Question of the Day
As a follow-up to Tuesday's question about one more season of a television series: If you could option a sequel (or third or fourth installment etc.) to any film, which would you choose?
Personally, I'd love to know what became of Harold.
Behold the Lamb, Part Two
McCain is Jesus at the National WWI Museum in Kansas City, Missouri:
McCain is Jesus at the Navy and Marine Corps Memorial Stadium in Annapolis, Maryland:
McCain is Jesus. Amen.
[Part One.]
NOOZ
Very Important Nooz from the campaign trail, courtesy of CNN: Obama: I'm not 'getting fresh or anything'.
Barack Obama appeared to have a bit of an awkward moment on the campaign trail in South Bend, Indiana.Tune in to The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer, where his guest will be Harvard virbratocrotchologist Sandy Kurtzfelt, offering expert opinion on the situation and a one-quarter scale replica of the event.
From the pool report:
"[Obama] posed for report pictures with the staff when he apparently felt his phone start to vibrate in his pocket on his right thigh – against which one woman was closely pressed.
"Now that’s my phone buzzing there," he said, drawing a laugh. "I don’t want you to think I’m getting fresh or anything."
Also: Jack Cafferty weighs in on whether this "closely pressed" woman was actually a whore hired by Hillary Clinton to ruin Barack Obama and the Democratic Party.
Plus: Did Obama's whore previously have an affair with Bill Clinton?
Nooz, bitchez.
What you don't know CAN hurt you
Today, I was reading the Advocate interview with Sen. Obama. There wasn't much there to surprise me (slow and steady wins the race, we-don't-have-the-votes, etc.), but then I hit this paragraph:
Somebody else who influenced me, I actually had a professor at Occidental -- now, this is embarrassing because I might screw up his last name -- Lawrence Golden, I think it was. He was a wonderful guy. He was the first openly gay professor that I had ever come in contact with, or openly gay person of authority that I had come in contact with. And he was just a terrific guy. He wasn’t proselytizing all the time, but just his comfort in his own skin and the friendship we developed helped to educate me on a number of these issues. (emp. mine)I was simultaneously stunned and felt as if a gear had clicked into place.
I haven't been happy with any of the Democratic front-runners on LGBTQ issues, and I must admit that my cynic has usually emerged when they have spoken to, or about, my community ("They're only talking like that because they need us now, blah, blah, blah . . . " goes the the Scorpio-rising voice in my brain).
However, the statement above meshed perfectly with a vague uneasiness I've had whenever Obama would speak about LGBTQ issues -- a sense that somehow, he doesn't really "get it" -- that he is not, in fact, comfortable with queers. I tried to dismiss this feeling as his supporters insisted that his inclusion of a known homophobe on his campaign tour was simply a way to create dialogue between the two sides (a meme that Obama echoes in the Advocate article), but found that I wasn't successful in quelling this nagging feeling.
To read Obama's direct invocation of one of the most ridiculous and fear-mongering homophobic stereotypes (you know how we queers "proselytize" all the time) demonstrates, to me, that he is completely out of touch with his own internalized homophobia.
The word proselytize is unambiguous in its meaning:
1 : to induce someone to convert to one's faithI've spoken in the past about how the "queers proselytize" myth is a huge projection on the part of Christians who are homophobic. I won't cover that ground again here -- go read the other post if you want my views on it.
2 : to recruit someone to join one's party, institution, or cause
transitive verb : to recruit or convert especially to a new faith, institution, or cause ~ Merriam-Webster
But now I will surprise you -- this post is not about Barack Obama.
It's about privilege, and language, and unconsciousness.
I took issue yesterday with what I considered to be a sexist framing of Clinton's campaign choices with regard to the use of the word "sin", and what was, in my opinion, a hyperbolic comparison which demonstrated sexist double-standards. In the comment thread, my protest (and the protest of others) was characterized as a "claxon" (another sexist framing commonly used when women strongly protest sexism -- you know -- shrill/harping/loud/mouthy? ). Some people said that they "couldn't see it".
A while back, I argued that "shuck and jive" was racist framing of Obama's campaign. Some people said that they "couldn't see it".
Just last week, Randi Rhodes called Clinton a "fucking whore", and the rank misogyny of this was discussed with some disgust here. Some people said that they "couldn't see it".
See, the problem with your own internalized bigotry is: You can't see it.
No doubt Sen. Obama thought that he was paying Mr. (I-Think-His-Name-Is) Golden a compliment by congratulating him on NOT proselytizing. Just like Biden was congratulating Obama by saying he was "the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean . . . . I mean, that's a storybook, man".
Biden issued a statement saying that he regretted any offense that his remark might have caused anyone. That it was not his intent to offend. In truth, I think that it probably wasn't his intent to offend.
I'm guessing, though, that Biden didn't really take a moment to examine the underlying white-privilege and racist assumptions that exist within him that would give rise to such an asinine statement in the first place. I'm guessing that Obama will not examine the underlying straight-privilege and homophobic assumptions which fueled his statement either, no matter how many queers take umbrage at it.
But this examination is what is required, if we are going to actually progress in the eradication of homophobia, racism, sexism, xenophobia, etc..
We have to start seeing what we can't see, because our eyes are blinkered by our own privilege.
How do we do that? How do we see what we are literally blind to?
Well, first of all, we have to understand what levels of privilege we possess, and we have to understand that our privilege is usually completely invisible to us, but is usually glaringly obvious to someone who does not have it.
Second, we have to be willing to stop using that privilege as a trump-card in any discussion with someone who has less privilege than we do. ("Well, the majority of people agree with me, blah, blah, blah . . . . " -- well, of COURSE they do -- the majority of people who have the same privilege that you do, anyway.)
And finally, we need help in the form of "outside eyes". Which means that we have to interact with other people who do not share our privilege.
We have to interact intimately enough that we know whether we think that person's views are generally well-reasoned and consistent within their own espoused principles and ethics. We have to interact intimately enough to establish a platform of mutual-respect and trust. With those with whom we haven't established this platform, we have to cultivate a willingness to be curious about them until we know more, even (and maybe especially) if they are a person who doesn't share our viewpoint.
We have to be willing to examine -- every single time -- whether our disagreement with someone who calls us out on our privilege is simply a scramble to defend and maintain that privilege, rather than a well-reasoned argument that is consistent with, and supportive of, our desire to move forward with progressive values and attitudes.
I've often been shocked to hear people talk, in comments, about how "patient" I've been with someone, especially during a contentious discussion. I'm shocked because I don't generally feel patient when I'm commenting. I do however, recognize that in most of the discussions that draw me, I am either a) a person of privilege having a discussion with someone of less privilege, or b) a person without privilege having a discussion with someone of more privilege. These are generally the places where I find myself in "argument" mode.
In the case of a) I try to exercise the practices that I've described above in terms of stepping off of, and examining, my privilege. I consider that this person might be my "eyes out".
In the case of b) I try to consider that my voice, coming from an un-privileged place, might offer the other person an opportunity to step off of, and examine, their privilege. I consider that I may be this person's "eyes out".
One of the reasons that I love and value Shakesville (the contributors and the commenting community) is that, over time, I've been able to form relationships with other people, and to observe their styles of commentary and thought. There are certain contributors and commenters whose style, and approach, and expressed values, carried out in action and speech, are so consistent that I've developed a certain level of respect for them, even when we don't agree.
Those people also provide an "eyes-out" function for me, because if I say/write something, and I hear those people saying "Wait a minute, Portly", I generally tend to perk up my ears and think: "Hmmm. They've been right on this shit so many times. Why would I disregard their opinions now? I had better take another look." I value their confrontation, and their willingness to engage with me in ways that help me remain conscious about what I'm doing.
It's not an accident that early civil rights/feminist/gay-rights activists used the phrase "consciousness-raising" so often that many became sick of it. I believe that until we become consciously aware of our underlying bigotries, biases, and prejudices, we are helpless to change them.
I want to say "Thank You" to all of you here who have helped me to raise my consciousness.
(And to Senator Barack Obama, I'd like to suggest a "Homophobia 101" class.)
The Temperance Union Lives, Only Now It's Obsessed With Fat
Hi, I'm Meowser, a hetero fatass in her 40s, born in Brooklyn, New York, currently living in Portland, Oregon with a trio of fat cats and an adorable skinny boyfriend. I transcribe medical records for money, and write songs, sing and record them for an avocation. My bloghome is Fat Fu. Enjoy!
Dude, I am so not giving Newuniversity.org and that hideous, disgusting article by Kevin Pease, "a third-year psychology and social behavior major" about what a senseless tragedy it is that Disneyland is making the seats bigger in It's a Small Seat—er, World—any link love. So lemme instead direct you to the most excellent takedowns by Paul at Big Fat Blog and Lindsay at BABble, and if you must click from there, go for it. But I don't recommend it if you're eating. I mean, eating anything ever. Because you're not ever supposed to, fatass, Kevin says so, and he's gonna be a hotshot shrink in a few years, which automatically makes him the rightest.
Kevin doesn't actually know any fat people personally. I mean, ew, right? Everyone knows about the fat cooties thing, so he's not gonna mess with that. But being a future shrink he can divine all our thoughts with a single glance, and he knows, just knows, that we haven't earned the privilege of having seats that accommodate our capacious pantaloons on one single ride in a park complex that has almost a hundred rides all together, because we haven't, not a one of us, ever even thought about trying hard enough to slim down, much less ever had any authority figures in our lives try to force or coerce us to. Nope. Never happened.Take blind people. They are given special accommodations whenever possible in order to make their lives easier. Obese men and women want to be treated the same way. This claim is ludicrous, especially when you consider that obesity is a fixable condition. It may not be easy, but if a blind man were told he would no longer be blind if he ate his fruits and vegetables while exercising four times a week, he would do it.
Oh ho ho! Behold the sound of millions—nay, billions—of fat asses put simultaneously in their lowly little places! Only I think there were a few typos in that last sentence. Try this:
"It may not be easy, but if a blind man were told he would no longer be blind if he ate nothing but 800 calories or less of non-starchy fruits and vegetables and worked out hard for 3 or 4 hours every single day without fail for the rest of his life…uh…"
Yeah. Much better. You're welcome, Kevin.
And of course, slimness will lose its magical appeal altogether if amusement parks keep enabling us. I mean, the insanity of it. You ask for a churro, you hand them money, and they actually give it to you. They don't even take a waist-hip measurement for the privilege. (At least not until the next President cracks down on that sort of thing, of course.) Before you know it, Beth Ditto will be hosting the Grammy Awards, and maybe even running for President and winning. (At which point churros may be had again by all.) You'd think they actually wanted to make money or something and had some knowledge of their customers' bases…er, customer base. See, he's even got me doing it!
Look, dude, I used to live in north Orange County. A lot of locals visit the Diz regularly using something called an Annual Passport. Some people even get them for free or at discount through their jobs, but they range from $259 to $379, depending on whether parking is included and/or whether you're allowed in on the blackout dates, and both the main Disneyland Park and California Adventure are covered. A single-day admission to either park is $56 $66 ($56 for ages 3 through 9), so if you go six times in a year—and many locals go far more often than that—it's worth it. And 32.9 percent of Orange County's entire population is Latino, with a much higher concentration of Latinos in north county, which was not the case back when the park (and It's A Small Buttock—handsmack! I mean World!) opened, when both the park and the surrounding neighborhoods were pretty much All White All The Time. (Although the park was never officially segregated, it was, in its infancy, a place where anyone who was the tiniest bit "different" from the Middle American WASP ideal was not exactly made to feel welcome, and even white men having facial hair of any kind or head hair that was "too long" were refused entry.) Not to mention the fact that amusement park rides back then were considered to be pretty much exclusively for kids. White kids, that is.
So now you have not only more adults riding the rides, but more people of color, in addition to the fact that more fat people of all ages and races can actually find clothing in their sizes and bring themselves to put it on and leave the house, ZOMG. That being considered, it's a wonder that they've felt the need to only rejigger one of the original rides still left from its opening to fit bigger asses. (My own ass, 49 inches at its maximum, found the seats in all the rides there plenty comfortable; although I can understand why someone a bit larger than myself might find it something of a tight squeeze, it's still about the only amusement park I'd even consider worth the money in terms of the percentage of ride seats I'd fit into.)
(Addendum: I just checked out the Miceage link where the ride modification was first described (trigger warning: not a fat-friendly link). It says the IASW boats and flumes actually date from the 1964-65 World's Fair, not from the park's opening in 1955. It also says the size of the boats is not changing at all, only their buoyancy and the depth of the flumes, further lending credence to my "more
adults riding the rides, not more fatties, was the reason for the modification" theory. And Orange County's demographics were still lily-white in 1965, so my basic points above still stand.
If you want to see what the boats actually look like, the link does have pictures that show that unlike most Disney rides this one has bench seating, hence is already pretty girth-accommodating. But if one Giant Fatty takes over a whole row of a boat, that means that two slimmer people wouldn't be sitting there instead. One 175-pound man plus one 135-pound woman weigh more than one 300-pound bench-hogging fatty, so if your goal is to prevent the boats from sinking, you WANT more and bigger fatasses on the ride, do you not?)
But even that much accommodation is too much for poor Kevin's broken little brain. Kevin probably has never even talked to a fat person, ever. How could we expect such consideration, when we all have Cheetos in our ears and couldn't possibly hear him? But having such mindnumbing mindreading abilities, he is able to give us this:[T]he obese community wants us all to believe that if someone is obese, we should treat it as a disability.
No, Kevin, I don't want to be treated like I'm "disabled" simply because of my weight. I mean, gah, isn't damn near the entire point of these blogs to get people to understand that a) fat people aren't necessarily physically limited in what they can do, and b) those fat people who do have disabilities are not so because of their weight?
You, Kevvy-boy, were obviously nursing a wicked hangover the day the prof talked about social handicap versus physical handicap, since thin people are allowed to have vices, so let me give you the refresher you so desperately need. Let's say you, Kevin, had feet that were much, much larger than the average man's feet. Let's say these feet were big enough that no shoe manufacturer made shoes or socks to fit you, and that your only option was to have shoes custom made that cost $500 a pop and socks hand-knitted for $50 a pair. Let's say you didn't have $500 to spend on a pair of shoes and $50 to spend on socks. Are your big feet a physical handicap? No, you can walk around in them just fine. But are they a social handicap? Sí. Now, let's say that all of a sudden there was an influx of men who had feet just as big as yours, because the potato famine ended and they dared to finish all their french fries (gasp!), and they are actually having the guff to go into Foot Locker and ask for size 20 Air Jordans. Now there is what you econ prof called a "market" for larger-sized shoes. If Nike doesn't consider it worth their while to make Air Jordans in a size 20, but some other shoe manufacturer makes shoes that size that are just as comfy and only cost $50, and matching socks for a mere $5 a pair, are they doing so to "encourage" the wanton consumption of fries, or are they just acknowledging a certain amount of human variation that could make them a few bucks since absolutely nobody else is acknowledging it? The essay question's worth 50 points, Kev, so take your time. Take lots of it. Hangovers are nasty.
I just scratch my head to the point of drawing blood whenever these hatebags insist that acceptance has to be a zero-sum game when it comes to weight. If it's okay to be fat, it must ipso facto means that thinnesss must be hated. It reminds me of all the people who used to ask me, as a teenaged feminist, "But why do you hate men?" Like, why don't I stop setting my neighbors' cars on fire? I hate when I do that.
I can just picture Dr. Kevin's future sessions with his oh-so-lucky patients.
"But I DO exercise 4 or more times a week and eat plenty of fruits and veggies."
"No, you don't, fatass, you're lying."
"It's true that I eat other things besides fruits and veggies, but you know, I kind of HAVE to to stay alive."
"No, you don't. All the nutrition you ever will need in your life is stored in your fat ass. You don't need anything but veggies until you're thin, and that's just to fill your greedy stomach."
"Besides, if a blind person had to go on a radical diet for the rest of his/her life trying not to be blind, the way I'd have to in order to stop being fat at you—i.e. go WAY beyond moderate healthy changes in diet and exercise habits into being CONSTANTLY hungry and exhausted, working out 4 hours a day on 800 calories or less, every single day—you wouldn't tell them they were obligated to do that in order to be accepted, would you?"
"Yes, I would, if blind people were over half the population."
"Oh, I get it. People who are ‘different' are cute little accessories as long as there aren't too many of them. But if they outnumber the likes of you, then they suck. Right?"
"You're just pissed because nobody wants to fuck you, you ugly fat bitch."
Ayup. Pass the baby-flavored churros.
(Crossposted.)
What's Wrong With These Headlines?
Veronica emailed me this screen cap she grabbed of the front page of Yahoo last night. Can you spot the problem?
Here's a hint:
Oopsy! Someone can't be "made to have sex." Having sex is a consensual act. The word you're looking for is "rape." We've already talked about this, AP. Get with the damn program already.
You, too, Yahoo.
I Am Shakespeare's Sister
[Continuing where Kate left off…]
[Shakespeare's sister] lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity , as I think, is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so—I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals—and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton's bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare's sister will put on the body which she has laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.I am Shakespeare's Sister.
—Virginia Woolf, concluding her essay "A Room of One's Own."
I am the heir of Shakespeare's Sisters before me, who carved out rooms of their own, tiny pieces of space and time, in which they formed the habit of freedom and mustered the courage to write exactly what they thought. I heard their whispers, their haunting encouragement, telling me to put on their bodies laid down and become born. And on October 5, 2004, I was born Shakespeare's Sister.
It is because they worked for me, all of Shakespeare's Sisters who went before, because they worked for me in poverty and obscurity, that I could be born. I took up their legacy with breathless gratitude and compelling need, and I created a room of my own, built of 1s and 0s. There I began to honor them, as best I could, drawing my life from their unknown lives, being born and born again every day, as Shakespeare's Sister, beneficiary of a legacy I only deserve if I endeavor to enrich it with my own contributions, no matter whether infinitesimal or grand, as long as they are honest and true.
I was, for quite some time, standing alone in the center of my room, which was precisely as good and precisely as flawed as I was. In this good and flawed and mostly empty room, I formed the habit of freedom, to the extent that it's been granted me, and, with some intrinsic courage and the rest conferred by anonymity, I wrote exactly what I thought.
And I invited people in.
My room became, by virtue of those who entered it, better than I am, and worse. I built the room bigger, for more people to come inside. It became better than I am some more, and worse. I discovered that the fight to be born and born again every day, the work in poverty and obscurity for all the other Shakespeare's Sisters who will come hence, was just one part of a fight with many parts. Making the room a safe space is a fight. Making the room accessible is a fight. Making the room as warm at its center as at its margins is a fight. This fight is my obligation and my muse. Its mere existence inspires and taunts me in equal measure. Work that teaspoon…
But sometimes I am so busy fighting for this room, and against so many things outside it, that I struggle to find the energy to fight for myself, for my voice, for my agenda within it. Easily and casually come the demands for my silence or my acquiescence to what visitors to this room deem important. Boldly come their orders, their exhortations to be less feminist, accompanied by exasperated sighs, wholly devoid of any suggestion a moment's thought has been dedicated to contemplating the careless audacity of conveying exhaustion with fighting misogyny, when they will never be its direct target. Enough, they moan. It's a distraction. It's a bore. The poor souls, burdened by having to hear about misogyny in a space where their presence is not required, created by a person who cannot escape misogyny for a solitary moment. There is no day, no hour, no single breath drawn or exhaled in an entire lifetime, free of misogyny for Shakespeare's Sister.
And so she will not accommodate demands to be free of her fight in her space.
I cannot walk away from misogyny for a moment, and so I cannot for a moment walk away from feminism, either. I cannot set it aside any more than I can set aside my womanhood. No—I will not. The choice is mine, and I choose to face the world equipped at all times with the only tool of self-defense I have against inequality. Feminism is my sword and my shield, which I carry because the world is hostile to me, not the other way around.
I fight because I have to. My obligation. My muse.
That is the context of this room. It was built by a woman. A feminist woman. Shakespeare's Sister, carrying the weight of all of Shakespeare's Sisters with her, as she clumsily stumbles toward making long, greedy use of the opportunity they provided her, sucking up every last drop of the chance she's been given to do what others could not and pay forward with interest the chance to another sister of Shakespeare who may just now be warily peering into this room and thinking there's something I like in there…
I want her to be born, too. More than I want just about anything else. I want her to know the feeling of putting on their bodies, our bodies, laid down, putting them on and finding home.
That possibility requires my vigilance, my unyielding defense of myself, my voice, my agenda, in this room I created and we all filled. I am reasserting them all, because there are so few rooms like this one.
I want to say that again. There are so few rooms like this one. That makes me proud, and happy, and sad. And it underlines why it is such a breathtaking impertinence to suggest making this room less feminist. Nearly every other room in the world, virtual or corporeal, is less feminist than this one. Nearly every other room in the world will accommodate the demand to be free of feminist standards, of feminist politics, of a feminist lens. If less feminist is your preference, the rest of the world awaits you.
Said Kate: "This is and always has been a feminist blog."
True. And also this:
This is and always has been a feminist's blog.
Shakespeare's Sister's blog.
I am Shakespeare's Sister.
Truth in Headlines
Here's a headline I can agree with:
Glenn Beck: America's deadly addictionYeah, yeah, I know it's some piece of jactitation that Mr. Beck came up with, but still, I love it when a news organization indulges in self-parody without knowing it.
Old Times There Are Not Forgotten
Sometimes it's just fun to read the right-wingers and see their justifications for the United States to have a permanent presence in Iraq and support John McCain's idea of having our troops there for the next 100 years. The funniest -- or most bizarre, depending on your sense of humor -- is one from RedState that is telling its readers that occupying Iraq is no different than occupying Germany, Japan, and Georgia. No, not that Georgia, the former region of the Soviet Union, but the southern state best known for peaches, the Braves, and Rhett Butler, Scarlett O'Hara, and Gone With the Wind.
Clearly McCain was talking about a peace time standing presence ... Someone should ask the Democrats if they think we're still at war with the confederacy, the Germans, and the Japanese given all the standing American armies in the South, Germany, and Japan.Okay, I know a lot of good ole boys still drive around with their Stars and Bars license plates muttering that the South will rise again, but wow.
Apparently some of them do give a damn.
(HT to TPM.)
(Cross-posted.)
Top Chef Open Thread
Top Chef Open Thread
Chef Tom Colicchio will drink. your. milkshake!!!
He will also make you holler "That's a spicy meatball!"
Question of the Day
Building on my rant from earlier, I've got a two-parter: What did/does your mom do for a living, and was/is it what she really wanted to do?
It's Right There in the Name
Let me imagine, since the facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say...
She was as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as he was. But she was not sent to school. She had no chance of learning grammar and logic, let alone of reading Horace and Virgil. She picked up a book now and then, one of her brother's perhaps, and read a few pages. But then her parents came in and told her to mend the stockings or mind the stew and not moon about with books and papers. They would have spoken sharply but kindly, for they were substantial people who knew the conditions of life for a woman and loved their daughter - indeed, more likely than not she was the apple of her father's eye. Perhaps she scribbled some pages up in an apple loft on the sly, but was careful to hide them or set fire to them. Soon, however, before she was out of her teens, she was to be betrothed to the son of a neighboring wool-stapler. She cried out that marriage was hateful to her, and for that she was severely beaten by her father. Then he ceased to scold her. He begged her instead not to hurt him, not to shame him in this matter of her marriage. He would give her a chain of beads or a fine petticoat, he said; and there were tears in his eyes. How could she disobey him? How could she break his heart? The force of her own gift alone drove her to it. She made up a small parcel of her belongings, let herself down by a rope one summer's night and took the road to London. She was not seventeen. The birds that sang in the hedge were not more musical than she was. She had the quickest fancy, a gift like her brother's, for the tune of words. Like him, she had a taste for the theatre. She stood at the stage door; she wanted to act, she said. Men laughed in her face. The manager - a fat, loose-lipped man - guffawed. He bellowed something about poodles dancing and women acting - no woman, he said, could possibly be an actress. He hinted - you can imagine what. She could get no training in her craft. Could she even seek her dinner in a tavern or roam the streets at midnight? Yet her genius was for fiction and lusted to feed abundantly upon the lives of men and women and the study of their ways. At last - for she was very young, oddly like Shakespeare the poet in her face, with the same grey eyes and rounded brows - at last Nick Greene the actor-manager took pity on her; she found herself with child by that gentleman and so - who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body? - killed herself one winter's night and lies buried at some crossroads where the omnibuses now stop outside the Elephant and Castle.
That, more or less, is how the story would run, I think, if a woman in Shakespeare's day had had Shakespeare's genius.
--Virginia Woolf
You might have heard that the original name of this blog and Liss's original handle came from a Smiths song. They did. But they also came from that section of Woolf's classic essay, A Room of One's Own.
This is and always has been a feminist blog.
We've come a long way since Shakespeare's time, of course. White, middle- and upper-class western women do not generally go uneducated, are not routinely forced into arranged marriages in their teens, are not usually told that no amount of talent makes them fit for more than housework and motherhood. In 2008, a white, upper-class, extraordinarily intelligent and well-educated woman can theoretically become President of the United States. That's really something.
And it's not enough.
My own mother went to college in an era when only a handful of her white, middle-class female friends did--and my grandmother went to college when practically no women did. They both went on to become professional housewives. Honestly, I don't even know what else my grandmother might have wanted to be--her degree (conferred in 1927) was, I shit you not, in Home Ec--but I know what my mother (B.A., English and Philosophy, 1958) wanted to be: a writer. And she was fucking good at it.
The only problem was, she got married 6 months after graduating from college, got pregnant about 10 minutes after that, had another one 13 months after the first, devoted more than a decade to raising those two and then, just as her kids were becoming self-sufficient, got pregnant again. And then, 4 years later, again, at nearly 40. (That was me.) She had an adult life without children in the house for a grand total of 7 years before she died. And she suffered from undiagnosed depression for nearly the whole time, only treating it in the last couple of years, when she was so physically sick she couldn't enjoy much anyway.
As for her writing talent? Well, for a few years at the beginning, she taught English for extra cash. And for a few years toward the end, she wrote newsletters for real estate agents and dentists. Her greatest success as a writer was being known among her friends for the only Christmas letters people actually wanted to read. Her career was motherhood. There was no time or space for anything else substantial.
That's an educated, white, (eventually) upper-middle-class, straight, mostly able-bodied woman with a kind husband who wasn't into super-rigid gender roles, one generation ago. Take away any one of those privileges, let alone all of them, and the story gets grimmer and grimmer.
That's why Woolf's essay continues to resonate with so many feminist writers. That's why--in addition to the obsessive Morrissey love, of course--Liss chose the name.
This is and always has been a feminist blog.
It's also a blog about a whole lot of other things--politics, culture, LGBTQ issues, racism, ableism, sizeism, pop culture, pets, travel, relationships, clever things said with a Scottish accent, photoshopped pictures of John McCain... There are currently 23 regular contributors, all posting about whatever strikes our fancy. The blogroll is fucking epic. We cover a lot of ground.
But it is and always has been a feminist blog. Because it is and always has been a progressive blog, for starters, and because the name "Shakespeare's Sister" has always been there, representing women's historical and ongoing fight to be taken seriously, to be heard.
Apparently, however, this is news to some people. Not the trolls and MRAs--they come here because they do know it's a feminist blog. No, it's news to both new and long-time readers who are just so tired of hearing "misogyny this, misogyny that"; the ones who think a certain amount of feminism is all well and good and necessary, but expecting them to read post after post about it is really just asking too much; the ones who want to talk about the first viable female presidential candidate in, you know, ever, but leave aside her gender to focus on the "real issues"; the ones who just get exhausted trying to see the subtle sexism that feminists keep telling them is there; the ones who think believing that women should be allowed to have careers and control their own bodies 'n' stuff means they've earned their Feminist Card and can therefore say any damn fool thing they want without being called sexist; the ones who can't stand all this bickering and really wish we'd all CALM DOWN and get back to the IMPORTANT things... Those people don't seem to get that this is and always has been a feminist blog.
And you know what happens on feminist blogs? People write about sexism. It stuns me that there are people who would deliberately come to a feminist blog and then ask that people quit talking about sexism so much. I don't fucking get it. But this isn't even the only place where I've seen this happening lately. Zuzu's getting slammed today for "reading too much into" comments by Obama, seeing sexism that isn't there, refusing to talk about the "issues" instead of boring old sexism, etc., on a blog called... hmm, what was it again? Oh, right, Feministe. Yeah, I can't imagine why a contributor over there would think it appropriate to discuss subtle sexism. That's just crazy.
As Spudsy pointed out earlier today, if you want to talk about Clinton any way you like without sexism discussions obscuring the "real issues," you can surely find a comfortable home at any number of fauxgressive blogs these days. But if you want to talk about Clinton around here, you're probably going to end up talking about sexism, because she is doing what no woman has ever done before, which means her gender colors everything, and that's the kind of thing that gets discussed on a feminist blog.
In the past couple of days, I have seen one contributor and our fucking blogmistress say they feel like throwing up their hands and leaving, because there ain't enough teaspoons in the world to deal with all the people telling feminist contributors and commenters to quit being so goddamned feminist all the time. On a feminist blog. I don't know about you, but I'm not okay with that.
You know, I recently wrote a short piece about how Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville helped turn me into a feminist, because she described the shit some men heap on women in a way that totally resonated with me, even though I hadn't ever given it much conscious thought before. Hanging out here over the last few days, getting involved in fight after fight about whether something is really sexist, and whether we really need to talk about something from a feminist perspective on a feminist blog, and why those of us who keep getting all red-faced and spluttery can't just calm the fuck down and focus on the real issues already, I've found I have "Help Me, Mary" running through my head a lot.
They egg me on, and keep me mad
They play me like a pit bull in a basement
and for that
I lock my door at night
I keep my mouth shut tight
I practice all my moves
I memorize their stupid rules
I make myself their friend
I show them just how far I can bend
As they egg me on, and keep me mad...
That right there is the cultural script for women of my generation. We get to go to school, we get to have jobs, we mostly get to decide what to do with our own bodies, so we're a hell of a lot better off than Shakespeare's fictional sister or Virginia Woolf or our own mothers. But still, when men push us, we are not supposed to push back; we're just supposed to change our behavior so they'll like us better. We're supposed to apologize and admit that they're right, suppress our real feelings to keep the peace. We're supposed to show them just how far we can bend.
Oddly enough, though, that's not how things work on a feminist blog.
And this is and always has been a feminist blog.
LaVena Johnson petition closing; her father goes to Washington
The petition to the House and Senate Armed Services Committees asking that the Army reopen the investigation into the death of Pfc. LaVena Johnson approaches the end of its name-gathering phase. The petition will close on Friday, April 18. As that day draws near, I'll work on formatting the petition and making arrangements for delivery to the lawmakers on those committees, and will add more names as they appear on the online list. The names and comments of the signatories will be included in the printed edition, but ZIP code and state information will not. Johnson will get to tell his story on Wednesday in Washington as congress investigates the war in Iraq. Johnson will meet with key members and staff of several congressional committees with the help of retired army Colonel Ann Wright who is a 29 year military veteran who is now an anti-war speaker and author. Wednesday, Johnson will meet some members of congress who will at least listen as he visits Capitol Hill.
Also: KMOV in St. Louis reports today that Dr. John Johnson, father of LaVena, will travel to Washington to speak with legislators about his daughter's story.
Colonel Wright introduced Dr. Johnson when he spoke at the national convention for Veterans for Peace which was held last year in St. Louis.
There's plenty of time for proper thanks, but I can never say too often how grateful I am to all Shakers who have lent their names to the petition and have shared LaVena's story with others.
A very special thank you is due Melissa, who graciously and consistently encouraged the use of this space as a soapbox from which to spread the word. Thanks, Liss.
Sweet Jesus.
Fishbowl DC has some delightful highlights from a forthcoming New York Times Magazine piece on Chris Matthews.
I think this is probably my very favorite line:
At one point, Matthews suddenly became hypnotized by a TV over the bar set to a rebroadcast of "Hardball." "Hey, there I am -- it's me," he said, staring at himself on the screen. "It's me."
And I found this interesting:
Matthews's contract expires next year, and NBC officials clearly would like to renew it for considerably less than the $5 million a year he is making now. Whether it's a formal talking point or not, NBC officials seem bent on conveying the message that they could get the same ratings, or better ones, for considerably less money.
Please tell me Rachel Maddow will work for less than $5 million.
Everything else is about what you'd expect, but it's worth a read.
Update: the whole NYT piece is online now.
A Note to Lieberman Supporters
Remember a couple of years ago when Lieberman's campaign shitstains claimed, unequivocally, that their website crash was due to the underhanded work of Ned Lamont supporters?
The Web site, http://www.joe2006.comexternal link, has been unavailable since Monday afternoon. Lieberman campaign manager Sean Smith suggested that the campaign of the senator's primary opponent, Ned Lamont, or his supporters were responsible for the disruption.Well, the FBI sure sees things differently. Thanks to a FOIA request filed by The Advocate, we now have access to the FBI's findings on the matter, which apparently were concluded in October of 2006. Here's what they had to say:
"This type of dirty politics has been a staple of the Lamont campaign from the beginning, from the nonstop personal attacks to the intimidation tactics and offensive displays to these coordinated efforts to disable our Web site," said Smith in a statement e-mailed to reporters Monday evening.
"The server that hosted the joe2006.com Web site failed because it was overutilized and misconfigured. There was no evidence of (an) attack," according to the e-mail.Huh. Not an attack at all. It was internal incompetence all along.
A program that could have detected a legitimate attack was improperly configured, the e-mail states.
"New Haven will be administratively closing this investigation," it concluded.
Just like Joe.
