Persona-sectionality

Random Music Post

2010-01-26T04:25:00.000-08:00

These songs have been on loop in my head (in my head. zombie zombie zombie!). Thought I'd share the obsession.

Ok, this lady is a rapper from France, right? It's been a while since I've really listened to any French music, I'm a lapsed Francophile. I dig her voice. And the fact that she's not five pounds. Finding a translation has been maddening but even without the lyrics, this song haunts me. The best I can tell, it's about Romeo + Juliet. *sighs at romanticized violence* I hope the melody haunts you too.

Anais is another french singer. This song was originally done by The Blood Arm and endlessly winds up stuck in my head. I like the French version better and, of course, Anais' voice. So pretty.

La Roux, not French this time (Canadian), is the aural equivalent of speed.

Next, some classic Ani. *sigh* Actually, a cover. THE MOST AMAZING COVER EVER. This is not an overstatement. This lady punches me in my gut every time she opens her mouth to sing.

Last, but not least, Ellis. Not only is her voice really pretty, she may be the most adrable person ever. This is not an overstatement

Ok, maybe not last. I recently discovered this song by Dar Williams not long ago. This song made me cry like a frickin baby.

Queer and Scared

2010-01-22T20:25:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend just left my house. The 'rents are in the process of getting to sleep. And, I'm secretly freaking out because I'm sure my mother KNOWS.

I'm not ready for my mother to KNOW. Not yet. When I confessed a major crush on a female teacher some time ago, I was shamed. I feel I need to get out of the house, get distance from my parents, before they can KNOW. Before my family can know. I just can't take that look in my mom's eyes again. That "poor, poor pitiful misguided soul" sadness around the eyes. My dad likes to curse. And I'm terrified of his wrath if he were to discover the truth.

On this site, I haven't written much about my personal queerness for precisely this reason. I'm not "out" yet (at least to my family as you know) and, it hardly seems fair to those in the LGBTQQIA community who are, in fact, out & proud & visible; those who are working for equality by just being who they are. And, of course, those who are also actively involved in the political struggle.

But, I'm not sure what to tell my family when I do come out.

I don't want to say that I'm "bisexual" because the last time I told a family member, she said it was a "stage", a natural curiosity (like Margaret Cho's mother said: "college is a gay time").

And, it's true I'm "only" a two on the Kinsey Scale and more generally find myself attracted to males but, now, I'm also in a relationship (make that an amazing, wonderful, mutual, compassionate, kind relationship that just happens to be with another young woman). I don't want to continue skating by on the privilege of being "mostly straight."

But an explanation of the labels "queer" or "pansexual", or an explication of the fluidity of female desire also seems untenable, completely beyond my family's comprehension. Not that they're not intelligent people, just really conservative.

Anyway, for all the self-labeling, I know it's as simple as introducing R, the woman I love, as my girlfriend to mom, dad, bro, and aunties.

She really is a beautiful person (and, did I mention, a poet!?!). My family would be damn lucky to have her with us.

Ugh, I'm just queer, in the closet, and scared. And getting to the point where I just don't understand why love between two consenting adults would be so potentially scandalous. I mean, in theory, I "understand"---ya know, plumbing and parts "not fitting." But the world is so low on love as it is, why begrudge someone this grace?

How could they look into my eyes and tell me (which no doubt they will) that this tender, faithful, and loyal love is wrong?

On another note...

Absurdities...

2010-01-15T14:51:00.000-08:00

As for the above:

I'm not even angry anymore. More sad than anything because 1) 50,000(?) are feared dead in Haiti 2) people agree with Robertson, thinking that God is behind earthquakes vs. well, tectonic plates 3) the victim blaming of Haiti when, in truth, it's poverty probably has more to do with...well, colonial history.

Ugh.

Help for Haiti

2010-01-13T08:46:00.000-08:00

Over at Shakesville, there's an article containing a list of links.

Please don't forget about the 7.0 earthquake in Haiti.

Today

2010-01-12T23:13:00.000-08:00

The worst possible thing that could have happened, happened.

It might be a long time before I'm able to write about it, perhaps.

But, now that the dust has settled a bit, I feel I have a second chance. It's the weirdest sense of quasi-hope.

I might have just hit bottom earlier today. And, for some reason, it seems easier to climb up from the last rung than mid-way up the ladder. Less vertigo.

Sometimes forests have to be burned down before anything new can grow?

There are the fingerprints of providence all over this.

Being broken isn't so bad, if it means light finally gets through.

Oh God, if being humble means being broken, keep me broken; not with self-hatred, but with love...

Still Forgiving...

2010-01-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

Today, I came across several posts on fem-blogs which discussed Xianity and feminism.

The question people asked, repeatedly, is whether or not feminism and Xitianity could coexist since Xianity seems overwhelmingly patriarchal.

Some outright denied that one could hold both to feminist belief and the Bible with intellectual veracity.

Of course, I personally believe working for the equality for women is an integral part of "loosening the bonds of oppression" and "loving your neighbor" spoken of in the Bible.

My first thought was that we Christian feminists aren't Easter bunnies. We do exist.

For the briefest of moments, I felt the sting of being "othered" because of Christianity.

Then, like a spray of cold water to the face, it occurred to me that this is what it's like to be someone of another religion in America. For a second, my privilege was stripped away and it hurt.

My next thought was, oh, dear God, what have we done to people? Even when we can boast 77% of Americans identify as Christian and/or Catholic, we feel ourselves to be a persecuted minority.

We're not. I'm not.

And, I even still conflate the Kingdom of God with "Christendom."

The Kingdom of God?

I'll file this under "forgiving pertinent individuals" (myself) and move on for now.

But it really was eye-opening

This documentary looks amazing...

2010-01-07T15:12:00.000-08:00

Over at Feministing...

This is very interesting:

Stereotypes: Why We Act Without Thinking

These are for the nerds.

Forgiving Christianity...

2010-01-07T03:19:00.001-08:00

This post is a little late, but alas, as they say, better late than never.

Sunday, for the first time in ages, I went to church.

Maybe it's all the disheartening reading I've done about the church universal, but I admit I've felt alienated from this local little organ of "the Body." Most likely, though, it's because relationships are difficult for me in general, and I was hoping someone from church could break through. They haven't.

This is not their fault. Duh. No one is obligated to do anything they 1) don't want to do 2) don't have time to do 3) or when they aren't aware there's a need. Of course, that annoying, itch-like, accumulation of "I don't belong" has kind of been soul crushing.

Saturday night, though, my heart was "strangely warmed", like, "ya know, I should suck it up and go to church tomorrow." Every time I opened up the Bible, it spoke about gathering with the assembly and loving your sisters and brothers in Christ.

It just "so happened", as if anything of late has been happenstance, the sermon that Sunday morning was about "taking offense" and how nursing resentment can lead to hatred, the spiritual equivalent of murder. The way to combat this, our pastor said, was forgiveness.

By that time, I'd made the choice to "suck it up", and repent for the attitude about our congregation. I had chosen to show up.

But then, it occurred to me. I was never angry with these individual people. This group is so amazing, so loving and accepting. It was never them.

I was mad at Christianity itself.

If you want to get down to it, I'm mad at "the church" for being so obtuse. For valuing "beliefs" over the people who believe. For creating such a sex-negative, shaming atmosphere. For a history of violence in the name of God. For betraying our trust, the trust of queer/gender variant friends excluded and abused by it. For threatening Hell, forcing people to be "born" into God's family before ze are ready. For the inquisition. For colonialism. For sexism. Classism. Racism. Homophobia. For not listening to the voices of the oppressed, something YHWH implored Hir people to do over and over in the OT. Something that Jesus did. For fearing science. For obsessing about the letter of the law and missing the Spirit.

Granted, it's not all bad. And, it's had glorious, shining moments. And, granted I'm not much better.

But, the fact that all this has happened under the auspices of "God's Will", scares me sometimes, reservations accumulating in my muscles like arsenic.

So deadly.

So, what's the answer?

Pastor Jeff, and Jesus, seem to have the right answer.

Forgive.

How does one go about "forgiving" an institution? Has anyone else been here? How do you deal?

Is it even possible to forgive an institution versus an individual? Especially if the offending individuals have passed out of memory?

Some say no. Though, in the Bible, God often holds groups accountable for various things. It would make sense if, in fact, the personal is political is communal. The body---wait, no, humanity is just that, a community. If one person hurts, we all do.

So, the question remains. How does one let a large body off the hook? Any ideas?

I <3 You, Alice Walker

2010-01-06T08:56:00.001-08:00

I assembled this piece, entitled Nice Stems, not so much a work as a lark-of-art, last spring in a fit of fabulous, feminist joy. Below, is a poem by Alice Walker. The Barbie-in-pot, completed before I stumbled this poem, just coincidentally captures EXACTLY what Walker said. It was too good not to share. i puffy heart Alice Walker.

A Woman is Not a Potted Plant

A woman is not a potted plant
her roots bound
to the confines
of her house

a woman is not
a potted plant
her leaves trimmed
to the contours
of her sex

a woman is not
a potted plant
her branches
espaliered
against the fences
of her race
her country
her mother
her man
her trained blossom
turning this way
and
that
to follow
the sun
of whoever feeds
and waters
her

a woman
is wilderness
unbounded
holding the future
between each breath
walking the earth
only because
she is free
and not creeper vine
or tree

Nor even honeysuckle
or bee.

~Alice Walker

The Paradox of Womanhood

2010-01-05T14:29:00.000-08:00

After my last post, I was seized by paroxysms of self-doubt, and even found myself wondering whether or not it would be perceived as “too angry” or “man-hating.”

While it is most definitely true many men do not rape nor objectify nor demean women, our present, patriarchal system creates the climate in which these actions are common, normalized. And, in the process, also creates the climate in which a woman, like me, pointing out inequality must ask herself those self-conscious questions, as not to offend or transgress gender roles (since feminine anger is still taboo).

So, I stand (or, sit) by what I wrote. The sky is blue. Sexism exists. It’s hardly a Copernican statement. And, yet, it is surprising how easy it is to mistake being woman-identified with hatred-of-men (even for a feminist).

Being woman-identified is a positive stance. It’s standing for healthy self-love, for equality and for human dignity. It’s loving, and being comfortable in, one’s own body. It’s appreciating the achievements of the mothers and sisters who came before you. It’s working for the good of your daughters and their children. It’s congruence between your inner and outer lives. It’s meeting the standards to which you’ve committed yourself, and not ones imposed on you by culture. It’s authenticity, autonomy, and sovereignty over, and responsibility for, yourself.

Hatred of men is a completely different concept. What one hates, from a feminist perspective, is not men-as-individuals (our fathers, brothers, friends and lovers) but the culture of male dominance and male privilege.

That being said, at that moment, I was seriously questioning what it meant to be woman-identified because of the difficulty in defining womanhood itself.

Some women do, in fact, have male genitalia. Some women have had mastectomies or hysterectomies. Some cannot bear children. Some do not want children. Some fall in love with other women. Some possess more traditionally male characteristics than female characteristics.

“Womanness”, it appears, is not some platonic ideal; nor is defined by body type or emotional composition or a set of stereotyped behaviors.

So, I pose the question to you.

What is a woman?

REALLY?

2010-01-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

That’s it. I’ve officially sworn off all television beyond Logo and the Sleuth Channel. It seems whenever I tune in, and let my guard down, my delicate feminine sensibilities are violently attacked.

Tonight, I watched fifteen minutes of an episode of VH1’s series Tough Love, a show where a bevy of “undateable” women go through a dating boot camp of sorts.
Each woman, given a negative-female-stereotype-as-title like “miss gold digger”(an African-American!) or “miss closed off” (code word for independent?), is taught how to act in order to “snag the man of her dreams.”

On this particular episode, the women were ambushed by an impromptu game show where they were quizzed on the prices of specialty items (the first being a tub of laundry detergent. Since when is laundry detergent a specialty item? REALLY. Does VH1 think women actually enjoy doing laundry!?!). Several times, the audience composed entirely of males, dissolved into cat calls and booing. When the host later explained the object of the game, he said that no (straight) man wanted someone who couldn’t support herself and instructed the women not to come off as gold-diggers.

And, while I agree that it’s good when a woman can support herself, I completely chafe against the idea that she should do so only to be considered attractive to the opposite sex (not even taking into consideration whether or not male is a sex to which she is attracted). Not to mention that the game show, the booing and screaming at the contestants, was completely dehumanizing. It’s not like woman aren’t paraded in front of the male gaze and appraised like that on a daily basis.

But, to see the “male gaze” presented so literally was really, really disconcerting (replete with an all male audience).

In essence, the message communicated was that a woman must change everything others (in this case, men) don’t like in order to be deemed acceptable (translated here as “date-worthy”): she must learn how to laugh at his jokes, even if she doesn’t find them funny. She must not appear intelligent, as not to threaten him. She must stroke his ego; ask for help even if she doesn’t need it.

And, for the short list of other double standards presented: If she likes sex, she’s a slut/whore. If she speaks her mind, she’s a bitch. If she makes too much money, she’s emasculating. If she abides by traditional female roles, she’s a prude, or a leech, or codependent. If she’s conventionally attractive, her body is considered public property, a commodity bought and sold and plastered all over billboards and, sometimes, “taken” by force; everyone wants “a piece”, and she’s expected to “give it up.”If she’s not conventionally attractive, she’s a “dog”, or a “fatty”; If men don’t want to “fuck” her, she’s disgusting, without worth or dignity. She doesn’t have her own opinions. She doesn’t think critically or deeply. She doesn’t feel pain or joy. She doesn’t have parents, sisters or brothers, or friends, or interests. She’s not human.

She’s just a woman.

I really should have turned the channel sooner for my own mental health; though, it was like watching the proverbial car wreck. I just could not believe I was seeing something so regressive!

Rape Myths: A Poem trigger warning

2010-01-02T20:35:00.000-08:00

Miscommunication

He walked her home
after dinner and cocktails,

that night,

stacks of meat were sold
the choicest cuts of beef,

a saturday night celebration
and she collected herself back from the aerial distance
past the pieces of her limbs, her name dark

as the space between street lamps,
and slipped by a street preacher
whose signage pointed to the
gape of her buttons; He assigned
yellow tape to the plunge and
climb of her blouse and skirt: didn’t she know
the parts beneath fabric were all her fault?

(just by their existence
spare parts with no
more continuity than a Picasso)

He said go home, honey,
go inside
you’ll be safer there

among friends

now when she is
shoved in line sometimes,

or when a guy in an office
or a guy with a name tag
or a guy with a badge gives her
(or her tits) a number

she still thinks of
bullhorns, strong arms,
ubiquitous skin

the syntax
of the headlines
ruled the thing

laryngitis,

a wrestling match
between friends,

she did resist;
at least, she thinks she did,
contemplating a wilting white rose
poised for the trash can;

it was all louder than she thought

later He swore: “I’m not a carnivore!
How should I have known
she was the bait and switchblade
arbiter of swiftly
slamming doors?”

He accused her
of a broken no(se)

and she spilled his six drinks
all over his alibi

her voice just made no cents
a wet dollar bill
in an ancient barter system

between friends

More Than Tits and Assistive Devices

2010-01-02T20:28:00.001-08:00

Lately, I feel my mother’s confusion almost palpably; her brow furrows and she grows quiet, like: is this MY daughter, that once-sweet, smiling princess? Sometimes, I can’t understand the anger from myself, a white, middle-class kid who hasn’t experienced real discrimination in her life.

Then, an advertisement flashes across the television, or I hear the word “bitch” and I remember. I know why, if my breasts didn’t hang uncomfortably, I would burn my bra, or, at least, a pair of stilettos (the accoutrement of feminine torture). If the cops wouldn’t be called, I would furnish my backyard with a lovely little Twilight saga bonfire.
What I can’t figure out is what bothers me more, the ableism or the sexism. In my own history, they merge so seamlessly I feel as if I’m playing with a double-sided coin. In both, there is a distinct sense of “difference”, of being the “other.”

I first felt their influence in early childhood, with a proliferation of images. Mostly, of Disney princesses: Snow White being rescued by the handsome prince, Tigerlily being saved from the water by Peter Pan (never mind the problematic depiction of Indigenous American people here!), Sleeping Beauty’s life redeemed by a kiss, Belle loving the beastliness out of the beast. These women were my role models, those who I longed to emulate. Once, my parents even found me, a la Snow White, in a heap on the kitchen floor, an apple in hand, waiting to be picked up.

Later, it was reading tween-geared romance novels like innocuous titles like “Kissed by an Angel”, or “Rescue by A Sexy, Supernatural Man.” If only, I thought, some beautiful boy (preferably, sensitive, sophisticated, and foreign, or better yet, one with wings!) would emerge from the shadows to fall madly in love with me, life would be perfect. Soon, I was hanging out with other several squealing girls (even while our menstrual cycles were still on order) talking about “boys” and “relationships.” By 1996, I memorized most of the balcony scene from Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet. Likewise, most of my mother’s Christian literature informed me that God would provide a handsome, rescuing husband--- a godly lord to whom I would one day “submit”; a priest, prophet, and king in whose life I would lose mine forever. At twelve years old, I believed that a boy would give my life meaning and purpose. Not being a good person or doing something meaningful, or self-actualizing, mind you but, instead, finding Romeo.

Girls were not complete unto ourselves.

The Bible told us so. The television joined in the chorus. We even told each other variations on the story of happily-ever-after.

Of course, concurrently, I was dealing with the (psychological) logistics of wheelchair use. For much of my childhood, the nut-and-bolt differences between myself and the walking world were lost on me. Ramps, walkers, braces and blue-squared buses were one thing. Getting around was challenging sometimes, sure, but hardly a Sisphyian task. Doable.

What was untenable, however, was always being perceived as “different.”

From as far back as I remember being self-aware, I have been aware of people’s reactions to me because of disability. Some stared. Some averted their gaze in obvious terror. Some baby-talked at ear splitting decibels as if I were hearing impaired, in addition to being “crippled.” Others, still, congratulated me for such simple things as, “being out.” As if going to the mall was some laudable, heroic feat. Often, people would insert mention of their two-week-stint-with-a-broken-leg into conversation, in an attempt to empathize. “I know how,” they invariably said, “you feel.” At recess in elementary school, I parked near the play ground and watched the other kids run past. This was no big deal, until middle school when kids began to intentionally self-segregate from the class “oddity.” Boys didn’t like me. Girls didn’t understand me.
Not to mention that this little wheelchair detail was completely curtailing my (non-existent) love life (and all-consuming plan to be blissfully married). By high school, I remember feeling like a pariah; alone, no dashing, male teenaged savior in sight. Somehow, I equated transcending disability with cashing in on the ubiquitous sexual objectification of women. One morning, I grabbed my skimpiest spaghetti strap top and decided to start dressing “like a slut.” To distract the other kids from the wheelchair, to direct the attention back where belonged.

On my tits.

The twisted equation for happiness went as follows:

Being a girl = having love of boy = not being disabled = so, therefore
Being sexy = snagging a boy = transcending disability =being a “real” girl

In the subsequent years, I consented to various sexual activities that I was neither ready for nor comfortable with, under the guise of “becoming a woman” or being “just like everybody else.” It is painful to realize that my high school career, and some of my college career, was not about getting an education, bettering society, or developing my talents. It was about getting to square one, feeling like a human being in the (fe)male gaze(s).

In addition to being dehumanizing (to both my partners and I), it didn’t work. “Lennon”, a hippie who did eventually fall in love with me definitely lacked the capacity for “transcendent celestial beingness”, no matter how intellectual he was. And so, a little disillusioned and a little bitter, one day, I found myself blinking open my eyes like Snow White for the first time in years. Reality was a painfully bright space.

And, I was pissed.

That god was dead. There was no other choice but to trek back down the holy mountain, through the empty parking lot, past the Dove Real Beauty Campaign billboard and head back home.

Jesus Loves Me...

2009-12-28T16:03:00.000-08:00

This I know.

I don't even ask for forgiveness anymore. When I pray, often, the buzzing in my head drowns out, well, the other buzzings in my head.

Tonight, I was reading blogs again, stewing at all the quiet, persistent sexism (and, not so quiet. it's estimated 1 in 4 women will be raped/sexually assaulted worldwide), the kill-the-gays bill in Uganda, the fact that so many times, the church has perpetuated oppression instead of working to relieve it, my own depression...

To be honest, readers, though, I am not as tolerant as this "bleeding-hearted-liberal-guilt"y language might suggest.

Usually, I can't even tolerate hearing about any of this bullshit.

Christians talk about knowing that something is amiss in the world, as if we all have an ancient memory of something we can't forget, no matter how hard we try. There is definitely some overdeveloped sense of justice in me that cries foul repeatedly, hell, a million times, each day...

At the end of this rabbit trail, invariably, I am left alone with hatred, my thoughts a hive of royally pissed bees.

Invariably, I also forget that God is still lurking around the cosmos. And then, something as cheesy as the lyrics of an old pop song crop up on a web page and, suddenly, S/He has shown up again, and all is well...

Ironically, God tends to speak to me through music from the seventies. Knew S/He was a hippie!

I'll be back to my political commentary next post, perhaps, having risen up from this momentary bout with fatalism. Or, having been pulled back onto my cripplefeet by Hir strong and tender hands, as it were..(actually, next post will touch on theology. get ready for your eyes to glaze over! Holy Pelagius!)

Talk To Me

2009-12-23T18:33:00.000-08:00

This post will most likely branch into a several part series since my thoughts are, likewise, dividing in several different ways. No one wants to read endless paragraphs of script.

My parents, uncle and I stayed, the last three nights, in Missouri with my octogenarian grandfather. On the fifteenth, he lost his wife, my (step) grandmother, to whom he'd been married since 1964.

I wasn't expecting this visit to raise so many questions for me, so much ambivalence. Perhaps much of it has to do with the part of the south in which we stayed. The folks in the somewhat depressed town of Ellington are kind; several times this week neighbors trooped over with covered dishes (chicken and dumplings, hamhock, chilli, etc...) to lay at the feet of the widower. The town itself is littered with dirt road and surprising snatches of running water. Most of the buildings haven't been renovated since the seventies, giving even the church with it's paneled walls a dated, if not warm, feel.

Ellington is quintessential "God's country."

And, I admit, Ellington is where the light of my faith went on eight years ago, in my grandparent's church with the red carpet and the back lit mural of mountains at the altar. It was as if I entered alone that night, and left knowing I would never be alone again. I admit the Jesus of my tradition has always played a large role in my life. I also admit that all week, it's seemed as if God were as close as my elbow, that even the mention of Hir name elicited joy.

This being said, I'm not longer sure I'm completely comfortable with the concept of "God's Country." Ani Difranco puts it well: "This may be God's country/but it's our country too/so move over mr. holiness/let the little people through."

A few nights ago one of grandpa's friends stopped by to share some "country rap" poetry, most of it dealing with God. Soon, the group of us were engaged in a lively discussion. My uncle, an agnostic, confessed his belief that there were so many different interpretations of scripture that it was difficult to cobble together a coherent theology. I agreed, and suggested that perhaps we Christians tend to focus on the words of the Bible to the exclusion of the intent of it's Author (assuming the author is the Author. That, of course, is a matter of some debate). At this comment, I saw the light in my grandfather's eyes turn from HappyGlow to SendUpAFlare!

I guess this cow wasn't honoring the electric fence, there, I suspect. If I hadn't dropped the conversation, I'm sure yet another fight about religion would have ensued and, well, it's been a little touch-and-go after 9-11, the "God Hates Fags" picketing of funerals, and that whole crusades incident...

I hate the fact that because of religion, because of the tradition which has sustained me, there may be some things one cannot discuss. Usually, the things which need to be discussed (the meaning of the Bible, the exact nature of God, gay rights, gender roles, a woman's right to choose. Hell, sex?) become taboo and off-limits. Silly things become inviolate and written in stone as the ten commandments, and we write off people we love.

If you disagrees with me, please, don't build a fortress around "God's Country."

Just talk to me.