A couple of weekends ago, M- and I had just escaped a horrendous hippie party and were in the mood for acoustic guitar-free pitchers of beer at one of my favorite dives in Old Town. I hadn't had a loong night like that in ages; it felt really good to become one of an anonymous crowd. But there was a brief exchange that stuck in my head.
We found ourselves sharing stories about When We Were Single and What We Were Looking For. The most recent example I'd had of being a wacky single was, of course, my liaison with LTF (aka, B-; aka, IncognitoLatino.) I didn't dwell on the details but said that while I was thrilled I was no longer connected to him, I could understand why some people make the wrong relationship choices they do.
Like a knight on a horse, M- comes to my own defense.
'Your mom died, babe. You weren't really in the right place.'
'I know. But that's not really the whole thing ...'
'You were all messed up.'
He was right. When I met LTF/B-/IncognitoLatino back in 2002, I was all messed up.
But my mother's death and my grief don't really account for the years 2006-2009.
I had will and I exercised it.
I chose that situation with him. It was my decision to be there and experience LTF/B-'s bizarro world with him. Sure. The foundation of my choice was boredom and a faint (very faint) curiosity, but it was still my choice. If I'm going to own ending our liaison, I must also own staying in it for 7 years. As much of a freak B- was, he didn't kidnap me, lure me or seduce me into making the weekly train ride to his shabby apartment in Uptown.
He wasn't a Svengali molding my vulnerable mind to his own nefarious or perverted ends. (In fact, if you cornered him in the dank corners of El Gato Negro, his version of the story paints me a manipulative bitch who ruined his life and crushed his soul. Potato, potahto.)
Most people don't recognize that women have will, I think. (Don't misunderstand me; I am not making the argument that all women choose their individual situations - especially the bad situations - and that they are the masters of their own exploitation. I was not exploited or abused; I merely endured an emotionally unsatisfying affair with someone I didn't really care for that much.) I'm saying that, like men, women have agency. We make decisions; we make choices. I was not an object acted against; I was a subject.
It seems I'm too over-determined about this, but I think it's an important point to make about women in general and me, in particular.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
i don't want to be your sacrificial lamb
This needs to be quoted in full: Shirley Sherrod’s victory: A teachable moment on talking race Race-Talk
But for now, I'll just leave you with this:
I watched David Gergen, whom I admire, talk yesterday about Ms. Sherrod’s “ascendant quality,” about her ability to rise above the legitimate racial pains of her past to help this white farmer. And then ironically my morning meditation was on Ephesians 4:8-9, a passage about Christ’s ascension and freeing of the captives. So it dawns on me: Americans want Black women to be Jesus. We are to be spit upon, mocked, discredited, and crucified, but at the end we are to forgive and remain gracious. As a strategy of personal living and transformation, that’s fine, but no one should have to be Jesus to do their job effectively.
...But I think those folks who think that eliminating racism starts with eliminating “race” are just plain wrong.
In fact, we’re trying that strategy now, and what it has led to is a vacuous rhetoric of colorblindness and racial transcendence, all the while hard-working Black women can lose their jobs on a whim, immigrants who’ve been working hard and shoring up the service economy in this country for decades are being deported, and young Black men and women continue to be murdered by the police. Deciding that “whiteness” and “blackness” shouldn’t matter when they clearly do matter is not the solution. [bold emphasis mine]
Read the whole thing.
But for now, I'll just leave you with this:
I watched David Gergen, whom I admire, talk yesterday about Ms. Sherrod’s “ascendant quality,” about her ability to rise above the legitimate racial pains of her past to help this white farmer. And then ironically my morning meditation was on Ephesians 4:8-9, a passage about Christ’s ascension and freeing of the captives. So it dawns on me: Americans want Black women to be Jesus. We are to be spit upon, mocked, discredited, and crucified, but at the end we are to forgive and remain gracious. As a strategy of personal living and transformation, that’s fine, but no one should have to be Jesus to do their job effectively.
...But I think those folks who think that eliminating racism starts with eliminating “race” are just plain wrong.
In fact, we’re trying that strategy now, and what it has led to is a vacuous rhetoric of colorblindness and racial transcendence, all the while hard-working Black women can lose their jobs on a whim, immigrants who’ve been working hard and shoring up the service economy in this country for decades are being deported, and young Black men and women continue to be murdered by the police. Deciding that “whiteness” and “blackness” shouldn’t matter when they clearly do matter is not the solution. [bold emphasis mine]
Read the whole thing.
summer hiatus
Clearly, my summer posting has been light.
Not that there hasn't been stuff to talk about (say, oh, the Shirley Sherrod 'accidental' firing) but I've been swamped. M-, work, life, finances, and then all of the summer lazing around - I've had other things on my plate.
But here's a list of things I wish I could write about if I had the time:
More about this 'rip off the mask' stage of the relationship
Being the object of a 'girl crush'
The quest for my professional sweet spot
More on my dissatisfaction with the human services business model (would I recommend anyone go into non profit work at this time, in Illinois? Hell, no.)
Why losing weight during the hottest summer on record is not happening
So until my life slows down or I can carve some time away from sitting in front of an oscillating fan, drinking sangria, Screed will be a little thin this summer. If you want to see what's going on with me and M-, follow me on Twitter @DeliaC. If you want your daily dose of political/cultural mini-screeds, Twitter me @DeliaChristina.
Hope your summers are awesome.
Not that there hasn't been stuff to talk about (say, oh, the Shirley Sherrod 'accidental' firing) but I've been swamped. M-, work, life, finances, and then all of the summer lazing around - I've had other things on my plate.
But here's a list of things I wish I could write about if I had the time:
More about this 'rip off the mask' stage of the relationship
Being the object of a 'girl crush'
The quest for my professional sweet spot
More on my dissatisfaction with the human services business model (would I recommend anyone go into non profit work at this time, in Illinois? Hell, no.)
Why losing weight during the hottest summer on record is not happening
So until my life slows down or I can carve some time away from sitting in front of an oscillating fan, drinking sangria, Screed will be a little thin this summer. If you want to see what's going on with me and M-, follow me on Twitter @DeliaC. If you want your daily dose of political/cultural mini-screeds, Twitter me @DeliaChristina.
Hope your summers are awesome.
Monday, July 05, 2010
10 reasons to love the 4th of July:
1. It means 2 short work weeks and everyone is firmly in 'vacation' mode.
2. It's an excuse to drink excessively, eat to oblivion and pass out on a blanket - just like when you were 9 years old.
3. Everyone has left town and you can finally get a seat on the bus.
4. You immediately remember which of your friends have rooftop decks.
5. Everyone loves illegal fireworks!
6. You can finally eat ALL the barbecue and sausages you want!
7. You can unveil your unseemly love for Souza and The Battle Hymn of the Republic (which you remember uncannily.)
8. Did I mention rooftop decks, already?
9. Airconditioning becomes a reason to love being an American.
10. It is the only holiday that really feels like summer.
2. It's an excuse to drink excessively, eat to oblivion and pass out on a blanket - just like when you were 9 years old.
3. Everyone has left town and you can finally get a seat on the bus.
4. You immediately remember which of your friends have rooftop decks.
5. Everyone loves illegal fireworks!
6. You can finally eat ALL the barbecue and sausages you want!
7. You can unveil your unseemly love for Souza and The Battle Hymn of the Republic (which you remember uncannily.)
8. Did I mention rooftop decks, already?
9. Airconditioning becomes a reason to love being an American.
10. It is the only holiday that really feels like summer.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tips on Informational Interviewing with Delia Christina
Lately, I’ve been fielding calls from recent college grads (or their family friends) for informational interviews and I don’t quite know how to feel about it. Ambivalent about my own professional standing and trajectory, I don’t quite know what insights I’m supposed to give these young people. Sure, I have a solid list of contacts (not as fabulous as some, but it’s still a good one); but informational interviewing should be about more than just a polite way to demand names. I see it as a mini-mentoring opportunity.
And since I’m big on mentoring folks who look like me, I was doubly ambivalent when the two people I spoke with this week didn’t look like me. Their accumulated gender, race and class privilege outweighed any contacts or leads I could give them in a lifetime.
The bitchy thought crossed my mind, “Shit, why should I waste my time and so-called insight on these two when I could be giving them to another woman of color?”
But I tamped down my impatience and made the appointments with them – because that’s what you do when you’re a professional. You realize that the job search is a dance and these sorts of interviews are part of the choreography. Also, there was no way I was going to look bad in front of the people who referred them to me. So on Monday, I met with a very nice college grad who’s earnestly interested in women’s advocacy – or law school – and today I met with a guy who’s been interning at our org at a long-term research position.
The recent grad was a dream. She was prepared. She came with a list of orgs she was interested in; she had already met with a couple other advocates I knew and she had a couple of career trajectories in mind by the time she sat down with me. We spent 30 minutes talking about the non profit sector, women’s advocacy and why direct service in Illinois is not likely to be a good bet for the next 10 years. I gave her a few names of other women to reach out to and shook hands with her on the way out. What a nice girl, I thought.
Then I met with PolicyDude. Unprepared, vague about his plans, unable to say what he wanted or why, he made my head hurt.
“PolicyDude,” I said. “Here’s a tip. When someone asks you what you’re interested in, saying ‘social justice and progressive movements’ isn’t going to cut it. It’s too vague. That could mean anything and everything. You need to be specific enough so that I know how best to recommend you to someone.”
He scribbled in his pad.
“So…let me hear it. Give me your 5 minute pitch: why do you want to be in policy and where do you want to end up?”
“Um…is that really necessary?”
Tip Number 2: When you’re asking someone to help you find a job, don’t be bitchy.
“Ok…who has the job now that you envision having?” In the past, I had always found this exercise to be helpful in focusing me on my own professional ambitions; I thought this would work for him, too. But, no.
He looked at the ceiling. “Um, well….policy think tanks…social movements for women…maybe an international organization…”
Sigh. “What about title? Who has the title you want?”
“Um, well…maybe Director of …policy?” Never let it be said that men don’t dream big.
Tip Number 3: For the love of god, be prepared ... and brief.
We spent an hour trying to eke out what it was he really wanted. Did he want to stay in Chicago or go elsewhere? Did he want to try women’s advocacy or poverty work? Did he want to stay in non profit or had he thought about the private sector? (I gave him the name of a blue chip consulting firm in Chicago with a non profit practice and, swear to god – if he finds a job with them, I will lose my shit.) Which foundations or research orgs was he thinking about? Why was he interested in this work? What did he want to do? How could I refer him to anyone I knew (and foist this disaster on them) when he couldn’t answer any of these questions?
Before you chastise me for losing my patience, I have to say that this guy is a grownup and should know better – in his 30s with a solid academic background, married to a med school student, already thinking about raising kids. He had already done some little work in the field but basically expected me to open my contact list and read off a bunch of names and emails for him.
Tip Number 4: Don’t be so overtly greedy.
When I reviewed his resume, I discovered that this guy had never gone through a traditional job process. Through the kindness of teachers and friends, he’d jumped from this random post to that.
“So you’ve never formally interviewed for any job before? You’ve never had to compete for a job?”
“Not really. Isn’t it …um…all about who you know?” Somehow, he managed to maintain a puzzled look of cluelessness as he said this.
Tip Number 5: Don’t let your white male privilege hit your ass on your way out my office.
...
Note: Though I was mentally over this conversation halfway through, I stuck with it and gave him some tips on being a little more strategic about his interviewing: stop mumbling, rewrite your resume, have your pitch ready and ask your contact for more than who they know. I gave him some homework and we’ll talk again in two weeks. But jesus on the cross – really??
Note: What’s Tip Number 1? Don’t be lazy!
And since I’m big on mentoring folks who look like me, I was doubly ambivalent when the two people I spoke with this week didn’t look like me. Their accumulated gender, race and class privilege outweighed any contacts or leads I could give them in a lifetime.
The bitchy thought crossed my mind, “Shit, why should I waste my time and so-called insight on these two when I could be giving them to another woman of color?”
But I tamped down my impatience and made the appointments with them – because that’s what you do when you’re a professional. You realize that the job search is a dance and these sorts of interviews are part of the choreography. Also, there was no way I was going to look bad in front of the people who referred them to me. So on Monday, I met with a very nice college grad who’s earnestly interested in women’s advocacy – or law school – and today I met with a guy who’s been interning at our org at a long-term research position.
The recent grad was a dream. She was prepared. She came with a list of orgs she was interested in; she had already met with a couple other advocates I knew and she had a couple of career trajectories in mind by the time she sat down with me. We spent 30 minutes talking about the non profit sector, women’s advocacy and why direct service in Illinois is not likely to be a good bet for the next 10 years. I gave her a few names of other women to reach out to and shook hands with her on the way out. What a nice girl, I thought.
Then I met with PolicyDude. Unprepared, vague about his plans, unable to say what he wanted or why, he made my head hurt.
“PolicyDude,” I said. “Here’s a tip. When someone asks you what you’re interested in, saying ‘social justice and progressive movements’ isn’t going to cut it. It’s too vague. That could mean anything and everything. You need to be specific enough so that I know how best to recommend you to someone.”
He scribbled in his pad.
“So…let me hear it. Give me your 5 minute pitch: why do you want to be in policy and where do you want to end up?”
“Um…is that really necessary?”
Tip Number 2: When you’re asking someone to help you find a job, don’t be bitchy.
“Ok…who has the job now that you envision having?” In the past, I had always found this exercise to be helpful in focusing me on my own professional ambitions; I thought this would work for him, too. But, no.
He looked at the ceiling. “Um, well….policy think tanks…social movements for women…maybe an international organization…”
Sigh. “What about title? Who has the title you want?”
“Um, well…maybe Director of …policy?” Never let it be said that men don’t dream big.
Tip Number 3: For the love of god, be prepared ... and brief.
We spent an hour trying to eke out what it was he really wanted. Did he want to stay in Chicago or go elsewhere? Did he want to try women’s advocacy or poverty work? Did he want to stay in non profit or had he thought about the private sector? (I gave him the name of a blue chip consulting firm in Chicago with a non profit practice and, swear to god – if he finds a job with them, I will lose my shit.) Which foundations or research orgs was he thinking about? Why was he interested in this work? What did he want to do? How could I refer him to anyone I knew (and foist this disaster on them) when he couldn’t answer any of these questions?
Before you chastise me for losing my patience, I have to say that this guy is a grownup and should know better – in his 30s with a solid academic background, married to a med school student, already thinking about raising kids. He had already done some little work in the field but basically expected me to open my contact list and read off a bunch of names and emails for him.
Tip Number 4: Don’t be so overtly greedy.
When I reviewed his resume, I discovered that this guy had never gone through a traditional job process. Through the kindness of teachers and friends, he’d jumped from this random post to that.
“So you’ve never formally interviewed for any job before? You’ve never had to compete for a job?”
“Not really. Isn’t it …um…all about who you know?” Somehow, he managed to maintain a puzzled look of cluelessness as he said this.
Tip Number 5: Don’t let your white male privilege hit your ass on your way out my office.
...
Note: Though I was mentally over this conversation halfway through, I stuck with it and gave him some tips on being a little more strategic about his interviewing: stop mumbling, rewrite your resume, have your pitch ready and ask your contact for more than who they know. I gave him some homework and we’ll talk again in two weeks. But jesus on the cross – really??
Note: What’s Tip Number 1? Don’t be lazy!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Dear Jesus,
Thank you for arranging things so that my field of work doesn't put me in direct contact with entitled, rich, white women anymore. They are crazy.
Yours,
Delia Christina
A friend at work is dealing with a very rich, very entitled white woman who answers every email but my friend's, makes threats about my friend's work and has tried at least once to make my friend look bad to her boss. (Thankfully, our boss is a very cool sort of woman and has been getting copied on every emailed interaction.) This entitled rich lady is a volunteer.
Where the hell do volunteers for an organization get off treating staff like their servants?
I think I've just found my new side hustle: rogue volunteer whisperer for stressed out non profit fundraising staff.
Thank you for arranging things so that my field of work doesn't put me in direct contact with entitled, rich, white women anymore. They are crazy.
Yours,
Delia Christina
A friend at work is dealing with a very rich, very entitled white woman who answers every email but my friend's, makes threats about my friend's work and has tried at least once to make my friend look bad to her boss. (Thankfully, our boss is a very cool sort of woman and has been getting copied on every emailed interaction.) This entitled rich lady is a volunteer.
Where the hell do volunteers for an organization get off treating staff like their servants?
I think I've just found my new side hustle: rogue volunteer whisperer for stressed out non profit fundraising staff.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
What's new, pussycat?
Not much. In a funny twist of workplace irony, I was named a high performing ROCK star (don't ask me why it was capitalized thusly) on my team, which entails one personal day off. When Boss Lady told me I asked her if they were supposed to pick the team member who was closest to a nervous breakdown. She laughed. But really. I wondered.
...
If you follow my twitter you might have seen the photo of me and M- at a wedding a couple of weeks ago. What a fabulous day that was! Romantic, pretty, random...everything a wedding should be. And we danced - to jazz! Sigh. (The fact that we fought for the lead for a few seconds is not important.) We should have more weekends like this but then we'd be broke.
All of that to say that M- and I are pretty good.
...
Our world is frakked. Every day I watch the BP disaster unfold and grow angrier and angrier. But who am I angry at the most?
At BP for being the epitome of a bad-acting corporation? (cutting corners on safety, not giving a shit about workers or safety, being more concerned about PR than actual problem solving or taking responsibility for their bad act....I could go on.)
At the general public for our blindness at our own complicity? (That oil was for us - literally. It was for the US market. If we're so upset about this and about all this offshore drilling, and we say we never want to see this happen again, we need to make some different choices. Choices that go waaaay beyond being 'green.' Choices that mean the infrastructure and flow of our society looks different. Are we even ready to contemplate what a society without fossil fuels looks like, acts like?)
At folks for having these wacko expectations of a President? (Really, you're mad that the President didn't come to your dock to speak to you personally about how this spill is affecting you? And he should do this for every single person in the Gulf region? To make YOU feel like YOU are being listened to? When did we become such babies?)
At the Obama administration for being well-meaning but sort of politically doofy? (What happened to all the savvy public strategy folks that got them through the elections? Where's that message discipline?)
The longer human beings are on this planet, the more we fuck it up.
When the flaming meteorite comes, I hope the end is quick.
...
If you follow my twitter you might have seen the photo of me and M- at a wedding a couple of weeks ago. What a fabulous day that was! Romantic, pretty, random...everything a wedding should be. And we danced - to jazz! Sigh. (The fact that we fought for the lead for a few seconds is not important.) We should have more weekends like this but then we'd be broke.
All of that to say that M- and I are pretty good.
...
Our world is frakked. Every day I watch the BP disaster unfold and grow angrier and angrier. But who am I angry at the most?
At BP for being the epitome of a bad-acting corporation? (cutting corners on safety, not giving a shit about workers or safety, being more concerned about PR than actual problem solving or taking responsibility for their bad act....I could go on.)
At the general public for our blindness at our own complicity? (That oil was for us - literally. It was for the US market. If we're so upset about this and about all this offshore drilling, and we say we never want to see this happen again, we need to make some different choices. Choices that go waaaay beyond being 'green.' Choices that mean the infrastructure and flow of our society looks different. Are we even ready to contemplate what a society without fossil fuels looks like, acts like?)
At folks for having these wacko expectations of a President? (Really, you're mad that the President didn't come to your dock to speak to you personally about how this spill is affecting you? And he should do this for every single person in the Gulf region? To make YOU feel like YOU are being listened to? When did we become such babies?)
At the Obama administration for being well-meaning but sort of politically doofy? (What happened to all the savvy public strategy folks that got them through the elections? Where's that message discipline?)
The longer human beings are on this planet, the more we fuck it up.
When the flaming meteorite comes, I hope the end is quick.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
reality bites, indeed
I am not a radical.
As a bourgie brown woman, I acknowledge what little privilege I have and wish everyone had the advantages I've had. However, just because I'm a bourgie black woman does NOT mean that I don't give a shit about making a difference in women's lives.
I'm in one of our chief executive's office this morning and throwing an idea out there that our legislative agenda next session needs be more cohesive. So we're talking about the benefits to it and somehow ending up on a potential issue area for us: domestic trafficking and prostituted women. And then began a depressing conversation about whether or not we're a feminist organization and what matters more: dollars or actually advocating to empower women? Clearly, dollars.
Know what I hate about working for an org that's over 100 years old in this funding environment?
I hate knowing that every future decision we make about policy is probably going to come from a place of fear: fear that we'll alienate a donor; fear that we'll make a politician angry; fear that our general constituency will back off from us; fear that the shiny white ladies from the burbs won't want to be sullied by the hard scrabble lives of women living on the south or west side.
I hate coming to the realization that, because of our age and our size, rather than use this time of uncertainty to be brave, we only TALK about being brave but then cavil and end up being mealy-mouthed and cowardly. Because that's what it means to back off from policies that mean life or death to women. It means you're chicken shit and you're not really serious about what you mean.
I'm sure I'm not the only policy/advocacy person in a human services non profit to come to that realization.
If I'm going to be this disillusioned, I should have stayed in corporate.
At least I'd be compensated for my cynicism.
As a bourgie brown woman, I acknowledge what little privilege I have and wish everyone had the advantages I've had. However, just because I'm a bourgie black woman does NOT mean that I don't give a shit about making a difference in women's lives.
I'm in one of our chief executive's office this morning and throwing an idea out there that our legislative agenda next session needs be more cohesive. So we're talking about the benefits to it and somehow ending up on a potential issue area for us: domestic trafficking and prostituted women. And then began a depressing conversation about whether or not we're a feminist organization and what matters more: dollars or actually advocating to empower women? Clearly, dollars.
Know what I hate about working for an org that's over 100 years old in this funding environment?
I hate knowing that every future decision we make about policy is probably going to come from a place of fear: fear that we'll alienate a donor; fear that we'll make a politician angry; fear that our general constituency will back off from us; fear that the shiny white ladies from the burbs won't want to be sullied by the hard scrabble lives of women living on the south or west side.
I hate coming to the realization that, because of our age and our size, rather than use this time of uncertainty to be brave, we only TALK about being brave but then cavil and end up being mealy-mouthed and cowardly. Because that's what it means to back off from policies that mean life or death to women. It means you're chicken shit and you're not really serious about what you mean.
I'm sure I'm not the only policy/advocacy person in a human services non profit to come to that realization.
If I'm going to be this disillusioned, I should have stayed in corporate.
At least I'd be compensated for my cynicism.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
This is White Supremacy
So I'm getting ready to go to a wedding in Kenilworth (one of Chicago's closest 'sundown' towns, incidentally) when I read this article in my FB feed: Arizona public school is being forced to change little black and brown kids in a mural white because some assholes are offended by the mere visual reminder that not everyone is white.
So far reaction has been "Wow, those Arizonans are freaking crazy, with their racist thoughts and all." Well, yes and no.
Yes, they are freaking crazy but this isn't racism. This is white supremacy.
When a state, by large unspoken agreement of its people, decides to ellide the very presence of the racial Other then we're beyond 'race bigotry' + power = Racism. We're into the land of: You are not white so therefore you are not worthy of citizenship (SB1070), a place in our history (see ethnic studies bans and textbook revisionism) or even artistic or public representation. When the black and brown people are told their presence isn't wanted in public that's a strong statement of who IS welcomed: whites only.
To me, that means Jim Crow. And if we're all students of history, we all should recognize Jim Crow, or bullshit 'separate but equal' segregation, as a tool of white supremacy.
Disenfranchisement is more than just being treated differently - it means one has no public, legal or civil recourse to wrongs done to you. It means you have no right to participate in civic life - voting, for instance. When applied to ONLY people of color, it is a white supremacist method of social control.
So let's start calling the racists what they really are: Jim Crow apologists and white supremacists. Because now we know what we're dealing with.
So far reaction has been "Wow, those Arizonans are freaking crazy, with their racist thoughts and all." Well, yes and no.
Yes, they are freaking crazy but this isn't racism. This is white supremacy.
When a state, by large unspoken agreement of its people, decides to ellide the very presence of the racial Other then we're beyond 'race bigotry' + power = Racism. We're into the land of: You are not white so therefore you are not worthy of citizenship (SB1070), a place in our history (see ethnic studies bans and textbook revisionism) or even artistic or public representation. When the black and brown people are told their presence isn't wanted in public that's a strong statement of who IS welcomed: whites only.
To me, that means Jim Crow. And if we're all students of history, we all should recognize Jim Crow, or bullshit 'separate but equal' segregation, as a tool of white supremacy.
Disenfranchisement is more than just being treated differently - it means one has no public, legal or civil recourse to wrongs done to you. It means you have no right to participate in civic life - voting, for instance. When applied to ONLY people of color, it is a white supremacist method of social control.
So let's start calling the racists what they really are: Jim Crow apologists and white supremacists. Because now we know what we're dealing with.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Dad gets another lesson in feminism: on raising strong daughters
Talking with my dad allows me to say some things kids and parents normally don't have a chance to say to one another unless one of them is on a deathbed. So today, I told him how his and mom's messages about our bodies basically created some of the issues my sister and I have with intimacy. And his brain exploded.
"What did you expect, Dad?" I said. "We grew up in a religiously strict Baptist home, we were taught Satan was real, we were going to hell if we touched ourselves, our bodies were dirty, sex was bad and that boys were rapists. So, yeah - we're gonna have some issues with men when we grow up!"
"Ahhh, well. I don't know," he stammered. "I don't know if I agree with all of that. But we can talk about that later."
"Dad, L- and I still talk about how traumatized we were when you told us about sex. It was graphic!"
"I was just trying to protect you from the little knuckleheads down the street!"
"We were eight! Don't tell us about being snatched off the streets, thrown on a dirty mattress in a van and having some little boy put their fingers in our bodies! That was terrifying!"
"I was being a father! We lived in South Central - not some fairy land."
"Well, congratulations, Dad! You told us our bodies were fodder for rapists - who, apparently, lived down the street, went to school with us and walked the sidewalks! Nice going." I said. "We were EIGHT! Dude, didn't anyone back then read books about child development? Didn't you guys have Good Touch/Bad Touch?"
"What's that mess?"
And so on.
Anyway, things are not going well with my sister's marriage; she has admitted to Dad that she has hated how men look at her, which has prompted Dad to ask where her attitude comes from.
"Are you kidding me?"
"I'm serious, Delia Christina. I don't understand it."
I tried to explain what it's like growing up a girl where you're taught that Bad Things will happen to you because of what's between your legs, how this reduces a girl to an object and tells her that SHE is the cause for a man's violence and perversion; but he didn't get it, quite.
So I said, "You raised us to be afraid, not strong. See the difference?"
My sister and I heard the same messages growing up. But I know what made the difference for me. Feminism. If that kind of awakening hadn't happened to me, I would still be struggling with my body, my value, my worth. I know that I've had a reputation for being a ball-busting man-hater, but I'd rather be a so-called man-hater than a woman afraid of her own body and desire.
But this, I think, is the conundrum of raising daughters. If you know that this patriarchal world is full of violence against women and girls (which it is, in horrible, horrific ways) then how do you prepare your daughter to face it? And then, how do you raise them to face it without making them afraid of themselves, of their bodies - how do you raise a daughter to be without shame?
Mothers and fathers raising daughters, I'd love to hear from you on this one.
"What did you expect, Dad?" I said. "We grew up in a religiously strict Baptist home, we were taught Satan was real, we were going to hell if we touched ourselves, our bodies were dirty, sex was bad and that boys were rapists. So, yeah - we're gonna have some issues with men when we grow up!"
"Ahhh, well. I don't know," he stammered. "I don't know if I agree with all of that. But we can talk about that later."
"Dad, L- and I still talk about how traumatized we were when you told us about sex. It was graphic!"
"I was just trying to protect you from the little knuckleheads down the street!"
"We were eight! Don't tell us about being snatched off the streets, thrown on a dirty mattress in a van and having some little boy put their fingers in our bodies! That was terrifying!"
"I was being a father! We lived in South Central - not some fairy land."
"Well, congratulations, Dad! You told us our bodies were fodder for rapists - who, apparently, lived down the street, went to school with us and walked the sidewalks! Nice going." I said. "We were EIGHT! Dude, didn't anyone back then read books about child development? Didn't you guys have Good Touch/Bad Touch?"
"What's that mess?"
And so on.
Anyway, things are not going well with my sister's marriage; she has admitted to Dad that she has hated how men look at her, which has prompted Dad to ask where her attitude comes from.
"Are you kidding me?"
"I'm serious, Delia Christina. I don't understand it."
I tried to explain what it's like growing up a girl where you're taught that Bad Things will happen to you because of what's between your legs, how this reduces a girl to an object and tells her that SHE is the cause for a man's violence and perversion; but he didn't get it, quite.
So I said, "You raised us to be afraid, not strong. See the difference?"
My sister and I heard the same messages growing up. But I know what made the difference for me. Feminism. If that kind of awakening hadn't happened to me, I would still be struggling with my body, my value, my worth. I know that I've had a reputation for being a ball-busting man-hater, but I'd rather be a so-called man-hater than a woman afraid of her own body and desire.
But this, I think, is the conundrum of raising daughters. If you know that this patriarchal world is full of violence against women and girls (which it is, in horrible, horrific ways) then how do you prepare your daughter to face it? And then, how do you raise them to face it without making them afraid of themselves, of their bodies - how do you raise a daughter to be without shame?
Mothers and fathers raising daughters, I'd love to hear from you on this one.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
this is hard
For some reason, I haven't been able to sleep for the last few days. Last night, after a nice date night with M-, the inconsiderate DamnKids next door kept me awake from 2.30 am to 3.30. Even after I called the cops on them, I tossed and turned, trying every trick I knew to lull myself into sleep.
Some of it was work stuff, I know. Projects are starting to build up and while I may not be thinking about them consciously, it's running in the background. Like a .exe file on my hard drive somewhere sucking up disk space.
But what's the rest? Discontent with my blogging practice? (Blogging is starting to feel like spinning my wheels, not like real writing anymore.)
The eventual burnout from dealing with the state budget crap all year and having the end of session one week away? (I don't even care how it turns out, anymore. I just want it to be done. Janky budget or responsible budget, I don't care. Just end, already.)
Could it be M-?
As predicted, he read Screed while I was away (he had some free time on his hands) and ... I don't know how to read his reaction to it. (Also, notice that I'm not stopping writing about our relationship.)
Last night, in a light tone, he'd said, 'I'm sorry I didn't graduate college.'
But I don't know how to read that. Truthfully, I know I've settled that with myself. That was MY issue and I've looked at it and called myself out for being so entitled. And then friends thought that he'd had a strange reaction when he found out LTF/B- had gone to Stanford but I wasn't there so I'm forced to take their interpretation with a grain of salt.
(Besides, Stanford or no, LTF/B- was a frakking nutbag. Also - inconsiderate, selfish, freakish, drug-addled, neurotic, depressive andoccasionally impotent frustrating. By my assessment, M- wins on all points of comparison.)
I had been clipping dead daisy heads when this came up so I put down the scissors.
'M-, that used to be an issue when we first met, but it's not anymore. I love who you are.'
He shrugged. 'Well, I know that I still need to prove myself.'
'To whom?'
'To you. I want to be able -- I'm just tired of not being where I want to be.'
I said, 'You know why I love you? I know that you're the type of man who has integrity and you'll be the man who takes care of his business - and his family. You don't have to prove anything to me.'
'I just wish I had more money. I'm tired of working so hard and not having anything to show for it.'
And so we talked about that for a little while - about ambition, starting over at our age, about dreams that our parents had and that we doubt we'll have a chance to live. And about money. And living paycheck to paycheck. It was kind of a heavy conversation. No wonder we killed more than several bottles of Woodchuck.
In the past, a conversation like this would have made me skittish. My brain would have raced ahead, anticipating all sorts of trouble. But now I want to pay very close attention to how we both navigate peeling away our respective layers; what lies beneath won't always be attractive and we'll have to decide if we love the fantasy of love or if it's really about who this other person is in their bones.
I can already tell this 2nd year is going to be different than the first. The newness is still there, but now the edges of real life are starting to seep through. I'm beginning to see that being with someone really is a choice. It shouldn't be passive or accidental. It shouldn't just happen, like turning a corner in an unfamiliar place, finding you like the neighborhood and just deciding to hang out there a while. It's an act of will.
Did I just stumble into a profundity?
Some of it was work stuff, I know. Projects are starting to build up and while I may not be thinking about them consciously, it's running in the background. Like a .exe file on my hard drive somewhere sucking up disk space.
But what's the rest? Discontent with my blogging practice? (Blogging is starting to feel like spinning my wheels, not like real writing anymore.)
The eventual burnout from dealing with the state budget crap all year and having the end of session one week away? (I don't even care how it turns out, anymore. I just want it to be done. Janky budget or responsible budget, I don't care. Just end, already.)
Could it be M-?
As predicted, he read Screed while I was away (he had some free time on his hands) and ... I don't know how to read his reaction to it. (Also, notice that I'm not stopping writing about our relationship.)
Last night, in a light tone, he'd said, 'I'm sorry I didn't graduate college.'
But I don't know how to read that. Truthfully, I know I've settled that with myself. That was MY issue and I've looked at it and called myself out for being so entitled. And then friends thought that he'd had a strange reaction when he found out LTF/B- had gone to Stanford but I wasn't there so I'm forced to take their interpretation with a grain of salt.
(Besides, Stanford or no, LTF/B- was a frakking nutbag. Also - inconsiderate, selfish, freakish, drug-addled, neurotic, depressive and
I had been clipping dead daisy heads when this came up so I put down the scissors.
'M-, that used to be an issue when we first met, but it's not anymore. I love who you are.'
He shrugged. 'Well, I know that I still need to prove myself.'
'To whom?'
'To you. I want to be able -- I'm just tired of not being where I want to be.'
I said, 'You know why I love you? I know that you're the type of man who has integrity and you'll be the man who takes care of his business - and his family. You don't have to prove anything to me.'
'I just wish I had more money. I'm tired of working so hard and not having anything to show for it.'
And so we talked about that for a little while - about ambition, starting over at our age, about dreams that our parents had and that we doubt we'll have a chance to live. And about money. And living paycheck to paycheck. It was kind of a heavy conversation. No wonder we killed more than several bottles of Woodchuck.
In the past, a conversation like this would have made me skittish. My brain would have raced ahead, anticipating all sorts of trouble. But now I want to pay very close attention to how we both navigate peeling away our respective layers; what lies beneath won't always be attractive and we'll have to decide if we love the fantasy of love or if it's really about who this other person is in their bones.
I can already tell this 2nd year is going to be different than the first. The newness is still there, but now the edges of real life are starting to seep through. I'm beginning to see that being with someone really is a choice. It shouldn't be passive or accidental. It shouldn't just happen, like turning a corner in an unfamiliar place, finding you like the neighborhood and just deciding to hang out there a while. It's an act of will.
Did I just stumble into a profundity?
Monday, May 17, 2010
silence.
the news reported a tussle with the grandmother, during which the firearm discharged. everyone in the family says there was no tussle, that the grandmother was throwing herself over the baby when aiyana was shot in the head.
what do you call the blinded, terrified groping of a grandmother who knows her grandchildren are in the room, blasted from safety and sleep into chaos and danger, whose granddaughter is on fire? how do you comfort a man like aiyana’s father, which was forced to lie face down in his daughter’s blood by the same police officers who killed her?
the police shot and killed aiyana. they shot her in the forehead. her family saw her brain on the couch. by accident, perhaps. which doesn’t even matter to a 7-year-old. you don’t get let off any hooks for your intentions in this case, officer." (source)
I want all of us to think about how often these 'accidents' happen.
I want all of us to think about where these 'accidents' happen.
Because they aren't happening in New Trier.
They aren't happening in Westwood.
Then I want you to think about those to whom these 'accidents' occur.
And that's all I want you to do. Think.
No talk. No discussion.
Because I am too goddamn angry to say another word about this.
Friday, May 14, 2010
father's day is gonna be goooood
So my father calls me at work (as is his wont.)
He tells me his plumber has written an interesting book...about penis size.
'Wait. Are you kidding? THAT'S his book?' I say.
Yes, my dad says. That's the book.
But when the plumber left an advance copy for my dad, he inscribed it with:
"To the prettiest man I know - Plumber (smiley face)"
'I'm confused,' my dad says. 'What does this mean?'
I'm laughing so hard I can barely say 'Man crush!'
'But he has a woman!'
I laughed harder. I can't stop laughing.
He tells me his plumber has written an interesting book...about penis size.
'Wait. Are you kidding? THAT'S his book?' I say.
Yes, my dad says. That's the book.
But when the plumber left an advance copy for my dad, he inscribed it with:
"To the prettiest man I know - Plumber (smiley face)"
'I'm confused,' my dad says. 'What does this mean?'
I'm laughing so hard I can barely say 'Man crush!'
'But he has a woman!'
I laughed harder. I can't stop laughing.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Coloring the Abortion Debate
Coming soon, my thoughts on being pro repro justice, being vetted for a board seat for a local abortion fund, how perceived allies react to women of color advocating for reproductive justice and how this intersects with my identity as a woman of color (of faith, even.)
But for now, just read this: The Indypendent » Coloring the Abortion Debate
But for now, just read this: The Indypendent » Coloring the Abortion Debate
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
policy camp, day 2: when you know you're not a leader, but a close 2nd
It's not that much of a loss, really. I've always known that being a number 1 makes the goosebumps rise, and not in that good way. This is not to say that I am crushed or abashed. It's a confirmation. And it's not to say that I am the one who follows. The pleasant surprise in this whole day was that it confirmed that I am...uncomfortably neutral about control.
The day started with our policy elevator speeches; I was paired with the NJ Supreme Court law clerk who frankly said, "I don't think these work. But go ahead." And I laughed. Then she laughed. I got what she was saying. When she said it in the larger group though, you could feel the room pull away from her. But she stood up there and just shrugged. 'I've worked on staffs, she said. And these are nice, but they don't remember these. You have to build the relationship and negotiate.'
It was a pragmatic view of the political process and the room full of advocates didn't really shine to that. For most of us, we like to think that if only folks knew the extent of the issue, that's all it takes. But it doesn't. It takes politics. And I admired her guts for saying that, for injecting an element of real politik into the morning. It was a lesson for me:
Don't get so caught up in your issue that you forget you operate in a very real world where having the facts and telling the story isn't enough.
Being the smartest girl in the room is not enough.
Being the smartest girl who knows the right people sometimes is.
I hope I stay in touch with her after this; in a few years, this woman will either be a very good, and very connected, lobbyist or a very good, and very connected, state senator, congressman or judge for New Jersey.
How was my elevator speech? Ah, it was serviceable; it won't set the world on fire but no one called it crazy.
And that's another thing; it is so incredibly nurturing here! I imagined a policy shark tank, a boot camp of sorts. But while the group discussions get heated, and positions are strenuously defended, there is always consensus to make us whole again.
Consensus. A word that used to make me itch in impatience. But now I see the use for it. In our session about Effective Teams, we had to agree on what helps or blocks teams; we couldn't take a simple vote and any disagreements had to be resolved through consensus. I found that I'm mostly ok with switching my vote. Oh, I'm wed to my position but often I will see the value of another person's view and give way. But only if their view is valuable and they made a good case for it - or if there was a greater good that could benefit and didn't depend on my position.
What was also surprising was figuring out what each of us valued in our teams. Half of us wanted everyone to contribute; the other half, only if the contribution was value-added. Most felt that conflict was a block to progress, but ok if framed as debate; most required structure and felt that personal feeling talk could be a slippery slope for losing focus. Above all, we felt it was important, no matter individual positions, for the team to enjoy working with one another.
Of course, when we compared our findings with actual research about effective teams, we discovered that some of what we preferred wasn't supported. Fascinating. Who knew conflict was a boon? Who knew that assuming equal competency levels was a block? (Lesson: always identify your weakest link and allocate resources appropriately!) It definitely made me stop and evaluate my current team and how I work in it.
Which brings me to the FIRO-B test. We all submitted an assessment before we arrived and received the results. Wow. It measured on Inclusivity, Control and Openness, on a 54-point range. (You can look up the FIRO-B to see how it works.) Spookily accurate.
I had an overall score of 14 - out of 54!! My Inclusion score was low: I prefer being alone vs. interacting with others. My Control score was also low; I like little structure, don't care about controlling others and don't give a shit about you trying to control me, because you won't. (I paraphrase.) And my Openness score was medium; I prefer some but not a lot of warmth and closeness in 1-1 relationships. Again, spookily accurate.
In other words, I'll be part of your team but I'm the loner who'll go along as long as I agree with the direction; but as soon as my and the group's interests diverge, I will bounce. Interesting, isn't it? (Perhaps I should warn M-.)
I don't think I was the only one struck with their results. Perhaps it was seeing ourselves rendered in print that made us all head for the bar immediately after the session.
The day started with our policy elevator speeches; I was paired with the NJ Supreme Court law clerk who frankly said, "I don't think these work. But go ahead." And I laughed. Then she laughed. I got what she was saying. When she said it in the larger group though, you could feel the room pull away from her. But she stood up there and just shrugged. 'I've worked on staffs, she said. And these are nice, but they don't remember these. You have to build the relationship and negotiate.'
It was a pragmatic view of the political process and the room full of advocates didn't really shine to that. For most of us, we like to think that if only folks knew the extent of the issue, that's all it takes. But it doesn't. It takes politics. And I admired her guts for saying that, for injecting an element of real politik into the morning. It was a lesson for me:
Don't get so caught up in your issue that you forget you operate in a very real world where having the facts and telling the story isn't enough.
Being the smartest girl in the room is not enough.
Being the smartest girl who knows the right people sometimes is.
I hope I stay in touch with her after this; in a few years, this woman will either be a very good, and very connected, lobbyist or a very good, and very connected, state senator, congressman or judge for New Jersey.
How was my elevator speech? Ah, it was serviceable; it won't set the world on fire but no one called it crazy.
And that's another thing; it is so incredibly nurturing here! I imagined a policy shark tank, a boot camp of sorts. But while the group discussions get heated, and positions are strenuously defended, there is always consensus to make us whole again.
Consensus. A word that used to make me itch in impatience. But now I see the use for it. In our session about Effective Teams, we had to agree on what helps or blocks teams; we couldn't take a simple vote and any disagreements had to be resolved through consensus. I found that I'm mostly ok with switching my vote. Oh, I'm wed to my position but often I will see the value of another person's view and give way. But only if their view is valuable and they made a good case for it - or if there was a greater good that could benefit and didn't depend on my position.
What was also surprising was figuring out what each of us valued in our teams. Half of us wanted everyone to contribute; the other half, only if the contribution was value-added. Most felt that conflict was a block to progress, but ok if framed as debate; most required structure and felt that personal feeling talk could be a slippery slope for losing focus. Above all, we felt it was important, no matter individual positions, for the team to enjoy working with one another.
Of course, when we compared our findings with actual research about effective teams, we discovered that some of what we preferred wasn't supported. Fascinating. Who knew conflict was a boon? Who knew that assuming equal competency levels was a block? (Lesson: always identify your weakest link and allocate resources appropriately!) It definitely made me stop and evaluate my current team and how I work in it.
Which brings me to the FIRO-B test. We all submitted an assessment before we arrived and received the results. Wow. It measured on Inclusivity, Control and Openness, on a 54-point range. (You can look up the FIRO-B to see how it works.) Spookily accurate.
I had an overall score of 14 - out of 54!! My Inclusion score was low: I prefer being alone vs. interacting with others. My Control score was also low; I like little structure, don't care about controlling others and don't give a shit about you trying to control me, because you won't. (I paraphrase.) And my Openness score was medium; I prefer some but not a lot of warmth and closeness in 1-1 relationships. Again, spookily accurate.
In other words, I'll be part of your team but I'm the loner who'll go along as long as I agree with the direction; but as soon as my and the group's interests diverge, I will bounce. Interesting, isn't it? (Perhaps I should warn M-.)
I don't think I was the only one struck with their results. Perhaps it was seeing ourselves rendered in print that made us all head for the bar immediately after the session.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
So I'm at the Mt. Washington Conf Center in Baltimore, on the Johns Hopkins campus. We are enjoying wonderful weather - warm, dry, with a hint of rain that's coming on Friday. Rolling hills and bright green woodland surround the center. High on a hill, we are comfortably isolated from the bustle of Baltimore.
Since I've arrived, and since so much of this week will be about leadership, I've been asking myself if there's a model of female leadership. Do we tend to make women's leadership a binary opposite from male leadership? Is there a particularly 'feminine' style of leadership that can be identified?
So far, the so-called softer skills or qualities (i.e., relationship building, nurturing, etc.) aren't as valuable to most of us as strategy, savviness and having a vision. Interesting. During our discussion of why no one picked 'honesty' as a quality we all value in our leaders we arrived at the conclusion that, in our line of work, honesty isn't practical. Yes, we value integrity but honesty, less so. After all, the point is to get to the YES.
So far, the group I am most aligned with are the women who self-identify themselves as doers: assertive, quick to act, in control, digs into challenges, bottom-line thinkers and not feelings based; we bonded over the fact that we all had little patience for process and what we perceived as dithering, temerity or talking too much. In this group, I think the judicial law clerk is the most intimidating; there's an assessing look in her eye that made me bristle at first but that's just her way.
(We were also the first team to finish the activity and waited impatiently while the Visionaries, Analysts and Nurturers took their time. No judgment! Just sayin'.)
I expected to feel old here but someone said that 40 is the new whatever; there are some women here who are beginning anew. What I love most is that we are all passionate about issues affecting women. We are in orgs that do domestic violence work, education, economic empowerment, tax policy, early child care, reproductive justice, healthcare, AIDS work. About half are mothers; about half are women of color. And two are men! But what connects us? A passion for women's lives.
Ok, I have some policy homework to do. Catch y'all later.
Since I've arrived, and since so much of this week will be about leadership, I've been asking myself if there's a model of female leadership. Do we tend to make women's leadership a binary opposite from male leadership? Is there a particularly 'feminine' style of leadership that can be identified?
So far, the so-called softer skills or qualities (i.e., relationship building, nurturing, etc.) aren't as valuable to most of us as strategy, savviness and having a vision. Interesting. During our discussion of why no one picked 'honesty' as a quality we all value in our leaders we arrived at the conclusion that, in our line of work, honesty isn't practical. Yes, we value integrity but honesty, less so. After all, the point is to get to the YES.
So far, the group I am most aligned with are the women who self-identify themselves as doers: assertive, quick to act, in control, digs into challenges, bottom-line thinkers and not feelings based; we bonded over the fact that we all had little patience for process and what we perceived as dithering, temerity or talking too much. In this group, I think the judicial law clerk is the most intimidating; there's an assessing look in her eye that made me bristle at first but that's just her way.
(We were also the first team to finish the activity and waited impatiently while the Visionaries, Analysts and Nurturers took their time. No judgment! Just sayin'.)
I expected to feel old here but someone said that 40 is the new whatever; there are some women here who are beginning anew. What I love most is that we are all passionate about issues affecting women. We are in orgs that do domestic violence work, education, economic empowerment, tax policy, early child care, reproductive justice, healthcare, AIDS work. About half are mothers; about half are women of color. And two are men! But what connects us? A passion for women's lives.
Ok, I have some policy homework to do. Catch y'all later.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
at last, the religious right gets honest
At the Freedom Federation meeting, Rodriguez's rhetoric epitomized how the religious right is reframing its core issues to build a new army for "spiritual warfare" on sexual impurity and its consequences. Appearing on a panel moderated by Richard Land, who for decades has been the public and political face of the Southern Baptist Convention in Washington, Rodriguez said, "Let me be very blunt here. I don't believe white evangelicals or white conservatives alone can repudiate the spirit of Herod, the spirit of Sodom and Gomorrah, the spirit of Jezebel."
During the summit's closing rally, Rev. Arnold Culbreath, an African-American minister from Cincinnati, Ohio, admonished young women for their lack of purity. Culbreath is billed as the urban outreach director of Life Issues Institute, Inc., an anti-abortion organization, and the leader of the group's Black Life Initiative. "I want to say a word to the young ladies: Stop making it so easy for the young men," Culbreath said. His words were met with applause. "God has designed us to be the pursuers," he continued, "and you to be the pursuees." [emphasis mine]
Before, the religious right had always tip-toed around their obsession with gender roles and appropriate feminine behavior. Oh, sure - they want to save babies and segregate gays, but they'd never cop to the charge that they focused on these issues because a reproductively autonomous woman or gay man/woman challenged notions of hyper-patriarchy and 'natural order.'
They'd just chalk it up to God or the Bible and hide their intentions behind mealy-mouthed Jesus-talk.
But at last, their agenda is overt: in order to break the hold the Dems have over African American and Latino votes, the christian right is overtly positioning themselves to be the voice of pre-modernity by going after those issues that cross all racial/ethnic lines: killing teh babehs, gays, and sluts.
What's the spirit of Herod? Abortion.
The spirit of Sodom and Gomorrah? Homosexuality.
The spirit of Jezebel? Those goddamned women who like sex, have sex and use birth control, aren't married, flout (male) authority, work outside the home, feminists, loud-mouthed bitches and so on. In other words, women like me. Or you. Just .... women.
The social ick factor posed by abortion, homosexuality and feminism for religious conservatives has never been in doubt. But it's interesting to see how they've pitched race out the window in order to unify disparate factions under a banner everyone can get behind: hetero-coersive patriarchy.
Can I get an amen? (I'll write later about thoughts of how this movement appeals to the not so latent patriarchal tendencies among some black clergy and how it soothes their fear of the 'Sapphire' and tries to build a cage around black women's agency in order to support and protect the black male ego.)
And they're willing to build a socio-political movement behind it:
That vision of social justice is -- like the traditional religious right -- anti-government and theocratic. For the "multiracial" Freedom Federation, it is focused on saving black and brown babies from the spirit of Herod. In a panel discussion on social justice, Engle said, "prostitution in America is fueled majorly [sic] out of the foster care system. Government is going to produce that kind of thing. Here is where the church becomes the outrageous lover, the outrageous answer." [emphasis mine]
(It's interesting to note how Engle's thinking turns the government into a pimp - and, of course, there won't be any thinking about how such a hyper-patriarchal model of gender creates the man who buys the trafficked woman... )
The way Engle connects domestic trafficking to the foster care system makes me take a closer look at the ways that evangelical groups have begun to advocate around international and domestic sex trafficking and wonder how their advocacy on those issues(the presence of which anti-violence against women groups have warily welcomed) is going to merge with this new fight to rescue America from the Herods, Sodomites and Jezebels among us.
And how are their wary feminist/pro-woman partners going to navigate that?
(I'm thinking specifically of particular 'rescue and restore' ministries that have worked with established feminist anti-trafficking groups; these groups have very heavy 'American patriot' overtones/imagery and a definite vibe of 'manly Christian men rescuing endangered frail, corrupted woman in order to restore her to home and hearth, where she rightfully belongs.' It is a discourse ripped directly from the 19th century Victorian playbook.)
The religious right has always fascinated me. One, because I come from it and understand it; and two, because their narratives and goals are so very, very narrow and familiar. Throughout history there have been those who have fought to hold back time and progress. Despite the lessons to be learned in literature, history, art and psychology about the unhappiness and damage such a narrowly defined culture can produce, they fight on.
And keep losing. For every women who is educated, employed, empowered and autonomous, beholden to no one, they lose.
I hope we women are strong enough for this fight again.
...
Bible story time!
Who is Jezebel?
It's one of the most vivid and violent stories in the Old Testament. I read it constantly when I was a little girl. Jezebel is married to Ahab, who covets a man's land. Ahab dithers so his wife strategizes to steal the land, kill the owner and make the land a gift to Ahab. The prophet Elijah forsees doom because of their sin and when the kingdom is attacked, Ahab dies in battle and Elijah orders Jehu to find Jezebel and throw her from the highest tower. The dogs lick her blood and eat her body, leaving only her hands, feet and head - the tools that schemed, wrote the order and delivered the gift to Ahab.
And....that's who sexually impure women are supposed to be: scheming, murderous, manipulative sluts who deserve to be thrown off a tower and eaten by dogs.
(Think I'm exaggerating? Church folk interpret this story exactly like this.)
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
So I'm on the bus this morning, basking in the glow that today is my and M-'s 1 yr anniversary, and amazed that I'm still in love (though not irrationally so.) I'm emailing a friend for drinks tomorrow night when I hear what is either a really phlegmy cough or...someone is vomiting.
This goes on for several stops. When we pull away from the curb I look down and see a tell-tale stream of someone's stomach contents.
Disgusted, I rear up and loudly say, "Oh, euwww! Really?? Really? You're just going to vomit all over the bus and just sit there! Disgusting! Totally disgusting!"
Everyone turns around. I stand up and move toward the rear exit. Another woman moves with me.
An older lady says, "He can't help it! What do you expect him to do?"
"Not ride the bus and vomit all over everything!"
The man, who looks like he's coming off a big drunk, then raises his head and says, "Shut the fuck up you bitch."
"Whatever. You're disgusting."
He lurches up and says, "Lemme off!" Everyone gets out of his way. The smell of vomit is growing stronger and it's now all over the floor. He staggers off the bus and I get off behind him. There is no way in hell I'm sitting on a hot bus full of someone's sick.
And I watch him stagger behind a tree and vomit for the next 5 minutes then walk away. Another bus comes and I stifle my dry heaves. I am mildly regretful that I called him disgusting, but then I get over it. This isn't frakking New York.
I try to get back in an anniversary mood but can't. Then I decide to interpret the incident as an analogy of the upheaval of modern relationships.
This goes on for several stops. When we pull away from the curb I look down and see a tell-tale stream of someone's stomach contents.
Disgusted, I rear up and loudly say, "Oh, euwww! Really?? Really? You're just going to vomit all over the bus and just sit there! Disgusting! Totally disgusting!"
Everyone turns around. I stand up and move toward the rear exit. Another woman moves with me.
An older lady says, "He can't help it! What do you expect him to do?"
"Not ride the bus and vomit all over everything!"
The man, who looks like he's coming off a big drunk, then raises his head and says, "Shut the fuck up you bitch."
"Whatever. You're disgusting."
He lurches up and says, "Lemme off!" Everyone gets out of his way. The smell of vomit is growing stronger and it's now all over the floor. He staggers off the bus and I get off behind him. There is no way in hell I'm sitting on a hot bus full of someone's sick.
And I watch him stagger behind a tree and vomit for the next 5 minutes then walk away. Another bus comes and I stifle my dry heaves. I am mildly regretful that I called him disgusting, but then I get over it. This isn't frakking New York.
I try to get back in an anniversary mood but can't. Then I decide to interpret the incident as an analogy of the upheaval of modern relationships.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
a very cool shout out to this blog!
Thanks so much for reader Pamela, who gave me a heads up about this:
SmallChangeFund.org My Earth Day Wish? For Stories to Flourish!
It's great to see all the thinking prompted by Chimamanda Adichie's presentation.
My exRoomie also loved Adichie's story and we were talking last night about how it started her thinking about the complexities of our stories and how this should build empathy and hope between us. (Or something like that - we had a few apple beers.)
Anyway, if you're interested in being a donor that cares about more than one story, I'd start with the Small Change Fund.
SmallChangeFund.org My Earth Day Wish? For Stories to Flourish!
It's great to see all the thinking prompted by Chimamanda Adichie's presentation.
My exRoomie also loved Adichie's story and we were talking last night about how it started her thinking about the complexities of our stories and how this should build empathy and hope between us. (Or something like that - we had a few apple beers.)
Anyway, if you're interested in being a donor that cares about more than one story, I'd start with the Small Change Fund.
Monday, April 19, 2010
the limits of the single story
This is so perfect, I don't want to ruin it with my prattling: People of colour are not a story of suffering . . . Or resistance. « Restructure!
We should be familiar with the 'single story' told by our most familiar -isms: racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, cisism, etc.
But:
What is the 'single story' that feminism tells?
What is the 'single story' of our national identity?
What is the 'single story' of your city or town?
What is the 'single story' of your religion or political party?
(Even the Tea Party has a 'single story' being told by the MSM and others.)
What is the 'single story' of your work - especially if you work for a non profit human services organization?
This is not a weird question: the 'single story' most orgs tell is of the broken down - nevermind the agency that these populations have shown, or that these populations very well might have their own stories to tell. But the 'single story' we tell about these populations is a direct product of the racial/class power and privilege of those of us who work in these orgs.
A friend of mine recently confronted this single story issue when she was preparing a proposal for a large corporate donor for one of our service areas. She was in the middle of writing it when something began to niggle at her. The whole thing felt wrong. The women we were purporting to serve weren't in it at all. It was all stats and 'statements of need' that made it seem like the west side of Chicago was just a bombed out crater, where women wandered the streets begging for bread and children lived in boxes. It was a standard grant narrative that painted the worst picture, without any room for self-determination, agency or stories other than the one we told of poverty levels, literacy rates and lack.
So my friend retooled her proposal to make that niggling itch go away.
It's significant to note that my friend is a woman of color (it is.) And when the proposal was reviewed by a non person of color, the shift in frame was immediately noted - and instantly edited. My friend was told that the single story of women's experiences on the west side is the preferred story to donors - this is the reality that needs to be made even more starkly solid, and repeated everywhere we go, and to everyone we solicit.
The voice of our org, therefore, must reflect "No possibility of feelings more complex than pity." We must reify, no matter how problematic, unfair or racist, a power and privilege that has "the ability not just to tell the story of another person, but to make it the definitive story of that person."
As a writer I know that I've been guilty of telling only one story. It's an easy shorthand to fall into, especially if this is the way one's sector works. I don't quite know how to end this post except to hope that those of us who are privileged to be in the position to tell the stories of others take our storytelling seriously - and resist the impulse to tell them singly.
We should be familiar with the 'single story' told by our most familiar -isms: racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, cisism, etc.
But:
What is the 'single story' that feminism tells?
What is the 'single story' of our national identity?
What is the 'single story' of your city or town?
What is the 'single story' of your religion or political party?
(Even the Tea Party has a 'single story' being told by the MSM and others.)
What is the 'single story' of your work - especially if you work for a non profit human services organization?
This is not a weird question: the 'single story' most orgs tell is of the broken down - nevermind the agency that these populations have shown, or that these populations very well might have their own stories to tell. But the 'single story' we tell about these populations is a direct product of the racial/class power and privilege of those of us who work in these orgs.
A friend of mine recently confronted this single story issue when she was preparing a proposal for a large corporate donor for one of our service areas. She was in the middle of writing it when something began to niggle at her. The whole thing felt wrong. The women we were purporting to serve weren't in it at all. It was all stats and 'statements of need' that made it seem like the west side of Chicago was just a bombed out crater, where women wandered the streets begging for bread and children lived in boxes. It was a standard grant narrative that painted the worst picture, without any room for self-determination, agency or stories other than the one we told of poverty levels, literacy rates and lack.
So my friend retooled her proposal to make that niggling itch go away.
It's significant to note that my friend is a woman of color (it is.) And when the proposal was reviewed by a non person of color, the shift in frame was immediately noted - and instantly edited. My friend was told that the single story of women's experiences on the west side is the preferred story to donors - this is the reality that needs to be made even more starkly solid, and repeated everywhere we go, and to everyone we solicit.
The voice of our org, therefore, must reflect "No possibility of feelings more complex than pity." We must reify, no matter how problematic, unfair or racist, a power and privilege that has "the ability not just to tell the story of another person, but to make it the definitive story of that person."
As a writer I know that I've been guilty of telling only one story. It's an easy shorthand to fall into, especially if this is the way one's sector works. I don't quite know how to end this post except to hope that those of us who are privileged to be in the position to tell the stories of others take our storytelling seriously - and resist the impulse to tell them singly.
Friday, April 16, 2010
calgon, take me away!
I have thoughts on work, feminist generational wars (at work), relationships, friendships and all sorts of other things, but I'm so busy I can't write it all down.
And if I did, it would be the longest, shambliest post ever.
So, all 16 of my readers, sorry my content has been scarce.
Life, you know?
And if I did, it would be the longest, shambliest post ever.
So, all 16 of my readers, sorry my content has been scarce.
Life, you know?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
connecting the dots
This is the story of fatal domestic violence: Frantic call after 4 found dead: 'He killed everyone' - Chicago Breaking News.
Though the suspect in this story had a record based in Wisconsin his story is not necessarily unique to it.
This story is also one of our state's weakening social safety net.
In March, a FY11 Department of Human Services budget briefing laid out these stark realities:
Mental health community services would be reduced by $90 million
Mental health providers would be warned to provide only 'crisis' care
All non-Medicaid spending would be eliminated - meaning that acute or chronic care would be unfunded.
Because of these draconian cuts, according to an agency official, the mental healthcare system in Illinois would be set back 30 years. Imagine that.
It's a very basic example of how bad things trickle down:
State budgets get slashed due to billion dollar deficits ->
Public Safety budgets get reduced ->
Human/Social/Mental health services get slashed ->
State programs for the treatment of incarcerated mentally ill adults are defunded ->
Mentally ill prisoners are released to free up space ->
Transitional/supportive housing and care for mentally ill ex-prisoner is eliminated ->
Mentally ill ex-prisoner goes untreated (and unhoused) ->
Mentally ill ex-prisoner re-offends, a result of their untreated mental illness as well as their homelessness ->
Mentally ill ex-prisoner re-enters criminal justice system ->
Criminal justice system catches and releases them again, because there is no money for guards, prisons or treatment.
And so on.
We could play the same game with rehabilitation services, alcohol and drug abuse services, or even childcare. Oh, not to say that all those who receive those services end up in the criminal justice system, but that insufficient funding for each of these areas creates a series of unintended consequences for communities which are ill-equipped to deal with them in the first place.
The community organizations who do this work do it precisely because the state can't.
And now, because of the indefensible lagging and delay of most (not all) of our elected officials, the state won't.
In mental health alone, over 3000 jobs will be lost in Illinois.
Anywhere between 23-87 mental health organizations will close (depending on their niche population.)
4000 adults in residential care will be impacted.
70,000 people (including 4200 children) will no longer have access to mental health care.
Though the suspect in this story had a record based in Wisconsin his story is not necessarily unique to it.
This story is also one of our state's weakening social safety net.
In March, a FY11 Department of Human Services budget briefing laid out these stark realities:
Mental health community services would be reduced by $90 million
Mental health providers would be warned to provide only 'crisis' care
All non-Medicaid spending would be eliminated - meaning that acute or chronic care would be unfunded.
Because of these draconian cuts, according to an agency official, the mental healthcare system in Illinois would be set back 30 years. Imagine that.
It's a very basic example of how bad things trickle down:
State budgets get slashed due to billion dollar deficits ->
Public Safety budgets get reduced ->
Human/Social/Mental health services get slashed ->
State programs for the treatment of incarcerated mentally ill adults are defunded ->
Mentally ill prisoners are released to free up space ->
Transitional/supportive housing and care for mentally ill ex-prisoner is eliminated ->
Mentally ill ex-prisoner goes untreated (and unhoused) ->
Mentally ill ex-prisoner re-offends, a result of their untreated mental illness as well as their homelessness ->
Mentally ill ex-prisoner re-enters criminal justice system ->
Criminal justice system catches and releases them again, because there is no money for guards, prisons or treatment.
And so on.
We could play the same game with rehabilitation services, alcohol and drug abuse services, or even childcare. Oh, not to say that all those who receive those services end up in the criminal justice system, but that insufficient funding for each of these areas creates a series of unintended consequences for communities which are ill-equipped to deal with them in the first place.
The community organizations who do this work do it precisely because the state can't.
And now, because of the indefensible lagging and delay of most (not all) of our elected officials, the state won't.
In mental health alone, over 3000 jobs will be lost in Illinois.
Anywhere between 23-87 mental health organizations will close (depending on their niche population.)
4000 adults in residential care will be impacted.
70,000 people (including 4200 children) will no longer have access to mental health care.
So that's the mental health 'dot.'
In addition to the education 'dot.'
And the public safety 'dot.'
There are a lot more dots if you really want to see them.
How many other dots need to be connected before our elected officials get off their complacent asses shrug off their complacency and do what they need to do?
Thursday, April 08, 2010
dear religious people: stop picking and choosing bigotry
I had a few assumptions already in my mind about this small community and this latest story just confirmed them.
Assumption: this town is all about conformity and tightly regulated social order.
Assumption: this town is not...open to outsiders.
Assumption: this town has the small-minded meanness required to maintain a rigid social structure.
Check, check and check.
Zorn links to a post here (and here) that has even more details on what kind of mind could think this was ok.
It's interesting to note what kind of blinders they're using to justify their really cruel behavior.
They just wanted a regular prom.
They didn't want all the attention (hence 'laying low.')
They didn't want to knuckle under the 'demands' of a student 'no one really liked anyway.'
They wanted to end the year 'right.'
They wanted their year 'back on track.'
What all this equals to is selfishness (as well as a huge gulp of bigotry.)
The notions of fair play, equality, kindness, ethical behavior, or even basic decency didn't enter their minds.
Before all the kids put their Facebook profiles on lockdown, they were pretty vocal about how much they loved Jesus but it's clear they didn't internalize any of the Sunday school lessons embodied by Jesus' encounters with the socially marginalized.
If these kids saw the woman by the well, what would they have done?
If they came across the prostitute about to be stoned by the Pharisees, what would they have done?
If they were forced to have dinner with a tax collector, what would they have said?
Is it a stretch to guess these kids and their parents would have no problem shunning, stoning or isolating people who aren't like them?
Is that what Jesus taught?
Superficially religious folk conveniently ignore the simple lessons Jesus taught. Of course they cling to the Pauline injunctions against homosexuality - which also happen to support their bigotry. Their stubborn privileging of this injunction rather than the commandment to 'love your neighbor and treat others like you'd be treated' supposedly gives them cover for righteous behavior.
After all, they say 'you can't pick and choose' which parts of the Bible you're going to believe and live by. Good point. But picking and choosing, however, is exactly what you're doing when you choose to treat someone with hate and exclusion rather than love and compassion.
Here's an exegetical tip to folks who use the picking/choosing to justify their bigoted reading of scripture: when you are confronted by an apparent conflict in the Bible (in this case the conflict between loving your neighbor or telling your neighbor to go to a fake prom because you hate gay people), err on the side of love and acceptance.
And if that's not enough to give pause to knee-jerk bigotry, here's my question to all those self-righteous religous folk out there who'd rather be an empty tomb than filled with the love of Christ:
When it's your time to meet your Lord, do you really think God is going to judge you if you treat gays, lesbians and trans people like human beings?
(yeah. don't get a baptist preacher's daugher on your back about jesus, man.)
Remember when I'd post almost weekly about the weddings column in the Times?
Funny how I don't do that anymore.
Vivienne La Borde, Kaddu Luyombya - NYTimes.com
Funny how I don't do that anymore.
Vivienne La Borde, Kaddu Luyombya - NYTimes.com
Friday, April 02, 2010
This Whisper of a Wince
First, the links:
Jill Scott says something.
And Ta-Nehisi Coates says this.
Then Racialicious said some other things.
And then Coates had a PS.
And then we wrap up the week with Kevin Powell writing all us black folk a letter.
And now, the stories (which aren't prescriptive, merely illustrative):
When my friend Prof. L- sent me the Coates link I wrote him back. 'When ppl open their mouths and tell me how they 'feel' when they see another person's relationship choice I want to tell them to keep their personal issues to themselves. If they aren't about to say 'I hope they're happy,' then folks need to STFU.'
And Prof. L- replied,'Is there much of a distance from discomfort to disapproval?'
...
Here's another story:
When I was in therapy, my therapist (a WOC) started to dig deeper into my family background when our sessions began to concentrate on intimacy and relationships and why I felt I was such crap at them. She wanted to know about my relationship to my father; what it was like to grow up in my old Baptist church; how I felt growing up in such a patriarchal and religious environment; what I really needed in a relationship.
My relationship to my father: I love the man, and I'm his 'duffle bag' (don't ask) but he was/is also the only man to make me ramp up to rage in under 10 minutes when the subject is women, men, politics or women in the bible/church.
What it was like growing up in my old Baptist church: it was like being a visitor from the future and you landed in 1898. BC.
How I felt growing up in such an environment: I was angry at all the bloviating old black dudes who were traditional, controlling, bullying, manipulative, insecure, and completely transparent with their greed and ambition. I hated that I had to compete with them for my father's attention. Because I was better than they were, I had contempt for them.
What I needed most in a relationship: Safety; recognition; personal integrity; comfort; to be taken care of; trust; mutual, unconditional support. Acceptance.
Dr. C- would ask, 'And you can't find this in black men?'
I'd say, 'I probably could, but I don't give them the chance to show me. I am so angry, I can't see straight. All I can think of is those men in that church or I'm anticipating how they are going to turn into those types of men.'
Dr. C- would ask, 'Those men in the church. What was your primary method of dealing with them?'
I'd say, 'Competition. I had to beat them. I had to be smarter than they were, than their children were. I had to be a better church person than they were. Understand the bible better than they were. Even if they didn't let me preach, I had to be better at preaching.'
'Why?'
'So my dad would tell me 'good job,' or something. They didn't think a woman could be a leader in anything and I had to show them I was better than they were.'
Dr. C- (who was married to a very nice black man) would say, 'What do you think about trying to date a black man?'
I'd say, 'Well....ok. If you think that will help.'
And she'd say, 'It always helps to challenge our fears.'
And I tried. But every conversation I'd have with a black man would either remind me of a tired R&B song or fill me with such panic attack anxiety I took a break and fell back into a liaison with B-, which was even more unsatisfying because it was finally clear to me that he was utterly incapble of giving me the things I needed most.
But at least he didn't remind me of that old Baptist church.
Then, when I was at the point of letting my Match.com account expire, I met M-. A white guy. Who didn't graduate college. Who worked blue collar most of his life. Who wouldn't know Foucault if Michel bit him on his ass. Who, when he drove me home on our first date, said he wanted to make me a mixed CD and cancel his Match account the next day. And I never spoke to, or saw, B- again. Because of a white guy. The Other.
This month marks our 1-year anniversary. It is the most emotionally satisfying relationship I've had since grad school.
...
A third, and final, story (which long-time readers may have already heard):
When it was time for me to go off to grad school, my cracker barrel, deeply southern godfather pulled me aside after evening church services. I was leaving for Michigan in a couple of days and I was excited. Scared, too, but excited. In my imagination, Ann Arbor looked like Boston. (Yes, I was completely inaccurate but the main point was it was 2000 miles away from my provincial church.)
It was clear my godfather was trying to do the avuncular thing and this was the sterling piece of advice that he gave me:
'Don't jump the fence.'
What kind of backwoods, country folk-ism was this? I was blank-faced for a few seconds until his fierce gaze and the eventual, firing synapses in my brain made me stiffen. Don't jump the fence. Don't leave your side of the social divide. Don't get involved with a white guy. Don't sleep with a white guy. Don't have sex with a white guy. Don't betray your people. I wanted to slap his southern face.
'My father 'jumped the fence,' James.'
'Well, now. That's a little different. You just be careful. Don't jump the fence. Stay where you belong.'
I stomped away and seethed for hours. That was the last time I spoke to him.
Just this past year, my father told me that old James had died and it was revealed that he had had an affair with a married woman in the church for years. My old anger at his goatish hypocrisy rushed back at me and all I could do was sputter over the phone about that 'fucking old man.'
...
The 'heart wants what the heart wants' and it's usually because of something pushed so way down deep, you can't even recognize it. So I get Scott's wince. I do. (I'm a student of African American history and literature; I've read the same history books and wondered why everyone gets play but a black girl.)
But I've got a wince of my own and the whisper of it makes me almost ashamed; I almost want to hand in my own Black Card of Racial Solidarity because of it. Almost. This is not to say that my triggers are the fault of others. It's not all black men's fault that I have this whisper of a wince. But I have it. It has caused me to close one type of door between me and black men. Other doors (filial, platonic or professional ones) remain open; just not intimate ones. In this regard, the man who has given me what I need is a white man.
Not all white men. Not every white man. A white man.
When we are together, the looks or stares (or whether someone may or may not have a wince) people send us don't register with me. He is more aware of it than I am. And he is now more aware of the complex ways that our being together works as a kind of social shorthand in different parts of the city. (He'd never say it that way; he just tells me, 'My Mexican neighbors like me better now because of you.') But shorthand or not, when he looks at me he tells me that he has been waiting his whole life for me and I know that because of him, my heart is bigger.
So wince away, you Scotts of the world. You can't help it. It's not your fault.
Jill Scott says something.
And Ta-Nehisi Coates says this.
Then Racialicious said some other things.
And then Coates had a PS.
And then we wrap up the week with Kevin Powell writing all us black folk a letter.
And now, the stories (which aren't prescriptive, merely illustrative):
When my friend Prof. L- sent me the Coates link I wrote him back. 'When ppl open their mouths and tell me how they 'feel' when they see another person's relationship choice I want to tell them to keep their personal issues to themselves. If they aren't about to say 'I hope they're happy,' then folks need to STFU.'
And Prof. L- replied,'Is there much of a distance from discomfort to disapproval?'
...
Here's another story:
When I was in therapy, my therapist (a WOC) started to dig deeper into my family background when our sessions began to concentrate on intimacy and relationships and why I felt I was such crap at them. She wanted to know about my relationship to my father; what it was like to grow up in my old Baptist church; how I felt growing up in such a patriarchal and religious environment; what I really needed in a relationship.
My relationship to my father: I love the man, and I'm his 'duffle bag' (don't ask) but he was/is also the only man to make me ramp up to rage in under 10 minutes when the subject is women, men, politics or women in the bible/church.
What it was like growing up in my old Baptist church: it was like being a visitor from the future and you landed in 1898. BC.
How I felt growing up in such an environment: I was angry at all the bloviating old black dudes who were traditional, controlling, bullying, manipulative, insecure, and completely transparent with their greed and ambition. I hated that I had to compete with them for my father's attention. Because I was better than they were, I had contempt for them.
What I needed most in a relationship: Safety; recognition; personal integrity; comfort; to be taken care of; trust; mutual, unconditional support. Acceptance.
Dr. C- would ask, 'And you can't find this in black men?'
I'd say, 'I probably could, but I don't give them the chance to show me. I am so angry, I can't see straight. All I can think of is those men in that church or I'm anticipating how they are going to turn into those types of men.'
Dr. C- would ask, 'Those men in the church. What was your primary method of dealing with them?'
I'd say, 'Competition. I had to beat them. I had to be smarter than they were, than their children were. I had to be a better church person than they were. Understand the bible better than they were. Even if they didn't let me preach, I had to be better at preaching.'
'Why?'
'So my dad would tell me 'good job,' or something. They didn't think a woman could be a leader in anything and I had to show them I was better than they were.'
Dr. C- (who was married to a very nice black man) would say, 'What do you think about trying to date a black man?'
I'd say, 'Well....ok. If you think that will help.'
And she'd say, 'It always helps to challenge our fears.'
And I tried. But every conversation I'd have with a black man would either remind me of a tired R&B song or fill me with such panic attack anxiety I took a break and fell back into a liaison with B-, which was even more unsatisfying because it was finally clear to me that he was utterly incapble of giving me the things I needed most.
But at least he didn't remind me of that old Baptist church.
Then, when I was at the point of letting my Match.com account expire, I met M-. A white guy. Who didn't graduate college. Who worked blue collar most of his life. Who wouldn't know Foucault if Michel bit him on his ass. Who, when he drove me home on our first date, said he wanted to make me a mixed CD and cancel his Match account the next day. And I never spoke to, or saw, B- again. Because of a white guy. The Other.
This month marks our 1-year anniversary. It is the most emotionally satisfying relationship I've had since grad school.
...
A third, and final, story (which long-time readers may have already heard):
When it was time for me to go off to grad school, my cracker barrel, deeply southern godfather pulled me aside after evening church services. I was leaving for Michigan in a couple of days and I was excited. Scared, too, but excited. In my imagination, Ann Arbor looked like Boston. (Yes, I was completely inaccurate but the main point was it was 2000 miles away from my provincial church.)
It was clear my godfather was trying to do the avuncular thing and this was the sterling piece of advice that he gave me:
'Don't jump the fence.'
What kind of backwoods, country folk-ism was this? I was blank-faced for a few seconds until his fierce gaze and the eventual, firing synapses in my brain made me stiffen. Don't jump the fence. Don't leave your side of the social divide. Don't get involved with a white guy. Don't sleep with a white guy. Don't have sex with a white guy. Don't betray your people. I wanted to slap his southern face.
'My father 'jumped the fence,' James.'
'Well, now. That's a little different. You just be careful. Don't jump the fence. Stay where you belong.'
I stomped away and seethed for hours. That was the last time I spoke to him.
Just this past year, my father told me that old James had died and it was revealed that he had had an affair with a married woman in the church for years. My old anger at his goatish hypocrisy rushed back at me and all I could do was sputter over the phone about that 'fucking old man.'
...
The 'heart wants what the heart wants' and it's usually because of something pushed so way down deep, you can't even recognize it. So I get Scott's wince. I do. (I'm a student of African American history and literature; I've read the same history books and wondered why everyone gets play but a black girl.)
But I've got a wince of my own and the whisper of it makes me almost ashamed; I almost want to hand in my own Black Card of Racial Solidarity because of it. Almost. This is not to say that my triggers are the fault of others. It's not all black men's fault that I have this whisper of a wince. But I have it. It has caused me to close one type of door between me and black men. Other doors (filial, platonic or professional ones) remain open; just not intimate ones. In this regard, the man who has given me what I need is a white man.
Not all white men. Not every white man. A white man.
When we are together, the looks or stares (or whether someone may or may not have a wince) people send us don't register with me. He is more aware of it than I am. And he is now more aware of the complex ways that our being together works as a kind of social shorthand in different parts of the city. (He'd never say it that way; he just tells me, 'My Mexican neighbors like me better now because of you.') But shorthand or not, when he looks at me he tells me that he has been waiting his whole life for me and I know that because of him, my heart is bigger.
So wince away, you Scotts of the world. You can't help it. It's not your fault.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Holy Week and the Hutaree
I spent the morning in bed with M- on Palm Sunday so I watched The Greatest Story Ever Told, instead; I had quite a good time being reminded of the simplicity of my faith: love your neighbor as yourself and do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Simple. In the horrific ideology of the Hutaree (and militias like them) where is Love Your Neighbor? Where is Do Unto Others? If this is the greatest commandment, then why is it so easily trumped by guns, violence and murder?
I blame Christian comics. What a world. They'd take contemporary characters (like Archie) and use them to tell Christian stories and morality. I read things like The Cross and the Switchblade or 1970s retellings of the Prodigal Son (so groovy!). But the best one? The one I remember the most and which laid the foundation for me becoming the Bible Answer Girl in my Saturday Bible class? This one.
The Revelation is like Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson dropped acid and then took Ecstasy and then maybe dropped into a huge K-hole. And I, like every fundamentalist kid in America, swallowed every psychedelic drop.
(Note: the comics about demon possession were even more awesome than the ones about the Rapture.)
And it's this version of Christianity and the 'end times' that Christian militias either want to catalyze or hope for. (Clearly, however, something was lost in translation. If the Hutaree are believers, wouldn't they be snatched up in the Rapture? So who are they training to fight against if they aren't going to be here when the battle happens?)
The point is: none of this makes sense. The story of The End Times is a fascinating story for a kid to read. It's the best comic book ever. But with adult eyes, it has no relationship to the words and precepts of Christ that I actually believe.
Because this is Holy Week, I'm supposed to contemplate the submission of Christ to His destiny, the cross. Like a good Christian, I'm to sit in the dark on Maundy Thursday and feel the weight of His death - and look forward to the final celebration of His resurrection on Easter. With the resurrection, the commandment to love one another is eternal. This is the cycle that gives Christianity its meaning.
Not the crazy last chapter.
I blame Christian comics. What a world. They'd take contemporary characters (like Archie) and use them to tell Christian stories and morality. I read things like The Cross and the Switchblade or 1970s retellings of the Prodigal Son (so groovy!). But the best one? The one I remember the most and which laid the foundation for me becoming the Bible Answer Girl in my Saturday Bible class? This one.
The Revelation is like Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson dropped acid and then took Ecstasy and then maybe dropped into a huge K-hole. And I, like every fundamentalist kid in America, swallowed every psychedelic drop.
(Note: the comics about demon possession were even more awesome than the ones about the Rapture.)
And it's this version of Christianity and the 'end times' that Christian militias either want to catalyze or hope for. (Clearly, however, something was lost in translation. If the Hutaree are believers, wouldn't they be snatched up in the Rapture? So who are they training to fight against if they aren't going to be here when the battle happens?)
The point is: none of this makes sense. The story of The End Times is a fascinating story for a kid to read. It's the best comic book ever. But with adult eyes, it has no relationship to the words and precepts of Christ that I actually believe.
Because this is Holy Week, I'm supposed to contemplate the submission of Christ to His destiny, the cross. Like a good Christian, I'm to sit in the dark on Maundy Thursday and feel the weight of His death - and look forward to the final celebration of His resurrection on Easter. With the resurrection, the commandment to love one another is eternal. This is the cycle that gives Christianity its meaning.
Not the crazy last chapter.
No one like Mondays. Especially when you come into the office and discover your laptop has been stolen. Along with 4 others.
...
In other news, M- and I have taken another teeny step toward solidifying our relationship. I know it seems strange to mark progress like this but that's the Spock in me. I need to know that I'm achieving something or it's not worthwhile.
A friend of mine and her partner are looking for a place together and it got us thinking: would we be open to moving in together?
Having just moved out on my own, and also just renewed my lease, I'm not in any particular hurry. And we're both older and stubborn, set in our ways. And we both seem to have different ways of living. What would we be like living together?
So I asked him.
He said, 'Not like now. I'm living in a dusty dark man cave because I didn't give a damn. But if we lived together, I'd really want to make a home with you.'
'You don't think we'd get tired of seeing each other, all the time? Every day?'
'This is why I'm thinking we'd get a large place. A room for us, a room for my stuff, an office for you.'
'What about your collection? Wouldn't you need to touch it, look at it, go through it all the time?' (I know comic book boys. They're weird about their collections.)
He said, 'What am I? Rainman?'
We didn't come to any firm conclusions but now it's out there, on the table between us, ready to be taken up again later.
And this weekend will be Easter dinner with the parents of a good friend and maybe some other of my friends - a retest of the two of us in mixed company.
...
In other news, M- and I have taken another teeny step toward solidifying our relationship. I know it seems strange to mark progress like this but that's the Spock in me. I need to know that I'm achieving something or it's not worthwhile.
A friend of mine and her partner are looking for a place together and it got us thinking: would we be open to moving in together?
Having just moved out on my own, and also just renewed my lease, I'm not in any particular hurry. And we're both older and stubborn, set in our ways. And we both seem to have different ways of living. What would we be like living together?
So I asked him.
He said, 'Not like now. I'm living in a dusty dark man cave because I didn't give a damn. But if we lived together, I'd really want to make a home with you.'
'You don't think we'd get tired of seeing each other, all the time? Every day?'
'This is why I'm thinking we'd get a large place. A room for us, a room for my stuff, an office for you.'
'What about your collection? Wouldn't you need to touch it, look at it, go through it all the time?' (I know comic book boys. They're weird about their collections.)
He said, 'What am I? Rainman?'
We didn't come to any firm conclusions but now it's out there, on the table between us, ready to be taken up again later.
And this weekend will be Easter dinner with the parents of a good friend and maybe some other of my friends - a retest of the two of us in mixed company.
Friday, March 26, 2010
pay no mind to the woman behind the curtain
I may be one of those women so long decried in business magazines: the woman who silently seethes for lack of proper recognition.
If I was a man, I doubt that ManChristina would be so...acquiescent about being the 'voice' for his boss. I doubt ManChristina would be ok standing behind the curtain, writing the words that get other people kudos. I also doubt ManChristina would be so slow trying to figure out what ManChristina was going to do about it, without sounding petty or childish.
In fact, I don't think ManChristina would give a flying fuck whether he sounded petty or childish.
Oh, sure. ManChristina would understand that this is part of being on a communications team, but sooner or later, he'd simply say: 'I want fucking credit for my work.'
I wonder what ManChristina would say to me?
ManChristina: You are being such a whiner.
DeliaChristina: No I'm not! I'm trying, really hard, to be a team player!
MC: (snort) Whatever, you big baby.
DC: I don't want to be the ... disruptive, angry one. Uh, anymore.
MC: You also don't want to be the one who gets credit. Your choice. (shrug)
DC: You don't understand! We're a team! Our team's job is to make the CEO look good. So...that's what I do. I do the policy research, create the argument and serve it up all nice so she can repeat it.
MC: (snort) That's some bullshit.
DC: You don't get it. That's what a communications team does. Our labor goes into lifting the profile for the organization.
MC: Then why are you so mad? If that's your job, that's your job! Deal. Suck it up.
DC: You're such an asshole.
MC: And you're a whiny baby! Why are you so angry, then? Don't you like being the researcher, writer, argument-maker, secret policy brain?
DC: No! I am tired of being the smart brown girl who does the frakking work and then some savvy, connected white chick comes along and then uses my work to get the big byline, sweet gig or promotion! Aagh!
MC: Then what. Are. You. Going. To. DO.
DC: I have no frakking clue. This is not the best job seeking market, you know. Communications folks are a foot thick on the ground out there....(whine whine)
MC: You need to stop making excuses and do fucking something.
DC: You are no help, ManChristina.
MC: You need to stop being such a girl.
Apparently, ManChristina would be a sexist pig. Huh.
If I was a man, I doubt that ManChristina would be so...acquiescent about being the 'voice' for his boss. I doubt ManChristina would be ok standing behind the curtain, writing the words that get other people kudos. I also doubt ManChristina would be so slow trying to figure out what ManChristina was going to do about it, without sounding petty or childish.
In fact, I don't think ManChristina would give a flying fuck whether he sounded petty or childish.
Oh, sure. ManChristina would understand that this is part of being on a communications team, but sooner or later, he'd simply say: 'I want fucking credit for my work.'
I wonder what ManChristina would say to me?
ManChristina: You are being such a whiner.
DeliaChristina: No I'm not! I'm trying, really hard, to be a team player!
MC: (snort) Whatever, you big baby.
DC: I don't want to be the ... disruptive, angry one. Uh, anymore.
MC: You also don't want to be the one who gets credit. Your choice. (shrug)
DC: You don't understand! We're a team! Our team's job is to make the CEO look good. So...that's what I do. I do the policy research, create the argument and serve it up all nice so she can repeat it.
MC: (snort) That's some bullshit.
DC: You don't get it. That's what a communications team does. Our labor goes into lifting the profile for the organization.
MC: Then why are you so mad? If that's your job, that's your job! Deal. Suck it up.
DC: You're such an asshole.
MC: And you're a whiny baby! Why are you so angry, then? Don't you like being the researcher, writer, argument-maker, secret policy brain?
DC: No! I am tired of being the smart brown girl who does the frakking work and then some savvy, connected white chick comes along and then uses my work to get the big byline, sweet gig or promotion! Aagh!
MC: Then what. Are. You. Going. To. DO.
DC: I have no frakking clue. This is not the best job seeking market, you know. Communications folks are a foot thick on the ground out there....(whine whine)
MC: You need to stop making excuses and do fucking something.
DC: You are no help, ManChristina.
MC: You need to stop being such a girl.
Apparently, ManChristina would be a sexist pig. Huh.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
go, team!
M: So babe. We've been invited to a party in a couple of weeks on Sunday. You free?
DC: On a Sunday? Always.
M: Cool. We'll talk about it later.
DC: Wonderful.
(last Saturday night, pillow talk)
M: Babe, don't forget we have that thing tomorrow.
DC: Oh, right. What is that again?
M: It's my godson's birthday party. We'll be in and out.
DC: Wait. Children?!?
(Sunday afternoon, Walgreens greeting card aisle)
M: These cards suck.
DC: You could get him a blank card and just write 'Hey, Happy Birthday, kid!' (lady next to us snorts) They're twins, right? What about a card for the other one?
M: Naah. They need to learn how to share.
(I laugh really really loudly.)
(Sunday afternoon, Oak Park bungalow, livingroom couch)
M: (whispering) Do you want anything to eat?
DC: (whispering) No. Your godson picked his nose and touched all the cheese on the cheese tray.
(soon after)
Host: Ugh. That Sarah Palin.
M: (to me) He hates Sarah Palin.
DC: Oh? (having no clue what the political waters are here)
M: He used to be a raging Republican but now -
Host: I'm more Libertarian. It's the gun issue, mainly.
DC: Really? You...like guns?
Host: Oh, I don't own any. But don't say I can't!
DC: Ah. Yes. (to M-.) Los Angeles has guns everywhere. My dad has a gun.
Host: And that's his Constitutional right!
DC: (silently taking sip of Sprite)
(later)
Hostess: Did you know M- was our best man?
DC: I had no idea!
Hostess: (pulling out photo album, showing me a photo of the bride herself, hoisting M- in her arms) He's always been slim.
DC: I see that.
Hostess: M- is one of the best guys; he really is. (Giving me a hard look.)
DC: I know. That's why I'm keeping him around.
(much later)
VeryNiceLady: Oh! They're voting on that healthcare thing today! You work with government - what do you think?
(M- is very very silent next to me. VeryNiceLady's VeryConservativeHusband gives me the fish-eye.)
DC: You know, I was at a panel discussion earlier this year and it was so interesting! There are some unintended consequences, I think, to healthcare reform that local municipalities haven't quite thought about, yet. (I blather on about public healthcare and Stroger Hospital) But there's no doubt that something needs to be done. I mean, premiums in Illinois are predicted to jump at least 25% by 2015! There are questions, though...
VeryNiceLady: (nodding) I know what you mean...
M: (whispering) Thank you.
(last night, on the phone)
M: They invited us for dinner next week.
Teamwork, you know?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I have apologized to my coworkers for being such a flaming bitch during the entire month of February. I think my mood will be much better in March, especially once I refill my Ativan prescription. The snow is gone, the sun is out, and I don't have to wear snow boots anymore; how interesting that my mood is directly related to how cute I am able to look. For instance, today is all about the Naughty Librarian With Red Pumps. I feel fabulous; I look fabulous. I smell good.
Happy Tuesday to all!
...
So I think my sister L- will be moving back in with dad. He seems to think she's on solid ground, but is worried that my brother in law is about to lose it. (As am I; though he's a very cool guy, he is rather regimented. And we all know what happens when regimented people crack their shit up.) While I'm concerned for everyone back in LA - especially my dad, who is SO not prepared to have one of his daughters move back in with him and put a crimp in his 66-year old bachelor lifestyle - my thoughts naturally, of course, turn to me. What does my sister's divorce mean to me??
My bottom line: Sweet lord, I'm so glad I'm not married! Marriage is apparently crazy-making. It carries a psychological and cultural expectation of permanence that doesn't encourage one to be in the Now - it's all about two inexorably bound timelines that stretch waaaaay into the future. Like, into Eternity. That is a lot of pressure. And I'm so glad I don't have it!
I mean, yes. I love M-. He is my guy. But we live in two different spaces. We spend days apart doing our own thing. Our timelines, while running alongside each other's for a bit, aren't bound. They can diverge, oh yes they can. There is no expectation of Eternity. Oh, there's an expectation of mutual monogamy (though we've tentatively discussed other arrangements - as well as mutually decided our relationship is too new for us to get too creative with its structure.) But there's no expectation of frakking Eternity.
I try to imagine myself married and I can't get past imagining what I'll wear to the courthouse for a civil ceremony. (I'm thinking a creamy, soft suit with nipped in jacket and pencil skirt and some kind of nifty hat. And really really hot shoes. And nude fishnets.) Or, if I get past that, I think of the small, intimate afternoon luncheon at a nice French restaurant afterward. Then that's it. My imagination goes dark.
Anyway, I know there are a few among all 15 of my readers who enjoy their marital state and this is not to say y'all are chumps. I think y'all are champs!
You have chosen, however, a life structure that confuses me to the core.
Ok, it's after 9. Carry on!
Happy Tuesday to all!
...
So I think my sister L- will be moving back in with dad. He seems to think she's on solid ground, but is worried that my brother in law is about to lose it. (As am I; though he's a very cool guy, he is rather regimented. And we all know what happens when regimented people crack their shit up.) While I'm concerned for everyone back in LA - especially my dad, who is SO not prepared to have one of his daughters move back in with him and put a crimp in his 66-year old bachelor lifestyle - my thoughts naturally, of course, turn to me. What does my sister's divorce mean to me??
My bottom line: Sweet lord, I'm so glad I'm not married! Marriage is apparently crazy-making. It carries a psychological and cultural expectation of permanence that doesn't encourage one to be in the Now - it's all about two inexorably bound timelines that stretch waaaaay into the future. Like, into Eternity. That is a lot of pressure. And I'm so glad I don't have it!
I mean, yes. I love M-. He is my guy. But we live in two different spaces. We spend days apart doing our own thing. Our timelines, while running alongside each other's for a bit, aren't bound. They can diverge, oh yes they can. There is no expectation of Eternity. Oh, there's an expectation of mutual monogamy (though we've tentatively discussed other arrangements - as well as mutually decided our relationship is too new for us to get too creative with its structure.) But there's no expectation of frakking Eternity.
I try to imagine myself married and I can't get past imagining what I'll wear to the courthouse for a civil ceremony. (I'm thinking a creamy, soft suit with nipped in jacket and pencil skirt and some kind of nifty hat. And really really hot shoes. And nude fishnets.) Or, if I get past that, I think of the small, intimate afternoon luncheon at a nice French restaurant afterward. Then that's it. My imagination goes dark.
Anyway, I know there are a few among all 15 of my readers who enjoy their marital state and this is not to say y'all are chumps. I think y'all are champs!
You have chosen, however, a life structure that confuses me to the core.
Ok, it's after 9. Carry on!
Friday, March 12, 2010
can't a brown girl get an amen? no? really? *crickets*
How Your Race Affects The Messages You Get « OkTrends
Interesting:
Black women write back the most. Whether it’s due to talkativeness, loneliness, or a sense of plain decency, black women are by far the most likely to respond to a first contact attempt. In many cases, their response rate is one and a half times the average, and, overall, black women reply about a quarter more often that other women.
Hmph. We are not chatty. We are polite.
Also interesting:
Men don’t write black women back. Or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. Black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. Essentially every race—including other blacks—singles them out for the cold shoulder.
Sigh. Harsh.
I know nothing about stats; but I know online dating like the back of my hand. And this...is interesting. Whatever submerged, unconscious racial stereotyping floating out there is doing us some serious damage. Not all of us black/brown girls care but, really?? EVERY single dude (including the black and brown ones) diss us on dating sites? Damn.
Apparently, M- and I are outliers.
Interesting:
Black women write back the most. Whether it’s due to talkativeness, loneliness, or a sense of plain decency, black women are by far the most likely to respond to a first contact attempt. In many cases, their response rate is one and a half times the average, and, overall, black women reply about a quarter more often that other women.
Hmph. We are not chatty. We are polite.
Also interesting:
Men don’t write black women back. Or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. Black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. Essentially every race—including other blacks—singles them out for the cold shoulder.
Sigh. Harsh.
I know nothing about stats; but I know online dating like the back of my hand. And this...is interesting. Whatever submerged, unconscious racial stereotyping floating out there is doing us some serious damage. Not all of us black/brown girls care but, really?? EVERY single dude (including the black and brown ones) diss us on dating sites? Damn.
Apparently, M- and I are outliers.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
stuck on amtrak, i think about relationships
Talking to my dad yesterday about the utter destruction of my sister's marriage he asked how things were going with me and M-.
I said we were going strong and he said something like, 'You two will be screaming at each other like all the rest.’
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘I think I'm doing pretty well here; we actually talk. We're honest.’
Dad snorted. ‘Honest. I’m honest.’
‘Whatever, Dad. M- and I actually talk about how we feel and we don’t wait for shit to blow up before we do. I know exactly why I’m in this relationship and so does he. If that changes anytime soon it won’t be the end of the world for us.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dad said.
It’s funny; Dad has seen how repressive and strangling the conventional rules of marriage are, and have been for a lot of people. He even admits it. But it’s a weird sort of reflex to not only see people conform to that convention, but see them twist in it and suffer. Maybe that's a Baptist thing. For all that the folks I went to church with clapped and congratulated each other for marrying, they practically salivated with pleasure when those marriages cracked and crumbled.
There was this strange mentality: 'You thought you were so special. So different. But you're not. You're just as miserable as I am. You're no different.'
This must be a black Baptist thing. Yeah.
In any case, I refuse to conform to it. And then people can marvel at my unconventional happiness.
As well as kiss my ass.
...
In related news - related to my sister's marriage and my and M-'s relationship - I had been thinking that this would be the summer I bring a boy home. Yeah, sort of a big thing. But not really. Folks go on trips all the time!
But with the destructin of my sister's marriage, where the hell will we stay?!
Yeah. It's all about me. It IS!
I said we were going strong and he said something like, 'You two will be screaming at each other like all the rest.’
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘I think I'm doing pretty well here; we actually talk. We're honest.’
Dad snorted. ‘Honest. I’m honest.’
‘Whatever, Dad. M- and I actually talk about how we feel and we don’t wait for shit to blow up before we do. I know exactly why I’m in this relationship and so does he. If that changes anytime soon it won’t be the end of the world for us.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dad said.
It’s funny; Dad has seen how repressive and strangling the conventional rules of marriage are, and have been for a lot of people. He even admits it. But it’s a weird sort of reflex to not only see people conform to that convention, but see them twist in it and suffer. Maybe that's a Baptist thing. For all that the folks I went to church with clapped and congratulated each other for marrying, they practically salivated with pleasure when those marriages cracked and crumbled.
There was this strange mentality: 'You thought you were so special. So different. But you're not. You're just as miserable as I am. You're no different.'
This must be a black Baptist thing. Yeah.
In any case, I refuse to conform to it. And then people can marvel at my unconventional happiness.
As well as kiss my ass.
...
In related news - related to my sister's marriage and my and M-'s relationship - I had been thinking that this would be the summer I bring a boy home. Yeah, sort of a big thing. But not really. Folks go on trips all the time!
But with the destructin of my sister's marriage, where the hell will we stay?!
Yeah. It's all about me. It IS!
Monday, March 08, 2010
if only the poor were more like me!
If only poor people understood nutrition! The Fat Nutritionist
That post up there, btw, is brilliant. Unfortunately, she had to shut down comments because some folks were deliberately misreading her thesis, which I will repeat and clarify for you:
You want people to eat better? Give them enough money, a place for cooking and storage, and access to a decent variety of food.
There. That's her thesis in a nutshell.
I'll boil it down even further:
So, if we want other people to shop and consume like us, in our hip, healthy, and globally conscious ways, then they're going to need what we have.
What do I have that most really poor people (earning < $16k/annually) do not?
I have a properly operating kitchen, with counter space and lighting.
I have a gas stove that lights when I turn it on. (And all burners that work.)
I have a large refrigerator that freezes the things that need to be frozen, and a fridge that keeps my butter from melting and my food from spoiling.
I have a pantry that is free from bugs and mice so I can store dry goods there.
I have a running sink with water that isn't all gunky or rusty.
I have a mexican mini-mart, a walgreens, AND a large, clean Dominick's all within short walking distance.
I have a dude who sells fresh fruit/veg from the back of his truck during the spring/summer.
I also have about a $50/week grocery shopping allowance. Sometimes, I go over my allowance and buy $100 in groceries/week.
I live in a part of town that does not have slum landlords.
I have a few bus lines within walking distance and a train line.
I work in a part of the city that hosts farmers markets during the summer that I can visit on my lunch hour.
I have Bon Appetit, Saveur, Cook's Country Kitchen, Cook's Illustrated and a stack of other cookbooks from Borders and friends in my kitchen.
I have internet access to Epicurious.com.
I have a wok, pots, pans, serving platters, mixing bowls, forks, utensils, measuring cups, cutting boards and towels.
I have a place to store them.
I also have a job, no kids, healthcare, access to public transportation, flexible work hours, and adequate housing.
Basically, I am middle class, with typical bourgeois middle class tastes and habits.
...
Here is a completely irrelevant personal story (irrelevant because personal stories, while illustrative, are not prescriptive):
My parents were poor before they were middle class; the clothes I wore were not my own but hand-me-downs from another family. We received bags of groceries from anonymous church members - there would be a package of Peppridge Farm cookies in one of those bags. Or a bottle of Tang. A block of gov't cheese could last a really long time - for tacos, grilled cheese sandwiches, ham/cheese sandwiches, on crackers, in the toaster oven slapped over white bread.
We were poor but we ate dinner every night: chicken, pork chop or steak, a salad, rice and a desert (jello or ice cream). A glass of whole fat milk. In the morning, it was a hot cereal, orange juice or toast with butter and then to the bus.
Eventually, our meals got more complicated - coinciding with my mom going back to work and my dad getting a better job. Then we were shakily middle class.
Much less from organic farmers market to farmers market.
I've only been in my Aunt D-'s apartment two or three times. It is so stuffy, I want to gag. Incense smells try to cover up other smells, but don't. And in the hallway outside, that splotch is either shit or vomit. I won't go in her kitchen. (I have never been invited to see her kitchen.) I don't dare ask to use the bathroom.
Once, when I dropped off some clothes and extra pots/pans/cooking pans, she kept us standing in her living room. There are only two bedrooms in this 'garden' apartment and I think she sleeps on the couch in the living room, giving the bedrooms to her daughter and son. She complains about the landlord who won't fix anything; he just collects the reimbursements from the gov't for providing Section 8 vouchers. She says, though, that once my cousin reaches 18, their rent is going to double or my male cousin will have to move out. (18 year old black boys, it seems are a threat to building.)
Down the street from Aunt D-, there is a KFC, McDonalds, a fried fish shack, a Chinese joint and a couple of gas stations, where you can buy cigs, bottled water or soda pop. The nearest real supermarket is in Hyde Park which is about a couple of different buses away. That's where the Walgreens is, too.
She doesn't have bus cards, so I gave her a few with $10 on them. In Chicago, one bus ride is $2.25. How far can she get on that? And how often? You do that math.
...
At my very tony Presbyterian church we once had a social services program to help provide healthier meals to really low-income neighbors. (You'd have to find these neighbors with a magnifying glass and move a few neighborhoods over, but they're there.) A friend served on this task force and they were told to help develop and test cook menus for this project.
But there were rules:
Think healthier ingredients, not necessarily 'healthy'.
The meal's ingredients couldn't cost more than $10, total.
It would have to be enough to serve at least 4.
Meal preparation couldn't involve more than 1-2 utensils.
The meal had to be cooked/served in the same dish.
It had to be able to be cooked on a hot plate.
Task force members could not assume refrigeration was available.
When you or I are cooking 'healthy' how many of these rules do we break?
It isn't class warfare to point out that the poor live differently from us. To ignore that fact maintains our caste system rather than demolishing it.
So until we are prepared to solve the 'problem' of their poverty first, perhaps we should keep mum with our 'advice' to poor families about making better nutritional 'choices'.
(And that means you, Jamie Oliver.)
That post up there, btw, is brilliant. Unfortunately, she had to shut down comments because some folks were deliberately misreading her thesis, which I will repeat and clarify for you:
You want people to eat better? Give them enough money, a place for cooking and storage, and access to a decent variety of food.
There. That's her thesis in a nutshell.
I'll boil it down even further:
So, if we want other people to shop and consume like us, in our hip, healthy, and globally conscious ways, then they're going to need what we have.
What do I have that most really poor people (earning < $16k/annually) do not?
I have a properly operating kitchen, with counter space and lighting.
I have a gas stove that lights when I turn it on. (And all burners that work.)
I have a large refrigerator that freezes the things that need to be frozen, and a fridge that keeps my butter from melting and my food from spoiling.
I have a pantry that is free from bugs and mice so I can store dry goods there.
I have a running sink with water that isn't all gunky or rusty.
I have a mexican mini-mart, a walgreens, AND a large, clean Dominick's all within short walking distance.
I have a dude who sells fresh fruit/veg from the back of his truck during the spring/summer.
I also have about a $50/week grocery shopping allowance. Sometimes, I go over my allowance and buy $100 in groceries/week.
I live in a part of town that does not have slum landlords.
I have a few bus lines within walking distance and a train line.
I work in a part of the city that hosts farmers markets during the summer that I can visit on my lunch hour.
I have Bon Appetit, Saveur, Cook's Country Kitchen, Cook's Illustrated and a stack of other cookbooks from Borders and friends in my kitchen.
I have internet access to Epicurious.com.
I have a wok, pots, pans, serving platters, mixing bowls, forks, utensils, measuring cups, cutting boards and towels.
I have a place to store them.
I also have a job, no kids, healthcare, access to public transportation, flexible work hours, and adequate housing.
Basically, I am middle class, with typical bourgeois middle class tastes and habits.
...
Here is a completely irrelevant personal story (irrelevant because personal stories, while illustrative, are not prescriptive):
My parents were poor before they were middle class; the clothes I wore were not my own but hand-me-downs from another family. We received bags of groceries from anonymous church members - there would be a package of Peppridge Farm cookies in one of those bags. Or a bottle of Tang. A block of gov't cheese could last a really long time - for tacos, grilled cheese sandwiches, ham/cheese sandwiches, on crackers, in the toaster oven slapped over white bread.
We were poor but we ate dinner every night: chicken, pork chop or steak, a salad, rice and a desert (jello or ice cream). A glass of whole fat milk. In the morning, it was a hot cereal, orange juice or toast with butter and then to the bus.
Eventually, our meals got more complicated - coinciding with my mom going back to work and my dad getting a better job. Then we were shakily middle class.
There was a Chinese supermarket two blocks away for emergencies (we didn't trust their meat after one bad incident), and if we had to drive to a supermarket, there was a Vons or Ralphs only 15 min away by car. I remember going with mom every week after she got home from work to do grocery shopping. I hated unloading our 10 or 12 bags of groceries, my arms held stiff, the plastic handles making red rows in my skin.
Think of that. 10-12 full bags of groceries. Every two weeks. For a family of four. Without fail.
Whether we want to acknowledge it, this is the middle class standard most of us have running in the backs of our minds when we tell poor people to eat, or grocery shop, better. We never have their memories in our heads. We don't think about how the hell they're getting 10-12 heavy shopping bags from the supermarket 2 miles away from their house, on foot, with only a couple small kids to help them.
Much less from organic farmers market to farmers market.
...
Do you know where poor people live? Oh, not your hipster living in Ukrainian Village in an apartment no bigger than two cubicles at your office. Real poor people. Like, over in Greater Grand Crossing or Austin. Or Lawndale. Or Chicago Heights. Like, in those places you can see from the Green Line headed toward Cottage Grove. Or those places you see if you take the #66 bus all the waaaay west to the end of the line. Ever check out the apartments in that neighborhood that always sees the police action? Or the 'hood that always gets the helicopters hovering over it? Do you know how really poor people live?I've only been in my Aunt D-'s apartment two or three times. It is so stuffy, I want to gag. Incense smells try to cover up other smells, but don't. And in the hallway outside, that splotch is either shit or vomit. I won't go in her kitchen. (I have never been invited to see her kitchen.) I don't dare ask to use the bathroom.
Once, when I dropped off some clothes and extra pots/pans/cooking pans, she kept us standing in her living room. There are only two bedrooms in this 'garden' apartment and I think she sleeps on the couch in the living room, giving the bedrooms to her daughter and son. She complains about the landlord who won't fix anything; he just collects the reimbursements from the gov't for providing Section 8 vouchers. She says, though, that once my cousin reaches 18, their rent is going to double or my male cousin will have to move out. (18 year old black boys, it seems are a threat to building.)
Down the street from Aunt D-, there is a KFC, McDonalds, a fried fish shack, a Chinese joint and a couple of gas stations, where you can buy cigs, bottled water or soda pop. The nearest real supermarket is in Hyde Park which is about a couple of different buses away. That's where the Walgreens is, too.
She doesn't have bus cards, so I gave her a few with $10 on them. In Chicago, one bus ride is $2.25. How far can she get on that? And how often? You do that math.
...
At my very tony Presbyterian church we once had a social services program to help provide healthier meals to really low-income neighbors. (You'd have to find these neighbors with a magnifying glass and move a few neighborhoods over, but they're there.) A friend served on this task force and they were told to help develop and test cook menus for this project.
But there were rules:
Think healthier ingredients, not necessarily 'healthy'.
The meal's ingredients couldn't cost more than $10, total.
It would have to be enough to serve at least 4.
Meal preparation couldn't involve more than 1-2 utensils.
The meal had to be cooked/served in the same dish.
It had to be able to be cooked on a hot plate.
Task force members could not assume refrigeration was available.
When you or I are cooking 'healthy' how many of these rules do we break?
It isn't class warfare to point out that the poor live differently from us. To ignore that fact maintains our caste system rather than demolishing it.
So until we are prepared to solve the 'problem' of their poverty first, perhaps we should keep mum with our 'advice' to poor families about making better nutritional 'choices'.
(And that means you, Jamie Oliver.)
Monday, March 01, 2010
my espresso bean mood...lifting
Reasons for the sudden uplift:
1. M- and I are still going strong. We've both admitted to minor, ridiculous jealousies; we don't need to fill the air with chatter; we're still the most boring couple ever; the sex is still...good god; we're both frakking adults about shit (like work stress, scheduling, my HoboMouth, listening to the other person) and I'm getting better at being part of a public couple. My travel schedule to Springfield isn't as horrendous as some have to endure, but for me, it's annoying as hell; the best part about coming back is emailing him from the train and telling him how I missed him while I was down there.
He noted, "You always miss me more when you go to Springfield." (Then he makes a problematic joke about thalidomide, which never fails to make me guffaw, which is equally problematic. I know. I'll repent later.)
And I do miss him more. I've found that he steadies me when work makes me nuts. The idea of not having him to quiet my crazy mind almost brings tears to my eyes. I wouldn't want to deal with what I'm dealing with at work if I didn't have him to come back to.
Uh. Yeah. Anyway...
2. I was accepted into the 2010 Spring Leadership and Policy Institute through the NWLC! I'm so excited about this opportunity! I've said to myself that if I was going to be serious about a public office career, then chances like this would be key. And, they paid for my lodging! AND - the White House Project bootcamp is coming to Chicago in May! Maybe I'll go after that, too.
3. I'm realizing how my satisfaction is so often connected to my core strengths. As a leadership exercise, we were given this book and my 5 core strengths turned out to be: Ideation, Input, Focus, Achiever, and Connectedness. Apparently, when things go out of whack or I feel that these needs of mine aren't being met, I go to my Dark Side: my dark, sarcastic, bitter, negative, highly critical side. It's not pretty. But I'm becoming aware of it - and how it can really negatively impact a team. So I'm trying really hard to not indulge in my fits of grrrr! It's not productive. (Though I still really like the Stockholm Syndrome analogy. It's apt.)
So there you have it. I'm coming back into the light - and I achieved something I never would have achieved a year ago! (And, clearly, my revamped resume rocks.)
1. M- and I are still going strong. We've both admitted to minor, ridiculous jealousies; we don't need to fill the air with chatter; we're still the most boring couple ever; the sex is still...good god; we're both frakking adults about shit (like work stress, scheduling, my HoboMouth, listening to the other person) and I'm getting better at being part of a public couple. My travel schedule to Springfield isn't as horrendous as some have to endure, but for me, it's annoying as hell; the best part about coming back is emailing him from the train and telling him how I missed him while I was down there.
He noted, "You always miss me more when you go to Springfield." (Then he makes a problematic joke about thalidomide, which never fails to make me guffaw, which is equally problematic. I know. I'll repent later.)
And I do miss him more. I've found that he steadies me when work makes me nuts. The idea of not having him to quiet my crazy mind almost brings tears to my eyes. I wouldn't want to deal with what I'm dealing with at work if I didn't have him to come back to.
Uh. Yeah. Anyway...
2. I was accepted into the 2010 Spring Leadership and Policy Institute through the NWLC! I'm so excited about this opportunity! I've said to myself that if I was going to be serious about a public office career, then chances like this would be key. And, they paid for my lodging! AND - the White House Project bootcamp is coming to Chicago in May! Maybe I'll go after that, too.
3. I'm realizing how my satisfaction is so often connected to my core strengths. As a leadership exercise, we were given this book and my 5 core strengths turned out to be: Ideation, Input, Focus, Achiever, and Connectedness. Apparently, when things go out of whack or I feel that these needs of mine aren't being met, I go to my Dark Side: my dark, sarcastic, bitter, negative, highly critical side. It's not pretty. But I'm becoming aware of it - and how it can really negatively impact a team. So I'm trying really hard to not indulge in my fits of grrrr! It's not productive. (Though I still really like the Stockholm Syndrome analogy. It's apt.)
So there you have it. I'm coming back into the light - and I achieved something I never would have achieved a year ago! (And, clearly, my revamped resume rocks.)
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