I am Hannah Horvath: 'Girls' as reality TV

It is very rare that I sit and watch television, but like so many of my peers and innumerable critics, I love HBO’s Girls. Perhaps this is because Girls does not feel like television. Girls is about as close as you can get to watching the real world without watching The Real World (which, arguably, is even less real than Girls). The series begins with 24-year-old Hannah Horvath being financially dumped by her parents, and the rest is her shaky attempt at navigating professional and personal relationships as a responsible young adult. Watching Hannah careen into near-disaster every week has mounted my understanding that this is the offbeat girl next door struggling with a lot more than trying to keep her shorteralls from riding up in the middle.

It wasn’t until I read one article on Slate in which the author praises Girls creator Lena Dunham for daring to feature such an “unlikeable protagonist,” as Hannah is, that something clicked. I had never considered Hannah unlikeable –rude, awkward, inappropriate, selfish, immature, naïve – but never flat out unlikeable. Now with the understanding that Hannah is not meant to be liked (such as is the unintentional comic relief Shoshanna)—she joins the ranks of brutishly candid Jessa and idealistic, coldblooded Marnie, and it makes the series just that much better. It’s like now I have relinquished the part of me that ignored the shiver down my spine when Hannah does something like destroy a job interview with a date rape joke, or casually attack a fling’s political beliefs in response to negative feedback about an essay she’d written.

On a basic level, I have identified with Hannah in many ways. She is a writer, feeling things for the thrill of feeling them, going through life like some sort of self-appointed journalist guinea pig, ready to share the well-written details of every awkward tryst for even the possibility of some kind of artistic impact. She is a recent college graduate that has felt the burn of the unpaid internship. She’s dabbled in jobs she feels overqualified for, but still manages to somehow fuck them all up. She’s engaged in unhealthy relationships, both sexual and platonic. She is fucked up and often unwilling to acknowledge the ways in which she’s responsible for her situations. She is everything I hate to admit I am.

Growing up, there were no shows like Girls (and if there was, would I have even been interested?). Instead, I watched shows like Friends. While each character on Friends is carefully crafted into a “type” – Phoebe is quirky, Monica is anal, and Rachel is a recovering spoiled brat – Girls accomplishes the same while retaining realistic levels of flexibility, spontaneity, and complexity. Hannah’s uncertainty about life can be read as quirky and at other times flippant. She seems to quit jobs as a hobby, and has little concept of professionalism. Her self-assured verbal declarations may have sincere intentions but can come across nauseatingly privileged and solipsistic (“Maybe you are the bad friend and I’m the good friend,” “My problem is that I’m too kind, I’m too compassionate”). Hannah says the things we wouldn’t dare to, for common respect to social decency: after writing about Marnie’s agonizing relationship with Charlie in her notebook, which Charlie then read, leading to the two’s breakup, Hannah asks: “But did you like it? Just as a piece of writing.”

She is caustically cheeky about the most sensitive of subjects: the root of a nasty divorce, a lover’s political beliefs, a friend’s abortion. She is often a fool in her flings, like sending a raunchy picture in response to a sext that Adam said was not intended for her. She throws caution to the wind, including making blatantly bad decisions with a Venti cup of confidence—procuring coke for a writing assignment and having a titties-out romp with Elijah culminating in her sleeping with the junkie downstairs; telling her boss that he can fuck her, then attempting to extort and then threaten to sue him when he declines; chasing down a stranger from the coffee shop and kissing him after confessing she’s been throwing the shop’s garbage in his trash cans.

Hannah reminds me of myself in the ways I don’t want to be reminded. Although we are the same age, at 24, she resembles my 19-year-old self in philosophy and demeanor way more than I am comfortable admitting.

She quotes Fiona Apple in an episode, saying she just wants to feel everything –but in the process, she’s numbing herself to feeling anything. When brief fling Sandy says he loves hanging out with her, she goes on an annoying mini-rant about not wanting him to use the word “love” at all. Hannah is not unlike George Costanza, a character you love to be angry at, because she is simultaneously frustrating and hilarious. Lena Dunham has done a wonderful job of creating a character that speaks to parts of me I’d prefer to disown. I imagine it to be similar to how someone secretly interested in murder would feel watching Dexter – so wrong, but so, so right. Hannah Horvath represents the struggle between being an adventurous woman with HPV and an e-book deal, and having the stable income to afford rent each month. As she attempts to build the bridge that joins the two, we can join along on her journey, laughing (and sometimes pointing), pretending that her identity is less reflective of our own than it really is. 

Domestic violence and the domino effect of decisions, especially if you're Rihanna

Police photo of Rihanna following the assault on Feb. 8, 2009.

Just after midnight on February 8, 2009, pop superstar Rihanna and then-boyfriend Chris Brown inked a shameful page of pop culture history, the story indelibly summed up with the now-infamous police photo of Rihanna’s bruised and bloodied face, courtesy of Brown’s bad temper.

Nearly four years have passed since Brown was charged with assaulting Rihanna viciously in his car, and the two have gradually shed concern about hiding their persisting romantic connection. One visit to the Bajan singer’s Instagram reveals just how close they are, with the two entertainers’ private moments shared, ever so casually, with Rihanna’s nearly four million followers.

Unlike most domestic violence victims, Rihanna’s plight was witnessed by the world, as was her return to the partner who hit her. Rihanna is a high-profile reflection of innumerable women facing difficult decisions—except, unlike many other women, nothing is pinning her to Chris Brown aside from her own desire. Rihanna is not financially dependent on Brown, or any other person for that matter. They have no kids, and certainly no marriage. She’s gorgeous, talented, and wealthy. If she chooses to publicly embrace a person who once reduced her face to a series of gashes and welts essentially in front of the entire world, then to younger, more naïve, and less affluent people with fewer resources—what’s the occasional slap or shove?

What Rihanna is saying, quite effectively albeit unintentionally, is that despite boundless resources and unrelenting support, sometimes a person will still return to the arms of the one that’s hurt them. Or in Rihanna’s case, one that’s repeatedly and mercilessly punched them in the face, causing their mouth to fill with blood.

Rihanna in an interview with Oprah Winfrey.

In an interview with Oprah Winfrey earlier this year, Rihanna explained how she strangely felt protective over Brown after he assaulted her. “He made that mistake because he needed help, but who’s going to help him?” the singer tearfully asked on the special that aired August 19. “I was hurt the most. Nobody felt what I felt.”

That solipsistic outlook is something that 23-year-old Vanessa*, who is just one year younger than Rihanna, was no stranger to. In 2009, at the time that the singer’s battered face became etched in society’s collective psyche, Vanessa had been dating Tim* for almost two years.

“He was very handsome and very sweet when I first met him,” said Vanessa, who was 17 at the time. He was 21. She was enraptured by his beautiful teeth and by the fact that he owned his own car. After they began dating, the sweetness soon dissipated into acts of rage and irrationality. About six months into their relationship, Tim found a photo of himself in Vanessa’s car and became furious. He accused her of wanting to put pictures of him on the Internet, something he was vehemently against—because he was maintaining other romantic relationships as well, Vanessa later found out.

“He balled the picture up, threw it in my face, then picked it back up and shoved it in my mouth,” Vanessa said. “I kind of overlooked [the incident] because I was afraid. It was just too weird.”

Tim was not apologetic, either. His response to the incident: “Don’t have pictures of me and it won’t happen again.”

Though she never snapped another photo of Tim, it did happen again, most severely on Valentine’s Day of 2010. “Snowpocalypse” was ravaging the East coast, and Tim’s car became stuck while parked outside of Vanessa’s house, which he adamantly blamed on her. He demanded that she get his car out, and after attempting to dig his car out of several inches of snow and ice for an hour, Vanessa gave up. When she returned inside, he accosted her in the kitchen and choked her. She ran upstairs to lock herself in her bedroom, but he pursued, and the situation was eventually “settled” with sex.

Vanessa also recalled a situation where she accidentally knocked a lollipop out of Tim’s mouth, and he immediately slapped her in the face. She says the physical aggression was few and far between, making it even harder to pinpoint the exact moment she’d let go and leave.

There was no breaking point, no one moment that pushed Vanessa over the edge. She gradually cut off all romantic ties with Tim on her own accord, simply deciding that his positive qualities, if any, were not enough to justify the ugly ones.

“I think there’s this attitude where you accept something because you think it’s how it’s supposed to be,” Vanessa said. The irony is that Vanessa still maintains a casual friendship with Tim, who shares similarly unsettling details of his new relationships with her. His despicable actions are never addressed, and his continuing to casually behave the same way is either a statement of obliviousness or complete disinterest.

As with Tim’s response to his aggression, Brown’s collective response to his assault of Rihanna, particularly to critics, has been one of flippancy and disrespect. The public apology he issued post-incident is hardly an indicator of his remorse, as his actions are speaking far louder.

Unsavory publicity seems to have become a staple of Brown’s career: angrily bashing windows at daytime talk shows, getting the face of a beaten woman tattooed on his neck, participating in bafflingly immature and sexist Twitter arguments. He is by most accounts uncouth, and, to borrow from Rihanna’s latest album, unapologetic. After Rihanna’s emotional interview with Oprah, Brown’s response in so many words: That’s old news, so stop crying about it.

Chris Brown does not present himself as a good person, and furthermore, shows no sign of a behavioral metamorphosis. Rihanna’s insistence on affiliating with him is damaging and dismissive, and makes a huge statement about how women are encouraged or expected to respond to domestic turbulence.

After all, Vanessa’s face never looked anything like Rihanna’s on the night of February 8. 

The physical, outward toll of the abuse Vanessa experienced over the course of a few years paled in comparison to Rihanna’s one brush with domestic violence, and it is strangely understandable how someone in her situation may choose to stick around despite red flags.

Rihanna and Chris Brown photographed at a club in Sept. 2012.

The men who are domestic violence perpetrators will likely always behave the same way, either because they do not know or choose not to know that it is a huge problem. Many of these men have cemented abusive behaviors as the norms in their lives, possibly having witnessed similar dynamics in their households as children.

To a great extent, behavior that we label “domestic violence” is learned behavior, according to Washington, D.C. based psychotherapist Dr. Patrick Gleason, PhD., who has had experience working with both victims and perpetrators of domestic violence. 

“People learn how to hurt one another,” he said. “It’s not that some people are born that way. We teach one another. Many of the clients I’ve worked with grew up in households where there was domestic violence and they witnessed it. [These kids] are the victims we often forget about.”

Some women will leave dangerous relationships, but others will stay. Rihanna, by choosing to ultimately stay, has set a complicated standard for young, impressionable fans in relationships like Vanessa’s.

Of course, by the same logic of learned behavior, healthy relationship behaviors can be learned as well, attaching a precarious level of importance to setting positive examples for adolescent observers. Peer influence also seizes a slice of responsibility, as shown in a study published in the Journal of Adolescent Health in February.

Researchers from the Department of Sociology at the University of Iowa conducted a longitudinal study of domestic violence perpetrated by young men, examining male subjects originally in grades 7 through 12 and interviewing them about their sexual relationships seven years later. The study examined the correlation between having an affiliation with violent peers during adolescence and perpetration of domestic violence in early adulthood.

Results from the study showed that males with smaller circles of friends were less likely to be violent in relationships. Males with large groups of friends, 13 or more, were over five times likelier to be violent in relationships. This is because, according to the study’s researchers, large homogenous networks act as a primary context for social learning. The more friends a young man has, the likelier it is that one is violent, and as the old axiom goes: Monkey see, monkey do. The effects of the behavior we are surrounded by in our adolescence leave an ineradicable mark on us. The study concluded that school interventions targeted at male fighting could reduce risk of domestic violence perpetration.

So what about Chris Brown, whose adolescence was just a tad different from the average guy's? Thrust into the limelight at such a young age, perhaps he never really had the guidance or example he needed to establish a sane, calm demeanor. And Rihanna—the same can be said for her. Bad influences abound, and countless "friends" acting as socializing forces, is it a wonder the two experienced tumultuous times? Called “unhealthy” by a source close to Brown, their relationship is bad business to incalculable critics, likely including friends, family, and fans alike. If it was of any interest to either party, the two stand to gain much moral and ethic clout by disentangling their identities from one another.

Since separating from Tim, Vanessa has been able to take part in happier relationships. Her theory on why he occupied such an abusive identity: because he could.

“I think he was just very insecure,” Vanessa admits. 

It is difficult to surmise whether insecurity always plays a factor in instances of domestic violence, but the one common denominator for domestic violence victims and perpetrators alike, according to Dr. Gleason? Everyone suffers.

Everyone suffers, and not everyone's suffering can be heard, recognized, and addressed. Rihanna has the power and the publicity to make a persuasive statement to the Vanessas that remain with their Tims, hoping fruitlessly that things will one day be better.

*Names have been changed.

What's in a "like"?

Posting a photo to Instagram is almost meaningless without the hopeful slew of "likes" that follow shortly thereafter. You've taken a share-worthy picture, selected a befitting filter, and have bared all for the Instaworld to see. 63 likes is certainly a better feeling than 12. 1,253 likes will get you to the "Popular" page. But what does it all mean? In short, nothing.

The culture of the "like" is one that has only recently emerged. It is a descendant of other rating methods: think the 5-star movie rating system by which we rate our cinema. On Facebook and Instagram we can "like" something as an instantaneous sign of approval and wordless compliment. On YouTube or Reddit, it's taken a step farther, where you can express your dislike, as well, with one click of a button. On Twitter and Tumblr, admiration can also be expressed in the "most flattering" way: imitation—a retweet or a reblog, respectively.

In an ideal world, the frequency of a like would be an accurate way to measure an item's popularity, success, or overall appeal. However, as we also consider other factors, the integrity of the like seems to shift. Rihanna posts a picture of her left ear and instantly is flooded with 20,000 likes. A talented yet relatively unknown photographer shares an important shot and is social media invisible.

There is a philosophy behind the like, and a burgeoning online culture that surrounds it. It can be utilized as an icebreaker, the like acting as a virtual introduction, a way of making friends via social networking. It can also garner jealousy and distrust between social media butterflies involved in intimate partnerships in the non-pixelated world. The meaning of a like depends on what was liked, and why one liked it. Liking a status that proclaims today has been the worst day in history is spiteful. Liking a status that reads "I'm officially a [name of college of university] graduate!" is universal and customary. We also must consider the frequency with which one reaches for the like button. If someone likes everything, it begins to mean less. If a person has (obviously) viewed every picture you've ever posted, and liked only one from 7 weeks ago, then, well, they must genuinely like that photo a lot.

It's impossible to read too much into the like, as it is just a simple, staple function of most social media networking platforms employed to engage users with one another's personal content. It can be flattering, it can be ironic, it can be annoying. Wherever the root of the like lay, it is arguably the simplest form of contemporary camaraderie.