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Embracing Justice, or How I Left Choice Behind

(Full disclosure: This is an update of previous essay I wrote.  I still think it’s relevant and wanted to share it with you.)

I’ve been pro-choice all of my life.  And yet, I remember the day that revealed what Choice really meant to me.  I was seventeen and on vacation from my fancy boarding school, where I was a scholarship student.  As usual, my friends and I were meeting at our junior high school to spend the day together.  I was just back from visiting colleges that summer, and I had my heart set on going to an Ivy League school.  My father dropped out of the ninth grade.  Pop, my maternal grandfather, left school in third grade to support himself by running errands and doing odd jobs.  Going to college, particularly an elite school was a big deal to my entire family, and my chances for going to one of those schools were looking good.

I hopped onto the train headed downtown and slid into an empty seat.  Next to me sat another young Latina, and like me she was wearing bright red lipstick and hoop earrings.  We both had long curly hair, which she wore loose down her back.  I was much less confident and wore my mass of hair in a ponytail high on my head.  She seemed deep in thought when I saw it – a neon green pamphlet.  In big bold letters on the front it read, “After your abortion, then what?”  My mind exploded.  What was she doing with that pamphlet?  This girl was my age, from my neighborhood; our families were probably from the same island.  For all I knew we could have been related.  Why her and not me?  I could have just as easily been sitting in her seat holding that green pamphlet.  Instead, I had dreams of making the honor roll and going to Yale, and she was considering her “then what?”

A few months later, I was back at school working on my college applications and dreading the personal essay I had to write.  Then I remembered that day on the train.  I went back to my dorm and searched my journal for the entry I had written about the Latina with the neon green pamphlet.  She changed my life that day.  In my eyes, she was doing the best she could to make her life better, to make the right decisions for herself.  I wanted to reach out to her and hug her that day, let her know that she wasn’t alone, but I couldn’t.  So I did the only thing I could think of – I pulled my journal out of my bag and started to write.  I didn’t want to lose a single detail of that train ride or the young Latina, who could have easily been me.  Later that year, I earned a place in Yale’s freshmen class, I think in large part, because of her.  I never knew her name or the outcome of her “then what?”  But I hoped that her life’s path had lead her to amazing places, and I was grateful an abortion would allow her a different “then what?” than might have been possible otherwise.

Since that train ride, I remained steadfast and loyal to the ideals embodied in Choice.  But over time, my work with young women made clear to me that Choice and I were no longer a good fit.  Choice is meaningless without access to information, funding or services.   Choice doesn’t address classism, racism or sexism, for that matter.  Choice doesn’t shift POWER to the most vulnerable.  And I’m no longer confident that I alone can make the world better for women and girls.  After years of being firmly rooted in Choice, I realized that it speaks only to a small part of the way I live in this world, and I must have more than that.  I deserve more than that.  Yes, we owe a tremendous debt to all those who fought for Choice, but I’ve realized that my relationship with Choice just isn’t enough for me anymore, and it shouldn’t be enough for any of us.

I have left Choice behind for something more.  I have embraced JusticeJustice gives us the tools to identify power and talk about it, but it doesn’t stop there.  Justice requires us to confront power when exercised against us, acquire it and use it to create change that benefits us all.  Justice helps us understand whatever privilege we may enjoy without blaming us or pitting us against each other.  Or without letting us off the hook.  With Justice I can be a whole person, and not just the sum of my identities.  And with Justice I can I bring all of myself to every issue I care about.

When people ask me what I do for a living, I often respond, “I’m trying to change the world.”  Choice is not going to deliver us from the multiple oppressions we suffer as women, women of color, young women, immigrant women, queer folk, low-income women and disabled women.  Justice just may.  And that’s what Justice is at its core – about trying to change the world.  There’s nothing wrong with Choice, we’ve simply outgrown it.  We need something more radical, more revolutionary than Choice.  We need Justice, not just for ourselves, but for all of us.  Surely, we deserve that.

The Greatest Country and Western Song, Ever, and How Rosanne Cash Ruined It

Hands-down the best country and western song ever, ever, ever is “Long Black Veil.”  It sounds like the kind of song that should have always existed, been sung by lonely men wandering Scottish moors or something.  It was, though, written by some folks whose names we know–Danny Dill and Marijohn Wilkin–and first recorded by Lefty Frizzell in 1959.

If only for the way the phrase, “But sometimes at night, when the cold wind blows, in a long black veil, she cries over my bones,” it deserves to be considered great art.  But the way a really great singer can stop your heart with the way he or she phrases “Nobody knows but me” just does it for me.

Maybe it’s years of listening to country music, but I have always thought that the fact that the speaker is willing to die rather than admit to being with her and that she’s willing to let him die rather than admit to being with him and yet he still seems to feel fondness and appreciation for her being willing to sneak out and cry for him indicates that, if she had admitted to being with him to save him from hanging, her husband would have killed her–hence, also, the stress on how “nobody knows, but him” that she does it–they had to keep it a secret in order to save her life.

It’s a great song. I own six different versions of it and I consider it to be such a good song that, no matter what a singer does, it must be virtually impossible to ruin it.

That is, until I heard Rosanne Cash sing it.

Cash has an album coming out in October, The List, which is a selection of songs from a list her dad gave her of the 100 best country songs.  And it should be a no-brainer of a brilliant album–here are the songs Johnny Cash thinks you should know and love; here’s Rosanne Cash with one of the most beautiful voices in country music, deep and rich and… well, I just love it.

Mix all that with “Long Black Veil” and you should have a recipe for success.

But today I heard it. And I really don’t think it works. To put it mildly.

The biggest stumbling block for me is that this is supposed to be a kind of sad and tragic song.  And yet the guitar riff that plays over and over again is unmistakable.  Listen hereAnd here. And tell me if that’s not a slowed down version of “Tennessee Flat Top Box.”  And that’s such a happy song!

I wonder if it’s supposed to be a little meta–like here’s a song about a ghost singing about the girl who haunts his grave with aural reference to a song and a sound that haunts Cash now that her dad is gone.  But I keep wanting to have some thematic epiphany and it’s just not coming.  There is no good reason to sing “Long Black Veil” over “Tennessee Flat Top Box.” One song sheds no light on the other. And the twang of recognition of the sample is distracting from the song.

And then, once you search out Rosanne’s version of “Tennessee Flat Top Box,” it’s impossible for me to not hear the joy in her voice as she sings.  I hear that she loves that song, that it’s important to her.

If that same love of an old country song is there for “Long Black Veil” I’m having a hard time hearing it over what sounds like a bad Rosanne Cash cover band.

So, folks, I’m sorry to say that somehow, the greatest country and western song, ever, might also be the worst.

But what about y’all?  If we had to argue about it, what do you think is the greatest country song and why? And, for extra credit, “Fist City”–proto-feminist awesomeness or kind of appalling?

Post-Vacation Round-Up

I’ve been away for two weeks and the guesties have been holding down the fort, but now that I’m back home and sifting through my email, I have many a link to share. So check out the good stuff I’ve missed:

Shotgun Adoption: The amazing Kathryn Joyce (author of Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement) has a piece in the The Nation about Christian adoption agencies coercing pregnant women into adoption.

“Third World” Men: Edwin Okong’o, who grew up in Kenya, responds to Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn’s NYT article, The Women’s Crusade. He puts his finger on what bothered me about the piece: The condescension and stereotyping of both men and women in developing countries. Kristof and WuDunn do a great job at pointing out the myriad ways in which women face discrimination and abuse around the world, and it’s crucial that someone in sounding that alarm. And I don’t object to pointing out the fact that much of this discrimination and abuse happens at the hands of men. What turned me off was the tone — that those other people over there are so cruel to poor helpless women, and that the West is going to step in (with our superior track record on women’s rights, of course) and fix things.

Women and Motherhood: Researchers at the University of Mary Washington are conducting a study on attitudes towards feminism and motherhood. If you’re a woman over the age of 18 (feminist or not, mother or not), help ’em out by taking it.

Why We Needed Van Jones on the Inside: My adoration of Melissa Harris-Lacewell continues, as she illustrates why environtmental justice advocates need to be included in maintream politics — and why the ouster of Van Jones might be the movement’s death knell.

Read More…Read More…

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“Soy Aimée, la de Zaida.”

My apologies for being late with this first post, but Mercury in Retrograde has been kicking my butt.  Anyway, as a guest-blogger, I realize that I need to introduce myself to the Feministe community.  I thought I’d start out with an anecdote:

When I was younger, I spent summers in Puerto Rico with my grandparents.  It was an opportunity to get out of New York for a while and meant my mother didn’t have to worry about what to do with me for the months that school was out of session.  Aguadilla is a pretty small town, and my grandparents seemed to know everyone.  I rarely knew these people, and by way of introduction, they would invariably say “Ésta es Aimée, la de Zaida.” Roughly, that translates as, “This is Aimée, Zaida’s daughter.”  Even then I was fascinated by this idea that I didn’t stand on my own, but that my existence depended on my relationship to others, in this case, my mother.

That sense of self, that I exist in relationship to and with others has been a big part of my life and in many ways guides my work.  As a reproductive justice activist (www.protectchoice.org) and general trouble-maker, I am rooted in the real lived experiences of the communities I come from.  Whether it’s my ethnic community (Puerto Ricans), my sports community (Go Yankees!) or my political community (Radicals and Progressives), I see myself as part of a larger group of people with shared values and a shared worldview.  I bring all those people with me to everything I do.  So what does that mean?  It means I focus on issues of sex, gender, race, ethnicity, class, age, ability, sexual orientation and sexual identity.  I follow politics to understand how the issues I care about are dealt with (or more often the case, ignored) and how they impact our daily lives.  I think about power constantly – who has it, who doesn’t, how is it being used to advance a more just world and how is it being used to keep people down.

And I think a lot about cancer.  Ten months ago my mother, Zaida, was diagnosed with stage 3 gastric cancer.  I’ll write more about that later.  For now, let’s just say that cancer has become a big part of my life.

So over the next week that we’re sharing this space, I hope we’ll get to know each other, challenge other and support each other.  Respectfully.  In the meantime, allow me to introduce myself, “Soy Aimée, la de Zaida.”

Introductions

Hello to all Feministe readers and contributors! I’ve been very invited to guest blog at Feministe this week. I’m very grateful to get this opportunity to discuss my interests in feminist politics with a new audience. I’m looking forward to getting your input and feedback. I thought I would first introduce myself and talk about how I first got drawn into learning more about feminism.

I’m Laura McKenna. I’ve been blogging at Apt. 11D for six years now. My blog covers a wide ranging topics ranging from education to parenting to public policy. I’m an academic. My PhD is in political science, and I’ve published papers on education politics and on new media. I just returned from a political science conference where I delivered a paper on internet politics. I’m still recovering from my trip, so my blogging will pick up as the week goes on and I catch up on sleep.

My interest in feminism was triggered not by my academic work, but by real life. I always considered myself a feminist, but I didn’t major in women studies and never took a class on that topic. I never felt that my gender had interfered with any of my goals. I did well in my classes and competed on equal footing with the men who dominated my field. I understand that I was very lucky. I was a feminist, but not a terribly active or informed feminist.

And then I had a baby.

Due to a gross miscalculation of the time that it takes to write a dissertation, I had my son, Jonah, when both my husband and I were writing our dissertations. We were living in a cockroach filled, four floor walk-up apartment in Manhattan, Apt. 11D. My parents loaned us some money, and we took turns writing and watching the kid. We both ultimately finished, but that experience changed us in many ways.

I read a ton of books while I was nursing. Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions was the first book I read. But as I felt my career prospects shift, the obstacles to employment increase, and the juggle of work and family became overwhelming, I turned to feminist writers for direction. I read the The Feminine Mystique on the sofa of that apartment, while breastfeeding Jonah. I read Naomi Wolf, Ann Crittenden, and Arlie Hochschild. These women were midwives of a sort as they ushered me into a greater understanding of the obstacles that women still face as they seek to raise their children and to fulfill their own professional promise.

This week, I would like to write about feminism and motherhood. My training is in political science, so I tend to see things in terms of problems and solutions. What are problems that hold women back? Can we define these problems and quantify them? How can government step in to make things better? Can we create public policies that enable women to achieve their goals and improve the lives of their children? I hope to point readers towards great organizations and proposals, as well as get ideas from the collective knowledge of the blogosphere about how to improve my own thinking in this area.

Thanks for reading.

Stealth Was A Mistake

Another Classic TransGriot post

One of the ongoing arguments in the transgender community that’s guaranteed to generate heated debate one way or the other is the stealth vs out one.

Basically, stealth is the transgender equivalent of what we call in the African-American community ‘passing’. Back during the bad old days African-Americans who had features and skin tones light enough to be mistaken for white would just cut ties with the African-American community and fade away into white society so they could access opportunities for a better life. It’s how Anita Hemmings in 1897 became the first African-American graduate of Vassar College 40 years before they even began admitting African-Americans.

Even though they became part of white society, they always lived in fear that someone, someday and somehow would discover their Black heritage.

The late FBI head J. Edgar Hoover’s legendary hatred of African-Americans was fueled by the fact that he was himself Black and hated his African roots.

Hmm, the self-hatred part of that sounds like Clarence Thomas and a certain group of Caucasian transwomen I’ve had run ins with.

Basically, that’s a snapshot of what living as a stealth transperson is like. They cut ties to the transgender community. If they don’t return home they’ll sometimes move hundreds or thousands of miles from their hometown to start a new life where nobody knew them in their old gender role.

Up until the early 90’s, as part of the Standards of Care, HBIGDA (the Harry Benjamin International Gender Dysphoria Association now called WPATH (the World Professional Association for Transgender Health) used to require that after surgery, a transgender person go stealth and fade into the background never to emerge.

Many did, but recent cases like Christie Lee Littleton’s illustrate, like Anita Hemmings some of the unpleasant complications that can arise when your secret is discovered.

Contrary to the misguided opinions of some stealth peeps we out and proud folks would love nothing better than for transpeople of all stripes to simply be considered as men or women irregardless of the genitalia we arrived with on our birthday.

The reality is that we still have a long road to travel to get to that day. To get to that point requires us to educate the public on transgender issues. Some of that education comes from simply openly living our lives.

But you can’t do that education effectively if you’re hiding from the general public or won’t step up and claim that you are.

I believe that the old WPATH, then HBIGDA requirement that transgender people fade away into society is a major factor in causing many of the acceptance problems that we are grappling with now.

Those acceptance problems are especially acute in the African-American transgender community. We have to overcome not only shame and guilt issues but intolerance and transphobia from inside and outside the African-American community while also grappling with the issues that African-Americans face just living our lives.

To illustrate my belief that stealth was a hindrance to the African-American community, time to drop some more knowledge on you.

The first patient of the now closed Johns Hopkins gender program back in 1966 was an African-American transwoman from New York named Avon Wilson.

Now, instead of her fading into the woodwork and being accidentally discovered by a New York Daily News gossip columnist in October 1966, what if she had become our Christine Jorgenson instead?

Avon Wilson would have probably been covered in JET and EBONY. It’s not as far fetched as you think. EBONY until 1953 covered Chicago’s Finnie’s ball and similar events in New York. JET respectfully covered Justina Williams’ story 20 years before the AP Stylebook rules on covering transgender people were written.

We’d have a record of her existence beyond a small mention in a gossip column and she could have become the role model and icon for the next generation of African-American transpeople.

Most importantly, it would have also begun the education and discussion about transgender issues in the African-American community in the more politically friendly climate of the late 60’s-70s instead of us having to do the education in the more conservative 90’s and 2000’s.

Also, the urban legend that African-American transpeople didn’t exist would have never gained credibility because we’d have irrefutable proof we do decades earlier.

An Avon Wilson or someone else to point to as an African-American transkid would have helped me sort through some of the issues I had as a 70’s era teen and given me the courage to transition early, with the corresponding improvement in my life.

Instead, I didn’t find out that African-American transpeople existed and wasn’t a white only thang until this JET story on Justina Williams appeared in 1979.

I believe that earlier out role models would have resulted in and facilitated the earlier building of an African-American transgender community and more people would have had the incentive and courage to come out. You would have not only had the core group of transgender elders kicking knowledge to us younglings, we’d also have a better grasp of our history as well with more out transgender people of African descent telling their stories.

We also would have had a community that could have survived the initial onslaught of the HIV/AIDS epidemic in the 80’s instead of nearly being eviscerated by it.

Now, just because I believe that being stealth in an Internet age is a futile stress inducing endeavor doesn’t mean that I have personal animosity or contempt for people who attempt it.

While I personally believe we need more equivalents to actress Fredi Washington in the African-American transgender community or people exhibiting the courage that Isis has shown while competing on this current cycle of America’s Next Top Model, I understand and have no problem accepting the fact that some people do it for security or various reasons.

Just as I ask that you respect myself and others for being out and proud, I respect the decision that you’ve made for your life.

I have classy girlfriends who are stealth transwomen of African descent who are beautiful inside and out, are proud of being transgender and unlike some of the WWBT’s, want all transgender people to have civil rights coverage.

But at the same time I get a little sick of the shade that comes from some stealth transpeople (predominately WWBT’s) who are quick to holler that their exclusionary, racist, surgery-only mantra is the only true path to manhood or womanhood if your body doesn’t match your gender identity. They also erroneously assert that anyone who proudly embraces their transgender status isn’t in their eyes a man or woman, or their bullshit lie reminiscent of the nasty crap radical feminists say about transwomen, that we’re ‘oppressing’ them.

Yes, you can claim both. You can have degrees of disclosure up to and including keeping your T-business and surgical status to yourself. You can be proud of being a transperson. Being transgender doesn’t make you any less a man or woman.

But looking at my people’s history in terms of passing, I still think pushing stealth was a mistake.

Reading Tarot

I’m pretty convinced that tarot card reading is just an organized framework for letting your intuition loose (today, anyway; talk to me some other time and I’m convinced that it’s all woo-woo).  And there’s a lot about it as an experience that’s appealing to me as a woman.  I can speak with authority, because I can read something that the person sitting across from me can’t. I can have a level of intimacy with someone I don’t know very well and learn a great deal about her while being a part of her working out her own stuff. And because having your cards read is usually a weird and infrequent experience for that person, I think you feel like you’ve kind of arrived in a liminal space, not quite real life, where all that other stuff is set aside and it’s just two people doing this strange thing.

In other words, I think it’s a weird thing, but I don’t think it’s exactly supernatural. I think it’s just that we pick up on a lot of information from other people that we make use of without exactly realizing it and this, like I said, just gives you a framework for letting all that information come at you while you make meaning out of it intentionally instead of passively, if that makes sense.

I use my own variation on the Celtic Cross spread, which a lot of folks use, and I have a nice 21 card spread I like a lot, harry-herman-roseland-1870swhich looks very similar to the one used by the card reader in the painting here.

But I want to talk about not just this painting, but the whole series of paintings of this woman that Harry Herman Roseland did, which you can view over at Mary K. Greer’s excellent tarot blog. Because when I saw them all in a group like that, stuff started jumping out at me that I don’t think I’d have picked up on if I’d just been looking at one painting.

Because, I think, if you just look at one painting, it’s easy enough to get caught up in the intimacy of the reader and the person being read for.  Look at how they both lean over the cards, their heads curved in towards each other.  The African-American woman is the one with the power, with the literacy to read the cards in a way the white woman can’t.  It seems like the Black woman has control of the situation because they seem to be in her house, on her turf.

But when you see them all together like that, other things start to jump out, like the disparity in their social standing.  The white women all have on very lovely clothes and the Black woman is dressed in work clothes.  Look at how in every single painting, her knitting is close by, in one case, we can see it on her lap.  These white women have literally interrupted her work. (Though, I think Greer is right in the comments that we can’t overlook the symbolism of having a woman who works with yarn reading people’s fortunes.)  Also, look how many of them keep their hats on, as if, for them, they are still in a potentially public space.  And the parasols!  Look at how they point towards the reader in so many pictures, reaffirming that no matter what kind of intimacy we might think we’re seeing, there are some strong and potentially violent barriers between them.

I also think it’s interesting that the white women are almost always higher up in the picture, still literally above the reader. But it’s not as if the white women aren’t also in precarious positions. You might stop and see a fortune teller at a fair on a whim, but once you’ve taken the trouble to go to someone’s house (and I think that the fact that the white women are almost always pictured in pairs is not just indicative of it being problematic for them to be out in public alone, but also that they were doing something abnormal for them and wanted moral support), it’s usually about a level of desperation, of needing guidance or an edge in whatever.

It’s easy to imagine that these women are there inquiring about matters of the heart, or whether they will have children, but it’s easy also to loose sight of how important it was for women at that time to be able to do those things, in order to have social security. It might be weird to call it a feminist act, but I look at these paintings and I see a kind of proto-feminist act–women working together, through secret knowledge we don’t see shared with men, to make their lives a little easier to navigate.

I wonder, too, if we aren’t seeing the card reading as a way to mitigate the racial reasons the reader would not be able to present herself as telling the white women something they don’t know; they can maintain a fiction that it’s not her giving advice and passing along wisdom. She’s reading the cards. In one painting, she’s even consulting with a book. And this gives the white women a framework through which they can actually hear from a black woman and take what she says to heart.

As a reader, that’s something I’ve enjoyed, even if I couldn’t articulate it–the ability to speak with authority and be taken seriously, even when it might seem in other circumstances that I couldn’t know what I was talking about

I sometimes think that’s what appeals to me about blogging, too.

I Have To Prove It Every Day

Another one of my classic TransGriot posts for your Feministe reading pleasure.

There was a recent Battlestar Galactica episode in which Sharon and her husband Helo were discussing some issues. During the conversation Helo remarked that to him his Cylon wife was always human. She countered that to the rest of the fleet she has to prove that every day.

I feel her on that.

There are times during this gender journey that I feel like Sharon. No matter how fly I look, how smart I am, how many awards I garner, how good a job I do and how many times my genetic girlfriends, supportive family members and classmates that are still in my life tell me that I am what I’ve known I was supposed to be, I still feel like Sharon in the fact that I have to prove my womanhood every day.

Sometimes that can get to be a pain in the ass.

Yeah, I’ll admit that there are some days that I wish that I’d been born female from jump and get to experience everything about it. Usually the transmen I know will tell me otherwise and extol how happy they are to escape cramps, bloating, the cycle, et cetera. Even my girlfriends will tell me they consider me the lucky one. I’ll sometimes respond with the comment that no one questions your femininity nor do you have to think about it on a regular basis. However, I do share one aspect of it with my genetic sisters. I now have a heightened risk for breast cancer and have to do mammograms and regular breast exams.

But as philosopher Simone de Beauvoir once stated, ‘Great women are made, not born.’

I may have only been female externally for thirteen years, but in a sense I’ve been prepping for this point in my life for a long time. My goal is to be the best woman I can be despite being born in a male body. To me that means observing the great examples of positive women in my own family, my feminine role models famous and not-so-famous (which I’m profiling in my Women I Admire posts) and incorporating their best qualities into my own life.

blackwomen heroesOne thing I’m acutely aware of growing up in a family of historians is the great contributions that Black women have and continue to make to advance our people. Uplifting the race in terms of community service is a part of Black womanhood that I eagerly embrace. All the sisters that I’ve read about and witnessed doing positive things inspires me to step it up another level.

I’m cognizant of the fact that Black women are considered trendsetters in terms of fashion and their images. I’m considered a role model in the transgender community and have to pay attention to the image that I project to the outside world. Not a problem since I like fashionable clothes, get a manicure and pedicure every two weeks, hair is on point and I rarely leave the house without my face done. The fact that I have a fashionista diva as a roommate who will not hesitate to call me out along with my best girlfriends doesn’t hurt either.

With hormones, electrolysis, laser hair removal and surgery the physical part of transition is easy. The toughest part is the spiritual and emotional end of it. That part of the feminine journey doesn’t end until they close the coffin lid on you. Getting in tune with the spiritual and emotional side is a must and too many of my transsistahs ignore or are unaware of that aspect of womanhood.

Black womanhood is a lofty goal to live up to. Sometimes I believe that some of the genetic women in my family dismiss the prayerful seriousness I place on being a compliment and not a detriment to the women (and men) that are related to me. I realized in my youth I don’t just represent me, I represent my family and the entire African-American community. My interactions with society must be on point and reflect that at all times.

Nothing in life is easy. Being an African-American transwoman definitely isn’t. It’s hard work and frustrating as hell sometimes. All these words about my latest take on being transgender get boiled down to one simple fact: I’m happily living life in my own skin.

Even if I have to constantly prove that I’m one of the girls.

Bye, and a recipe

Thanks for reading and discussing with me this week, Feministe-ers. I hope you’ll come by for more recipes and food discussions at www.cook-food.org.

I’m just gonna share one more thing with you, which is what I made for some friends for breakfast this morning. We were at the farmers market, but ridiculously didn’t think to buy any ingredients to make into our morning meal. And by the time we got home we were rilly hungry. This is what I put together from things that were in the house. It was inspired by something that one of my friends always special orders at our neighborhood café. That dish is a chard and asiago scramble, and she always orders it with beans instead of eggs. So I took that idea and ran with it.

All amounts are approximate, and you could use whatever vegetables you think would taste good. We had a sweet potato and also some bell pepper strips that were left over from something else. So that’s what we used.

Sweet Potato and Black Bean Breakfast Scramble

Serves 4 if you have some toast and fruit; 2 if it’s the only thing you’re eating and you’re really hungry.

• 4 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon cumin
• 1 teaspoon coriander
• 1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
• One small sweet potato, cut into small cubes (like 1/4 inch) so they cook fast
• Half a bell pepper, chopped
• One can of black beans, drained and rinsed
• Pepper to taste
1. Heat the oil in a saucepan or large skillet over medium heat; add the garlic and salt and cook for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.
2. Add the cumin, coriander, oregano and cook for a few more minutes, stirring more often.
3. Add the sweet potato and a few tablespoons of water to keep it all from burning. Stir, cover, and reduce the heat if it seems like things might burn. Cook for about 5 minutes, adjusting heat and stirring as necessary.
4. Add the bell pepper and the beans. Add more water if things are too dry, and taste it to see if you need to add more salt. Stir and cover and cook until the beans are hot and the veggies are cooked (this shouldn’t take more than 5 minutes if you cut the veggies small enough).
5. Grind some pepper over it if you want.
6. Eat and enjoy.

Caty Simon and the Virtues of Vice (part two)

Oh, LOL.  Sike.  Before I go, I present the conclusion of my email interview with the one and only Ms. Caty Simon. Part one is here.

Why do you think people on all sides of the issues involved have such strong feelings about Natalie Dyan and the choices she makes/made about how to make money and what to do with her own body?  I’ve heard people argue that her exploitation of the patriarchal concept of virginity serves to increase/strengthen virginity’s cultural currency rather than undermine it and thus is problematic from a feminist standpoint (shockingly, this is not my take on it.) Thoughts?

Do you think you could just post a link to my N Dylan piece? I feel like I’ve said all I have to say about that. [Yes, you can read said piece here]

As you know, I’m in favor of decriminalizing prostitution and all drugs.  Some people in the sex workers rights/decrim movement seem to distance themselves from drugs–which is understandable given the stereotype of sex workers as drug addicts, but also problematic as plenty of sex workers (like plenty of the population in general) do use illegal drugs. I noticed some local NYC harm reduction trainings recently by sex workers orgs.  Do you think there’s a shift happening, that sex workers rights organizers are moving towards addressing drug use (in a non-paternalistic way) rather than trying to run from it?  How do you see criminalized sex work and criminalized drug use as being intertwined?  Do they intersect strategically?

Short answer: I do see a shift happening, but not nearly enough of one and not soon enough.

I do understand the political distancing, because we did want to get away from the agency-less TV movie image of the low income (when most of us are actually middle class ), exploited & abused (when most of us are independent workers & thus have no one to exploit or abuse us, or work with people we trust), STI infected (when most of us have safer sex than the general population), and horrendously, obsessively drug addicted (when–although there’s no real statistical evidence, because all of the evidence we have comes from abolitionists with an agenda that study the most downtrodden in jail, not a representative population, and most of those of us caught in that position tell researchers what they want to hear in order to cope and survive–it seems, like  we are not more likely to use drugs than the general population, only excepting the two facts that many young, middle class or affluent people use drugs of some kind–in fact, this population uses the most drugs in this country, contrary to popular belief; and the fact that black markets often intersect.) The crack ho walking around with sores and track marks and disease is unfortunately still the image that comes to mind when many mainstream people think of the word “prostitute”. So I do understand the initial tactic of distancing–what I don’t understand is the contempt. I remember excitedly receiving every issue of $pread I ever got, only to see sex workers who were interviewed say dismissive awful things about girls working to support habits and self-righteously differentiating themselves from them.  I remember reading a blog by a prominent sex worker’s rights activist which haughtily stated that there was obviously a difference between decriminalization of drugs and decriminalization of sex work, without even deigning to mention what that difference was .  Callgirl, by Jeanette Angell, a woman I very much admire and a text I think is incisive and sophisticated, just fell back on the disease model of addiction to understand her friend’s problems with crack, without using any of the anthropological insight and nuance that shone throughout the rest of the book on that topic.

Even now it feels like the attention being paid to drug using sex workers is an us vs. them thing–the poor ignorant them who don’t know any better, a sort of noblesse oblige.  The white, middle class, educated sex workers that, let’s face it, dominate the movement, believe that the harm reduction services they offer at places like St James’ infirmary are for powerless street workers, not for their own drug use.

It’s a shame because I do believe these two issues are intrinsically connected. It’s all about Puritanical criminalization of the ownership of one’s body ( a major tenant of feminism and the reproductive rights movement) and the right to take risks with it–sex workers take on the risk of stigma, STIs, and most of all, meeting strange men in a male-dominated society in which sex and violence are constantly intertwined and confused. Yet, they make our jobs more dangerous by criminalizing us instead of allowing us to go to the police for our safety.

Drug users take risks with their bodies as well–but most of these risks are either magnified and turned into bogeymen by the media and drug enforcement or exacerbated by criminalization. People die of cigarette habits eventually from lung cancer, but although the physiological addiction is as strong as that of heroin or tranquilizers, nobody ever has their basic day to day life patterns disrupted because of nicotine addiction, b/c cigarettes aren’t subject to ridiculously inflated black market prices so that one has to spend an inordinate amount of time earning money for them. Heroin and opiates, my drug of choice, are seen as the most deadly, pernicious drugs–yet they really have no long term health risks involved with them besides addiction and overdose that aren’t caused directly by criminalization, inflated black market prices and the poverty they bring about, and lack of clean needles and harm reduction education. Even addiction and overdose could be risks that were minimized in a decriminalized environment—a pure supply would ensure the easy calculation of one’s tolerance and dose, preventing overdose, and widespread harm reduction education would allow people to understand the timing of doses necessary, to prevent physiological addiction.

This culture is in fact truly absurd in its mores around mind altering substances. The pharmacopoeia that we know of as illicit drugs has been with mankind for thousands of years, and, for example, before the Harrison Narcotics Act in 1914, cocaine and heroin were available over the counter and did not cause any major social upheaval. In fact, most users of opiates were middle class women and doctors, and many among those two groups distinguished themselves while having active habits . In contrast, the pharmacopoeia that Big Pharma shills us to cure the every new ill of our psyches they invent by the year is not truly tested, since, as congressional committees are finding out around now, most of the research trials and the journal articles written about them are directly financially linked to the companies which sell them. Lately, interoffice documents have been discovered by mad movement groups that prove without doubt that the makers of drugs like Zyprexa and Prozac knew about serious side effects of their products such as adult onset diabetes and common suicidality and even homocidality among children and teens that took their products, but hid them from the general public. Class action suits are now in progress. Sometimes, this strange ambivalent attitude about mind altering drugs reaches ridiculous heights when drugs that are scheduled and criminalized without prescription are legitimized and prescribed at high doses under the auspices of psychiatrists—the fact that we demonize speed users and yet prescribe children with amphetamines (without even giving them a choice, in their status as minors) is frankly crazy, especially in light of recent finding that such “treatment” stunts their growth and makes them extremely emotionally volatile.

As for the argument that drug users hurt others because of drug related crime, the only drug with a statistically significant correlation to violence is alcohol, and the vast majority of other drug related crime is based around black market turf wars in a market that has no other way to mediate itself but violence, a market that the prohibitionists themselves have made lucrative enough to kill for by making it illegal and therefore highly profitable because of monetary compensation for the risk. Decriminalize, and just like the gangland violence around liquor disappeared when  the Prohibition of the 1920’s ended, so would this violence. As for the small proportion of violence that remains that is caused by altering one’s mind with these substances, the crime should be in the act itself, not in the ingestion of the drug. We teach people to drink responsibly even though alcohol is the most volatile, physiologically addicting and damaging drug there is. There are certainly ways to use other drugs responsibly, as the fact that statistically it seems that most users of addictive drugs are not, in fact, addicts, attests.

Just like sex workers, drug users are criminalized for a non violent act that truly only has to do with themselves and their bodies–except that drug users are punished much more harshly, serving sentences that can be much longer than those of murderers and rapists under mandatory minimum sentencing drug laws. In fact, our drug laws are one of THE major reasons that our prison industrial complex is the most highly populated in the world. And just like sex workers, drug users are seen as agency-less, except that, instead of being exploited women or loose nymphomaniacal tramps, they are seen as the helpless against evil compulsions–physiological addiction is seen as the demon possession of our age, as if drug users were incapable of making moral decisions or any decisions that valued anything else above their drug of choice. And finally, just like sex workers, there are those who feel they are being liberal and benign towards us by advocating programs that force us to transition away from our current lifestyle–to medicalize rather than criminalize the problem, force us into treatment, the way sex workers in newly Communist China were forced to learn factory skills. These factions may be more well meaning than those that favor criminalization, but again, they’re about denying us our own ability to choose.

Both sex workers and drug users are subject to the policing of their own bodies, coercion, and criminalization. Perhaps in the short term sex workers might be wary of taking on the other group’s stigma, but in the long run, we’ll be stronger in political unity–strength in numbers seems like obvious political strategy to me. I’d like to see sex worker’s movements, as the more established groups, stop making derogatory references to drug users, run informative stories about drug decrim in their publications, fight ALL the injustices of the prison industrial complex and not just stick with their single issue, and acknowledge the fact that drug use is classless.

Finally, like all of mainstream America, we need to stop seeing drug use as always destructive. It’s all about set, setting, and situation, not the drugs themselves–context.  Almost any drug, used in a particular way in a particular circumstance, can be a spiritual journey, can be therapeutic, can even be a healthy way to cope in the short term, can be good clean fun–cleaner than alcohol or cigarettes and even coffee, for the most part. No drug should be “angelicized” or demonized totally–they’re just inert substances, it’s our relationship to them that matters. Richard De Grandpre writes a brilliant and readable thesis about this topic in his book The Cult of Pharmacology, which I urge you all to read.

Taking these issues to a global level–do you see the drug war as intersecting with the war on The Sex Trade and/or “trafficking”?  How does the criminalizing of drug use and prostitution in/by the US negatively effect the global “victims” of both trades?Taking these issues to a global level–do you see the drug war as intersecting with the war on The Sex Trade and/or “trafficking”?  How does the criminalizing of drug use and prostitution in/by the US negatively effect the global “victims” of both trades?

Globally, I see the same outlook towards Third World people making their way in both black markets—they need to be shown the errors of their ways and rescued by the First World, as if they were childlike and could not take responsibility for the considered choices they make. Thailand’s EMPOWER sex worker’s rights organization recently issued a demand from Cambodian migrant sex workers—STOP RESCUING US! The raids in which they are “rescued” and deported back to Cambodia (much like many similar raids throughout the world), are violent, abusive and economically crippling. The workers must then spend money and time to find their way across the border again. Similarly, when the crops of coca or poppy farmers are sprayed from the air by the US with substances that poison their soil and then condescendingly told to a grow a food crop they won’t even break even on, the same sort of violence to their livelihood is done. These people are making rational economic choices in the context of their environments, and yet, they’re treated like misbehaving and/or lost children.