Parched.

I am a woman.mama.teacher.feminist.

These roles define me and haunt me.

They are all one and at war.

Lately I've been feeling more like a robot than an activist, and I'm thirsty for inspiration. Tonight I gulped it down.

Join me:
"B" ("If I Should Have a Daughter") by Sarah Kay
"Reinventing Feminism" by Courtney Martin
"Too Big for My Skin"by Desdamona

Off limits.

Whoa. I didn't even know a "dry county" was a real thing. Maybe I've lived in California for too long. Driving to another county to buy alcohol seems naughty, for sure. I wonder what the research says.

Does shame work? Do people drink less? Do they drive drunk more?

Or is it a little like banned books? The best way to get a teenager to read a book is to tell him, "You're not supposed to read this."

Didn't we already try this and then decide against it?

I've been thinking about prohibition a bit--especially the connections between prohibition and the women's rights movement. Those " teetotalers" often had devastating stories of the ways that alcohol abuse destroyed their lives. They were fighting for the rights of women. Perhaps prohibition was misguided, but I'm learning to respect those women who were fighting fervently for other women.

My nana recently told me that my great, great grandma was a suffragist grown in the temperance movement; I'm thankful for that legacy.

Cheers?

The "r-word"

Melinda is the protagonist in Speak--one of the core novels for freshman English at our high school. Speak is Melinda's journey of healing--a journey that becomes necessary after Melinda is raped at a party.

The question on the reading quiz was, "What happened between Andy and Melinda at the party?" The correct answer? Andy raped Melinda. They were afraid to use the "r-word." They just couldn't bring themselves to write it, so they wrote:
"He tried inappropriate things with Melinda."
"He had sex with Melinda when she didn't want to."
"They were both drunk and so he did stuff with her, and she tried to stop him."

I gave them the points, of course, but I kept thinking, "No. She was RAPED."

The word is awful. It's strong. It's scary.

So is the thing it describes.

We shouldn't try to make rape less than it is by using euphemisms.

And it didn't happen because she was drunk. It didn't happen because she shouldn't have been alone with him. It didn't happen because she was a freshman talking to an older boy. It happened because he chose to rape her.

Let's call it like it is.

The F word

Being a feminist means believing in equality, choice, and in the strength of women. I don't blink an eye before claiming the title "feminist," but that doesn't mean I fit all of the stereotypes.

If I could "stay home" with my daughter and forsake my career, I would do it in a second, but I would never tell someone else that it was what she needed to do. I respect marriages where roles are clearly defined and divided, even though that model would never work for me. I'm delighted when anyone holds the door for me (especially when I'm juggling a stroller)--male or female.

Being a feminist doesn't mean that we all do things the same way; it just means that I will fight for you, as you seek to find your own way. It means I will fight for your voice to be heard, dear rape victim, dear oppressed worker, dear gay student, dear scared mother. I've got you.

By the way, did you know that we're celebrating the 100th anniversary of women's right to vote in California? It's been 100 short years, and I say, "Well done, sister suffragette!"

This bag of bones

This body and me, we've been at odds my whole life.

As the water ran down my body in the shower, I felt battle scarred. I was wounded--bruised, torn, swollen, and lumpy. And then I realized that we did fight a battle. We worked together to battle for Klara's life. Together, we grew her and birthed her. My body and I were on the same side of the enemy line for once.

Through being hurt, I was healed. I learned that this body that I spent so much time loathing has done me well, never more than in this moment while my newborn sleeps peacefully in my lap.

I'm learning to appreciate the magical strength of my body. I'm proud of these wounds--these wounds that allow my heart to beat outside of my chest, in my sleeping baby.

Your heart is mine.

I feel deeply connected to my identity as a woman. If I were to make a list starting with "I am," the first thing to come to mind would be "a woman." It is my most intimate identifying mark. It is not only what I am, but who I am.

In Abraham Verghese's Cutting for Stone, one of the doctors explains to the young boys observing a group of pregnant women at the clinic, "'Look at them! All happy and radiant. In a few weeks, when labor starts, they'll be yelling, screaming, cursing their husbands. They'll turn into she-devils. You won't recognize them. But now they're like angels.' She sighed. 'A woman is never more a woman than in this state.'"

It's true. Pregnancy has helped me to feel more fully feminine. I have never before felt more sure of my role in the universe. My task is great. It is miraculous. This, this is so right, so unexpectedly right.

As I have lived with the heart of a mother who had empty arms, those women who long to be mothers have always been a part of my soul. Now I feel that so much more intimately. The overwhelming joy of pregnancy is met with the deep sorrow I feel for those who have lost babies, who cannot conceive, or who are waiting.

I am a woman. I feel your pain. I connect to your joy.


We are women. We're in this together.

Feeling like a stupid girl

When the possibility of a relationship is in the air, I always find myself saying the same things.

I say,

"I think I might really like him, but I'm not going to let myself get too excited."

"Well, it was hopeful. That's all that matters."

"Whatever. If nothing happens, nothing happens."

I'm lying. Most of the time, I want, desperately, to believe my own words, but I don't. I always get excited, and for a brief time, believe in the possibility. Those moments of hopefulness always take me aback because they seem so real.

Really, though, it always starts the same way (exciting, hopeful, fun) and ends the same way (frustrating, sad, confusing).

This time, I believed it was different. Looking back, I have no idea why. 

Not an auxiliary

"Having Dena in town was a real joy, especially since almost everyone I'd once been close to from college had gotten married. And it wasn't that you couldn't be friends with a married woman, but you weren't friends in the same way, she didn't have the same freedom in her schedule, especially not after she had children, and even before that, she didn't need you; you needed friendship, and friendship to her was an auxiliary, extra."

 - Curtis Sittenfeld's American Wife

I have remarkable friends; that much is obvious. 

The hardest thing about having so many friends who have different priorities (husbands) and responsibilities (children) than I do, though, is that I need them and they don't need me. They have husbands, and I have them. I crave time with my friends--time when we can be ourselves and support each other. I don't think they have any idea how much I miss them. 

I used to think that, the more time I spent alone, the more accustomed to it I would become. I'm finding just the opposite to be true. 

I need a support system; mine isn't built in. Being the single friend is lame--sometimes, I worry that it's just as lame for you as it is for me. 

Marriage?

I love this piece, expressing one young feminist's view of marriage. I agree completely. Basically, it all sums up to, "I'm not sure."

Ruined

Ashland was, as usual, lovely. I was impressed with both Hamlet (hip hop dance troupe, yes please) and Ruined. We had a delicious dinner at Loft. We stayed at my favorite hotel, Ashland Springs. We shopped in all of our favorite shops. My mom provided perfect company and plenty of laughter.

Usually, when I leave Ashland, I leave rejuvenated and ready to face life upon my return. This year, however, I'm haunted by my experience. Seeing Ruined destroyed my peaceful trip, and I'm pretty sure I'm glad it did. The play won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, and it's obvious why.

Ruined is about the civil war in the Congo, where rape is a weapon of war. It is an emotional, uncomfortable, disconcerting, enlightening journey. The play is being performed in the New Theatre (a tiny, intimate theatre), which makes the play even more jarring. I sat on an aisle seat near the front of the theatre and a scene of sexual assault took place against the railing that my arm was touching. The proximity was too much. I wanted to help her or kick him, and I kept having to remind myself that it was "only" a play. I wept. I wept mostly in the end when one of the characters, in a moment of tenderness and desperation declared, "We, and I'm speaking for men, can do better."

We don't live in the Congo. Raping women is not normalized in our culture. But, still, men can do better. Men can take responsibility for their actions. We can stop blaming victims. The way to stop rape is not for women to stop dressing provocatively or to stop drinking or to not walk alone. The way to end rape is for men to stop raping women.

As we left the play, my mom turned to me and said, "That play makes you hate men. They're all such pigs." I disagree. It reminds me that men can (and, I believe, will) do better.

Over the counter birth control?

Let the Pill Go Free.

What do you think?

Generational Values

I appreciate this conversation between a "third wave" feminist, Sady, and her mother.  I love the idea that mothers teach their children their values and worldview, and then the children interpret it in a way that works for their lives; it manifests itself differently, but it's still there. This momma and daughter are talking about feminism, specifically, but the concept is bigger than that. I also love that Sady's mom is a Christian. "Christian" and "bigot" are sometimes used as synonyms in liberal circles, and it makes me want to scream. She addresses that.

Happy, belated, Mother's Day.

The golden calf...

...The post that's been a long time coming.

I don't understand Evangelical Christianity's obsession with virginity. There. I said it. In fact, I think it's really dangerous and hurtful to young people--especially young women.

The worst part is, as a teenager in a Christian youth group,  I was lied to. I like to think the people "lying" to me didn't know they were spreading lies, but I was given inaccurate information about sex (and the dangers of having sex). They tried to scare me away from having sex, teaching me that condoms are ineffective in preventing HIV. I was taught that my virginity was "a gift" that I would regret giving to someone other than my husband. Pregnancy was held over my head as a threat, rather than teaching me how to prevent it. Although I don't agree with the platform, this video resonates with me because I was sold so many of these lies. Since when is spreading lies helpful for "protecting women?"

I'm not advocating "hookup culture," as that can hurt women, too. In fact, I think my "purity pledge" in high school did protect me from some situations I wasn't ready for, but it missed the mark.  The issue was that I wasn't ready for sex then (and I needed to be taught that I have the ultimate say in what I do and allow others to do with my body), not that I needed to wait until marriage to have sex. I used my chastity vow as an excuse, when, instead, I needed to be able to tell the boys I was making out with, "I don't want to have sex with you. This is as far as I'm comfortable going." Somebody needed to tell me that it was okay to say "no" simply because I wanted to.

We can't use virginity as the ultimate gauge of whether or not a young woman is living a moral life.  In Jessica Valenti's book The Purity Myth: How America's Obsession with Virginity is Hurting Young Women, she says, "Staying 'pure' and 'innocent' is touted as the greatest thing we can do. However, equating this inaction with morality not only is problematic because it continues to tie women's ethics to our bodies, but also is downright insulting because it suggests that women can't be moral actors. Instead, we're defined by what we don't do--our ethics are the ethics of passivity. (This model of ethics fits perfectly with how the virginity movement defines the ideal woman.)" Let's teach our young women to be moral actors--women who can change the world, not women whose ethics are defined by whether or not they delay sex for marriage!

We can give young people the tools they need to make wise decisions and have open discourse about sex and morality. There's not only one way to have healthy sexual relationships, and sex (or the lack thereof) is not the defining factor in a woman's moral character.

What do you think about abstinence-only education? Benefits? Dangers? Experiences?

The Onion for Feminists

Somehow, a few weeks ago, a Cosmo magazine appeared on the lunch table in our hall. I never realized how ridiculously demeaning the magazine is until I spent a lunch period gawking at the pages. I couldn't believe the things the writers were suggesting women do to win over men.

I've never been good about "playing the game." I'm too honest, and I actually like people to know when I apprecaite them and enjoy their company. When a man texts me (and I'm interested in him), I respond. When he flirts, I tend to flirt back. When he asks me out, if I'm available, I don't pretend to have plans. I just don't do coy. Call me crazy, but I don't.

Back to Cosmo: Since I don't plan my life around trying to please men (I care more about people, generally), I got a little panicked. I wondered how many women read the magazine as a relationship Bible and follow its ridiculous advice. The feminist in me got very sad and very angry. It all seemed like a very bad joke.

Last night I read an article on Jezebel that called Cosmo "The Onion for Feminists," and I felt better about the situation. At least other people recognize its ridiculousness.

Figuring it out

I like getting older. Each year, I feel more comfortable with who I am. I've learned to accept (embrace?) my quirks and go with it. I used to feel awkward, but now I just laugh it off. I think I needed to become okay with who I am before I could move forward. Now that I'm more at home in my skin, I feel more prepared to "do work" and grow.

This is going to be a good year for me.

What now?

“There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

- Elie Wiesel

This story is haunting me. I don't know what to do with it. I tried to read through some of the comments beneath the article, but the victim blaming was making me physically ill.

I have questions that I can't seem to drop.

Where was her dad? If he was supposed to pick her up, where was he the two hours she was being brutally raped?

How could people walk by and do nothing? What the fuck made them think their cell phones were better used for video than for calling 911? Where are those videos now?

Why did the insensitive, district spokesperson find it necessary to call the dance a "success" when he was being interviewed? Does he have any idea what just happened?

In what sociopathic mindset is it acceptable to rape a woman, let alone in the presence of others?

How the hell did this turn into an excuse for racism?

How can anybody not be overwhelmingly disturbed by this?

What will happen to her?

Too Big for My Skin

May we teach our girls that beauty is so much bigger than skin.

Why did you let them talk to you like that?

Friday night, when I was finally crawling into bed at about 3:30 in the morning, I could hear voices outside my window--drunk voices. I peaked out my blinds and spotted three young men and a young woman walking across the street from my home. Their conversation, which I could hear clearly through my open window, was disturbing and off color. 

I felt nauseous, sad, and frustrated.

It made me sad about the women who are stuck. About the women who hate themselves. About the women who are raped. About the women who feel worthless. About the women stuck in poverty. About the women in abusive relationships. About the women who starve themselves. About the women who think they deserve no better. About the women who are denied opportunities because of their gender.

It made me wonder what I should do. 

Apparently large women are circus freaks.

So, I was wrapping presents on Friday night (August is the birthday month for pretty much everyone I've ever known), and I had the TV on as background noise. More to Love came on, and I couldn't look away. I had my jaw dropped for most of the show as I thought to myself, "Is this really a show??" Turns out, it is. 

The words "exploitation" and "embarrassment" haunted me. They flash these women's weights on the screen as the camera focuses on them! Why? Is the viewer supposed to compare her weight to theirs assuring herself that she's either a.) on the outside because she is a "healthier" weight or b.) one of "them?" Many of the women have never dated (because larger women are clearly unlovable), and they're willing to risk it all for the chance of love (or fame or money or whatever other reasons people have to "star" on reality shows). Although, apparently, my weight qualifies me to star on More to Love, I don't allow my body size to define who I am, so I can't imagine being a part of anything of the sort

I have a feeling that none of my friends are watching the show, so, in search of "conversation" about the show, I did the next best thing--I Googled it. I was especially interested in some feminist critique of the show, so I was glad to find this post on feministing (which is a website that I often read, but I realize that I should warn you that it's not exactly PG, so click at your own risk). I thought, "YES!" as I read it. The women on the show fit into every stereotype of fat women--they're constantly eating, they are throwing themselves at the man, they are insecure and awkward, and they feel as if they'll never be loved.

I second the commenter who says, "I'd love to see more women who look like me on television. But not as an object of ridicule, pity, or condescension. I don't find this rhetoric of  'Don't worry, dear, you can be size 14 and still find love' empowering in the least. I don't need this reassurance any more than 'a perfect size 2 woman' does."

Shame on you, Fox. 

I'm becoming more and more of a feminist, out of necessity, it seems. If I believe men and women make this great, naturally complimentary pair, I am missing the other half of my well-lived life. Can not our gender roles be fluid? At this point in my life, I am both the "traditional" man and the "traditional" woman in my household. I love homemaking and I love calling the shots. It works for me. 

If I do, someday, end up getting married, I anticipate a division of the "work" in our household, but not a division based squarely on traditional gender roles. I hope, instead, we will figure out what works for us--as both individuals and as a couple. If those roles turn out to be traditional, so be it. 

On a somewhat related note, have you ever noticed that laundry commercials always target women? I love this Sarah Haskins Target Women episode focused on laundry.