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

Back Again!

Hi all! It’s great to be back here to guest blog for two weeks. For those who aren’t familiar with my writing, I’m a fat, bisexual, religious Jew. Not necessarily in that order. I’m a chemist living in the Pacific Northwest and at least think about petting every dog that I see. Because furry things are awesome.

I don’t have anything for tonight, but I’m currently obsessed with the site Calming Manatee. Because manatees are the most calming animals.

Not Another Mummy Blogger

Hi. I’m the writer from blue milk and I’m thrilled to be writing at Feministe. I write about motherhood from a feminist perspective and I sometimes write for the Australian feminist group blog, Hoyden About Town and other times I write for a couple of mainstream commercial publications. I also work half the week as an economist but I don’t know anything about personal budgets, sorry, as evidenced by my own household budgeting, which is woeful; so, if the figure doesn’t involve at least $100 million then I’m clueless.

I write about juggling work and family, about art and pop culture, about sex and arguments with my partner, about a bunch of traditional feminist topics like rape, breastfeeding, abortion, and the sexualisation of little girls, and I also write about politics. By and large, my writing is pitched squarely within the framework of motherhood and technically, I think this probably makes me a ‘mummy blogger’. I’m not all that offended by the term. I can see that it’s meant to be somewhat insulting, even children get embarrassed calling you ‘Mummy’ once they get to school, it is just that I am too tired to care. And there is a part of me that feels if a label is stigmatised like that then maybe it’s worth defending. After all, the belittling of mummy blogging has a lot in common with the ways in which mothers are marginalised.

There’s a lot we could do to improve the public discussion of motherhood but here is where I would start. We would not be so judgemental towards mothers if we recognised that mothering is work. If you aren’t yet able to accept mothering as work then you have some reading to do – it will involve economics and history. Start with the emergence of industrialisation when family work first became invisible. And if you can’t see that breastfeeding a baby was every bit as important as collecting firewood for family survival, then keep reading back through feudalism. But once you knock that patriarchal lens of distortion from your eyes you will never see mothers and children quite the same way again. Everywhere you look you will see something a little bit horrifying – hours and hours and hours and hours of unpaid labour. It is work performed very often with love; it is work with possibilities of personal reward and great satisfaction, much like some other jobs, except it is unpaid.

We would have better public policy and better rights for women if we were able to acknowledge more honestly that capitalism is not a marketplace, it is rather, a system that involves the intersection of the market with government, families and communities. We are talking about the greatest heist in capitalist history, because it is estimated that unpaid work in the USA amounts to 50 per cent of all hours of work performed. Imagine any other resource vanishing from the national spreadsheet like that. Capitalism, in its present form, could not survive without that unpaid support. It is not mothers who are draining the system, it is mothers and carers who are propping up the system.

I don’t want to over-complicate what is supposed to just be an introductory post here, but it says something about living in a patriarchy that we would have women specialise in a very demanding area of work that is both vitally important to us and utterly worthless in terms of monetary compensation, doesn’t it?

And there’s lots of other stuff to consider – children are not ‘units of production’, they’re small people who deserve to be nurtured with love and dedication; and yes, mothers are driven by an intense maternal desire to be with their children in spite of the sacrifices; and yes, self-ownership through individual wages was an incredibly important step in feminism and who am I, a mother in the workforce, to deny it? All I am saying is that you do not need to believe in universal minimum incomes and legislated entitlements for at-home parents/carers (though it would be nice) to know that there is a problem here when we penalize mothers through regressive tax systems and workplace discrimination for providing essential care work.

And while capitalism helped women mobilise collectively and seek ownership of resources you cannot pretend that capitalism and the patriarchy are not also mutually reinforcing, which is what you are doing when you tell mothers to just stop looking after kids and get a real job, already. Because whenever a mother enters the workplace a deal is being cut somewhere for childcare. Thinking care work vanishes when a woman’s time is suddenly accounted for in paid employment is patriarchal thinking. Either she is negotiating with a partner for him/her to stay home with the children (and obviously, this favours partnered parents over single parents and high-income couples over those in minimum wage jobs); or she is asking a female relative or friend to help out (more unpaid care on the balance sheet); or she is paying someone to look after the children (and fine, if she can afford to and is willing to pay a fair wage to someone for the task; but let’s not kid ourselves, childcare is female-dominated, poorly paid, and has a history of exploiting poor women for the task).

Ok, so this mother is now at work and by being there she sends important signals to her colleagues and employers about the role of women, she also sends a message to her partner (if she has one) and her children about her identity, she’s feeding her family, and hooray! she officially exists in the marketplace. Good for feminism, but as long as we don’t get ahead of ourselves and expect her to be the entire gateway for female liberation. In fact, it’s an uncomfortable notion but dual, high-income households have seen poor households slip even further behind since women joined the workforce. Turns out when rich women are working and marrying rich husbands, who are also working, that this only widens the gap between them and poor households. Go figure. Obviously, I’m not against women in the workforce but I’m saying this stuff is complicated. It will take a few bites of the apple before we get it sorted out.

If feminism, in approaching the unresolved question of mothers, does not recognise that motherhood is messy and emotional and diverse and political then it has missed the mark. It is important not to try to over-simplify mothers, not to stereotype them and not to ignore that their tasks are real work. Again and again in my writing I try to emphasize that last point, because I suspect much of the hostility towards mothers, including between mothers, would fade if we just understood that mothers are people trying to do a job and it’s consuming and tiring. It is difficult to imagine we would be bothered with The Mummy Wars if we were mobilising around the exploitation of unpaid care in our economy instead.

Because how ludicrous, how shameful, how utterly trivial our judgements of a teenage mother suddenly become with this one acknowledgement – that she is working, that it is hard work and it is for no pay and no recognition. Or our judgements of a mother with a disabled child having an outburst in public; or a mother breastfeeding her toddler; or a mother trying to help her teenage child with their drug addictions; or even, a mother blogging. (Oh, you want to tell me how I should do my unpaid work more to your liking? Fabulous, do tell). It sometimes helps to remember that even the most privileged mother is occasionally woken in the middle of the night by her sick toddler and sits bolt upright in bed, bleary-eyed and shivering in the dark, to catch vomit or shit in her bare hands. It may take some of the sting out of her, apparently, selfish lifestyle.

It is an uphill battle though, some of the fiercest defenders of mothering as a task too precious to be sullied with the term ‘work’ are mothers, themselves. There’s a lot invested in an identity when it is all you have. This does not mean that we can’t question the decisions mothers make or criticise the institution of motherhood. In fact, I would be lost as a mother without feminism and its difficult questions. But as feminists we must ask questions and listen to the answers, we must be prepared to change or expand our theories when we get it wrong, and I advise that we tread lightly in these discussions – that we tread as someone walking over the toil of unpaid workers.

Don’t want to be called a creeper? Don’t be creepy.

One last post before I turn the keys back over to Jill and bow out from my guest-blogging stint:

John Scalzi has written an Incomplete Guide to Not Creeping, particularly at cons, but generally applicable to life. Captain Awkward expands on the list and adds her own observations.

The major theme is that responsibility for correcting creepy behavior is on the creeper, never the creepee. Yes, even if the creeper is just socially awkward or has Asperger’s or is just really bad at flirting. Even if it’s totally unfair that the creepee doesn’t like the creeper, or likes someone else doing the same thing just fine!

Remember, kids: you’re not entitled to get laid with the person you want to get laid by just because you want it. The other person has to want it, too! And sometimes they don’t want you. They don’t have to tell you whyyyyyy.

And for fuck’s sake, keep your hands to yourself.

And with that, I’m out. Auf weidersehn!

A Tale of Two Countries

One of the great things about the Olympics is that women’s athletics gets the spotlight for a couple of weeks every four years. And it seems as though every Olympiad, the IOC or the governing bodies of various sports get it together and agree that the world will not end if the IOC gives its blessing to women doing X for a medal (where X might be marathoning (not added until 1984 for women, while the men had been doing it for decades) or boxing (just added this year)). There are still sports, like ski jump, where women are kept out of competition at the Olympic level because of fears for their girly bits.

So it’s incredibly inspiring to learn that one of the most-watched and most-supported athletes in the current Games was a female boxer from Ireland named Katie Taylor.

LONDON – They came from Cork and Kerry. They flew in from Dublin and brought their daughter from across town. They came for a 5-foot-5, 132-pound woman whose hands deliver hammer swings, happiness, and hope.

They came because Katie Taylor – Ireland’s Katie Taylor – was boxing for the gold medal.

They came because this might be the most perfect Irish story ever, and the Irish love stories. The humble kid, mesmerized by her father shadow boxing in their kitchen along the Irish coast, winds up trained by dad in a sport few believed should even be allowed – a girl fight? She turns into the four-time world champion, humble, hard-working, and wrapped, literally, in religion: “The Lord is my Savior and my shield,” her robe reads.

“She’s an everybody,” said 17-year-old Aifric Norton, who flew here with her older brother Aonghus.

They came because, back home, the recession drags on and drags down. And when Katie Taylor hits someone in the mouth it feels, even for a brief moment, like Ireland, too, can hit back.

“Everybody forgets about the recession when she fights,” said Con McDonnell, who flew in with three buddies all wearing “Katie Taylor Made for Gold” T-shirts.

They came because they were the lucky ones who got tickets. “Half of Ireland is here,” marveled Barry McGuigan, the old Irish champion. Others just came over to hang around outside the ExCeL Center, stuffing the bars and restaurants in what was once a slum of East London. “There’s 1,500 paddies down the road in the pubs,” said Graham Regan, noting he knows because that’s where he watched Taylor’s semifinal victory on Wednesday.

They came because they know back in Taylor’s hometown of Bray, in County Wicklow, there were 10,000 people gathered outside to watch on a giant screen. They had to move the viewing to a bigger spot because 6,000 showed up for the semifinal and the town square couldn’t hold them all. Across the nation, everyone else just crowded into pubs and living rooms. Many bosses in the city centers of Dublin and Galway just let workers go early rather than pretend they wouldn’t sneak off anyway. “The country will stop today,” said fan Tony Barrett.

They came because coming had developed into a movement. Each Taylor fight during these Olympics saw the 10,000-seat venue filled with green shirts and homemade signs and Tricolour flags. For the finale, the venue manager estimated 8,000 Irish were in attendance, even with a Brit fighting for gold in a different weight class.

Oh, and the building filled with noise. Lots and lots of noise. Unbelievable amounts of noise. The fans, often these burly men, would sing soccer songs and chant “I-er-LAND, I-er-LAND” and “KAY-t, KAY-t.” Louder and louder. This was the wildest scene of the Games, electric and exciting. The International Olympic Committee measured the noise at every session of the Olympics, and nothing matched the decibels of the introduction for a Katie Taylor fight. The second-loudest event was the final seconds of a thrilling Great Britain cycling victory at the Velodrome. . . .

The most popular athlete in Ireland is female. Where else is that true? Where else could that be true? And it’s real, with men, grown men, old and young, coming because of what she can do in the field of competition. There was no stigma. This was boxing. Not women’s boxing. Twenty years ago to the day, Michael Carruth – also coached by his father – won gold in Barcelona, making him a forever legend. His gold wasn’t any bigger than Taylor’s.

Compare that to the reaction of many Saudis to the fact that two Saudi women participated at all:

Wodjan Ali Seraj Abdulrahim Shahrkhani returns to Saudi Arabia as the first woman to represent the Kingdom in judo, but while her participation has been celebrated globally the domestic reaction to her accomplishment has ranged from lukewarm to openly hostile. Her father, a judo referee who said he wanted his daughter to make “new history for Saudi’s women,” is reportedly incensed at conservative Saudis who showered her with racial slurs on Twitter and called her a “prostitute” for participating.

The Kingdom bent to a combination of international pressure and the increasingly powerful Saudi vox populi by announcing—just a month before the Games began—that Shahrkhani and Sarah Attar, a California born-and-bred track runner at Pepperdine with dual citizenship, would compete at the Games. But while the decision was a baby step toward gender equality for the approximately 11 million women and girls who call Saudi Arabia home, the move trigged a powerful conservative backlash from clerics and others. . . .

Even as the pressure builds for Saudi Arabia to allow women to participate or risk becoming an outlier even in the Islamic world—Iran and Yemen have women’s soccer teams, for instance—the state has tried to hold the line. Its Olympic athletes have barely been brought up in the state-sanctioned press, and much of the Twitter conversation about them has been hostile. Steps of the Devil: Denial of Women and Girls’ Rights to Sport in Saudi Arabia, a devastating report by Human Rights Watch details the profoundly deviant yet tenaciously held religious objections of Saudi clerics to women engaging in sports. Allowing Saudi girls and women to compete would invite them to engage in immodest movement, aberrant clothing, and performances in front of unrelated males that would lead to immorality and desecration of the purity of the Saudi female, influential clerics insist. They argue that vigorous movement is a threat to the health and honour of the “virgin girl,” a profound deterrent in a shame-and-honor-centred culture that places extraordinary value on the intact hymen of an unmarried woman.

Dr. Mohammad al-Arifi, an influential cleric who preaches at Al-Bawardi Mosque in Riyadh, is on faculty at King Saud University, warned Prince Nawaf against sending Saudi women to the Olympics:

“Women practicing sports … is fundamentally allowed … but if this leads to mixing with men … or revealing private parts … or men watching her sometimes run, sometimes fall down … sometimes laugh and sometimes cry or quarrel with another female athlete … or mount a horse … or practice gymnastics … or wrestling … or other sports … while the cameras film and the [television] channels broadcast … then there can be no doubt that it is forbidden.”

Attar can go back to California, where she was born and raised, and avoid much of the backlash to her participation. But Shahrkhani has to go back to live under this repressive regime. At least her father, who is also her coach, is on her side and is willing to stand up for her, using the rules of the regime:

The father of judoka Shaherkani was so incensed that he contacted the country’s interior minister to demand action against those who had insulted his daughter. Under Saudi law, punishment for insulting a woman’s honor and integrity can be up to 100 lashes.

Didn’t think NBC’s Olympics coverage could get worse?

It’s been pointed out that NBC can’t seem to broadcast events live from London, yet the Mars rover Curiosity can send images from fucking Mars with only a 14-minute delay.

Their coverage of the Olympics has been widely reviled. Who the hell decided that the viewing public wants to see so much manufactured drama instead of, I don’t know, actual athletic competition? Or medal ceremonies. Or the entirety of the Opening Ceremonies.

They’ve spoiled the outcome of competitions they’ve insisted on tape-delaying so they can be shown during prime time. They aired a commercial showing a monkey doing gymnastics right after Gabby Douglas won gold. Their boxing commentators (the only ones allowed ringside) have been asked by Olympic officials to stop talking because they’re interfering with officials.

And now they’ve gone into creepy, soft-porn videos of female athletes taking off their pants, among other things. And called it “Bodies in Motion,” advertising it as an appreciation of athlete’s bodies (at least the thin, hot, mostly white ones).

God, I miss Jim McKay.

Watching a trainwreck, with a tinge of envy

There’s always something uncomfortable about watching a talented person’s life flame out spectacularly, isn’t there? Especially when you find yourself wishing you had even half the talent that person’s wasting.

At times [Cat] Marnell seemed so hellbent on doom that I began to wonder if hers wasn’t entirely an act. Did she even do drugs? Or was she just another fame-hungry young woman who had learned that her self-destruct button came with all kinds of rewards?

As for her writing, her work was wild and wildly inconsistent. A post she wrote about the morning-after pill was one of those incoherent rants that make you wonder if an entire generation failed to learn how to use the delete button. “O.K., so for the exactly three women left in this world, apparently, who don’t know what Plan B is, it is sort of the world’s greatest contraceptive,” her post began, and it unraveled from there. People eagerly passed it around Twitter, sure, but they passed it the way you might pass spoiled milk: Here, sniff this.

But her Whitney Houston piece was something else. It was haunting and shot through with revelations. . . .

“Why can’t we acknowledge that lots and lots of women abuse drugs?” Marnell wrote in one of those passages in which you can practically hear the frantic clatter of the keyboard as she typed. “Why does a person have to have resolved their drug issues in order to be allowed to write about them? Can’t a writer be conflicted?” When I read her essay, it had been 18 months since alcohol last lighted a match in my veins, but I had to admit she had a point.

So, what did I think of this writer? In the following months, I thought a lot of things about her. I thought she was a gifted memoirist and a self-mythologizing poser. I thought she was an addict in love with her own damage and a deeply troubled soul. But mostly what I thought after clicking the link in that e-mail was: Damn, her Whitney Houston piece was better than mine.

My first introduction to Marnell was that morning-after pill piece, and the impression I got from it that this was a privileged, clueless dingbat who desperately needed an editor. It wasn’t until recently that I ran into some of her other writing at xojane, when I had followed a link to an article about coping with socializing as a sober person. Digging around in the site’s extensive addiction files, I saw that Marnell wrote often about drugs, about being high, about being insecure, about using drugs and alcohol to cope, about her apparent inability to experience anything, accomplish anything, without pharmaceutical assistance. I saw that when she was on, she was on. As Hepola noted, she wrote with an energy and freshness and originality that many writers would kill for.

I would get these funny zaps of envy reading her prose. I should have done more drugs, I would stupidly think. I should have fallen deeper in the hole. I was just a garden-variety lush, so enamored of booze I didn’t even bother with hard drugs. And I saw in her drug use and her writing an abandon I never allowed myself, and it gave her articles that unmistakable thrill of things breaking apart.

When she wasn’t on, she produced rambling, disjointed hot messes like her morning-after pill piece and the one she wrote upon returning from a stint in rehab ordered by the company that owns xojane.

I do! LIKE: most of the pre-rehab nights when I wasn’t filing stories for this website it was because I was up on speed in my apartment alone, strutting around in a skimpy kimono like Buffalo Bill in “Silence of the Lambs”, listening to obscure David Bowie, wearing thigh high patent leather Burberry, chainsmoking Marlboro Ultra-Lights and lovingly, endlessly painting and my face with all the new makeup I get sent at work every day and I am always dragging home by the bagful intending (vaguely) to review.

Then I’d vamp in the mirror. “Would you fuck me?” I’d garble, admiring myself. You know the answer. “I’d fuck me.” . . . .

More non-working, pre-rehab nights of my little life: it’s 6:45 AM. I’m wearing a “Basic Instinct” T-shirt, lilac fishnets, and a bright green face mask that’s been on for hours; I reek of self-tanner and whatever the newest perfume is. Crunch crunch crunch. That’s me chewing up another Adderall like a Tic-Tac while I leaf through The Keanu Reeves Handbook: Everything You Need To Know About Keanu Reeves:

Again, I haven’t felt a single smidgen of guilt about not writing anything even though my morning deadline is approaching. But boy, do I feel — well, not good exactly, but…well, I’m not feeling much except for not-hungry, the main reason I take speed in the first place. Brilliant!

Then on this morning it’s around 7:30 and I’m force myself to do the responsible thing (HA), which is take a few Ambien, a Kolonopin wafer or three (they taste like strawberries and melt under my tongue); I wash the whole thing down with warm vodka-Gatorade left in an enormous laboratory beaker from an afterhours I hosted two nights ago, and then I shove over the huge pile of fur coats and French Vogues piling my bed and pop off for about nine hours. I wake up at dusk.

This easily could have been, say, a typical Tuesday, say, in March 2012.

(I am leaving out all of the hugely wildly glamorous nightclub nights, as not to glamorize my drug use.)

It’s perfectly normal to feel nostalgia for the life you led as an addict. At least the fun, glamorous parts: the parties, the drug-fueled creativity. Everything was so much brighter and sharper and more fun then; sobriety is just you and your thoughts, and you have to find a way to be with them without putting a veil of booze or drugs between you and the things you don’t want to acknowledge. You also have to find new ways to have fun, to be creative, to relate to people. A lot of people can’t handle it.

Marnell turned out to be one of those people. It probably came as no surprise that she went back to drugs, and about writing about drugs. Hepola:

A month after our interview, Marnell announced via a profile in New York magazine that she was entering rehab at the insistence of xoJane’s publisher. When she came back, her next post was nonsense. She’d lost it. A few weeks after that, she announced via New York Post’s Page Six that she was leaving xoJane.

“Look,” she told Page Six, “I couldn’t spend another summer meeting deadlines behind a computer at night when I could be on the rooftop of Le Bain looking for shooting stars and smoking angel dust with my friends and writing a book, which is what I’m doing next.”

It was a Keith Richards exit. She must have been very pleased. And she quickly found a new outlet at another publication, Vice magazine, where her bio refers to her as the “pills and narcissism” correspondent.

I have no idea if she’ll write a book, of course. I’m skeptical, not just because there’s a dearth of great PCP-inspired literature but because writing a book is a mountain that is easy to start and tremendously difficult to finish. It requires ripping out the IV drip of a thousand Facebook likes, the instant comfort of “update now.” It requires patience and hard work and closing yourself off in a quiet, hateful room.

People think you can’t write while you’re high, but I’m sure that’s not true. I loved the tippy-tap of a four-beer drunk, because your self-doubt melts away, and the hounds stop howling, and it almost feels as if you are taking dictation from the universe. After I quit drinking, I spent months unable to write. I would literally spend hours staring at a blank screen — typing phrases only to erase them again — and I would long for the late nights in a smoke-clogged apartment in Williamsburg, when I would be up at 3 a.m. writing so fast that my laptop nearly levitated.

The problem is staying in that place; I never could. I drank past the point of coherence. I fell down stairs and slipped off barstools, which can seem hilarious when you are 25 but is pathetic when you are 35.

Marnell is in that place now between 25 and 35. Her behavior seems hilarious to many of her readers, and to many of her friends. She certainly gives the impression that it’s hilarious to her, though she’s also, in her more honest moments, admitted that much of what she puts out into the world is a front.

It’s not so hilarious, however, Posted in General

The Story of One Drug User’s Return from Addiction

My dad is a police officer. My behavior had, of course, made my dad lose face in the eyes of his co-workers. They would talk about him behind his back and say things like, “A narcotics officer’s daughter is a drug user! How embarrassing!” It must have been so hard for him to endure that kind of treatment from his fellow officers, to say nothing of how his superiors must have viewed him. I must have put him through hell. But at that time, of course, I had no idea the kind of damage I was doing.

Posted in Uncategorized