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I started listening to the true crime podcast "My Favorite Murder" when I moved to the Bay Area and lost all sense of control.
I realize now that I'd been suffering from extreme anxiety. But at the time... coming home and repetitively checking behind the curtains, fiddling with the door over and over to make sure it was locked, and sitting in a ball in the shower as boiling water pelted me from above seemed normal. I’d been a voracious reader for my entire life, but suddenly I couldn’t focus on more than two sentences at a time before the words blurred and my mind skipped like a record needle. Sometimes I’d 'come to' during my hour-long commute, only to realize that there had been nothing but that crackling static undulating from the radio. I’d continuously hit the back arrow on my favorite podcast “Death, Sex & Money” because I couldn’t concentrate long enough to follow the interview.
I was sealed in a trance going through the motions. Wake up. Drive to work. Teach 9-5. Work in restaurant 6-11. Come home. Check for intruders. Eat frozen Trader Joes meal. Stand in the shower until skin turns pink. Lay in bed until 6am. Repeat.
I’m not sure where or how I found the “My Favorite Murder” podcast. At first I’d skip through their 45 minute conversations at the beginning of the episode, focusing only on their research of gruesome murders and the women who lost their lives at the evil hands of a psychopath. I was soothed by listening to the tragedies and pain of others who had suffered worse. It picked me up by the back of my neck and carried me through the rest of that year. I grew accustomed to Karen and Georgia's personalities. I soaked up their anecdotes, their truths, their history. They told me stories of past trauma with eating disorders, mental illness, family members with Alzheimer's, addiction. Their bold banter poured from the speakers of my Hyundai and validated everything I’d ever been through.
"Fuck politeness.”
Two words that sent me clutching for my pearls like a proper lady on a Sunday morning. Over the years Karen and Georgia have coined many phrases, but Fuck Politeness is the one that rings most valuable in my world. I’d never considered such an idea. Growing up, my parents drilled two rules into our heads.
"Use your brain.”
"Be polite.”
Each time we’d get out of the car for a sleepover or an after school event, one of them would give us that parenty look—the one where their head cocks to the side and their eyebrows raise with scary adult seriousness. We’d repeat the phrases robotically and run off, stained soccer cleats dangling over our shoulders.
“Be polite” was ingrained in my skin along with the lyrics to Don McLean’s song “American Pie.” I didn’t dare question another adult’s jurisdiction. I smiled and laughed when grownups and other authority figures made jokes and looked at me expectantly. I did what they asked me to do in fear that I’d get in trouble if I didn’t. Now, years later and a grownup myself… I still panic when I sense that I’m making another person uncomfortable by getting upset or calling them out. I feel bad telling someone that I don’t want to give them my number… not just because I have a partner, but because I’m not interested and simply don’t want to.
Two years ago I was waiting to take a train from San Diego to LA in a crowd of early morning commuters. A security ticket guard approached me and ignited a conversation. He asked for my astrology sign. He said I was beautiful. He asked why I was going to LA. I wasn’t interested in his advances, but I didn’t want to upset or offend him. He was being kind to me after all. When he asked for my number I told him that I had a boyfriend (I didn’t). He said that we could just be friends. I told him that I had many friends. I didn’t live in San Diego. I only like my dog. At that point the train came screeching to a stop in front of us. Relief flooded through me like a broken pipe. I stepped forward, but my ticket was still clutched in his fist.
“Wrong train, Miss.” He smiled. “Yours isn’t for another ten minutes.”
I watched tautly as the crowd of business suits and black pumps pushed into the caboose, leaving the two of us behind on the platform. He stepped closer. I giggled nervously and swallowed the sharp rock in my throat. He said I was beautiful again and asked why I hadn’t complimented him. Wasn’t I lucky that he stopped me from getting on the wrong train? I asked for his number and said I would message him myself. He told me he knew that trick, put his number in my phone, then called himself before I could grab it back. After an arduous ten minutes of plastic smiles and one-word replies I thanked him and climbed onto the correct train.
“Typical Capricorn. You’re always so cold and reserved.”
He chuckled and waved as the train rolled away. For weeks he’d have conversations with himself over text messages. He’d vacillate between complimenting and cursing me. Between calling me a sweet angel and calling me a stupid bitch. Eventually I blocked him. But why did I allow myself to get into that situation in the first place? Was it a way to protect myself? Or was it simply because I didn't want to make him sad by rejecting his inquiries?
The thing is… being polite and using your brain don’t always go hand in hand. Sometimes using your brain means telling someone to fuck off. Other times, using your brain means registering that saying “fuck off” to an unstable person when you are alone at a train station is dangerous. Being polite is offering to help wash the dishes at a friend’s house. Using your brain is saying, “thank you, I am on my way to work and not interested in speaking with anyone at the moment.” It’s declaring, “this behavior is inappropriate and also I have mace on me.”
“My Favorite Murder” pulled me out of a daze and helped me realize how easy it is for smart and intelligent women to fall prey to monsters. Many of us are unintentionally programmed for it. All of the women in their stories could have been me, had I been in the wrong place at the right time. In their new book, Karen and Georgia proclaim:
Little girls are taught to be polite, to smile pretty and sit up straight, to be nice and accommodating. And then those little girls turn into grown-ass women who’ve spent years being polite to the detriment of their own wants, needs, and safety. Having been one of those little girls who was taught those rules myself, I’m fucking sick of it. . . . “Fuck politeness.” Fuck the way we were socialized. Fuck the expectation that we always put other people’s needs first. And while we’re at it, fuck the patriarchy! (Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered)
Children, little girls especially, should be taught to be polite and also to use their brains. They should be taught ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and to offer a helping hand to a sweet grandma with heavy grocery bags. They should be taught to look both ways before crossing the street. They should be taught that the sinking feeling in their stomach is the body’s response to danger. Our bodies tell us when something isn’t right. Our shaking hands and staccato breaths are a signal that something is off. We need to teach our children to stand up for themselves when they are pushed or pressured or hear that small, panicked voice telling them to run. Not to ignore it and smile, but to assess it. Of course we can’t always decipher when someone has malicious intentions. But, having the confidence to hurt someone’s feelings if they deserve it is a good place to start.
As an avid people-pleaser, the thought of making someone sad because I don’t like them churns my bowels. It’s why I continued dating guys for weeks despite the fact that their touch gave me a queasy sense of fear. They were kind and nice and I was a shallow bitch. That’s what I kept going back to. That I shouldn’t trust the voice inside screaming ‘CREEP’ just because they weren’t actively visible weirdos. Had I owned my authority to make others feel bad when they attempted to manipulate a one-sided relationship, I might have saved myself a few regrets and a cheaper hot water bill.
It’s terrifying to have these conversations with the innocent. To look at our precious nieces and daughters and students and fathom how the world might taint them some day. But that’s exactly why they need the tools that took us so long to acquire. Karen and Georgia have cultivated a community of ‘Murderinos’— a safe space to talk about real life. Mental illness. Assault. Mistakes. Medication. The memories of our younger selves that force us to squeeze our eyes shut, shake our heads with distress and gratitude.
Instead of hiding and running from the pain, they’ve helped us share it and learn from it and use it to spark important conversations and understanding. At the close of their book they assert these words:
So here’s your takeaway: fuck politeness. Fuck it to whatever degree you think is most appropriate to the severity of the situation. If you were raised to be polite, it’ll be hard, but you can totally do it, and you’ll feel so empowered once you do. Now, here’s the most important part: If you don’t fuck politeness, if you struggle to get the words out, or if you can’t or won’t see the red flags that would alert you to the need to fuck politeness, know this: nothing that happens as a result of your inaction is your fault. Know it. You can’t prepare yourself out of being hurt. (Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered)
I think of that time Sophomore year when I let a stranger drive me home from the Oakland airport because he said we had Statistics together and I didn’t want to seem rude for not remembering him. (What. The. Actual. Fuck. 19-year-old Amy?) The countless times my friends and I gave out our numbers when we really didn’t want to. The adults who used their authority to maintain a shred of power over children. How many times the boundaries between safety and danger were crossed.
To some, the fascination with true crime and these hellacious atrocities may seem morbid. I have had to remind myself many times that murderers and evil creatures aren’t lurking around every corner of my universe. Yet the fascination goes beyond the brave stories of these victims and survivors. It’s a community. It’s women supporting women. It’s showing others the pain that our grandmothers hid in their bathroom cabinets. It’s saying “me too” and creating a world where we’re confident to walk down the street with ponytails or short skirts or sweatpants and shaved heads. It’s teaching ourselves and the next generation how to be kind to others while also fucking politeness when need be.