In defense of the sanctimonious women's studies set || First feminist blog on the internet

Unsolicited Advice to Women’s Professional Soccer

Saturday night, I went with my good friend, Patrick Reis, to see the WPS Sky Blue vs. Western NY Flash game. As he’s a journalist, I asked him if he’d share his thoughts on the experience. So… guest blogger under guest blogger. But it’s a new and fresher perspective than mine — I’m already an avid Women’s Professional Soccer enthusiast — and this was his first live WPS game. Here, below, is an opinion the WPS League should be taking seriously – he’s a mid-twenties, cable subscribing, sports fan with an affinity for soccer:

Last night’s Women’s Professional Soccer game was a brilliant display of athleticism and a wonderful sports spectacle, and yet I left concerned for the future of the league.

We’ll start with the positives: The quality of play was amazing. Without exception, it was a field full of world-class athletes playing at the highest level – minus the flopping, fighting and constant kvetching common to certain other not-to-be-named professional sports leagues. They moved the ball constantly and made extremely few mistakes, did amazing things with the ball that even non-soccer fans could appreciate, as well as the subtle stuff that hard-core fans could enjoy.

And enjoy it we did. Perhaps the best part was watching young kids who knew the roster top to bottom. We sat next to a pair of teenagers who referred to the players by their first name and discussed the pros and cons of putting them on the field.

Alex Morgan, soccer’s “it-girl” of the moment, provided the cherry on top. Despite coming on with only 20 minutes to go (more on that later), Morgan continued her highlight reel season (building off this gem against Boston), with the coolest cool I’ve ever seen in person. Shortly before the final whistle she raced to a ball nobody thought she’d get, touching it away from the oncoming keeper. Then she collected it before she got to the end-line, whirled around, chipped and curved the ball into the back of the net. The crowd loved it.

Great crowd, great game and a great finish. What more could you ask for?
Sadly, it was what we could have asked for less of. For starters, less driving. The game was at Rutgers, 45 minutes away. And less confusion. As we pulled into the parking lot, the attendant told us the game was sold out. Having spent 45 minutes in the car, we decided it was worth another 15 minutes to double check. Sure enough, tickets were still available, but only after a long wait in line and a healthy dose of box office confusion. That’s when the fun really got started:

As we made the trek to our section, we were stopped by a very loud, very angry, very mulleted woman who proceeded to shout at us for not knowing exactly where on the grassy hill we were supposed to sit. Now, paying $15 for a soccer game is entirely reasonable, but I can (and frequently do) get yelled at for free. So, you know, maybe we can pass on that next time.

And, hey, maybe given that Alex Morgan is so popular right now that there was a 13-year-old boy wearing her jersey, she could play more than 20 minutes? I get it, there are 100 sports reasons to rest your best player when you’re winning. But this is a business, and a business that is struggling to get off the ground. So when you have opportunities to raise the league’s profile, you have to pounce and pounce hard. Pearl Jam doesn’t fill amphitheaters without Eddie Vedder, pet stores don’t put ugly puppies in the window the week before Christmas, and Kate Goldwater doesn’t let me anywhere near her store during daylight.

For me, I don’t mind. These are all minor annoyances in an otherwise great night. I’ll go again as soon as I can. But for families with limited time and limited income (and lots of places that are more than willing to take it), one or two hitches could be enough to convince them to spend their next outing elsewhere.

Women’s Professional Soccer: This is your moment, your chance to show off what you can do. The fans are ready to do their part – 5,000 braved the logistical hassles to sell out the regular seating section, and the field-level seats, at $75-a-pop, were sold out as well. The players are doing their part and then some: playing world-class soccer as likable, fan-friendly athletes.

But unless the league irons out the kinks – and irons them out quickly – it could all be for naught.

Patrick Reis writes a daily column on energy policy for POLITICO (http://www.politico.com/morningenergy) that is funny at least twice a month, and erratically maintains a Twitter feed at @Patrick_C_Reis.

Bearing Faithful Witness and the Social Justice Life

I choke up every time I read “She Should Write,” Ann Friedman’s farewell to Feministing earlier this year. (Jill recommended it here at the time.)

Being committed to social justice means, at its worst, living in defeat. Sometimes no matter how many victories I have, no matter how many wrongs I live to see righted, our capacity as a society to generate new wrongs and perpetuate old oppressions feels overwhelming.

Sometimes I despair of rising above my own failures — to acknowledge my own privileges, to speak up when I should, to “make an impact,” whatever that means.

Sometimes I get caught up in anxiety about whether or not I’m “doing enough” or “doing it right.” And sometimes, I’m ashamed to realize, that anxiety is more about myself and racking up points than it is about doing right by others or living well.

I have a housemate we’ll call Alex. He would rank pretty high on a list of truly decent people I know, but he’s also called me “militant.” I’ve gotten into arguments with him about rape culture and street harassment, and I’ve beaten myself up for not being able to convince him of my position. Which is silly, obviously, because I can’t control what he thinks.

Our household has had a kind of harrowing week or two for reasons I don’t need to go into here. Suffice to say that it all kind of came to a head a few nights ago. After the crisis passed, I sat down at the dining room table with a cup of tea and talked to Alex for a while. This time, about things we have in common. We discussed how corporate interests have warped the United States political system, and how journalism and politics have changed since 9/11. He went to school for journalism, and now he spoke with deep respect for a professor he had in the fall of 2001, who was committed to a form of truth-telling that seems to have grown scarce in this country since then. He described, almost reverently, how if there is an ultimate truth, it must have something to do with understanding the lived truths of all human beings, and finding whatever it is that we all share.

And slowly, I remembered something. Something I know, truly and deeply, but too often forget.

It is important merely to bear faithful witness.

It is vital. It is revolutionary. It is enough.

Tension rushed out of me. I thought, that I can do. I can fulfill a worthwhile purpose, and feel personally fulfilled, without gauging my success by how many people I can convince of anything. Or by how many blogs I follow, or how many online petitions I sign or protests I attend, or how many causes I adopt. I can document and represent, to the best of my ability, the truths of people and places and events and their contexts.

Which is really what social justice is about, right? Or at least, this is a way to do social justice. Because one of the great injustices, and a way that injustices are reinforced, is through narratives. Telling only a few stories, from only a few perspectives, over and over again until they become The Only Truth, is the foundation of oppression. The domination of cis, straight, white, wealthy, male, able-bodied, neurotypical narratives — you name it — is the precondition for anyone to continue believing that it’s ok to blame poor people for their poverty, or that “traditional marriage” is a thing, or that women bear responsibility for their own rapes, or that electing a non-white president means we live in a post-racial society, or … I could go on.

My telling can never contain all sides of the story. But I can acknowledge that there are more sides to the story, and more stories. I can refuse to parrot what isn’t true for me, and resist the urge to simply replace one illegitimately dominant narrative with another.

Even if I’m not perfect, faithfully documenting my stories and the stories I witness, in all their complexity and to the best of my ability, still adds another perspective. And that may be small in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also invaluable. One more story is all you need to show that more than one perspective exists.

Sometimes I worry that “just telling a story” is too passive. But the power of one more story cannot be overstated. For although coordinated messaging and unified voices have their place, social justice for me has never been about belonging to a club or toeing a party line. At its core, social justice is about finding the truth and holding ourselves responsible to it.

“She Should Write” gets to me not because closing the byline gap is important or because we need more feminist voices, though those are both true. “She Should Write” gets to me because it reminds me that what I’m doing, right now, is a big deal.

Telling the truth, whether through blogging or journalism or poetry or fiction, is the mission that kicks my butt without becoming impossible. (Even if it feels impossible to put the first word on the page, remembering that all I have to do is tell the truth usually helps.) It won’t be the same for everybody, but that’s what it is for me.

So I want to thank you all for allowing me to do that a bit of that work here for the past two weeks. Thanks to Jill and the other mods for inviting me, and thanks to the readers for your warm reception and engaging responses. Thanks for reading my truths and sharing yours. I’ve learned a lot.

As a parting gift, here’s a video of our buns fighting over a carrot. Cheers, folks!

If you can’t beat them and you won’t join them, you can at least take their names

In the Washington Post today, Lisa Miller brings what looks like old, unwelcome news to feminists like me:

Now, in a reversal, some conservative Christian women are tentatively claiming the feminist label for themselves. In the reframing, feminism has nothing to do with a woman’s right to choose an abortion or with government programs for the poor.

Instead, a “feminist” is a fiscally conservative, pro-life butt-kicker in public, a cooperative helpmate at home, and a Christian wife and mother, above all. Rep. Michele Bachmann is Exhibit A. With her relentless attacks on big government and a widely circulated 2006 video in which she credits her professional success to the submission of her will to Jesus and her husband, Bachmann represents “a new definition of feminism,” says Stephen Bannon, director of “Fire From the Heartland,” a 2010 movie about the female leaders of the tea party.

Recognizing conservative women’s “girl power” image as an underhanded ploy to actually limit women’s power is nothing new; nor is the need to make clear why feminism, if it is honest, must stand for true equality, bodily autonomy, and intersectional justice.

Still, it may be worth noting that this season’s crop of powerful female conservatives have gone from demonizing feminists to taking the label as their own. How this move will play out, both for their political prospects and for the feminist movement in the United States, remains to be seen.

But we don’t have to take it as a loss. After all — Palin and Bachmann will never thank us, but they wouldn’t be here without feminists. And they cannot help but prove us right.

(Hat tip for the article goes to N, who handed it to me over breakfast this morning.)

The art of boobs

A gift for the artistically inclined, or really for anyone who’s ever wondered how Power Girl can run without concussing herself: Webcomic artiste Ovens offers a quick and handy tutorial on drawing boobs that actually resemble regular, human boobs. It’s revolutionary. Advice highlights:

Boobs do not defy gravity.

The bigger the boobs, the more weight is added, causing them to “sag.” Sagging breasts are not a bad thing!

An exposed tit is a tear drop, NOT a water balloon.

Just gave ’em a glance, and she’s absolutely right. Well spotted.

Now if she’d just write a tutorial about about drawing women without corkscrew spines or perpetual beejer face. Note to comic book artists: If you’re looking at a woman’s boobs and her butt at the same time, something is very wrong.

Posted in Uncategorized

Shabbat alert.

Just a quick note: As mentioned in my first post, I’m Jewish — as not mentioned, I’m a little more observant than many. I don’t work on Shabbat, and thus won’t be around to fish comments out of moderation or respond from now until Saturday night. I’m sure the other good folks will approve comments as necessary, and when Shabbat is over, I’ll check back in. שבת שלום, shabbat shalom, to one and all!

Things I do of which I am ashamed.

Please note UPDATE in the comments (#82).

I’m a feminist.

I’m 46 years old, and I have never known myself to be anything but a feminist, in word and in deed. I marched for the ERA as a young high schooler, had a copy of Our Bodies Ouselves when it was still thin, and knew even before I’d started dating that I would keep my own name if I got married. As for work? Well — of course. In whatever field I wanted. And if a man didn’t respect me or these ideas? He had no place in my life. Period.

I was raised by strong women: Two grandmothers who were among that less than 10% of American women who attended college in the 1920s, and a single mother, widowed when I was a baby, who worked hard and had a tool box with her name on it, so that we would remember to put the tools back if we used them.

None of these women ever took guff from anyone, none ever felt (or demonstrated to me, at any rate) that they should shrink themselves or their opinions to fit the world around them. I grew up knowing of Grandma Hauser’s bitterness that she’d been called home from college to tend to a sick mother when there were three healthy brothers at home, and that Grandma #2, known to us as Queenie, had been a flapper at a time that her sister was busy learning to keep home. The subtext to it all was always: You have every right to be who you are, and when the world tries to tell you different? Push the hell back.

I was lucky.

And yet, I am still a product of much more than that. I still move in the world as-it-is, not the world as-I-dream-it, and much as I am the first to say that the world used to be worse, I will also freely admit that we have a long way to go. I have a long way to go.

I’m a feminist. And there are things that I do, regularly, that I think feminists probably shouldn’t do.

1. I don’t leave the house without make-up. This one isn’t that bad, I figure. It’s decorative, and I actually mostly enjoy it. Make-up is fun, bottom line. But I know (because I have access to the deepest recesses of my brain, even if sometimes I wish I didn’t) that even on days that it’s not fun, even on days when it’ll make me late to take the five minutes I need to apply the layers — I’m going to take those five minutes, because I worry what the world with think of me otherwise. The look I achieve is minimalist, entirely natural (people often express visible shock when they hear that I wear make-up at all), but that just further proves the point that I’m using it as camouflage, not artistic expression.

2. I shave my legs and underarms. I have none of the above-suggested ambivalence about this one. I’m pretty confident that this is moronic. I know feminists have a variety of opinions on this (as on all things), but I can only be the feminist that I am, and this feminist firmly believes that the removal of the hair that serves as a secondary sexual characteristic, indicating that I have gotten through puberty, is a concession to the patriarchy, pure and simple. It’s about the assumption that straight men like their women to look like little girls. Which, you know, I’m kind of opposed to that sort of thing. And yet, I find my hairy legs and pits truly, deeply unattractive. That part of my mind is throughly colonized. So I carry on. But when my daughter watches me shave — as little girls will — she not infrequently gets a wee lecture in which I tell her that if she decides to never do this crazy thing, I’ll think that’s kind of cool.

3. I feel guilty about eating. I know I shouldn’t. I talk and write about how women have to heal their relationship with food. I don’t participate in those conversations that women seem to be forever having in which they beat themselves up for having a damn piece of cake, and I try to frame the damn cake in a positive way when I can. And I never, ever express this guilt out loud to anyone but my husband, in private. I do not need to add to the ambient noise, to the very problem from which I suffer. Most importantly, my son and daughter will never hear it from me, because I want them to shake this illness that plagues our society. Instead, I encourage them (with the assistance of their most excellent father) to listen to their bodies, to eat for enjoyment as well as health, and to love the bodies (tall, broad, and strapping) that the good Lord gave them. But the guilt? I feel it. It’s there, and I hate it.

4. I look in the mirror and love my body only grudingly. Like 90% of people, my body doesn’t correspond to the ideal with which we are inundated, and to which we are constantly compared. The ideal with which we as a society shame each other and ourselves. My bra size has only grown with pregnancies and my middle years, and my middle bits are a combination of scarred (two emergency C-sections + one major surgery to remove an enormous tumor — you can read all about it here, if you’d like!) and mushy, and there are days when all the kind words that I share with others, the things I say out loud to my daughter and son, and the unabashed lust of my husband — the best, most honest man I have ever met — matter not in the least. I wish my body were… different. I love it, sure, but kind of like you love the lame dog who does her best and is really sweet, so you forgive her for being so damn slow on walks.

I am a better feminist than I once was, and I think that — as a direct result of how they are being raised — my son and daughter will be better feminists than their father and mother are.

But it’s not easy. And there are days when it’s damn hard.

Life in America sucks. It used to suck more. Discuss.

Huh! So – not a single comment [thanks for the comments there, too!] on my Israel/Palestine post! Hardly even a click to see how I look on the small screen! I’m so used to people just waiting to jump into battle on that front, that I hardly know what to do with myself. I’ll actually take it as a positive sign, indicating that there remain sane corners of the universe, places that have not lost their damn minds over this story about which I’ve obsessed my entire adult life.

But, that being the case, I can hardly claim to have pulled my weight around here today, now can I? So how’s this then:

Like many, I am often overcome by the sheer suckage in the world at large, and America in particular, in recent times. It can sometimes be too painful to even turn on the news, knowing that I’ll hear that more people have lost their jobs, and more people are hungry, and more women have been placed in untenable positions, all while our elected officials continue to fight like whiny babies over who’s going to cut how much of the safety net for the poor so that the wealthy can gather yet more wealth (yesterday I learned from former Labor Secretary Robert Reich on NPR that the top 1% of American earners now control 25% of the national wealthare now taking home almost a quarter of the national income.” [note: Stella corrected me in the comments, & points out that, worse yet, the top 1% controls 40% of the national wealth (as opposed to income)]. Meantime — oh! that’s right! — Gitmo is still open. Honestly, the only people providing a steady stream of good news these days are the American LGBTQ community (yay, death of DADT! Yay, marriage in New York!) — and frankly, that’s just because they have so far to come toward full equality, that every step forward feels huge. So.

It’s at moments like this that I like to time travel a little and remember: The world has always sucked. All the years, all the Administrations, all the social and cultural circumstances. SUUUCKED. Rank xenophobia, catastrophic ignorance, natural disasters — it’s kind of the way things are.

Of course, it’s also the way of things for humans to take steps to decrease the suckage. I kind of think of this site as one piece of that larger effort — we’re all here because it matters to us to decrease the suckage. Sometimes humanity is better at this, sometimes worse; occasionally, it seems to be entirely out of our hands. But mostly, we slog along and push ahead and grunt and groan and weep and gnash our teeth and try our best and bit by bit, we chip away at the worst of things, and slowly, the world gets better.

We’ve seen it in (the admittedly flawed) Health Care Reform and the (admittedly too slow) repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. We’ve seen it in crowds of Americans who stood against hatred and with their Muslim brothers and sisters, against the (admittedly still frightening) crowds of violent bigots. None of these examples are perfect, none promise a happily-ever-after to anyone. All leave destruction, of one kind or another, in their wake.

But that’s the way we do. We can only be human. We can only keep trying — fucking up and trying, fucking up and trying.

The best way to get a good bead on this is to really go back in time. I like to go back about 100 years, because it’s a good round number, and because there’s no better way to see how much things have improved, than to consider what life was like in the good old days.

So let’s start here: In the late 19-aughts, life expectancy for the American woman was a little better than 47 years (which is to say – I’d be nearly dead). For men, it was a touch more than 46, unless the men were African American, in which case, life expectancy was 33. The fourth leading cause of death was “diarrhea, enteritis, and ulceration of the intestine.”

The average worker put in nearly 60 hours a week, and much of the industrial revolution was being implemented by children. In 1909, the Cherry Mine Disaster saw 259 men and boys killed (more than half the mine’s workforce) when a massive fire trapped them underground; twelve would-be rescuers also died.

Only 97 Americans were killed in car accidents in that decade (there were only 8,000 cars), but 115 were lynched. In 1908, race riots erupted in Springfield, Illinois, stemming in part from a false accusation of rape (the accuser later admitted to lying to cover up an affair — which, you know: oy). The black business district was methodically destroyed, forty black homes burned, two black men lynched, and four whites died in days of melee — but then, “anti-black race riots in northern cities were nothing new in the first decade of the twentieth century.” After all, PBS tells us, “race [was] invoked to explain everything: individual character, the cause of criminality, and the natural superiority of ‘higher’ races.” Schools and baseball were segregated, and it goes without saying that Barack Obama would not have been able to vote, nor, indeed, allowed through the front door of the White House.

Hillary Clinton wouldn’t have been allowed to vote, either, and had she attended the first suffrage parade, in 1910, she would have likely be wearing an organ-crushing corset to define her waist. Higher education was almost unheard of for the women of the time — in 1900, 2.8% of American women attended college; twenty years later, that number had risen to 7.6% (my mother likes to remind me that both of my grandmothers are represented by that statistic). And of course, for every 1,000 live births, six to nine women died in childbirth; about 100 of the babies would die before their first birthday.

All this, and Americans still hadn’t faced the First World War, the 1918 flu pandemic, the Great Depression, or the Second World War.

Do you know how long 100 years is? Zip. It’s the potential life-expectancy of a baby born today (and given that infant mortality rates have dropped more than 90% in the last century, those babies are already starting out with a better shot).

So, yeah: A whole lot sucks in America — and frankly, it sucks a lot more for people in other places around the globe. Yesterday’s post about “breast ironing,” Hexy’s discussions of the circumstances of Indigenous Australians, and the horrifying tales of starvation out of East Africa (not to mention my own bailiwick, Israel/Palestine) are all powerful reminders that no matter how much better things get here, there is still much to worry us elsewhere.

Human history suggests, however, that as terrible as things always are, the suckage grows less over time — because we put our minds to making things better. As a woman who spends a lot of time advocating for causes that appear to be demonstrably lost, it does my heart good to remember that, sometimes.

links for 28-7-2011

In Arkansas, as high school decided having a black girl as their valedictorian would be too controversial, SO THEY APPOINTED A WHITE CO- VALEDICTORIAN. This is actually so ridiculous I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Amy Winehouse passed away this week, which is sad, because she was a human being, and a very talented artist. Here’s a response to her death, as well as an analysis of the way we treat women artists who live with addiction or mental illness.

Kate from the awesome Shakesville has started a new project to, in her words, “1) raise money for transition expenses, and 2) say brazen things on the Internet about sex, gender, and bodily autonomy.” You should support it, and her!

Feministing talks to Democratic Senator Kirsten Gillibrand of NY about the under-representation of women in government.

A new report has been released from The Center for Human Rights and Global Justice at the New York University School of Law highlighting a decade of negative impacts on women and LGBTI individuals from U.S. counter-terrorism measures worldwide.

A Planned Parenthood clinic in Texas was attacked with a Molotov cocktail. Fortunately no one was hurt in the fire that resulted from the attack.

Unbe-fucking-lievable. A mother who lost her son to a hit and run accident (by a drunk driver) was charged in his death with vehicular homicide- because she and her children had to cross a highway to get to their home from a bus stop.

According to the office of Cobb County prosecutor Barry Morgan, Nelson – who had no car at the time – committed vehicular homicide by attempting to cross a five-lane highway with her three kids to get to her apartment, after being let off the bus.

Update: She’s been granted a new trial

Sociological Images has a great post on how the recent terrorist attack in Oslo and the Oklahoma city bombings were born of the same process.

These members of the far right consider themselves Christian Crusaders for Aryan Manhood, vowing its rescue from a feminizing welfare state. Theirs is the militarized manhood of the heroic John Rambo – a manhood that celebrates their God-sanctioned right to band together in armed militias if anyone, or any governmental agency, tries to take it away from them. If the state and capital emasculate them, and if the masculinity of the “others” is problematic, then only “real” white men can rescue the American Eden or the bucolic Norwegian countryside from a feminized, multicultural, androgynous immigrant-inspired melting pot.

But then there’s this story, which makes me sit in awe of the potential of human forgiveness and learning. This is a pretty incredible relationship, and that’s really all I can say about it.