Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women
by Susan Faludi

I read this in college and it completely changed my worldview. A feminist is a person who believes in equality between the sexes — so it turns out I am a feminist. This came as a surprise to me at the time. Also, it looks like there’s some seriously, concretely unfair shit going down for women, even in the U.S. I had no idea.

The Gift of Fear
by Gavin De Becker

It’s a waste of time to be afraid all the time. Trust your instincts to tell you when something is genuinely amok, and when they do, take immediate action.

The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade
by Thomas Lynch

This book by a poet who is also an undertaker helps me remember that being happy, or at least aware, is the best use of my time. It also gave me perspective on assisted suicide, and the ways individual anguish can eclipse you, needlessly.

Years later, this passage still sticks with me:

“Here was a young man who had killed himself, remarkably, to deliver a message to a woman he wanted to remember him. No doubt she does. I certainly do. But the message itself seemed inconsequential, purposefully vague. Did he want to be dead forever, or only absent from the pain? ‘I wanted to die,’ is all it seemed to say clearly. ‘Oh,’ is what the rest of us say.”

The Four Agreements
by Don Miguel Ruiz

I’ve mentioned this book before, and if you’re feeling adrift, it’s a good little system to help get you grounded again. I wrote more about it here.

The Wealthy Barber: Everyone’s Commonsense Guide to Becoming Financially Independent
by David Chilton

It’s not a work of literary genius, but it’s clear, it’s a quick read, and it fills you in on all the financial stuff your parents didn’t teach you.

Learning to Love You More
by Harrell Fletcher, Miranda July, Julia Bryan-Wilson, and Laura Lark

I like how Miranda July seems to have always tackled the next most interesting thing, and she’s built a pretty inspiring life that way. This book of projects reminds me that it’s always a good decision to let your interests guide you.

Miss Manners Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior
by Judith Martin

An anthropology book on my own culture, and the reasons behind the societal contracts we’ve made. Now when I’ve pissed someone off, I usually know why.

Otherwise: New and Selected Poems
by Jane Kenyon

Jane Kenyon’s poems make me feel keener, like I can smell better and hear things more clearly. I read them when I’m feeling muddled to help me re-focus.

Now! Tell me which books changed things for you, because I think it will be interesting.

Do it.

More small differences between Buenos Aires and home:

-You leave your garbage on the curb in bags for pickup each afternoon.

-And yet, the garbage cans are wire boxes on poles, presumably so wild dogs and cats can’t reach the contents.

-I’ve seen at least three women in see-through white skirts wearing black G-strings.

-Milk for your tea comes steamed.

-Bookstores don’t have prices on the books, you have to ask.

-It’s unusually difficult to get change for large bills.

-They sometimes spray perfume on your purchases.

-Milkshakes are just milk blended with whatever flavor you’ve requested.

-At one local grocery store, there’s an express line for the pregnant and disabled.

-All the playground equipment here is still mildly dangerous. Working sea saws and merry-go-rounds, hard dirt ground so the pain shoots up your legs when you jump from the swing.

More small differences between Argentina and home:

-An entire table of men in animated conversation will go completely silent when a woman walks by, in anticipation of checking out her ass once she passes.

-You have to ask for the check. In fact, you often have to get up from your table and go find your waiter so you can get the check. (This seems to be true everywhere but the U.S.)

-Everyone we meet is an artist.

-Bars have no last call, and nearly all of the women’s restrooms in bars have condom dispensers.

-This is the only place I’ve ever seen a roll of toilet paper hung on the wall next to the sink for use in drying one’s hands.

-In the grocery store, you have your vegetables weighed in the produce section. They put a tag on them so the cashier knows how much to charge you.

-Lowfat milk? No. Decaf? No.

-In our neighborhood alone, there are four car-washes that are also restaurants.

-You pay extra to sit outside.

-The napkins at many casual restaurants are like small squares of tissue paper.

-A burger “with everything” will come with tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, ham, and boiled or fried eggs on top.

A few little differences between home and Argentina:

The sidewalks seem to be constantly under repair here. There’s a new construction crew every few feet.

The butter that comes with your bread is almost always flavored with something: thyme, sundried tomatoes, rosemary.

The women do more primping in the public bathrooms. You can be at a coffee shop at 11 a.m. and there’s always someone at the mirror re-applying lipstick and fluffing their hair.

Everyone thinks Hank is a girl. I know this because they’re forced to choose a sex for their adjectives, “Que hermosa! Que bonita!”

The red lights turn yellow before going back to green.

There’s lots of graffitti with messages to girlfriends. “Happy Anniversary! Manuela, I love you!”

Our bathroom has a bidet and two new brushes so we can scrub under our nails when we wash our hands.

In modern buildings, I keep shoving my hands under sinks expecting them to work automatically. They don’t.

Our cab from the airport smelled good, like tea, and they still play Milli Vanilli on the radio here.

People, completely sane strangers, stop to kiss the baby or touch his head.

This is from the prompt on page 49 of No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog. The first part of my timeline is here.

Age 11: When I babysit, we pretend there are refrigerator elves who will leave toys in the cripser if you put raisins out for them.

Age 12: At the end of the last slow dance, I receive my very first kiss. His lips touch the soft skin just below my right eye; I can feel my pulse there for weeks afterward.

Age 13: A product of Nancy Regan’s most agressive “Just say no” campaign tactics, I puffy paint “PARTY SOBER!” among the other exclamations on my plastic Sports-A-Rama visor. The upperclassmen follow me around laughing and pointing.

Age 14: One of the girls decides that the cheerleading socks with the school’s initials on them make her legs look fat and refuses to wear them. The squad is soon locked in heated battle — initial socks vs. scrunchy socks — with no one willing to wear socks that don’t match the other girls’.

Age 15: In an effort to be more likeable, I decide never to get mad at anyone or say anything negative about anyone ever again. It is the most stressful, frustrating few months of my life.