a syllabus on whiteness, of sorts

thanks to stuff white people do: fail to give credit to non-white people for understanding whiteness.

from macon's post, some summer reading:

Damali Ayo, How to Rent a Negro (2005)

James Baldwin, "Stranger in the Village" (1955); "The Price of the Ticket" (1985); "Going to Meet the Man" (short story, 1965)

Valerie Babb, Whiteness Visible: The Meaning of Whiteness in American Literature and Culture (1998)

Mia Bay, The White Image in the Black Mind African-American Ideas about White People, 1830-1925 (2000)

Octavia Butler, Kindred (novel, 1979)

Shakti Butler, Mirrors of Privilege: Making Whiteness Visible (film, 2006)

Charles W. Chesnutt, "The Passing of Grandison" (short story, 1899)

Vine Deloria, Red Earth, White Lies: Native Americans and the Myth of Scientific Fact (1995)

W.E.B. DuBois, "The Souls of White Folks" (1920)

Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (1952)

Cheryl I. Harris, "Whiteness as Property" (1993)

bell hooks, "Representations of Whiteness in the Black Imagination" (1992)

Langston Hughes, The Ways of White Folks (short stories, 1933)

Zora Neale Hurston, Seraph on the Suwanee (novel, 1948)

Michelle T. Johnson, Working While Black: The Black Person's Guide to Success in the White Workplace (2004)

Chang-rae Lee, Aloft (novel, 2004)

Joseph Marshall III, "White Lore" (1998)

Charles Mills, The Racial Contract (1997)

Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye (1970); "Recitatif" (short story, 1983); Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (1992)

Adrian Piper, "Cornered" (art installation, 1988); "Passing for White/Passing for Black" (1992)

David Roediger, Black on White: Black Writers on What it Means to be White (anthology, 1999)

Danzy Senza, Caucasia (novel, 1998)

George Schuyler, Black No More (novel, 1931)

Ronald Takaki, Iron Cages: Race and Culture in 19th-Century America (1979)

Thandeka, Learning to Be White: Race, Money and God in America (2000)

Melvin Van Peebles, Watermelon Man (film, 1970)

Richard Wright, Savage Holiday (novel, 1954)

Frank H. Wu, Yellow (2002)

George Yancy, What White Looks Like: African-American Philosophers on the Whiteness Question (2004)

snort: the mccain 'cover'

Hi-larious.

Oh, can't see it?

I'll just throw it up here, then:


Hee.

new love: ill doctrine!

What I like about this clip is that the whole 'intent' thing gets thrown directly out the window. Excellent.

'responsibility' has more than one face

Hip Hop Leaders: Jesse Jackson’s Time Up | RaceWire

Two things:
1 - This is the reason why Season 1 of the Real World was the shit and they should have stopped there: Kevin Powell is running for Congress!

2 - I wonder if Powell and Nas, as the 'new' faces of black activism/accountability, are what folks think of when they deflect the conversation away from white privilege with 'when are black people going to start taking responsibility' waah waah waah whine whine whine?

Meaning, I think folks have a different picture in mind when they start saying, before we start unpacking white privilege, black folks should get their act together. (See Bill Cosby, whose talks about what's affecting various black communities never addresses structural issues.)

When they say 'get their act together' what are they talking about?

In my opinion, I think they're talking about conformity to a bourgeois/middle class identity. (And, no, I'm not talking about 'talking white.') I'm talking about the not so subtle codes that comprise middle class ideology: heterosexual normativity, 'bootstrap'/rampant individualism mythology, appropriate Judeo-Christian religious conformity (without any hint of liberation theology to it, and don't even think about being a part of the Nation), law and order obedience and a firm belief in, and support of, capitalism and its tools.

While middle class ideology has such an unshakeable belief in the Self it forgets that the Self comes handily wrapped in a colored skin. Middle class ideology, unfortunately, assumes we're all white. It is, in fact, built on the premise of white skin privilege and the access that white supremacy can bestow.

Now, turning this lens briefly to myself, I won't say that I, a brown woman, don't faintly resemble what I've just described. However, I am not unaware of niggling and persistent social structures that act as barriers for everyone to achieve the middle class dream. Let's call one such social barrier, oh, INSTITUTIONAL RACISM. If we begin to look at the world through this lens (and it's difficult and burdensome to do so because you start realizing that there is a lot of problematic shit all around you), then you begin to see (white) middle class ideology as a luxurious myth that's available to some people but not really to all, despite whatever aspiration they might have toward it.

I'm wandering a little. Let me go back to the RaceWire post, showing two very different young black men addressing black political identity and agency in different ways. Actually, there are 3 black men here:

Kevin Powell, Gen X writer, activist and candidate for public office. He is progressive, inclusive and looks good in a suit. He, presumably (and because I remember my Real World 1), listens to hip hop and is 'down.' Is he what black responsibility looks like?

NAS, hip hop artist and someone I'd never heard of before a month ago. (Shrug. I never liked carrying that black card, anyway.) His latest album was previously titled the N-word and he, uh, apparently has some strong opinions about the direction of his community:

"His time is up. All you old n---as, time is up. We heard your voice, we saw your marching, we heard your sermons. We don't wanna hear that sh-- no more. It's a new day. It's a new voice. I'm here now. We don't need Jesse; I'm here. I got this. We got Barack, we got David Banners and Young Jeezys. We're the voice now. It's no more Jesse. Sorry. Goodbye. You ain't helping nobody in the 'hood. That's the bottom line. Goodbye, Jesse. Bye!"

Is Nas black responsibility?

And the aforementioned Jesse Jackson, Sr., bogeyman for white conservatives and FOX News, the blurter of bigoted epithets and iambic pentameter-spouting symbol of a (bygone?) civil rights era. Likes to march a lot. We've already seen what Jesse has to offer. (Poor Jesse.)

I guess I'm asking if folks - the folks being asked in all these polls about their comfort with a black president and being asked if racism was really over and being asked what needs to happen for racism to go away without being asked about their own white privilege - would really want to see black self-empowerment and self-determination if that same empowerment was really politicized, conscious and aware that the myth of middle class aspiration isn't enough if you don't address our country's institutionalized race and ethnicity issues, among our other issues.

(Like upended dominoes covering a floor, one toppled piece must impact others.)

I mean, if there was a black leader leading a movement that really understood intersectionality and not just accumulating or accommodating power (like Jackson or Sharpton, easy targets, both of them), wouldn't that mean serious critiques of, and serious work against, our current power structure would have to take place? And wouldn't that mean that those who benefit from that power structure - those who are primarily privileged by it - are also implicated in that critique?

I guess I wonder if people really know what they're asking for when they call for a 'responsible' black community because, to me, a responsible black community is one that's grounded in politics, history and tradition - and its own interests, not necessarily the interests of the larger society. I'm not sure if this means a complete inward consideration, a kind of community self-hibernation while we work to change things, or something not so scary for other folks.

(Which reminds me of something my friend Prof. A- would say to me: 'Girl, there ain't nothing scarier than a black man with a degree.')

Responsibility perhaps isn't what people think it is. (And let's face it; our country does not have the greatest track record dealing with communities of color exercising self-determination, know what I mean?) For whom is the black community responsible? To whom or what is the black community, or the various black communities that exist, responsible? From where I sit, it's not the folks who want us to get our act together before addressing theirs.

I don't know. I'm just asking questions.

11 signs you're not as young as you used to be:

(why eleven? because the signs keep increasing.)

1. You have nothing to wear to a post-Pitchfork show on Saturday at some place called a Bottom Lounge.

2. You are dismayed to find that the headliner isn't going onstage until well after midnight.

3. You are doubly dismayed to find that it means you won't get home until much much later.

4. You are glad you wore comfortable shoes, though you suspect you look like someone's mom or older sister.

5. An offer of drugs, held out on a key, moves you not.

6. You are concerned about the state of the bathroom.

7. You are glad that you're going home alone (though there was a 50-50 chance that the evening could have turned out differently.)

8. The fact that the weather turned monsoon-like does not deter you from walking doggedly home, alone, after 1.30 am, barefoot, without an umbrella. The important thing is that you are going HOME.

9. You only think glancingly about the crime scene you are contaminating while you crawl, barefoot, over and under the police tapes at the shooting on Ashland, at 2 am, rather than walk around it. The important think is that you are going HOME.

10. You remember the nights, way back when you lived in Boystown, when you would have stayed at Fusion or Roscoe's until 3 am, ingested party favors, hit an after-hours party, hooked up with someone, stumbled home while the sun rose and still had the stamina for brunch in a few hours. You remember all this and want to slap that previous person you were - 8 years ago.

11. You also remember you have a tennis appt early in the morning and you don't think about canceling because you know you must and it would be good for you.

hands off my ovaries, part one million and ten

Abortion Proposal Sets Condition on Aid - NYTimes.com

This is the proposed intent:

The Bush administration wants to require all recipients of aid under federal health programs to certify that they will not refuse to hire nurses and other providers who object to abortion and even certain types of birth control.

Under the draft of a proposed rule, hospitals, clinics, researchers and medical schools would have to sign “written certifications” as a prerequisite to getting money under any program run by the Department of Health and Human Services.

How this report proposes to define abortion:

“any of the various procedures — including the prescription, dispensing and administration of any drug or the performance of any procedure or any other action — that results in the termination of the life of a human being in utero between conception and natural birth, whether before or after implantation.”

[bold emphasis mine]

This is the potential impact (from Womens eNews):

Organizations that don't comply with the proposed rule could be forced to scale back services due to lack of funding, leaving women who rely on government-funded family-planning clinics with fewer options for affordable services and supplies, Richards said. That would compound their financial difficulties at a time of rising rates of unemployment and higher costs for food and fuel.
...
The regulation could also undermine state laws that require hospitals to provide emergency contraception to rape victims and that require health care insurance plans to cover contraceptives if they cover other prescription medications, according to NARAL Pro-Choice America, an abortion rights lobby in Washington, D.C.

What else is impacted?
My fricking right to control my fertility without having a bunch of patriarchal asshats forcing me to tie my tubes (or stop having sex.)

Why am I kvetching about tying my tubes?
Because if hospitals are suddenly to be staffed by squeamish religious types who believe the Pill (and other devices) kills homunculi babies, then the only way to prevent pregnancy, clearly, would be to sterilize myself.

But would that really be cost effective for me (or any woman, for that matter)?
Tying ones tubes is not like having a vasectomy; it is not a simple snip-snip that can be done with a local anasthetic, in a soothing doctor's office while a little blue napkin lays across your lap. You don't go home and stay in bed for a few days with an ice pack between your legs. It's major surgery. It's invasive, expensive and hellishly inconvenient.

It looks like this.

Contraception, on the other hand, looks like this .

I've already done this, thank you very much. I would be more than a little resentful if I had to to it again.

As for the petty, ignorant, anti-woman Bush administration, I wonder if they convene meetings with agendas titled "How to Do the Most Damage in What Little Time We Have Left."

everyone needs a supervillain musical!!

how much do i love joss whedon?!
how much do i wish i dated a guy like joss whedon?!
how much do i love his new Dr.Horrible's Sing Along Blog?

and how much do i love this pithy description of a labor union dispute:

Once upon a time, all the writers in the forest got very mad with the Forest Kings and declared a work-stoppage. The forest creatures were all sad; the mushrooms did not dance, the elderberries gave no juice for the festival wines, and the Teamsters were kinda pissed.

read his Master Plan and check out the vocal stylings of Doogie Howser (aka Neil Patrick Harris) here.

more on clarity

By this time, all 8 of my readers should know that I read the Vows column in the Times every Monday. It's a 'thing' with me. I can't help it. I read them for the romance, for the little stories of love found, lost, delayed, diverted, grabbed, pursued, stalked, and finally landed, culminating in a gorgeous ceremony full of wine, friends and cake.

Reading these stories of love and marriage, I feel like I'm walking past the shop windows on Michigan Ave, catching a glimpse of something gorgeous and totally out of my reach, like a Cartier watch or a Chanel shoe.

If my therapist was sitting in front of me right now, she'd press me. She would ask me if I was aware that there's a gap between what I say I want ('The cheese stands alone!') and what my inner whisperings clearly indicate I want ('The cheese could use some company.') I am aware of this gap - I am even aware of a few reasons why this gap exists. I just don't know quite how to traverse it.

Oh, there's a map of sorts in front of me: continue the forward motion that was retarded when my mother died 7 years ago (an event that was like a flaming meteorite falling from the sky into my life); put down roots (i.e., stop living with a roommate); and explore the possibility that my life might have a very different trajectory than the one I thought it would have.

But knowing the general plan of action and then thinking about the mountain of details that plan will require is daunting. I have clarity but not enough.

Vows - Annette Berry and Dan Miller - NYTimes.com

me, in a nutshell.

i have just found my new personal anthem.

hm: is my airline pulling my leg?

though they say one is born every minute, i would hesitate to call myself a 'sucker.' so it is with a cocked eyebrow and skeptical face that i read an email from United Airlines, asking me to lobby on their behalf:

Dear Ms. Ding,

Our country is facing a possible sharp economic downturn because of skyrocketing oil and fuel prices, but by pulling together, we can all do something to help now.

For airlines, ultra-expensive fuel means thousands of lost jobs and severe reductions in air service to both large and small communities. To the broader economy, oil prices mean slower activity and widespread economic pain. This pain can be alleviated, and that is why we are taking the extraordinary step of writing this joint letter to our customers. Since high oil prices are partly a response to normal market forces, the nation needs to focus on increased energy supplies and conservation. However, there is another side to this story because normal market forces are being dangerously amplified by poorly regulated market speculation.

Twenty years ago, 21 percent of oil contracts were purchased by speculators who trade oil on paper with no intention of ever taking delivery. Today, oil speculators purchase 66 percent of all oil futures contracts, and that reflects just the transactions that are known. Speculators buy up large amounts of oil and then sell it to each other again and again. A barrel of oil may trade 20-plus times before it is delivered and used; the price goes up with each trade and consumers pick up the final tab. Some market experts estimate that current prices reflect as much as $30 to $60 per barrel in unnecessary speculative costs.

Over seventy years ago, Congress established regulations to control excessive, largely unchecked market speculation and manipulation. However, over the past two decades, these regulatory limits have been weakened or removed. We believe that restoring and enforcing these limits, along with several other modest measures, will provide more disclosure, transparency and sound market oversight. Together, these reforms will help cool the over-heated oil market and permit the economy to prosper.

The nation needs to pull together to reform the oil markets and solve this growing problem.

We need your help. Get more information and contact Congress by visiting www.StopOilSpeculationNow.com.

don't you feel sorry for all the big airlines? doesn't your heart just bleed??

i know how these things work. Big Conglomerate gets hit with bad business or bad publicity, the first thing they do is hire a firm to get them out - and one surefire strategy is 'Get the public on your side.' (Wal Mart has yet to grasp that concept, what with their suing brain dead women and all.) that site was created by some strategic marketing/communications firm and i wonder which one it was; i also wonder what the angle is.

because it's *almost* altruistic. an industry actually calling for market regulation??

that's almost anti-capitalist.

celebrating freedom and wanting a do-over

Yesterday, in the middle of cleaning my room (yes, I still do this) and unpacking some bins from the move last September, my Roomie found me standing stock still in the middle of my bedroom, looking down at a stack of papers, reading.

'What's up?' she asked.

'Oh, nothing,' I said, crushing some trash into a Hefty bag. 'Just wishing I was fucking smarter when I was younger and could have seen what was right in front of me instead of wanting what I couldn't have. Fucking idiot.'

'What?'
I said, 'You know when you realize how you got everything totally, completely, wrong because you thought you were sooo smart but you were really a fucking bitch and now you realize that your life could have taken a completely different turn but it didn't because you weren't paying enough attention? And you know that feeling you get when you realize you got it wrong and it's all because you found some fucking piece of writing that brings it all back and IT'S TOO FUCKING LATE?'

Roomie nodded. 'Ah. Regret.'
'Yeah, regret. Memories fucking suck.' Roomie nodded in understanding; she had some of her own to get rid of.

Like the main character in Emma, I had misread everything around me and set myself on a course of dissatisfaction and just plain old idiocy. Thank goodness for a tendency to look at my life with some kind of humor, or I'd have to add bitter to that list.

The epiphane I experienced had me shaking my head in disbelief. Aargh! Covered in dust and sweat (cleaning my room is serious business, especially when it requires assembling an IKEA bookshelf) I suddenly felt all of my 38 years, looking back at the myopic, stupid, wrong-headed girl I had been.

I wanted to build a time machine, go back to the year 1996, and shake some frakking sense into my head. If I had a time machine, I would be tearing holes in the space/time continuum right and left, exhorting my self, 'Pay attention! See - look! This, right here, is significant!'

I know exactly the moments of intervention I'd choose. Right before leaving for a certain party, I'd pop up in my machine and coolly explain to my self what's going to happen later that night and advise my self to stay home and study for my prelims; right before I open my window after hearing my name called, I'd rush in and whisper in my ear that this torn feeling, this wrenching thing that I'm feeling is ok but not to count on it - for heaven's sake don't make any decisions because of it; or, for a change of pace, maybe I'd just show up the afternoon before I lose my virginity and wryly encourage my self, 'Tonight will be great. Carry it with you. But if it can't always be like this, it's not worth it.' I would be my own annoying fairy godmother.

But science fiction was not a solution so, instead, I threw out all the papers related to my long-defunct dissertation.

Roomie said, 'Are you sure? You don't want to keep any of it? All that work?'
I snorted. 'J- threw her dissertation chapters into the Seine when she left her program. It's been 10 years. About time I stopped lugging all this crap around with me.' I shrugged. 'I'm never going back. Why carry it?'

Indeed. Why carry any of it around?

This is what's great about having some therapy under my belt - it brings a little clarity. Of course, the clarity is a little late in coming but it's something. (Woulda been great to have this kind of clarity when I was 26!) If not for clarity, recent blasts from the past would have been uncomfortable.

In short, Facebook is not something to fool around with, people.

Ghosts will pop up, make you their 'Friend' and before you click 'Approve' you will have to come to some kind of decision about your relationship to the past and whether you have enough clarity to be friends with a ghost. There is regret, yes. Regret for some missed chances and wasted opportunities - opportunities that would have forced me to take a step toward something that was real, that could have, for me, shortened this weird search for...something.

Clarity, for me, isn't about 'making peace,' 'letting go,' or 'coming to terms with.' It's about looking at my self and saying, 'Wow, ten years and you've been an idiot the whole time. Remember this feeling. Because maybe you should stop being an idiot now.'

Ok, enough navel gazing. My closet isn't going to clean itself.
(Though if I had a magic wand...)

3rd of July: why am I in the office?

topics of conversation at work so far:

bill cosby is crazy and hates poor black people

the total problematic-ness of wanting to ship 'bad' people to the southern suburbs

where to buy bras

if bougie black people go to dive bars

names and possible goals for Ding's as-yet-unnamed all-female vigilante group (The Black Van Cabal? UPS - Underground Patriarchy Shitkickers)?

why the Taste grosses us out

how much more we like HRC now that she's shut up

why jesse jackson and al sharpton can't shut up (hint: because they're Boomers)

what eliot spitzer and jesse jackson and bill cosby have in common

why it's good to have a few things in your wardrobe that cost more than $16

the state of single black womanhood today (or, How to Remove Chocolate Stains/Doritos Powder from Sleepwear)

(why Kung Fu Panda? because he makes me giggle.)

work hell

ohmigod.

i am stuck in work hell. oh, work is fine but our state's frakking budget crap is putting all social services in illinois on the chopping block. i know there's going to have to be some kind of compromise and we won't get everything we're asking for, but right now we have zip. basically, we're all caught in the middle of some freaking, testosterone-fueled standoff between the governor and the speaker of the house. i don't really give a flying frak who comes out of this, but in the meantime, all us agencies who depend on state funding are standing in the middle about to get hit by a stray bullet.

the situation is dire - more than dire. imagine a state without any rape crisis centers. none. no rape crisis hotlines. no counselors. no prevention educators. no one to train the police force on the proper collection of evidence or how to interview a woman presenting as a rape victim.

yup. this is my day.
...
Update: how quickly a day can change. the governor backed down! after every rape crisis center in the state lobbied our members, clients and constituents, funding for rape crisis services was declared 'preserved' at his press conference today!

Whoo hoo!

i really can't take this kind of excitement. my stomach is in knots.

long time, no see, bookslut

i haven't read a real book in ages and i can't drum up the energy to plan my reading the way other people do. so i depend on the recommendations of others.

like bookslut. this recommendation, however, is not the latest business manual from Fast Company.
but if you've always wanted to stick it to your boss, have at it.

how i feel today

Scene: Ding sitting with Roomie and Guest at Gibson's, after being stood up.

Ding: I'm so hungry I could eat a small child.

Roomie: Look at all the meat...mmm...

Ding: Hm. Maybe I could eat half a child.

Roomie: And the sides. Mmm. Asparagus?

Ding: Omigod. Hashbrowns. Ok, I could eat half a child, some hashbrowns and asparagus.

Roomie: They have strawberry shortcake.

Ding: Jesus. One third a child, hashbrowns, asparagus, and strawberry shortcake.

Guest: You guys always like this?

Roomie/Ding: Yes.

(later, halfway through a gorgeous Chicago cut steak, 1/2 order of hashbrowns and asparagus)

Roomie: Is it rude to suck on the bone?

Ding: Do it. Suck the bone.

(disapproving look from unhealthily skinny Asian woman at the next table. Fascinated stares from the business men across the aisle, watching me and Roomie feast like Henry 8th.)

Roomie: (sucking her steak bone) Mmm. I love meat.

Ding: I want to eat until my panties roll down.

Guest: (snorting out his wine) I don't think I've ever heard a girl say that.

Ding: Welcome to Chicago.

yeah, no.

Obama asks supporters to help Clinton pay off debt - Yahoo! News

asshat: karl rove

Yesterday, Karl Rove called Obama 'cooly arrogant:'

"Even if you never met him," Rove said, "You know this guy. He's the guy at the country club with the beautiful date, holding a martini and a cigarette that stands against the wall and makes snide comments about everyone who passes by."

Clearly, if making snide comments was all that counted I guess that makes all of Gen X 'cooly arrogant.'

Rove's comment prompts some deep thoughts:

1. how many black people actually belong to a country club?
2. of those black people, how many would actually make snide comments about their fellow privileged country clubbers?
3. how many country clubs actually allow smoking?
4. since when does 'cooly arrogant' mean something bad when pop culture/literature/cinema tells us 'cooly arrogant' men are frakking hot?

A Few Cooly Arrogant Men We (ok, I) Have Loved:
Mr. Darcy
Captain Wentworth
Toby Stephens
Cary Grant
James Bond
Daniel Craig, James Bond
Pierce Brosnan, Thomas Crown
Steve McQueen
Rupert Everett
Omar Sharif
Peter O'Toole (when he was less cadaverous)
Jean Reno, Swept Away
Morpheus
George Clooney
Clive Owen
almost every Regency romance hero ever written
Batman
Magneto
Bruce Willis
Prospero
Severus Snape
Nick Charles
Mr. Tibbs
Han Solo
Spencer Tracy
Paul Henreid
Humphrey Bogart
Spock

In the meantime, the GOP needs to resolve their collective cognitive-Obama-dissonance if the best they can come up with is calling Obama a milk chocolate WASP.

(Feel free to add your own 'cooly arrogant' object of desire in comments - male or female, all are welcome.)

not far enough

it's thursday and i really must get some work done so i'll just throw up some links to some articles i think you should read against one another.

Liking What White People Like - TIME is a rather soft piece that falls apart a little trying to problematize the word 'white.' or something.

then we have the blog Stuff White People Do, which takes a slightly different view of the 'empowering' laughter at white culture.

at the same blog, there's a post up about the 'mask' of whiteness that, though i think it could have gone a little deeper, touches on an aspect of white performativity that is very different from What White People Like ever imagined. (it also has a rather revealing clip of a very angry woman who, perhaps, might want to rethink some things.)

and then there is this, Tim Wise's strongly-worded post about that very mask of whiteness slipping in some circles. (is Wise's tone a bit sharp? yes. how else to get people to pay attention to anti-racism work?) there is a (very) brief discussion of it on Bitch PhD, but it's funny how the whole whiteness conversation gets swallowed by a discussions of gender, class and a 'heard it before' discussion of electoral strategy.

anyway, carry on.

summer of love, take 3

it's been a while since i shared what's going in the game called my social life: nothing.

the bench is empty, the players on the field are about to get traded.

B3 (who lasted until right before italy) is about to find out that i really wasn't kidding when i warned him about my intimacy issues - if only he'd answer his email.

B- (!!!), referencing a hot and naughty message i sent him LAST YEAR, sent me a message right before i boarded the plane to italy asking how i was; when i returned, i told him that particular boat of dysfunction had sailed. i kept it friendly! (yes, i have processed this with Dr. C- . with the help of a few friends, i have resisted the siren call of do-over sex with a person who makes my homicidal rage peak.)

and that's about it. sure, there are possibilities (Dr. Cop; Old Irish; NatureDude) but, for all intents and purposes, Ding's dancing card is blank.

i'm fine with it. really.

actually, i'm not, but whatever.

just for snarky, horrifying fun: crap email from a dude - Jezebel via Siddity (on my blogroll, silly.)

this, i could get behind: 'Genius'

Girls read comics » Adam Freeman and Genius.

As a comics reader, I have a certain love of superhero stories. What's not to love? Costumes, shoes, hot dudes, hot chicks, kick ass fighting, some great storylines. (Some. Not all.)

But I tend to like those comics that break the formula a little bit - like Powers. Or even those titles that aren't about capes and tights at all - like BPRD, The Losers, 100 Bullets or The Damned.

I'm sort of excited to read this new one, Genius. It asks what if the world's most formidable military genius was a girl gangbanger in South Central Los Angeles mounting a war against the LAPD?

I already like the art but my fingers are crossed that the story will give us a female character who is complex, ferocious and smart. (And not just a hot brown chick in a belly t-shirt carrying a gun.)

And if it's ever made into a movie and frakkin' Angelina Jolie is tapped to play her I will shoot myself. Swear. To. God.

a belated father's day tribute to pastor john

Some of the photos I like most during this election season have been the ones showing Obama in the role of father. Images of him embracing his girls make my little adamantine heart sort of clench, you know?

I've written a lot about my dad on ChurchGal. He reads that site and has been incredibly gracious about standing in as my occasional straw man against which I throw my screeds and opinions.

If you looked at him today, with his distinguished gray hair, glasses and the goatee (that makes all the old ladies love him), you'd see an educated, charismatic older black man. A man who looks like he could be a jazzer or a popular philosophy professor at a city college. A man who looks comfortable wearing the collar of a reverend as well as the crazy red cashmere sweater-gym shorts-dress socks-sandals combo he wears to his daughters' chagrin during Saturday brunch. He looks settled, comfortable, successful. But his life story is, to me, the typical African American bildungsroman.

My father grew up in the ghetto. Literally. THE GHETTO. The projects of Compton and Watts might as well have been a sharecroppers plot. But from the ghetto, he went into the Army, married my mother, went to school to earn two degrees (including one from Talbot Seminary), became the young associate pastor of our church, then senior pastor.

I think growing up in the ghetto gave my dad some resilience. He built several ministries from scratch, launched a radio show and a web ministry; he survived a number of professional rivalries, controversies and church schisms. He survived the sudden death of his wife, the new world of dating in the 21st century and has somehow managed to avoid getting leg-shackled again. I remember a story he told me about dating a woman who became so frustrated at his unwillingness to 'take it to the next level' she sicced her little yappy dog on him and dumped water over his head on a beach date. Clearly, my relationship issues are a family trait.

My pops has lost several friends, made quite a few enemies, and earned grudging respect because of his unwavering integrity and willingness to call bullshit on the black church's excesses and hypocrisies. He's often an exasperating object of frustration to his two daughters.

(A common refrain: "Dad, why don't you do things the way they're meant to be done?!"
A common response: "Oh, girl. You worry too much.")

In his middle age, my dad has become a different dad. The authoritarian i grew up with has been replaced by a more mellow, cigar smoking, wine-sipping, Christian libertarian whose motto is 'That is between you and God. But you know you're wrong.' And he leaves it at that. Free will means free will, you know?

This later incarnation of my dad is a very cool, though befuddling, one.

So this is what my father taught me:

He taught me how to argue. Dinnertime was usually 90 minutes of my dad and I exhausting my mother and sister while I argued why it wasn't a sin to go to the Homecoming Dance or the weekend ski trip and he'd block me every time - until I figured out how to flip his rhetoric around on him. Good times.
He taught me how to fight. Watching my dad constantly turn the other cheek in the name of the Lord, I formed different opinions about the value of strategic conflict. I mean, David was a warrior, right?
He taught me how to think critically. Listening to my dad tear apart the faulty logic of his opponents was cool; having that same logic-tearing applied to me, not so much.
He taught me how to tell a story to make a point. These were always the best parts of his sermons.
He taught me how to lose. Like that Elizabeth Bishop poem, 'One Art.'
He taught me how to start over. Watching a pastor incubate and launch new ministries will do that.
He taught me that education counts. My dad is who he is because of the higher education. It can save a life.
He taught me that integrity and character count more.
He taught me that it is possible to change.
He also taught me there are some things you can't change - who you are is WHO you are. It's just that some folks lie about who they are.
He taught me how to charm. The moms in the PTA liked my dad for a reason.
He taught me about jazz.
He turned me into a feminist (when he told me I needed to learn how to make a man a sandwich.)
He is a walking lesson in vulnerability, sacrifice, faith and dedication to one's Call. (Yes, he might have *said* he wants to give his congregation the finger but he's still there.) This is a lesson I'm still trying to get.
He taught me that you make your own path. One thing I've always loved about my dad (both of my parents, actually) is that he has never, despite the unfortunate sandwich incident, tried to dictate my identity.

My memories of dad are those of unwavering support, whatever my decision has been. He was the one who drove across the country with my stuff when I started at UofM; he was the one who helped move me to Chicago when I decided to leave UofM; he was the one who didn't blink an eye when I told him I was going to jump into the unknown world of the non profit. He was the one who shut down his congregation when they had the nerve to whisper about my gay friends attending and helping out with my mother's funeral. He was the one who showed me that when other people start telling you how they need you to be someone you know you're not, you need to walk away and say, 'You crazy.' Consequences be damned. Most likely, there won't be any.

So, thanks, Dad. You've made me the feminist, bitchy, snarky, authority-hating loudmouth bougie snob I am today.

Love you! Happy Belated Father's Day!

i knew it! MoDo=misogyny!

Media Matters - Report: Maureen Dowd repeatedly uses gender to mock Democrats

since the Gore/Bush election, and the putrid swell of media coverage from that election, i've always suspected that MoDo was riding a whisper thin line between political commentary and outright sexist bullshit. i can well remember her attacks on HRC, Howard Dean's wife, Teresa Heinz. i remember her columns about sweaters, wardrobes, mannerisms, and haircuts. i remember how infuriated her columns made me, with their high school gossip girl slam book feel.

and now it's confirmed!! ha ha ha ha!

she's a bitch!

(yes, i use that term in full knowledge of baggage, meanings and all the rest. i use it deliberately. MoDo is a craven, bitter, patriarchy-loving bitch.)

not so funny now, huh?

stuff white people do is not stuff white people like.

where the latter is mild satire, poking fun at a certain class of white folks, SWPD is a blog where the writer lays down some serious posts about white privilege and the funnies are...rare.

personally, i love it. it's so much better for my blood pressure when white folks say things i get tired of pointing out. if only there would be a post about from a white person why it's bad to be too preoccupied with a black woman's hair...oh, wait. there is.

via Alas, a Blog, here is a really good post (and scary photo) on whiteness and trustworthiness that says things i have only ever said to other people of color: i don't expect much from white folk.

('but, ding,' you say. 'you have white friends!' indeed. my really close white friends are, to me, exceptions - in much the same way white people have said to me: 'oh, ding, you're not like other black people.')

but for every other white person, when it comes to race and identity issues, i set the bar waaaaay down here. why? cuz y'all's track record ain't so good.

from his post:
"Most of the people reading this blog believe that it’s racist and unfair to mistrust a black person, simply because he or she is black. And I agree. But as I’ll try to show here, in most cases it’s actually realistic, not racist, for a black person to withhold trust from a white person. This is because black people tend to know more about white people than white people do about black people. And what they tend to know is that white people who haven’t untrained themselves can be annoying, and even dangerous."

read the post. read the whole blog, actually.
you won't chuckle but you'll learn something.

rhetorical devices, 101: hyperbole

"This is the happiest day of my life." Really? Are you sure? I mean, out of all your days on earth you're sure that this day, this particular day, is the one that gives you the best feeling of happiness (well-being, satisfaction, contentment and joy) you have ever experienced? Can you measure that happiness and back that up with some sort of empirical evidence - and can you be sure that this zenith of happiness will hold firm in the future?

"Oh my god, that was the worst sex ever." Really? Ever? In your lifetime of sexual activity, this one instance was measurably worse than (and exceeded the badness of) the sex you've had before? So bad that it may put you off sex forever? If you run an analysis of all your lovers, taking into consideration their various techniques and the quality of the sexage, will this one lover top the list as the worst, or just one of the worst?

"For the first time in my life, I am really proud of my country." Oh, please. You mean you have lived in a state of perpetual and uninterrupted dissatisfaction with this country since the day you were born? I mean, you haven't even felt a little swelling of pride during the Olympics?? And what makes this particular moment so great for you it erases all other, potential pride-inducing moments a country could give, huh?

"Mission: Accomplished." Sigh.

So. Out of all these dramatic, hyperbolic declarations, which one is the most damaging to our civic psyche? Which one exposes the speaker as a liar or, at least, someone with only a glancing familiarity with the truth?

the media and the dap: or, how to tell who skipped diversity training

having had my Black Card revoked so many times before, i didn't know it had a name but i've at least seen the fist bump thing before. so imagine my total jaw-dropping surprise when the dap suddenly becomes 'a terrorist fist jab.'

again, i implore the heavens: do white people NOT have friends of color?? (or at least watch tv?) swear to god, listening to the MSM dissect the dap is like having some clueless white girl ask to touch my hair. it is tired, tired, tired.

i wonder what else will become signifiers for Otherness?

• as one blog put it, if the Obama girls start sporting corn rows, will that be dissected as too ethinic or perhaps a juvenile declaration of Black Power?
• will the mention of ashy skin suddenly become interpreted as code for 'terrorist derma disguise'?
• will photos of michelle obama with her hair wrapped become a sign of 'secret-muslim-ness'?
• will knowing the words to the Black National Anthem become a code for 'kill whitey'?

sigh.

this isn't anger. today, i am actually amused by our media's vanilla-ness. i will be angry another day. but, lord. shit is about to get triflin' real fast in this election.

[things to read: Too Sense: How American Culture Works

Jack and Jill Politics

MoDo's latest craziness]

oh, italy.

i LOVED italy.

the views, of course, were stunning and gorgeous. (even the rainy days were glorious. i mean they were the kind of days that made you want to throw open your windows, lean out and belt an aria. you don't get days like that in Chicago.)
the wine, natch, was unbelievably good (even the cheap farmers' wine we guzzled at the villa. 50 bottles of it.)
the roads were treacherous and the italian style of 'driving' terrifying. (yet energizing in a 'you're going to meet your Maker very soon' kind of way.)

but you know what i really liked about italy?

their pace was my pace - slow. i don't think i saw anyone actually 'hurry.' you really could sit and drink and eat all day and no one looked at you like you were a wastrel.

sure, i could have stuffed my days with shopping and touring and running from this museum to that old church. instead, in siena, i sat on my butt in the main piazza and read my book; in volterra, i eye-flirted with a hot syrian alabaster sculptor and then ate a load of gelato that gave me gas. (hello, lactaid.) in florence, i sat with friends off the Duomo and ate lunch and ordered liter after liter of wine, smoked at least two packs of cigarettes, wandered to another cafe for several glasses of prosecco, had a round of drinks bought by the kind old israeli vendor who liked Obama (and our friend K-), then stumbled across the street to the restaurant and stuffed myself full of rabbit, beans and more wine.

i LOVE italy!

photos will be posted when they're all downloaded so patience, all 5 of my readers.

i'll be buzzing off this italian high for a while.

ciao!

[ps: who has the best bathroom in Florence? the Ferragamo Show Museum. it's worth the 5 euro to pee in it.]

just a plane away...and other things

Emily Gould - Exposed - Blog-Post Confidential - Gawker - NYTimes.com

i wish i had time to write about this today. often, i've thought about the random way i stumbled onto blogging. (yes, a boy was involved.) often, i wonder why i continue - some of my friends wonder why i say things here i've never said in conversation. the only thing i can do is shrug and say, 'It's different. I don't know.'

remind me to come back to this when i get back from ITALY!

enjoy the beginning of summer and i'll see you in about 10 days.

i-tal-ya! i-tal-ya!

am i crazy?

the italy trip is in a scant 5 days and i'm just sort of puttering about, making random lists in my head of 'to-dos', and i haven't done a single thing, yet, except buy a really great travel purse.

my friends are frantically burning CDs, shipping books, making lists of local sights, finding grocery stores, poring over maps, copying down recipes, or blurting out random italian phrases at each other.

('Non interferisca il bambino!' ok, i'll be honest. that's just me and Roomie saying that.)

meanwhile, i'm making stick figure sketches of my Italy outfits, imagining that i'm going to roll off an international flight looking JUST LIKE that!

lame. i should be buying more tampons in preparation for the menstruation tsunami that shall engulf me when i'm crossing the Piazza Pave.

5 days. so excited.

'Fertilized egg is a person' ballot proposal scares doctor : The Rocky Mountain News

that does it.
i need a drink.

who gets to be american? a jeremiad.

Well, according to Kathleen Parker, it's all about the blood.

From her column:

It’s about blood equity, heritage and commitment to hard-won American values. And roots. Some run deeper than others and therein lies the truth of Fry’s political sense. In a country that is rapidly changing demographically — and where new neighbors may have arrived last year, not last century — there is a very real sense that once-upon-a-time America is getting lost in the dash to diversity.
We love to boast that we are a nation of immigrants. But there’s a different sense of America among those who trace their bloodlines back through generations of sacrifice.

It's the blood that somehow conveys heritage, values, national identity and civic belonging. If you don't have the right kind of 'blood' then you're not a 'real' American. You're a wannabe, a poser, a fake. You have no claim on this American birthright because you aren't 'pure-blooded' American. You're a mutt, impure, Other.

Is any of this ringing anyone's bells? Even without graduate degrees in history?

Because we should know about bloodlines and blood spilt for sacrifice. Sweet holy jesus, this Parker woman dares to tell anyone in this country (who isn't white) that the sacrifices their families were forced to make because they were Other in this great country of 'opportunity' and 'plenty' don't count.

Who hasn't sacrificed to be an American? Who?
Have black people not sacrificed?
Have the Chinese not sacrificed?
Have the Japanese not sacrificed?
Have the Native Americans, for god's sake, not sacrificed?
Have the Mexicans and the South Asians not sacrificed?
Who is shirking off the responsibility to sacrifice so that they can participate in and assume this twisted American identity of ours?

All our histories in the past two hundred years have all been litanies of the sacrifice and 'blood' of Others. Why does our 'blood' not count and other 'blood' does?

This column so infuriated me, the only thing that could make me feel good about my anger was this Lincoln quote:

"Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that 'all men are created equal.' We now practically read it 'all men are created equal, except negroes.' When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read 'all men are created equal, except negroes, and foreigners, and catholics.' When it comes to this I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty — to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocracy."

Oh, Abe. If you only knew.

I knew this election season would bring out people's subterranean ugliness, the thoughts that whisper around their heads they would never dare bring out into the light, but I thought folks would treat this historical moment with a little bit more class. How naive of me. Once again, the white supremacist underpinnings of this country have jumped the leash.

You are killing me, America!

I keep giving you chances; I keep thinking, this isn't everyone. It's the media; it's some snaggle-toothed nutter living in the woods; it's just some run of the mill white person who doesn't know any people of color so they're just sort of stupid; or it's Fox News (see nutter). But this came out in a nationally syndicated column. This piece of xenophobic, nativist trash (which reads no different from the xenophobic, nativist trash from the 19th and early 20th centuries) was approved by someone. Someone's lizard brain read this and thought, 'Eh, what's the big deal? It's just an op-ed.'

Gah! America, if you were a person standing in front of me I'd slap you!

Pat Buchanan wants me to 'be grateful.' He wants me to shut up and be grateful I live in a place that suffers from the worst case of degenerate racism, a place that makes no significant movement toward recognition of or reconciliation for its white supremacist past. But here's our chance! Here's a moment - a gorgeous, breathtaking moment! And what do we do with this moment? We say he is not (and by extension, we are not - I am not) a 'full-blooded American'!

Oh, America, you make we wanna holler!

I can't be grateful when I keep waiting for this country to grow. the fuck. up. I keep waiting for it to do some frakking introspection. Look back at OUR history and make some little effort to change. But this country, rather than look backward with a critical and regretful eye, looks behind like Lot's wife and can't feel its limbs turning to salt.

[h/t: Too Sense: Oh, Hell No.
And here's that excellent post back in March on the Buchanan 'black gratitude' mess at Obsidian Wings.]

swoony, swoony, swoon: obama edwards bromance!

PostBourgie Witnesses Obama-Edwards Lovefest. « PostBourgie

in the midst of dealing with some pre-italy tension yesterday the news came through that Edwards endorsed Obama - and what a relief that is!

PostBourgie has a very good eyewitness account of the announcement and you should read it.

come on, joe six pack! now you have the Great Blue Collar Communicator telling you it's ok to vote for the black guy! get on board!

i shook Arianna Huffington's hand today at the luncheon i attended today. she gave a great speech and one thing that stood out was her statement that, when it comes to issues like fair pay, the economic empowerment of women, or policies that enable women to strengthen and take care of their families, there is no 'other side.'

cue massive girl-crush.

new love: tano handbags!

you will love these bags. they are awesome to touch, they're made of leather, the colors are deep and saturated, they're urban and sleek and so so chic.

they also don't have that awful tacky, oversized, obnoxious hardware look so many bags have now. (really, handbag makers? you really need to put buckles the size of fenders on women's bags?)

i stimulated myself as soon as i received my stimulation from our government. this is my new italy bag (in fudgesicle.) and this is the bag i really really want. maybe i'll save it for my birthday.

sigh. aren't they lovely? I got my Tano bag at RR1 Chicago (Chicago/Ashland); you can go there or to these locations in Illinois.

shoes and bags, shoes and bags. there really isn't anything that comes close.

Reproductive Justice Bill in Illinois Mobilizes New Allies | Reproductive Health | RHRealityCheck.org

Reproductive Justice Bill in Illinois Mobilizes New Allies Reproductive Health RHRealityCheck.org

over on my other spaces, i've been writing pretty vociferously about reproductive rights and the religious right's push to limit access to contraception. nutty though they may be, they're organized and well-funded, which could mean the difference between your ability to control your fertility the way you want and being forced to remain pregnant if you don't want to be pregnant because someone thinks an egg is a person.

anyway, there's a bill on the books here in illinois that you need to be aware of. read about it (check out the bill number on the illinois general assembly site here) and start to call your representative to get his/her thoughts on women being able to create the families they want.

don't assume you know where your representative stands; look into their voting records, write out some talking points and ring up their capitol office and see where they stand on HB 5610.

come on!
pretend you're on the West Wing and do some grassroots lobbying.

ah, memories.

Riding into work the other morning with Roomie, we were reminded of something that happened while we worked for one of the Big 5 consulting firms in the city, years ago.

Roomie (who wasn't my Roomie back then) and I had been hanging out in the pantry getting our coffee and yogurt when the head of HR stepped in with one of her HR friends. Back then, HR was run like a sorority and it wasn't an overstatement to say that no one liked them much.

Trying to ignore them, Roomie and I had busied ourselves with our coffee and yogurt but couldn't help but overhear a conversation that went like this:

HR Director (in her deep, whiskey and cigarette-whipped voice): I am so exhausted. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night.

HR Flunky: Oh, no! What happened?

HRD: It was Dan. He peed on me again.

HRF: Gasp!

(Roomie and I exchange a silent, shocked glance.)

HRD: Oh, you know. When he drinks, he doesn't remember things and last night he totally peed on me. (Sigh) I had to clean up the bed, the closet...

(I mouth to Roomie - 'The closet??')

HRF: Ohmygod. Uh, I'm so sorry?

HRD: (sigh) But what are you gonna do, you know? I just hope he doesn't drink so much at the wedding and pee on me during the honeymoon.

(They leave the room. We wait until we can't hear their footsteps anymore and then immediately burst into raucous laughter.)

When Roomie and I remembered this story the other morning, it was like being there all over again.

'Oh my god, she actually married him!' I said, tearing up and laughing my ass off.

'They had a baby! Ha ha ha!' Roomie said.

I said, 'Oh, wait. Didn't we start calling her Urinal Cake after that?'

Roomie howled. 'Urinal Cake! Ha ha ha ha!'

We laughed so loud and hard, the people standing for the bus could hear us through the car windows.

a real mother's day

A co-blogger from Bitch Ph.D. writes this about the upcoming Mother's Day weekend:

What I want for Mother's Day is some demonstration that the adult-ish people to whom my mothering matters (which is currently only my husband as our daughter is young) have reflected on what it means to try to mother with intelligence, grace, courage, and kindness in this historical moment. I want a recognition that I am under-served by social and business policies that do not value the work I do as a mother, and that I am under-served by the sentimentalization of motherhood. I want awareness that while the domestic labor I do is unpaid, it is not, de facto, my labor and has very little to do with mothering. I want conscious decisions to value the social and political influence of mothering, and commitments to increasing the visibility of the ways mothers are disenfranchised.

Here, here.

A real happy mother's day to all you moms out there. Really. Y'all deserve more than that.

seek and ye shall find

I don't have time for a full blown post today but this is just some stuff that caught my eye this week, so far:

Manola Dargis' piece about the gradual disappearance of women from film.

Too Sense has a bunch of new posts up, including one about the latest craziness from Jonah Goldberg.

There's also a post from Jack & Jill, taking a closer look at that recent Wright/Obama poll.

And, of course, some of the new blogs I'm reading:
Field Negro
Skeptical Brotha

And there's the always reliable Negrophile, who is just a compendium of articles and news about brown folk. I still don't know how he has the time to do this!


The big comic book movie season is beginning and, inevitably, I wonder, 'Gee. Sometimes I think representations of race and gender could be better in comics. But since I don't see women or people of color represented within the comics world, we must not exist. Golly, we must not be comics' audience.' (roll of eyes.) Ridiculous.

So here are some women and bloggers of color I've been reading, lately, in the world of geekiness:

Afrogeeks (the post about the voicemail his friend left about McCain just about made me snort out my coffee.)

Written World (this post contrasting the self-policing the geek/comics community enacted when the lame Boob Project popped up vs. the lack of self-policing within the feminist community during Marcotte-gate led me to read her other posts and I think she rocks - and she's a Green Arrow fan!)

From Written World, I came across this PoC Sci Fi Carnival and it's also very cool: links to all things sci-fi, geekery and through a lens of race. Excellent; I can't wait to explore more of the links and really see what people are writing about.

Glyphs, a blog on PopCultureShock, on the Black Comics Community.

Iron Man: my new boyfriend

oh. my. god.

i don't care if you've never heard of Iron Man, never read a comic book (what are you, a philistine?), never even knew comic books existed and don't give a crap who Stan Lee is. i don't care if your boyfriend owns all these weird dolls (oh, action figures) and they're taking over your apartment and all you want to do is pile them in the backyard and set them on fire.

this movie is teh bomb.

it's better than the X-Men movies (not that hard); better than Spiderman and his tired adolescent angst; and gives the recent Batman a serious run for its money, if not totally surpassing it with the quality of the script, acting and action. this movie made a man encased in titanium erotic. hello!

favorite bits:

1. Robert Downey, Jr. - how hot is he? how funny and witty and sad can he be? and when his eyes get all teary and he's regretting all his life decisions in a cave in Afghanistan? sigh.

2. The bromance - at last, masculine friendship that isn't totally about measuring the size of one's dick.

3. The pacing - hail to Jon Favreau for making a movie that actually captures the 'ohmygod what's going to happen now???' spirit of comic books. every beat in the story was struck blam blam blamblamBLAM!

4. The script - wow. dialogue that was actually character-driven and not merely 'cartoony.' it was sly, spry and wry. loved it.

5. Women I could like - ok, there's only one woman who really matters and Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) wasn't a screamer, a frail chick who needed to be rescued or a belligerent neurotic with issues. she was capable, supportive, knowing and decidedly not foolish. (the other woman in the movie just needed to be recast. the actress was awful and bland.)

6. Humor - at last! a comic book movie with a sense of humor! i'll chalk this up to Favreau and Downey's snarky sensibilities. yeah, the Christian Bale Batman has a certain hangman's noose humor about it, but it's so...heavy. blah. and the X-Men movies? pullease. dour, overbearing and way too earnest about its own allegory. give me the wink and the sharp quip delivered by a guy you can actually believe can carry it off.

7. Robert Downey, Jr. - sigh. really. he is just so...yummy. sure, he's short; he's in his 40's; he's a little worn on the edges. that's history, baby! and sure, when he takes off as Iron Man there's a little balletic grace to that little hand flip he gives that might not be really very macho. but i don't care! he's hot!

i'm about to start babbling about this movie. i should stop.
but one more thing!

now i'm gonna have to start reading Iron Man - and isn't *that* the measure of success for a comic-based movie?

(thank goodness saturday is Free Comics Day.)

countdown to italy

4 weeks.

then i'm blowing this pop stand and lolling in the hot Tuscan countryside, drinking wine, eating pizza and saying things like 'Non sono Americana. Sono Canadian. Whatever.'

4 weeks and i will leave this horrific primary season behind me (only to come right back to it); i will try to leave behind our nation's unexpiated racist past and present.

(come on, sean bell's killers get off completely?? no punishment at all? people go to jail for accidentally killing someone with their motor vehicle! 50 rounds! unarmed! LORD JESUS!)

4 weeks and i will be on fricking vacation from this frakking mess of a country that i love with all my heart, even though recent events are making me struggle with my affection. my love comes at a price and every little privilege i enjoy feels like a bribe. or like a stack of crumpled bills on the side of a bedstand, at the very least.

in 4 weeks, i will sleep deeply, i will explore eagerly and i will float lethargically in the villa's 4 ft pool Roomie chose so that i don't drown.

thank god there's italy because lord knows here ain't feeling really good right now.

...

there's so much still to do.

i know we're 4 weeks out but i have a running list in my head of the things that need to be taken care of: i have to hold the mail, unlock my phone, alert my bank, transfer funds, wrap up work stuff, make a list of things to pack, copy recipes, learn a bit more italian (i'm actually not bad with the accent!), and resign myself to the fact that, yes, i will be on my period while in italy.

dammit.

(i had to buy some cute black pants for this trip. forget that summer fantasy of white linen and a summery light wardrobe. i will be bleeding like MacDuff's mam.)

an acquaintance last night gave this piece of advice: "Never pass up an opportunity to sit, eat or pee. You never know when you'll get another chance."

i will take that advice to heart, slowing down my group of friends as i take every opportunity to sit, eat and pee. perhaps all at the same time.

and did you know urban outfitters has really cute, cheap cameras? unlike coldly perfect pictures taken with digital cameras, these take really wonderfully lo-fi photos, sort of blurry and saturated with light and all sorts of imperfections. i'm thinking about getting the Diana+Edelweiss or the Holga.

and i need to get my hair done. i think i'm officially over being completely 'natural.' not for anything political, but for danged expedience. the summer is around the corner and i do not want to mess with the frizz. Tia at Shake Your Beauty mentioned something called a 'conditioning relaxer' and i think want to try that. i just need to loosen the curls here and be less frizzy.

wow. a whole post on totally frivolous crap.

excellent.

Getting It

another awesome woman of color left the b'sphere, a casualty of the whole Marcotte/appropriation/racist illustrations/Seal Press diversity training/feminist 'community' split thing.

(and i'm not going to find links for every single one of those terms. if you Google Marcotte/appropriation/racist illustrations/Seal Press diversity training/feminist 'community' split, in any combination, i'm pretty sure you'll be able to find a place to start and work your way backwards. besides, it's 1 am and i really ought to be in bed touching myself or something.)

anyway, i can't help but think about that intent v. impact framework i've had rattling in my head ever since a DePaul women's studies professor came to our office for our staff meeting. she talked about what white feminists can do to be less problematic* and help make the feminist movement also about racial justice: put your intention aside (because no one cares) and think long and hard about the impact of what you do. personally, i think it's a helpful rule for everyone enjoying a position of privilege.

(i was actually going to write 'to be less white' but that's not helpful, is it?)

intention: career building and general liberal do-gooderness (with or without the proper attention to detail and/or previous work done, depending on your POV)

impact: split online feminist community and women of color bloggers dropping like flies, thus depriving the b'sphere of their necessary analysis and experience.

niice.

reading all the commentary still reacting to what happened earlier this month has been exhausting and very sad. i have looked at some of my favorite writers with a more jaundiced eye but have also found new writers to replace them. it has made me think that (gulp) perhaps my Roomie was right to be so wary of the 'feminist' moniker. in the words of another writer, it is, after all, just a word.

but before i closed the 'feminist' title away in a box, and began a search for something to replace it more graceful than 'woman who likes the ideals of feminism but some of the other folks in it not so much, right now, though that could change next month when i'm in Italy,' i retreated to the comforting land of comic books.

it is a world with its own issues (heh, issues), like the apalling hyper-sexualization of women who can kick serious ass, but i'm happy to say that there was someone who 'got it.' by 'it' i mean white privilege and i mean, really got it.

not just got it because it's the vow in the Feminist Membership Book, but actually, you know, internalized it and changed her practice because of it. i'm going to bold my favorite parts:

What does it mean to speak as a privileged observer?

It means that I don’t see a lot of stuff because I never experienced it or had to see it.
Related, but not exactly the same: it means that my feminist education overwhelmingly concentrated on white feminist liberal theory, and didn’t pick up on much of anything else. I need to listen, and research, and do my own damn homework.

I don’t want this column to be read as breast-beating or a plea to console me and tell me I didn’t do that badly or a request for congratulations on finally realising my mistake.

Screw that; it was a huge mistake! Recognising that isn’t grounds for applause. I’m going to do my level best to do this better, while realizing that my best intentions are still privileged, and thus still open to totally justified criticism. It’s not anyone’s job to educate me - but if anyone is so inclined, when I misstep I’d really appreciate hearing about it.

I’m privileged. I can’t avoid being part of the problem. But I want to be some of the solution, too.

yeah...a comics blog (and a damn fine one, too.)
last year.
some folks should have read it.

Girls read comics » Blog Archive » Changes: Not Just For The Hulk.

a placeholder

there's a lot for me to write about today but my schedule is already a little packed and i'll have to sneak it in later. but here's a preview:

why come no one's talking about the fact that Obama's loss in PA is basically down to the color of his skin?
why come no one (except the usual folks) took note of sean bell's killers being acquitted last friday?
why come no one gives michelle obama a freaking break?
why come jeremiah wright is still in the news and still making folks mad?
why come there aren't women and people of color in the comics industry?

see? told you there's a lot.

where i ramble and get in touch with my anger

things that have pissed me off today:

1. reading about the blog demise of BrownFemiPower. damn. i came to the whole kerfuffle too late (caught up with it via Post Bourgie as well as some other brown blogs) but it's upsetting to read about. i read BFP on and off and, though she was way more radical than i and it scared me because i'm a timid bougie brown girl who likes things a little too comfortable, her work and voice was/is important, rigorous and fierce.

i call myself a feminist, and have done so for a very long time, but the whole thing (which is part of a larger history of the rigorous work academics/activists of color being completely glossed over and/or appropriated) just makes me wonder why i even fucking care to call myself one anymore. i mean, events like this just rear up to ride my last brown nerve like a pony. it also demonstrates for me again why impact needs to be considered when something like this happens; whatever some folks' intent was when it all first blew up, the end result is that an important woman of color's voice on the blogosphere is gone.

maybe i'm naive, but i don't think 'sisterhood' is supposed to end up with one of us battered and exhausted from the struggle.

(shrug) i don't know.

maybe sisterhood isn't even the fucking point of 'feminism' anymore.

2. reading the 'post-game' wrap up of last night's PA primary.
3. realizing this never-ending primary season is going to drag on forever and, meanwhile, whatever hope we had for an exciting and civilized election season is choking in the weeds.
4. my social life. yeah, the thrill is gone. dating sucks and i don't care if i never go on another one again.
5. my wallet. it's nearly empty. oh, to sell out and get wads of cash in return. but how can an overly educated woman of color with authority issues sell out? hm. it's a puzzle.
6. that BFP thing is still pissing me off.

fine. i'll watch the primaries.

a scene from yesterday, a gorgeously sunny day in chicago with relatively mild traffic while Roomie and Ding left their offices early

Roomie: so what's on your schedule this week? dates?
Ding: nah. a work event and a board meeting. maybe a boy later on this week but nothing's confirmed.
Roomie: what do you want to do? dinner?

Ding: (sigh) but where will we go? what will we do? what will we eat? choices...i'm incapable of making them.
Roomie: mmm, jibarito....
Ding: we can't have jibarito for dinner. that would totally mess us up for the rest of the night.

Roomie: (sigh) jibarito. what about tomorrow? let's watch the primaries at Enoteca Roma.
Ding: euww. no. i can't watch the primaries. i'll just get mad.
Roomie: o-kaay. no primaries.

(silence)

Ding: no, we can watch the primaries. let's do that. i'll just get mad if clinton wins. and the pundits, i want them to die. and i'm too busy this week to be pissed off.
Roomie: it'll be fine. wine, cheeses, nibblies, primaries with other obama folks. perfect.

so, even though my earlier enthusiasm about this election has practically been beaten from me by this too-long primary season (thanks for that, Democratic Party), i will endure one more night of primary returns and hope i don't slip into an election-induced depressive rage.

if

One of my favorite romantic comedies is Bet Me, by Jennifer Crusie. In it, a slightly pudgy, cranky, 30-something woman goes out with a guy she thinks is out of her league and, well, you know what happens. True blave. Through the course of the story, she gets together with her friends and they go through a ritual called the If Dinner: they sit around and talk about what their lives would be like if they got everything they wanted.

The other day I'm having lunch with a couple of coworkers and we find ourselves in the middle of an If Lunch: if we got everything we wanted, where would we be in 15 years?

First, I was startled to realize that I'd be 53 (yikes) in 15 years.

Then I said something lame about having a stable career, living in a cute place, being surrounded by friends, blah blah blah.

T-, one of my lunch friends, looked at me over her glasses and said, 'That's kind of boring. What do you really want?'

Without hesitation I blurted out, 'I want to have at least two surprisingly non-crappy romance novels published, maybe a serious collection of essays or a family memoir written; I want to have 2 long term lovers, live in a fabulous urban house in the middle of the city, be a non profit consultant on strategic communications or maybe run for Alderman. Holy crap. Wouldn't that be funny - me, in public office? And, of course, be surrounded by a wonderful group of friends and family.'

C-, our other lunch companion said that she didn't know about the feasibility of running for office while having two long term lovers, but it was my fantasy; I could dream of anything. She's right. I can.

So. If there were no obstacles, what would you want your life to look like in 15 years?

have lunch with me!

Women Employed : The Working Lunch (May 13)

I'm on the Advocacy Council for this organization in Chicago and it is awesome.
Every year, we throw a big luncheon to celebrate our success as well as do some hard public education on the state of working women today. Last year, we had John Edwards come. (He was great, I got to shake his hand and took a blurry photo of his hair.)

This year, it's Arianna Huffington. She's no slouch, either.

If you're interested in attending, click on the link, register and send me a personal email so I can try to sit us together. It'll be like a meet up!

(If you can't come, click on the link anyway, buy some raffle tix and contribute to a wonderful organization that does so much on behalf of women's economic empowerment. I'm co-chairing the raffle, so help a girl out!)

more linkies

the field negro
i like this blog, too.

elitist? i think the word you're looking for is 'uppity'

i'm just so tired of all of this pre-election crap but i, for one, am TOTALLY fine with Obama being an elitist.

fuckety fuck. whatever happened to fucking aspirations in this country?

McCain blah blah blah Obama is elitist blah blah blah - New York Times

un pájaro en la mano vale dos en el arbusto?

a dating question:

what's the etiquette if you've gone on two dates with someone, and a third is in the offing, but you still wanna date around? do you make that a point of conversation to fully outline and manage expectations? or do you assume that he's dating around, too?

i mean, i liked the two dates (as did he) but we're not committed to anything, right?

this stuff is hard and my not knowing the answers is giving me some anxiety.

my frakkin' luck

so i'm on my second date with B3 (we'll introduce him later); we've had a lovely dinner in bucktown, ingested way too much chocolate and now we're in a local joint in humboldt park listening to a honky tonk band. (i know. honky tonk. but they weren't bad!) when we were looking for parking i thought, 'hm. looks familiar. i remember that chain link fence. i believe there is probably where i lost my purse...' and, looking ahead, i saw the street name from that undiginified morning Walk of Shame.

'with my luck,' i thought, 'Frakkin' Trader will be inside.' but then i thought, no. the universe doesn't hate me that much.

so imagine my chagrin when Frakkin' Trader walks into my view, stops, turns, looks right at me, stares and circles our booth through the crowd. he's still looking at me and i'm still staring at him over the heads of very young hipsters, thinking, 'frakking universe hates me!' of course, i excuse myself to go to the restroom and send a frantic text to my Roomie, the gist of which was "WTF??"

about an hour later, when we leave, he's still at the bar and i avoid catching his gaze in the mirror behind the bar as we pass.

at home, Roomie said, 'come on, Ding. Bar A is four blocks away, Bar B is one, and his place is right in the middle! he's gonna drink somewhere! did you really think you wouldn't see him tonight? really?'
i said, 'well, i thought there was a chance but i was hoping i wouldn't!'

don't blame me for thinking the odds were in my favor; there at least 10 other people in this city with whom i've froliced (sp? that doesn't look right) and i have never run into them - anywhere - after the frolic has ended. (it was like the universe did me a favor and killed them for me.) why would i expect to run into the Frakkin' Trader now?

Roomie said, 'well, it's clear he's avoiding you like you're avoiding him but you're bound to run into him again. the 'hood is just too small.' indeed, it is. and if i keep going out with B3, and his haunts cross FT's, this neighborhood is going to seem as big as my living room.

anyway, the sorta good news is i've made it to date #3, the farthest i've gone in the hetero-normative ritual called 'dating.' Dr. C- would be happy i've made such progress.

i like this blog: Too Sense

The Capitol Fax Blog » More cuts threatened

Can anyone explain the governor to me? I mean, really. Explain him to me.
'Persuasion' is a truncheon in his hands - basically, he wants something from the downstaters but, to get it, he's going to destroy what they need.

What the hell kind of political playbook is this man reading?!

Anyway, carry on.

spring dating: where i also think about the 'lost weekend'

Spring is here and you know what that means: boys.

Despite an unfortunate glitch two weeks ago (wherein I woke up in an apartment that was not my own and discovered I had lost a purse, phone, keys, cash, eyeglasses, dignity and memory of the previous 9 hours) I predict this dating season will be fairly mature, sober and, hopefully, boring.

You hear that, universe? I am now OK with boring.

Why, just Saturday, I met an older, sober, divorced father by the park for lunch. It was a gorgeous day and, while my expectations were suitably managed, the weather encouraged me to think this would be the beginning of an exciting spring. Well, at least the wine we had with lunch was nice.

To be fair, he was a perfectly nice guy: smart, mildly funny, successful and tanned. But...he was the size of a jockey. I'm no towering inferno of feminine hotness but even I dwarfed him. And then we started talking about therapy (he brought it up) and he admitted to some issues. Angry, bitter, confrontational issues. So we wrapped up lunch, walked into the park, shook hands at the Bean and went our separate ways.

As I walked down Michigan I told myself that the past 90 minutes would have been better spent browsing the comic book store around the corner.
...

I've been thinking about that Friday night before last and the responses a story like mine usually elicits from people who feel awfully comfortable turning judgmental on women who may drink one too many and then things happen to them.

Hell, I can even remember saying those things: "What did they think was going to happen? Didn't they think? Why didn't they prepare? Why weren't they careful? How dumb do you have to be..."

Judgment, judgment, judgment.

Taking a look back at that evening, I wonder, Where did my judgment falter? Was it when we were walking to his place? Was it when I ordered the second martini? (A martini that normally would have left me totally unaffected, btw.) Was it when I suggested stopping for a nightcap earlier that night after the event instead of stopping at McDonalds for several Big Macs? Was it when I rushed to get dressed that evening for the event and decided not to grab a bite to eat? Or was it when I had that last glass of white wine at the event and thought a plate of nibblies would do me?

(And these are rhetorical questions. I'm totally not interested in folks telling me how I should turn back the hands of time and not done this or that when, really, the ground zero of that whole night was a skipped meal.)

Though I'm abashed at the amount of fallout that one lost Friday night created, I'm fairly happy that I took care of everything speedily and with a minimum of fuss - credit cards and ID recovered, new phone, new keys/locks paid for, heartfelt apologies to friends made, and Plan B contraception taken. Yay, responsibility.

(And let's give a hearty shout out to Plan B, purchased at CVS immediately the following Saturday morning. With no problem or interference at all, I shelled out $50, took the pills and endured a whole day of nausea and dizziness.)

Anyway, this was all supposed to be about the hot Israeli locksmith who helped me Friday but turned into something else. Oh, well.

busy busy busy

sorry posting has been so light.

i just got back from springfield last night after a day of chasing legislators, work has been beyond hectic and with all the cuts being proposed in the President's FY09 budget, organizations like mine have gone into super self-defense mode. So, while I haven't been writing here, I've been writing my arse off at the office about the continued need to keep programs serving rape and assault victims in the budget.

but rest assured that i haven't stopped thinking about things over here and that there are still more connections in my brain being made about the recent Rev. Wright flap and how maybe this crap never would have happened if politicians were actually serious about that little thing called 'the division between church and state.' (oh, and if the so-called 'values coalition,' two or three elections ago, hadn't exploited religious fervor in the first place as a substitute for public policy.)