No on 3!

Pleased

I'm exhausted, today, so I haven't mentally sorted and poked at the events of the past few days of #mooreandme to the point where I can form thoughts into words. Fortunately, some bloggerly sorts do not slack like I do.

This post, How #MooreandMe Worked, is a great breakdown of how and why this particular protest worked. It's not a blog I'd read before this, but I'm definitely a fan now.

Which reminds me. You know, one of my favorite things about this whole event? I have happened upon tweeters, bloggers, writers, and other all-around good people that I likely never would have encountered otherwise. My world expanded and became cozier all over the course of a week. I feel less alone.

Also, Sady Doyle. Lovely and inspiring and exactly right.

There's so much more, of course. But if you don't read any other links today, read those.

Thank you all.

This is How it Works

Kate Harding posted this poignant description of What Happens When You Accuse a Famous Man of Rape. What's really depressing is that he doesn't have to be famous. If he has friends and/or family and/or a job and/or any community at all, the accuser can be fairly certain they will all support her rapist by denouncing her. She can also be fairly sure that if the story gets out, many of her own friends and family will be uncomfortable with the whole sordid mess that accompanies such things and will either avoid or actively armchair all the things she did wrong to have merited such an event and the infamy attending it. I've seen it too many times.

It is surprising that anyone ever comes forward. And considering the abysmal conviction rate, I have to conclude that rape culture is still trumping justice, equality and human dignity.

So when (general) you participate in any element of rape culture (rape jokes; immediate distrust of victim's story; deconstructing elements of a rape such as what she was wearing, what time she was out, what she was doing, etc.) you are making the world safe for rapists. That's what all the twitter #mooreandme ruckus is about and why I hope everyone involved is willing to keep at it. It's not about whether or not Assange is guilty. I hope he gets just treatment, whatever accusations may cross his path, at any and every point in his life. But Michael Moore's spreading of false information and publicly mocking the accusations and the accusers is another huge, unneeded step in making the world comfier for rapists everywhere and even worse for the women they rape.

A Link Worthy...

... of its own shout out.

From smartersex.org, a list of Date Rape Facts and Myths.

More Good Links from #mooreandme

Dr. Kathleen Young blogs on the problem with the paradigm of expecting women to bear the responsibility for defensively avoiding rape, rather than placing the responsibility on every individual to not be a rapist.

Sady Doyle of Tiger Beatdown posts a timeline of events and quotes to keep everyone in the loop on what's gone down with the #mooreandme protest and why so many people are involving themselves in the protest.

#mooreandme

So, I had a (very abbreviated) discussion with @WikiLeakTweets on Twitter today. It was rather anticlimactic.

One thing that stood out to me though, was WLT stating that zie did not propagate rape culture. Being the optimistic, hopeful sort (which is probably why I get so depressed when faced with the horrors people are capable of), I'm inclined to believe that the person on the other end of my argument truly believes what zie stated. I think that most people are very much in the dark about how our social systems support the rape and abuse of women (i.e. rape culture) and how they contribute to that.

So, for those interested in learning more, the link in the previous post is a great one. Here are some more:

Rape Culture FAQ by Melissa McEwan on a site full of great info.
Harriet J over at Fugitivus has a great breakdown of aspects of this.
And an always great one over at the sorely-missed Shapely Prose.

Anyway,my twitter profile links to my blog, so I thought it might be good to make it as easy as possible to learn more.

Oh, hello there!

I just finished my last final of the semester, so what do I do? Come home sit down, and... Ooh! Look! Internet!!! Oh my old friend, how I've missed you.

What haven't I missed? Rape apologia. So. Michael Moore sucks.

But there are some great writers taking up the cause of re-educating people stunted by rape culture. Here's one: My Milk Spilt.

Meanwhile, those of you who tweet, go make use of the #mooreandme hashtag to add your voice.

Culmination

I just double-checked the CD to make sure everything burned properly. It did. So I put the CD into its jewel case and the case atop the pile that represents a whole lotta pride. Fear of the work it entailed to create this stack of paper almost overcame me. I almost dropped out of the history class because I was so scared of this project. And here it is, now, completed. Ready to submit, tonight, when I present my final project to my professor and my class.

For my History of Women in the American West class, I had to do an oral history interview, transcribe it, and pull it all together in a way that the county archives can hold it and use it. Finding someone to interview, coming up with questions and actually doing a face-to-face interview was one of the more difficult things I've done.

I'm so outrageously relieved. And proud.

Just Breathe...

Almost finals. Almost.

Two weeks left of the semester and then finals.

Thursday I'm doing an oral history interview for the Clark County archives. Very nervous. Much anxiety. The subject is an amazing woman and deserves to have her story recorded in depth. Feeling a little overwhelmed by the responsibility.

Tomorrow will be blasting through research for my group project on ballet, body types, and the changing social role of ballet from the Victorian era through present day. Foucault will be regurgitated plentifully.

And more stuff. Archaeology. Linguistics. Math.

The maelstrom.

Two more weeks. Then tests and presentations.

And then. I will breathe.

It's the Little Things

I spent all day working on school stuff (posting discussion material for History of Women in the American West, writing a paper on the power of words in the sexual marketplace, working on an Oral History subject - oy). Sat the kiddos in front of the TV most of the day. Went to my night class... and the dangling carrot, this whole time, was thinking of coming home, pouring a glass of wine, and parking my rapidly expanding bum on the sofa to watch digitally recorded episodes of Glee and Caprica. For some reason, TiVo didn't record them.

So now I'm feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm sacrificing so much with no guarantee that it will ever make anything better. In fact, sometimes the niggling suspicion arises that education is a Pandora's Box that will only make me feel worse about humanity and life in general - even as I feel it evermore compelling to keep staring into that abyss of knowledge.

I fantasize about wearing my silly cardboard hat and honor cords... holding a diploma it took me almost 20 years to earn. And I wonder why it matters to me. Why don't I just turn the other direction, immerse myself in housewifely pursuits, and say no to this? Why do I feel so damn compelled to finish this thing?

Right now I just want to watch Glee and pretend that my biggest event of the morning is packing lunches and shoveling kids onto school buses. Instead I'm worrying about the condition of the house and if the nanny thinks I'm a pathetic lazy slob and if the kids feel neglected and how Linguistics is going to ruin my 4.0.

Sometimes this sucks.

Where I'm From

I came across this in my old Facebook notes and thought I'd like to go ahead and have it saved here.

Where I'm From
I am from barn cats and owls, from Stampede Rodeos and staunch independence.

I am from the white house hidden in the Ponderosa and Blue Spruce shelterbelt of a young granite desert in the Rocky Mountains.

I am from the potatoes, the sugar beets and barley rows still weeded by hand. Occassionally those hands were mine. I was not a hard worker, but I got a glimpse of what hard work was.

I am from tribal loyalty and xenophobia, from (surnames) and (surnames), (surnames) and (surnames). From this melting pot of families and nationalities came a tribe that settled, mined and worked on ranches... From many, one.

I am from the skeptical and credulous. From distrust of outsiders while maintaining fierce defense of tradition and ways of the family and authority. I am from my family and the knowledge that, through all the good and bad, beautiful and ugly of the human condition, family is what matters. Family is always there.

From the certainty that the social worker who attended to arrivals and disappearances of foster children would inevitably take me too, someday, and that authority was not to be questioned.

I am from Mormonism. From nearly equal parts shame and euphoric faith. From fear that not feeling or thinking what everyone else claimed to think and feel meant that there was something defective in me. I am from the belief that women were for making babies and raising babies and in all ways deferring to men whose gender meant that they were the rulers and the doers. I am from resentful passitivity and soul-sucking censorship and the belief that old white men were never wrong.

I'm from Heart Mountain, from Easter hams with the Catholic relatives and Turkeys and Thanksgiving. I am from the bounty of hunting season where an elk for one became an elk shared with everyone. Where uncles would drop by with limp-necked pheasants or a haunch from a deer... From these gifts my mother fed us like royalty.

From the teenage boy who washed the engine of his car to impress his date, the teenage girl whose bet with her sister had given her an excuse to pursue him in the first place, and, years later, the woman who very much wanted another daughter whom she would name Sara because it meant "princess."

I am from handmade dresses. My daughters wear them now and I remember being that age with that innocence and trust. I am humbled and joyful for the opportunity to be the guide and solace for these little beings in their 30-year-old handmade dresses. I am from 8 mm shaky home movies, watched with my children, their eyes glazing at the unacceptable notion that I was a child. That I could ever be as vulnerable and new as they are. I am from late 19th century china and depression-era glass, cherished by grandmother and great-grandmother, softly lit in the cabinets in my living room, contrasting with my shells, rocks and old dried leis that anchor me - amidst this wildwind of motherhood - and remind me who I am.



If anyone else has the time or inclination to do this one, the template can be found at: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm

History

So my History of Women in the American West class and my History of Sexualities class are providing a lot of overlap. Both can be a little emotionally overwhelming, and it took me until yesterday to realize part of the reason why that is: the subculture of my upbringing hasn't changed much. To be more accurate, being raised a female Mormon in a tiny town of the Rocky Mountain West bore an uncanny resemblance to the experience of women in the West a few hundred years ago. The detail that wrenches my stomach into knots is the roles women choose/chose in order to insure some measure of safety and prove their value to men and the community are all methods I attempted to employ in my coming-of-age/figuring-out-what-it-is-to-be-a-woman phase that only seems to be reaching some semblance of conclusion in the past few years.

The Cult of Domesticity is a particularly uncomfortable concept for me because I feel I'm only beginning to escape it and have a lot of accompanying anxiety about what it means to shrug off the limited social protection and respect afforded the "right" kind of girls. But I am also finally beginning to understand why feminism might not be so attractive to women who base their sense of safety, desirability and even humanity on concepts of domesticity.

Academia

Must-read guest post over at Shakesville: Standing in the Crossroads. I have to try to get in some review before my exam in an hour, so I don't have much time to comment on this now, but her discussion of classism in academia is brilliant.

Fading

Not much to say. Too much homework (and avoidance of homework). But I did get a webcam pic, today, that I'm really liking. So I'll share that.

Oh, and I've been trying to be a little braver with fashion/accessorizing so, here's one with my hat.

Guess that's all for today.

Beyond Passivity

This is the difficult part. Well, difficult is relative. But, this, this sitting in my chair, on my computer, morning sun shining in the windows threatening a hot, lazy day... This is where I struggle. I love sitting in class, passively absorbing. Now it's time to do the work. That mountain of homework smelling up my peace of mind from within my 52 pound backpack jammed full of books and notebooks is taunting me. I haven't even eaten breakfast yet because that means standing up and beginning. I have fantasies of the brain fog dissipating in the heat of my mind afire. But I suspect it will only clear gradually as I slog through math problems, one at a time.

So I go.

For Today and Many Days to Come

Down in the basement of the Multi Media classroom building of WSU Vancouver, the air conditioning is roaring. One would never know that it's bright and sunny outside. The fluorescent lights are flicker dancing on the shiny white tile floor. Twenty minutes to go before my last class of the day.

I had time to drive in to Salmon Creek and stop by Peet's Coffee. It was hot, so I thought something icy would be good. I forget what they call this icy blended beverage, but it isn't really scratching that coffee itch. Too much sugar, not enough java, I think.

This basement thing is kind of weirding me out... making me a little claustrophobic. Maybe it will be good in the winter. Cozy. Probably not, though, what with the fluorescent light thing. Still.  I'm glad to be here. Between Anthro classes I perched myself on a hill overlooking the blue foothills shadowed by the bright white scarred peak of Mt St Helens. It was beautiful. Made me glad to just be there. Breathing. Seeing.

The Power of Dissent

Today I posted a link to a Bitch Magazine article on my Facebook page. It's about the history of Feminism and the uglier underbelly of some of our feminist heroes. I loved it. Some didn't. In answer to the criticism, " I find it misinformative and not grounded in actual fact. She has taken small bits of info about the trailblazing women she's listed and twisted that info to suit her agenda." 


I wrote, "In my opinion, those tidbits of information are not meant to invalidate the contributions of the trailblazers, but to remind us of the weaknesses in the feminist movement(s). No one is perfect. We are all products of our times - and all, as activists, people for whom "the way things are" is not good enough. We all expect more.

So, today, as we celebrate the right to speak up as full citizens and vote, it is also urgent that we acknowledge both how far we've come *and* how far we have to go. I don't think it's unfair or unjust to look back upon the mistakes and wrong-thinking of even the people we most admire. It's crucial that we do so in order to keep the work of justice alive and well, rather than forcing very human predecessors onto pedestals of sanctity and obsolescence.

If we don't take the time to dig through our own histories, willing to confront the less pleasant details, how can we respect ourselves or expect anyone else to respect what we're doing? That people do the best they can in the times they live does not necessarily reflect poorly upon them - but if we refuse to step up and declare that some things can and must be done better now, what's the point of continuing?"

This got me thinking about why I value the less-pleasant aspects of truth-seeking and the humanizing of our idols and it occurred to me that its roots are in the deceit I found heartbreaking in the subculture of the religion of my youth. The corrections made possible by criticism and peer review make trust possible. So here's the background on why I'm so thankful to the tellers of unpleasant truths...

This About Sums it Up

I've been having a glitch-in-the-matrix sort of day. Going through the motions of life and detachedly observing the quirks and surreality of... well... reality.

And I had the great good fortune to happen along a beautiful post over at Shakespeare's Sister. As someone who has been told I expect too much from people or have too much faith in humanity (yeah, these are accusations that tend to be generated by the same people... not sure how I'm supposed to interpret that), this blog post made me want to do a bit of a happydance.

Oh how I love the internetz.

The Down Side of Up

I'm feeling much better today. Better enough that I have energy to complain about how crappy the past few days have been. The story goes like this: hijinks, hijinks, antibiotics, strange bad feelings, freaky almost passing out with nausea and wonky fatigue, urgent care. Super high blood pressure. Talk of kidney scans and adrenal tumors and kidney failure. Visit to regular doctor. Listen to old crusty doctor rant about Urgent Care quacks, ordered to throw meds away and not take any more and come back next week.

So that doctor thing was yesterday. Two foregone doses of abx later, I'm feeling well enough to be here bitching about how all my joints hurt and how swollen my feet and hands are, and how my back aches and how this crazy fatigue is making parenting really suck for both me and my kids. Hopefully, in the next day or two, I'll feel well enough to quit complaining and go do fun stuff.

You know, fun stuff. Like anything that doesn't involve laying around pouting.

Deep Thoughts, Except Not

I've started at least three different polemics chock full of links and stuff, only to find myself getting annoyed with my own bullshittery halfway through and shelving the whole thing. Maybe I'll finish them off when I'm in a better head space. Maybe not. I'm kinda busy with navel-gazing about why I'm blogging about this stuff and what I think it might accomplish.

Having a rather short attention span when it comes to self-absorption, I'm kinda getting over that already and just want to write about whatever interesting happenings or thoughts cross my path/brain. Have coffee. Talk. No big whoop.

Plus, I have links to the blogs of deeper thinkers/polemicists than I'll probably ever be... probably because I enjoy reading and thinking about their work so much that I'm usually content to react - occasionally write about my thoughts on their thoughts - and move on.

So. Today's tasks were to cancel a dental appointment, make an appointment for a renal scan and to get results from my cardiac event monitor, work on changing my Fall schedule for school (Abnormal Psych - while a subject that fascinates me - does not make the cut for a schedule that stays focused on working rapidly to finish my degree), play hostess to G-Rex's awesome friend (they're 10 - it seems corny to call it a playdate), catch up on the housewifery and get it all done in time to make dinner and hit the gym after. I have the first two done and now I'm trying to gather energy for the rest while the kids + awesome friend play upstairs.

Deep thoughts are fabulous, but sometimes life makes getting all talky about them prohibitive.

Oh, and I'm reading Deer Hunting with Jesus in my spare minutes. Awesome book.