Showing posts with label Zippa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Zippa. Show all posts
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I'm Moving!
After years (going on ten now) as a blogger user, I'm switching over to wordpress. Still in the process, but you'll find my new posts here.
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Breast of Intentions
This is a pretty awesome series of posts over at Adventures of a Young Feminist. The posts, crafted after a senior thesis project done by Laura, are detailed around the implications of breasts in American society (and occasionally elsewhere). They touch on everything from the male gaze to breast health to breasts as sexual vs. functional. Some really good stuff.
I'm inspired by them to write again on a personal level. I've got to say that my breasts have been a major part of my experience in womanhood. I know that this is not uncommon, but I think the narratives here are important, because so much of it is dependent on so many other things.
When I was ten, my dad was revisiting his second marriage. She was never good to us, and her re-emergence in his life was painful at best. She wasn't back for long, but she was there long enough to shout menacingly from the kitchen as I played with my brother in the living room, "You really need to be wearing a bra, you know."
Fast forward six hours and I'm hiding in the corner of my own bedroom while my mom and dad argue about whether it was appropriate for her to mention it to me. The ultimate decision was no, but regardless, it was only an argument because my parents were both hesitant to recognize the fact that I was moving from girlhood to womanhood, and all that that implied. My mother, who to this day cannot say vagina in a normal tone of voice, was little help with the body confidence issues that spring up as you go from flat-chested to a C-cup in the course of a year. Granted, I had no idea what cup size I was for a long time, because the only bras I would wear were athletic. I was intent on minimizing those monstrosities on my chest, and so while the girls around me started flaunting their pert little babes, I spent middle school all squashed up and hiding under t-shirts. When I started bleeding in 8th grade, I was terrified at the pain I felt in them, certain that something was wrong with me but with nobody to ask. Thankfully the internet rolled into our living room midway through that year and I was at least able to alleviate some of the anxiety.
My sophomore year of high school I finally went with a friend and had a real bra fitting. By that point some of my peers had caught up with me, and I was a little more comfortable with the idea that they existed to begin with. I was also venturing outside of my family and into the treacherous grounds of being a small-town feminist (as mentioned in my previous post), and dealing with the body image issues and the eating disorder. All this was going on at once, but I bought a real bra, with light padding and underwire. I also bought my first formal gown and proved to myself once and for all that I could be beautiful. I have not failed to believe in at least the potential since, which has been nice for me and has certainly helped me manage the food issues better. I have certainly not starved myself to the point of delirium since then.
Of course, it was right about then that I started getting the attention. I had my first boyfriend by the middle of my sophomore year (that would last until March of my senior year and end disastrously, but that's for another day). Throughout that relationship I fended off attention from boys and men alike. My parents were so terrified that I would get pregnant that they drove me back into depression with their hatred of my adult body. Every outfit was scrutinized, and though I was generally pretty put-together and cleavage-free, my jeans were always too tight or I wasn't wearing baggy enough shirts. I took to wearing a jacket all the time. The first time anyone other than myself touched my breasts, I was 15, and he took a good forty-five minutes to work up the nerve to slide his hand from my waist to my chest. It was another year before I would lose my virginity, and at the time I felt like I was behind schedule, though afterward, of course, it was made quite clear that I had crossed a line I shouldn't have. And again, it was brought back to the way I wore my shirts.
I currently sport a D-cup and have become painfully accustomed to addressing (or ignoring, depending on the situation) the amount of uninvited attention they get. I still have a tendency to hide in t-shirts unless I'm feeling particularly plucky. I have had men ask for a great many things having to do with my breasts, most of them beyond the limits of appropriateness. I have had to repeatedly remind even my boyfriends that my breasts were mine, and therefore invitation-only. A few have respected that; a few haven't (and were pretty promptly kicked to the curb).
When I have children, I anticipate an entirely new dynamic around them. First, I am afraid of them growing, simply because they are more than I'd like to have to deal with already, and because I'm not looking forward to having extra male attention hovering around my aching chest. Second, as an avid believer in breastfeeding, I foresee dealing with American society as it currently is (since nobody vocal is doing a whole lot these days to change it). The sexualization of the breast means that using them functionally is offensive, and having dealt with the sexualization aspect, I worry about having another body crisis when they are being judged in a completely different way. I am, however, not terribly concerned about the long-term changes, which I have a pretty realistic idea of thanks to my mom (who had some radical ideas about childbirth and early childhood, despite her other forms of closetedness), so I guess there is that safe point.
This has been a major part of why I identify as queer, as well. Note that I distinguish this from straight/lesbian/bisexual, but that's really a topic for another day. In practice I am primarily heterosexual, though I have had one female partner. For me, the implications of my body for her were completely different than the implications have been for men. That different dynamic is really one of the primary reasons I don't simply identify as straight. That, and the fact that if a woman who matched me well walked into my life I wouldn't hesitate to be with her.
Now I know that my body is attractive. First because I myself happen to like it, and also because I have been told it. I have gotten positive and negative attention because of it. It's funny, because my body does not fit the typical mold for beauty. I generally chalk it up to a combination of my face and my shape, which is larger than perhaps ideal but proportional. I no longer have body image issues (most days) although I do still sometimes struggle with remembering that I do, in fact, have to eat to survive. My partner's younger cousin has a crush on me (he ranks me as a 7.5 on the Megan Fox scale, I'm told, whatever that means). I'm okay with most of it. But sometimes, it still becomes threatening. I am aware of the power and the vulnerability my body gives me.
The ends of my posts always trail off into the present. This has, as I'm sure you can gather, been a long trek. It took time and energy and hurt to get me to where I am.
I'm inspired by them to write again on a personal level. I've got to say that my breasts have been a major part of my experience in womanhood. I know that this is not uncommon, but I think the narratives here are important, because so much of it is dependent on so many other things.
When I was ten, my dad was revisiting his second marriage. She was never good to us, and her re-emergence in his life was painful at best. She wasn't back for long, but she was there long enough to shout menacingly from the kitchen as I played with my brother in the living room, "You really need to be wearing a bra, you know."
Fast forward six hours and I'm hiding in the corner of my own bedroom while my mom and dad argue about whether it was appropriate for her to mention it to me. The ultimate decision was no, but regardless, it was only an argument because my parents were both hesitant to recognize the fact that I was moving from girlhood to womanhood, and all that that implied. My mother, who to this day cannot say vagina in a normal tone of voice, was little help with the body confidence issues that spring up as you go from flat-chested to a C-cup in the course of a year. Granted, I had no idea what cup size I was for a long time, because the only bras I would wear were athletic. I was intent on minimizing those monstrosities on my chest, and so while the girls around me started flaunting their pert little babes, I spent middle school all squashed up and hiding under t-shirts. When I started bleeding in 8th grade, I was terrified at the pain I felt in them, certain that something was wrong with me but with nobody to ask. Thankfully the internet rolled into our living room midway through that year and I was at least able to alleviate some of the anxiety.
My sophomore year of high school I finally went with a friend and had a real bra fitting. By that point some of my peers had caught up with me, and I was a little more comfortable with the idea that they existed to begin with. I was also venturing outside of my family and into the treacherous grounds of being a small-town feminist (as mentioned in my previous post), and dealing with the body image issues and the eating disorder. All this was going on at once, but I bought a real bra, with light padding and underwire. I also bought my first formal gown and proved to myself once and for all that I could be beautiful. I have not failed to believe in at least the potential since, which has been nice for me and has certainly helped me manage the food issues better. I have certainly not starved myself to the point of delirium since then.
Of course, it was right about then that I started getting the attention. I had my first boyfriend by the middle of my sophomore year (that would last until March of my senior year and end disastrously, but that's for another day). Throughout that relationship I fended off attention from boys and men alike. My parents were so terrified that I would get pregnant that they drove me back into depression with their hatred of my adult body. Every outfit was scrutinized, and though I was generally pretty put-together and cleavage-free, my jeans were always too tight or I wasn't wearing baggy enough shirts. I took to wearing a jacket all the time. The first time anyone other than myself touched my breasts, I was 15, and he took a good forty-five minutes to work up the nerve to slide his hand from my waist to my chest. It was another year before I would lose my virginity, and at the time I felt like I was behind schedule, though afterward, of course, it was made quite clear that I had crossed a line I shouldn't have. And again, it was brought back to the way I wore my shirts.
I currently sport a D-cup and have become painfully accustomed to addressing (or ignoring, depending on the situation) the amount of uninvited attention they get. I still have a tendency to hide in t-shirts unless I'm feeling particularly plucky. I have had men ask for a great many things having to do with my breasts, most of them beyond the limits of appropriateness. I have had to repeatedly remind even my boyfriends that my breasts were mine, and therefore invitation-only. A few have respected that; a few haven't (and were pretty promptly kicked to the curb).
When I have children, I anticipate an entirely new dynamic around them. First, I am afraid of them growing, simply because they are more than I'd like to have to deal with already, and because I'm not looking forward to having extra male attention hovering around my aching chest. Second, as an avid believer in breastfeeding, I foresee dealing with American society as it currently is (since nobody vocal is doing a whole lot these days to change it). The sexualization of the breast means that using them functionally is offensive, and having dealt with the sexualization aspect, I worry about having another body crisis when they are being judged in a completely different way. I am, however, not terribly concerned about the long-term changes, which I have a pretty realistic idea of thanks to my mom (who had some radical ideas about childbirth and early childhood, despite her other forms of closetedness), so I guess there is that safe point.
This has been a major part of why I identify as queer, as well. Note that I distinguish this from straight/lesbian/bisexual, but that's really a topic for another day. In practice I am primarily heterosexual, though I have had one female partner. For me, the implications of my body for her were completely different than the implications have been for men. That different dynamic is really one of the primary reasons I don't simply identify as straight. That, and the fact that if a woman who matched me well walked into my life I wouldn't hesitate to be with her.
Now I know that my body is attractive. First because I myself happen to like it, and also because I have been told it. I have gotten positive and negative attention because of it. It's funny, because my body does not fit the typical mold for beauty. I generally chalk it up to a combination of my face and my shape, which is larger than perhaps ideal but proportional. I no longer have body image issues (most days) although I do still sometimes struggle with remembering that I do, in fact, have to eat to survive. My partner's younger cousin has a crush on me (he ranks me as a 7.5 on the Megan Fox scale, I'm told, whatever that means). I'm okay with most of it. But sometimes, it still becomes threatening. I am aware of the power and the vulnerability my body gives me.
The ends of my posts always trail off into the present. This has, as I'm sure you can gather, been a long trek. It took time and energy and hurt to get me to where I am.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Chalk it Up to the Small-Town Life
This post is a little disjointed, I'm going to warn you in advance.
Growing up where I did, feminism was a pretty silent subject. In reality, racism is still pretty rampant out here, and we're about twelve steps behind the metropolitan level of social equity (which should say something). My mom was a little bit of a free thinker, but it was made pretty obvious that this was not a way I could "be" outside of home.
I remember the first time I saw 10 Things I Hate About You, and how amazed I was that Kat could be that way around other people, and be so collected even when other people thought she was ridiculous. I wanted that power. Even through the trope that she just needed to be loved (it's a Taming of the Shrew remake, after all), I came away from that movie feeling stronger.
I haven't watched the new ABC Family show simply because so much of the movie for me was the cast in the roles they fit so well, but I found this little bit:
I relate to that very much. In middle school I started coming into myself, and I began to develop the attitude I take so much pride in now. I'm not callous, I care about people and how they feel, but I do not care what they think of me. I will stick up for someone and I will stick up for myself. It took me a painfully long time to be able to do that.
I hit high school in 2001. We all know what happened that September. It ended up being the single defining moment of my high school social interactions. In my conservative, white, predominantly Christian, working class community, I was the only person I knew with liberal leanings. In the weeks after 9/11, I collected images from newspapers and websites of the mourning gatherings across the globe, and hung them in my locker. I still have a scrapbook of those images; those indicators of humanity. The recognition that everybody was feeling pain for us, for our indoctrination into the world of Big Terrorism.
People made nasty comments about those images, like I was unAmerican for it. When I was a sophomore, I realized I had a remarkable proficiency in languages, and I expressed an interest in diplomatic affairs. Again, this was a small school--about 500 people K-12 at the time--so there was no debate team, or Model UN group, or any of that. I was the only person I knew, apart from my civics teacher, who read the newspapers every day (unless it was the sports page). I read Mother Jones. I read the Economist. I read the New York Times instead of the local papers.
Every year, we were supposed to write essays for the American Legion's contest. I always wrote something thoughtful, generally indicating that the Founders did not create this country so we could follow our leaders without question. Without fail, my English teacher would give it back to me, ask me to revise it to be more appropriate for the contest. I would change a little, submit it, and for four years, I won that contest. I was given the American Legion scholarship when I graduated.
Yet I was the girl who was seen by my peers as unAmerican. I didn't like Bush. I drew a definite distinction between my friends and family who were serving--over 30 of them and counting, now--and the Military Industry.
I was political, I was feminist, and I did not fit in.
I went to college, and that changed. I finally had peers who I could talk to about things, and even if they didn't agree, there was discussion. It was liberating.
Now I'm back here, about to go work back in that school system, and I am nervous.
Growing up where I did, feminism was a pretty silent subject. In reality, racism is still pretty rampant out here, and we're about twelve steps behind the metropolitan level of social equity (which should say something). My mom was a little bit of a free thinker, but it was made pretty obvious that this was not a way I could "be" outside of home.
I remember the first time I saw 10 Things I Hate About You, and how amazed I was that Kat could be that way around other people, and be so collected even when other people thought she was ridiculous. I wanted that power. Even through the trope that she just needed to be loved (it's a Taming of the Shrew remake, after all), I came away from that movie feeling stronger.
I haven't watched the new ABC Family show simply because so much of the movie for me was the cast in the roles they fit so well, but I found this little bit:
I was shocked (ok, maybe not shocked, but it really stuck out to me) while watching this weeks episode. For an assignment that involved writing a paper on a moment that changed your life, Kat wrote about the day that she first started reading Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex and became a feminist. I think that's a great paper topic. But her teacher told her it was unoriginal and that people in the space station could see she was a feminist so Kat should write about something else. Wow. Yes, people can see that she's a feminist, but being a feminist is a large part of her life, so it would make sense that she wrote about becoming a feminist as a moment that changed her life. To call that unoriginal is insulting, especially considering that a lot of the other people in the class did not write about such insightful things and are not feminists. Kat rewrote the paper about the first day that her dad bought her tampons. Her teacher was pleased and said it was good as long as it didn't end with "and then I became a feminist."
Via: Adventures of a Young Feminist: Silencing in Schools from 10 Things
I relate to that very much. In middle school I started coming into myself, and I began to develop the attitude I take so much pride in now. I'm not callous, I care about people and how they feel, but I do not care what they think of me. I will stick up for someone and I will stick up for myself. It took me a painfully long time to be able to do that.
I hit high school in 2001. We all know what happened that September. It ended up being the single defining moment of my high school social interactions. In my conservative, white, predominantly Christian, working class community, I was the only person I knew with liberal leanings. In the weeks after 9/11, I collected images from newspapers and websites of the mourning gatherings across the globe, and hung them in my locker. I still have a scrapbook of those images; those indicators of humanity. The recognition that everybody was feeling pain for us, for our indoctrination into the world of Big Terrorism.
People made nasty comments about those images, like I was unAmerican for it. When I was a sophomore, I realized I had a remarkable proficiency in languages, and I expressed an interest in diplomatic affairs. Again, this was a small school--about 500 people K-12 at the time--so there was no debate team, or Model UN group, or any of that. I was the only person I knew, apart from my civics teacher, who read the newspapers every day (unless it was the sports page). I read Mother Jones. I read the Economist. I read the New York Times instead of the local papers.
Every year, we were supposed to write essays for the American Legion's contest. I always wrote something thoughtful, generally indicating that the Founders did not create this country so we could follow our leaders without question. Without fail, my English teacher would give it back to me, ask me to revise it to be more appropriate for the contest. I would change a little, submit it, and for four years, I won that contest. I was given the American Legion scholarship when I graduated.
Yet I was the girl who was seen by my peers as unAmerican. I didn't like Bush. I drew a definite distinction between my friends and family who were serving--over 30 of them and counting, now--and the Military Industry.
I was political, I was feminist, and I did not fit in.
I went to college, and that changed. I finally had peers who I could talk to about things, and even if they didn't agree, there was discussion. It was liberating.
Now I'm back here, about to go work back in that school system, and I am nervous.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Taking up Space
While I was watching the town hall coverage this morning (which I won't start on until I'm calmer about it), I saw two commercials I knew I needed to write about.
The first was for MultiGrain Cheerios, which I rather enjoy, but the commercial and ad campaign includes this slogan:
It's a prime segue into one of my biggest feminist thought bugs: taking up space. It's pretty common fodder in the thought process of a feminist-thinking person that women are discouraged from taking up space. It's in the weight loss thing, but also in so many other ways. As a woman, I am conscious of my tendency to step to the side of the sidewalk when someone is passing, for example. Women will frequently step aside for me, as well, but men do not. Men tend to assume their space is theirs while they occupy it, whereas women assume their space is common to everyone and are more likely to give it up. I am constantly aware of the amount of space I take up, and not just as myself but in comparison to others. Leg crossing is an example of the impulse to shrink ourselves into as much space as possible (despite the fact that it's no more comfortable for a woman to do so than that man sitting with his legs splayed).
As a project for a sociology class once, I was asked to break several folkways. Most people did silly things; we all had to choose three, and admittedly one of mine was to walk backwards. The second, I made eye contact in elevators. The primary one, however, was to refuse to step aside on the sidewalk. I did not take up more than the right side of the path; I did not walk arm-in-arm or anything that would otherwise make my passage awkward for others. I simply refused to step off the path to let others pass me.
At best, I got dirty looks. I was called a bitch, I was shoulder-bumped. It was unpleasant at best, and not only that, but it made me immensely uncomfortable to try it. To simply walk on the path, when others were approaching, made me uncomfortable.
To me, that says something.
As does an add that encourages women to eat a food that creates "less you."
The first was for MultiGrain Cheerios, which I rather enjoy, but the commercial and ad campaign includes this slogan:
It's a prime segue into one of my biggest feminist thought bugs: taking up space. It's pretty common fodder in the thought process of a feminist-thinking person that women are discouraged from taking up space. It's in the weight loss thing, but also in so many other ways. As a woman, I am conscious of my tendency to step to the side of the sidewalk when someone is passing, for example. Women will frequently step aside for me, as well, but men do not. Men tend to assume their space is theirs while they occupy it, whereas women assume their space is common to everyone and are more likely to give it up. I am constantly aware of the amount of space I take up, and not just as myself but in comparison to others. Leg crossing is an example of the impulse to shrink ourselves into as much space as possible (despite the fact that it's no more comfortable for a woman to do so than that man sitting with his legs splayed).
As a project for a sociology class once, I was asked to break several folkways. Most people did silly things; we all had to choose three, and admittedly one of mine was to walk backwards. The second, I made eye contact in elevators. The primary one, however, was to refuse to step aside on the sidewalk. I did not take up more than the right side of the path; I did not walk arm-in-arm or anything that would otherwise make my passage awkward for others. I simply refused to step off the path to let others pass me.
At best, I got dirty looks. I was called a bitch, I was shoulder-bumped. It was unpleasant at best, and not only that, but it made me immensely uncomfortable to try it. To simply walk on the path, when others were approaching, made me uncomfortable.
To me, that says something.
As does an add that encourages women to eat a food that creates "less you."
For So Many Reasons
My heart is breaking today.
I cried watching the town hall coverage on CNN. I can only think of the Jefferson quote, "I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just." I can't believe the levels of insensitivity and selfishness and outright callousness people are displaying on this issue. And then I realize that I can believe it, and that hurts more--when did I stop expecting people to care about one another?
A one-time friend is also having a difficult time (she's been diagnosed with the same disorder that killed her brother two years ago), and although it's a manageable thing, I know she is terrified and hurting. Yet with the circumstances between us being the way they are, there is nothing I can do. I called her and offered help if she needed it but was, as expected, brushed off with a "thanks but I'm ok." I am sad about the schism between us, and about what is happening to her. I don't know how to tell her how sorry I am. I don't think she'd be able to forgive me, even if I did.
I am also trying very hard to formulate ideas for my graduate application essays, and am stuck between getting all feminist and going into information access and literacy education as a means of empowerment, and just being all trope-y and saying the "right" things. If I do the former it's bound to be a less coherent essay, for sure, because I'm going to be stretching into new ideas, but it will also be much more potent. The latter will be smoother but less impressive in content. I know that both matter.
Also I was up until 5 again talking to the fellow about everything under the sun (and moon), and I'm tired, and just PMS-y enough to realize it. Bugger all.
I cried watching the town hall coverage on CNN. I can only think of the Jefferson quote, "I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just." I can't believe the levels of insensitivity and selfishness and outright callousness people are displaying on this issue. And then I realize that I can believe it, and that hurts more--when did I stop expecting people to care about one another?
A one-time friend is also having a difficult time (she's been diagnosed with the same disorder that killed her brother two years ago), and although it's a manageable thing, I know she is terrified and hurting. Yet with the circumstances between us being the way they are, there is nothing I can do. I called her and offered help if she needed it but was, as expected, brushed off with a "thanks but I'm ok." I am sad about the schism between us, and about what is happening to her. I don't know how to tell her how sorry I am. I don't think she'd be able to forgive me, even if I did.
I am also trying very hard to formulate ideas for my graduate application essays, and am stuck between getting all feminist and going into information access and literacy education as a means of empowerment, and just being all trope-y and saying the "right" things. If I do the former it's bound to be a less coherent essay, for sure, because I'm going to be stretching into new ideas, but it will also be much more potent. The latter will be smoother but less impressive in content. I know that both matter.
Also I was up until 5 again talking to the fellow about everything under the sun (and moon), and I'm tired, and just PMS-y enough to realize it. Bugger all.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Purge: Rehab Diaries
New Author Speaks Up For The "Not Otherwise Specified" - Eating Disorders - Jezebel:
I almost cried when I read this quote. It's so frustrating for me to know that when I went weeks without eating in high school nobody even cared--and many of those that noticed the weight loss were HAPPY because I was "finally paying attention to my weight." There's only one person to whom I've even admitted that it was anything other than a stomach bug.
Nicole Johns doesn't look like she has an eating disorder, and for a long time that was a problem. She was diagnosed as having EDNOS, or an Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified.
"'You can have an eating disorder at any weight, you can be overweight, underweight, average weight. It doesn't matter. It's not all about the weight.' — Nicole Johns, author of a book on her experiences with ED"
I almost cried when I read this quote. It's so frustrating for me to know that when I went weeks without eating in high school nobody even cared--and many of those that noticed the weight loss were HAPPY because I was "finally paying attention to my weight." There's only one person to whom I've even admitted that it was anything other than a stomach bug.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Believe It
No, not you • This is my religion: "This morning I took a woman and her 5 kids to the bus stop so they can try to get out of town before her partner finds them, again. Later I held the baby of a woman with bruises on her face while she tried to figure out how long she could stay with her husband before he killed her, because she needed a little more time to get it together before going out on her own. Now tonight I am in the hospital holding hands with a woman while they collect evidence from her sexual assault, because her boyfriend was “too annoyed” to stay in the room with her. And I am thinking- this is my religion. This is how I interact with the world.
Sometimes people ask me, “isn’t it stressful to be surrounded by so much suffering all the time?” I don’t understand this question. We are all surrounded by the same amount of suffering. We are all profiting from and losing to the same culture. Ignoring it never made me happy. Addressing it does."
I honestly cried at this.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Befriend a Raven
It's a personal goal of mine to try to read through things and identify the sources of problems within the unit as close to myself as possible. Where am I responsible? Generally this expands to "how are people like me, people that I identify with and am like, responsible," but it boils down to the same thing--what can I do? I'm not a big fan of scapegoating, and I try to avoid it.
Right now, I can find it. I can call it. I can notice it. That's the beginning. A realization that there are no heroes and villains in the world. Only people, doing things that they generally thing they're doing for the right reasons. If we're ever going to fix the problems, we need to change some deep-seated attitudes, not just remove people from the equations. There is no "good" violence or "bad" violence, only violence, which we can choose on societal terms to excuse or not. The choice, however, does not change the meaning of violence.
Right now, I can find it. I can call it. I can notice it. That's the beginning. A realization that there are no heroes and villains in the world. Only people, doing things that they generally thing they're doing for the right reasons. If we're ever going to fix the problems, we need to change some deep-seated attitudes, not just remove people from the equations. There is no "good" violence or "bad" violence, only violence, which we can choose on societal terms to excuse or not. The choice, however, does not change the meaning of violence.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm hostility. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Search Terms
I'm apparently still new enough to not have creepy search terms bring me up. I'm always fascinated, though, with seeing how people are finding me.
These are my top 8:
I don't know why I get linked on "overheard in Chicago" since I don't think I've mentioned any of that. The rest make sense.
These are my top 8:
overheard in chicago
xinjiang war
face up salon
room salon
overheard chicago
war room salon
burqa ban
not too excess
I don't know why I get linked on "overheard in Chicago" since I don't think I've mentioned any of that. The rest make sense.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Well
As it turns out, I don't think I'm going to go back and write that post. Consider it a link, I guess.
I've had a lot going on. I hope to get some posting done tomorrow, but we'll have to see. I also need to go turn in some paperwork for my new job, which requires a few hours and excessive grooming. I've grown far too accustomed to my yoga pants this summer, and all of my clothes are much too large all of a sudden. I hadn't even realized I wasn't eating until I tried to put on pants without a string. I need to get back on top of that before my high school ED resurfaces. Of all the ways in which living back at home has impacted me, this is the most problematic. It is much too easy to avoid food out here. This was good when I just wanted to drop my midnight pizza weight; it's not so good when I realize I've lost weight noticeably in just a couple of weeks.
This isn't something I usually talk about, and nobody asks (nobody worries when a chubby girl isn't eating, you know). However, I got sick this week and I know it's because I've been doing a number on my body and my immune system. I may or may not be back regularly until I figure out what's bringing this about and get it resolved.
I do hope to post sometimes, though. Once a day would even be fair (since before I was posting three or four).
Okay. Off I go again.
I've had a lot going on. I hope to get some posting done tomorrow, but we'll have to see. I also need to go turn in some paperwork for my new job, which requires a few hours and excessive grooming. I've grown far too accustomed to my yoga pants this summer, and all of my clothes are much too large all of a sudden. I hadn't even realized I wasn't eating until I tried to put on pants without a string. I need to get back on top of that before my high school ED resurfaces. Of all the ways in which living back at home has impacted me, this is the most problematic. It is much too easy to avoid food out here. This was good when I just wanted to drop my midnight pizza weight; it's not so good when I realize I've lost weight noticeably in just a couple of weeks.
This isn't something I usually talk about, and nobody asks (nobody worries when a chubby girl isn't eating, you know). However, I got sick this week and I know it's because I've been doing a number on my body and my immune system. I may or may not be back regularly until I figure out what's bringing this about and get it resolved.
I do hope to post sometimes, though. Once a day would even be fair (since before I was posting three or four).
Okay. Off I go again.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Privilege, Language, and Dialogue in Identity
In recent posts at Feministe, Womanist Musings, Women's Glib, and a few other spots, the discussion of labels has been heated and torn apart. It's a difficult issue for me, because it's one of those things where staging a dialogue isn't acceptable, but there are so many viewpoints on it that it's hard to handle. My own comments were as privileged as the original post, and I took all the criticisms therein as if they were directed at me.
I'm new to this, frankly, and I have a hard time handling it. Not the feminism, but the intersectionality of equity movements and how they work against each other. The roots of my feminism are academic, and so are inherently based around a privileged class and a privileged viewpoint. I am accustomed to discussing things round-table style, under the assumption that a discussion between people is the fairest way to hash this stuff out. So when I began asking and was quickly privilege-checked for expecting others to educate me, it was painful in a way that I haven't totally recovered from--a sure sign of the privilege associated with the issue.
The heart of the matter, I suppose, is that you can't check your privilege at the door. It isn't a jacket; it's more like your scent. It will follow you around the party wherever you go, and while some may think it's a lovely scent, others may find it downright appalling. That's the point. If you're being smart about it, you don't bathe in acrid fragrances before you leave the house. You realize that what you were born with may be offensive enough, and maybe you try to minimize it by showering regularly.
And when someone tells you that you stink, by God, go take a bath. Don't argue that you've got the most wonderful perfumes on and they should realize the care you put into your preparations for the evening.
So here it is, on the table: I'm white, female, cis, abled (I have a visible skin condition that occasionally affects the way people interact with me but doesn't debilitate me on most days), queer, young, middle-class. I am pretty high-tier on privilege ladder.
Sometimes I get it wrong. I don't ask you to excuse this. In fact, I'd much rather be called out on it. If you can bear to be nice, great. If not, I'll take that, too.
A few thoughtful posts on the matter (I'll add more as I come across them; this post may end up permalinked):
A lot of those are womanist discussions, which is both positive and negative, because while feminism has been exclusive of women of color, womanism has itself had a tendency to primarily include black women. Neither is truly inclusive of trans issues, among other things. In either case, there is a lot at stake and a great many balls in play on this court. Privilege, again, has determined who is playing and who is in the stands.
I'm new to this, frankly, and I have a hard time handling it. Not the feminism, but the intersectionality of equity movements and how they work against each other. The roots of my feminism are academic, and so are inherently based around a privileged class and a privileged viewpoint. I am accustomed to discussing things round-table style, under the assumption that a discussion between people is the fairest way to hash this stuff out. So when I began asking and was quickly privilege-checked for expecting others to educate me, it was painful in a way that I haven't totally recovered from--a sure sign of the privilege associated with the issue.
The heart of the matter, I suppose, is that you can't check your privilege at the door. It isn't a jacket; it's more like your scent. It will follow you around the party wherever you go, and while some may think it's a lovely scent, others may find it downright appalling. That's the point. If you're being smart about it, you don't bathe in acrid fragrances before you leave the house. You realize that what you were born with may be offensive enough, and maybe you try to minimize it by showering regularly.
And when someone tells you that you stink, by God, go take a bath. Don't argue that you've got the most wonderful perfumes on and they should realize the care you put into your preparations for the evening.
So here it is, on the table: I'm white, female, cis, abled (I have a visible skin condition that occasionally affects the way people interact with me but doesn't debilitate me on most days), queer, young, middle-class. I am pretty high-tier on privilege ladder.
Sometimes I get it wrong. I don't ask you to excuse this. In fact, I'd much rather be called out on it. If you can bear to be nice, great. If not, I'll take that, too.
A few thoughtful posts on the matter (I'll add more as I come across them; this post may end up permalinked):
Kittywampus: What Intersectionality is and Isn't
Echidne of the Snakes: Culture and Privilege
What Tami Said: Nobody knows the troubles of a black womanist blogger in the white femisphere
Womanist Musings: Can a White Woman Be a Womanist?
Womanist Musings: The Name of This Blog Is
Womanist Musings: Womanism/Feminism Feminism/Womanism
Global Comment: Clean Up Feminism, Then We'll Talk
A lot of those are womanist discussions, which is both positive and negative, because while feminism has been exclusive of women of color, womanism has itself had a tendency to primarily include black women. Neither is truly inclusive of trans issues, among other things. In either case, there is a lot at stake and a great many balls in play on this court. Privilege, again, has determined who is playing and who is in the stands.
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