pull out the above quote primarily to reiterate misuse of the word "easy" throughout this column, and indeed throughout Bittman's entire philosophy.  Ease is at the crux of the philosophy of those - like Bittman and Pollan and probably Ludwig - who perpetuate the "messianic, self-satisfied tone" of health-focused, white, upper-middle class food commentators.  Being healthy (READ: THIN) is easy - you just need to make the right choices.  And if you don't make the right choices, we'll make them for you.

Like Pollan, Bittman is entitled to his opinions.  He's entitled to his biases and, like everyone (me too!), is a product of only his own experiences and context.  And if he were writing exclusively about the dietary choices of white, upper-middle class people, his columns would be far less problematic.  But he's not.  

I challenge Bittman to, in the words of the internet, do better.  Ask some people who receive SNAP benefits what their opinions are on restricting their purchasing options.  Talk to community organizers who work on hunger and poverty issues in urban or minority communities.  Do your research.  Ask more questions.  Challenge your assumptions.  I mean, you're writing in the New York Times.  Do the issues justice.  I empathize - it sucks to be one of only a few people tasked with representing the entirety of food policy and diet issues throughout our vast country.  Maybe - hopefully - we'll one day be able to debate this issue as peers.  I'd be happy to ease some of your workload.

Thanks for reading.
L