stabs at xenophobia, stabs at discovery

Finding it tough to concentrate on theoretical work with the violence happening in Africa and the Middle East this week. I think we might be experiencing an historical moment that will transform the world order in ways we can’t yet appreciate. Thinking about the polarities represented by protestors and armies in Libya and Bahrain brings me to my friend Dan’s “us versus them” question – are we (as feminists) standing up for “good” by fighting “bad,” or is the good that which is familiar and the bad, the strange?

I often consider this dilemma when attempting to work through the historical trajectories of xenophobia in Europe. I think the psychoanalytic perspective lends itself to understanding xenophobia – there are people in our families/communities/nations we know and trust and there are outsiders who we don’t know, and therefore don’t trust. This seems simple enough. What puzzles me about this idea is how distrust or fear of the other (some remnant of survival instincts?) is converted to irrational dislike or even hatred of the other. In moments of honest reflexivity, I can recall times travelling abroad when I have been afraid of locals who look different from me, but this has not grown into hatred.

In a Canadian Studies masters seminar last year, we discussed this irrational fear as racism. I disagreed with those who saw fear of the other as racist. If I feel afraid of someone even though I know it’s irrational, I’m not being racist. People fight with me on this one, usually arguing that our fears are manifested in racist behaviour, even if it operates covertly. This is probably true, but I don’t think we need to beat ourselves up over fearing what is different.

Taken further, we don’t need to feel guilty for preferring what is familiar. I’m thinking here of food and customs. There is something deeply relieving about returning home after a trip and shopping for groceries at my neighbourhood market. I think this is healthy. We do, however, need to take responsibility for recognizing our fear of strangers as irrational and behaving to restore respect and dignity for everyone regardless of dissimilarities in beliefs and values. This is easier said than done for me, especially when it comes to issues wherein someone’s beliefs interfere with the survival of bodies. This is one line I draw that has gotten me in some hot water in feminist/cultural studies debates, especially on the issue of honour killing, but I’m sticking to it, and working on where to draw other lines. Without a firm stance on survival and anti-violence, I find it’s easy to get stuck in feminist studies: stuck on inclusivity, paralyzed by ethics, unable to comment on violence in the world for fear of othering. In one theory course this term in particular, the stuckness hangs like a black cloud over my comments in seminar.

Speaking of feeling stuck, in hopes that making changes to my windows view would give a new perspective (brainlessly, according to Death Cab), I decided to get out of the Ottawa routine and romp around Montreal and Toronto this week. New perspectives abound, so not so brainless it seems.

At cafes, on the subway and on my friend Allison’s couch, I read Writing Your Dissertation in 15 Minutes a Day by Joan Bolker. I have to admit, I approached it cynically: maybe if I weren’t wasting time reading this ridiculous book, I’d have an extra 4 hours to spend on my dissertation. And so I met the author’s introductory invitation to make the book my own, take what works, leave what doesn’t, etc., with skepticism (and some audible sighs). The introductory chapter, as welcoming and encouraging as it was, fell on cranky ears.

Just as I was beginning to enjoy languishing in my own self-pity for being assigned this and other books that make me feel babied, I came across a series of thought provoking tidbits. Damn! The book is fantastic. Taking a cue from Chapter One: Beginning, I went on a fishing expedition for all of the writing I’ve done in my academic career. I opened old folders labeled with various undergraduate and masters course numbers and opened the papers that had “Final” in the title. Much to my shock and excitement, I’ve been writing on the same few themes my whole life. Amazingly, I barely remember writing some of these papers. No doubt this is partly because they were written at 3am the day they were due, but I think it’s also because I thought that I was selecting topics randomly all along and didn't pay much attention so long as I met course requirements.

As an interdisciplinary student, I’ve always felt a little scattered with regard to my interests. This is the first time I’ve traced my curiousities, and I am happy to report that my new dissertation topic reflects a passion of mine that has been fueling my work for years. It feels comforting to realize that the writing for this degree isn't solely about career development, but a deeper motivation to ask certain questions about the world. Yah! Carrying this energy forward.

2011 or 1951?

What is going on in the world?! Is it me, or have this week's current events have been loaded with anti-feminist landmines? I'm talking about the media's reaction to Lara Logan's sexual assault (the Guardian's coverage and Bitch Media's analysis are the best articles I've seen), the "don't dress like sluts" comment from a Toronto police officer to York University students (read the Toronto Star on this one... brilliant dialogue for a mainstream publication), the release of GeoGirl's anti-aging makeup for preteen girls, and Justin Bieber on anti-abortion and the rights of fetuses in the Rolling Stone. Are we really blaming victims for sexual assault, telling children to look younger and asking an adolescent popstar to comment to his massive teen girl fanbase on rights of women?


On the flip side, antagonism is in the air. These and other sexist (and xenophobic and racist) representations have been met with healthy outcrops of resistance, and this gives me hope and courage. Egypt is on fire, Italian women are hitting the streets against Berlusconi, the Toronto Police are apologizing, and Bieber... well, nothing is happening to Bieber. Hmph.


Last night, I hadn't yet framed the week's current events to include excitement for forms of resistance, so I was feeling a little disheartented. My head drowning in images of the four horsemen (...er... horsepeople), I joined a good friend of mine and a former professor (now friend) for a cocktail at the neighbourhood wine bar. It was lovely and therapeutic, through and through. We talked about current events, politics, academia, working in the public sector, mentorship, motherhood, marriage, professionalism... you name it. What made the conversation flow so brilliantly to me is we did not hesistate to weave our gender based analyses through each topic of discussion. Sure, this is becoming common practice as I shrink my social bubble, but it felt great nonetheless. 


Following this meeting, I joined another group of friends (2 men included!) at a cozy pub. We talked about sexism and discourses on breastfeeding and motherhood. Very cool.


This morning I'm walking on the sunny side of the street as I remember that all is not lost. I'm buzzing with ideas about how to include forms of resistance in my dissertation, and I don't think the sugar high from my breakfast truffle is to thank. All month I've been feeling bogged down by what I consider to be a frightening backlash against the previous era of feminism, and while I still think this backlash is real and dangerous, especially as it takes more or less covert forms, there are strong, focused, independent and loving people having conversations about sexism over cocktails. This continuous dialogue makes me excited about the possibilities.

femaleist or world saver?

Yesterday I popped downtown to the offices of the Canadian Feminist Alliance for International Action to participate in a short film about feminism to be shown at International Women's Day in March. I've attended the March 8th event at the Archives since its inception two years ago. It is beautifully orchestrated by a powerhouse coalition of NGOs and volunteers, and attracts guests of various political stances. Both years, beyond feeling thoroughly entertained and socialized to the gills, I have left feeling a flurry of femmy emotions that have come to typify my experience at most feminist events. The general conflict is as follows. "Hooray, look at all of these brilliant and talented women and men in feminist motion! Post-feminism, my ass!" and "Look at all of these 'feminists' who disagree with me! Are they nuts?!" and "Hey, a lot of people misinterpret my 'white' feminism. And I don't like it."


I welcome the political stimulation of the event as well as the uneasy sense of confusion that lingers for days after. It feels good to have a strong reaction to strong statements, and it also feels good to laugh and cry in a room where nobody tells racist or classist jokes, nobody cares where you came from or where you're going, everyone buys their own drinks, and misogyny doesn't sneak in via the opening statements by the emcee or in casual conversation with the bartender. How refreshing! I do, however, take issue with what I see as a major representation of the event, recognized partly in response to my friend Daniel's comment on my Black Swan post...


Two years ago, the March 8th event was called "I am (not) a feminist, but..." The night hosted a debate entitled "Be it resolved, Canada and the world needs more feminists," a short film about feminism, and the winners of a writing competition called "I'm (not) a feminist, and/but..." to which I submitted under the heading "I AM A FEMINIST, AND..."


Pretty feminist stuff.


In 2010, the event was called, "I'm still not a feminist, but..." and screened a film parodying the event called "International Men's Day". Hmm. To me, the event took a turn to the "come one, come all who believe in 'equality'" Not my favourite sentiment, as liberalism reigns supreme through this kind of discourse, precluding complication of social categories in the way I think is necessary for an inclusive movement. Anyway, this year, the event is named "I might be a feminist, but..." As per my promiscuity of the theoretical variety, it is obvious to me that WE'RE CONFUSED.


I get it. The self-proclaimed feminists are going to attend the event regardless of the title, and the not/might caveat attracts those who resist the label. I appreciate the strategy, and I don't mean to get hung up on semantics, but I can't help but see the sneaky titles as a slip into anti/post feminist territory. This is International Women's Day at the National Archives for goodness sake, and our poster rejects feminism(!) even though, in my opinion, the event is entirely feminist from start to finish. It's about dialogue, celebration, confusion and solidarity.


This brings me to respond to Daniel's question which I interpret to ask: What am I trying to accomplish in my daily feminist grind (besides career success)? Do I view my feminist aspirations as "femaleist" or "world sav[ing]"? The answer is neither and both, of course. I'll admit, it is difficult to separate my personal ambitions from survival tactics, but if I lived in a self-sustaining bubble with free coffee and peanut butter, this is how I would answer:


Theoretically, I have an impossible time with 'female' because I'm a constructivist when it comes to gender. Biological categories that seem to unproblematically reign supreme with regard to "women's (read: female) rights" need to be debunked, displaced, transformed because they lead to all sorts of trans/interphobic practices surrounding bodily rights. This said, I'd attend a pro-choice rally today, because I think a "woman's" right to "her" body is a human right. Admittedly, sometimes I push pause on some theoretical musings to participate in a cause.


With regard to world saving, this is a concept that totally freaks me out. While I suppose at its most basic, my goal is to work toward making this world more liveable for more bodies, I can't deploy savior discourse without gagging. I'm not 'saving' anyone or anything, and this will always be something I fight against with regard to development and foreign aid. The missionary language troubles me to the core as it victimizes and denies agency and forms of resistance. While I believe aid is absolutely critical (not to mention, I feel ethically obliged to participate in global solidarity movements against injustice), I won't be the one leading the charge. Call it a cop-out, but it's just too damn complicated for me.


I'll be keeping these notions in mind as I watch my feminism put against others' feminisms in the short film on March 8th. As confused as we are, the survival of bodies and the liveability of lives are hardlines on which we pro- and anti- (and post-?) feminists tend to agree. In a climate of political fragmentation, maybe this is the important thing to remember.

The Black Swan Problem (**SPOILER ALERT**)

In the 2011 Oscar–nominated Black Swan, Nina (Natalie Portman) wins the lead role in the ballet “Swan Lake” only to be crushed under the weight of the role’s schizophrenic demands. Nina is a highly technical, elite dancer who exudes poise and purity: perfect for the role of the graceful White Swan. Her main conflict in the film is internal as she fights her perfectionism to dance with the reckless abandon necessary for the seductive Black Swan. In the end, Nina falls victim to the pressure to perform both angel and vixen, passive and aggressive, and in a horrifying series of psychotic breaks, she spirals into hysteria until she takes her own life on the opening night of the ballet.


Black Swan sings the problematic tune of this “post–feminist” era. The woman is presented with two opposing versions of hyper–femininity and, unlike the women of a previous feminist era who were forced to choose, they are enticed to perform both. As Nina shows, women fall short in both roles and, due in part to their incomprehension of the tasks, irrationally flail and self–destruct. In fact, the moment of Nina’s death is that of her greatest of accomplishment; she literally loses her life in the pursuit of a dual femininity.


I hypothesize that the experience of conflictual femininities and social roles, a paralyzing intra-battle of the sexes, is pronounced in the lives of Canadian woman doctoral students. The conflict is one of identity. As my supervisor aptly puts it, women attempt the identity of both the independent, motivated-beyond-reason, mind-without-a-body academic and the leggy blonde protagonist (read: wilting cinderella) of the Hollywood rom-com genre (think Pretty Woman, You've Got Mail, He's Just Not That Into You). These identities, and the embodiment/representation of such, are so oppositional, they'll make your head spin. The conflict plays out in the superficial (Can I wear red lipstick to a conference presentation? Does my new boyfriend get turned off when I talk about neo-Marxism in bed?) and the deeply psychological (What does it mean that I can feel myself dressing for the male gaze? Why can't I enjoy a casual pub chat listening to my guy friends explicate last night's sexual escapades anymore?).


This is the topic of my most recent academic writing. For the purpose of being "scholarly", my approach will focus on the implications of this social role conflict for "Canadian society". For example, I'll argue that the seemingly silly middle-class woman identity crisis has material consequences in Canadian culture, namely affecting fertility rates, the institution of marriage and the economic efficiency of government investment in students. Red lipstick and pub chats aside, what about the contrasting roles/representations of student and mother? Butch and femme? "Straight" and queer? Unkempt writer and Martha Stewart? Thinker and feeler?


I'll probably narrow in on family formation to give my argument some political clout (*sigh). It's sort of bland and biased insofar as this is a classed, raced and partially heterosexed target group, but interesting to me nonetheless. And interesting to a government of positive eugenicists who are fighting a "dangerously low" fertility rate, no doubt. Check out these stats, SSHRC: The average age of a doctoral graduate in Canada is 36. Given the average Canadian doctoral student takes 5 years and 9 months to complete at Ph.D., we can infer that there is a significant cohort applying to and beginning doctoral studies around age 29-30... and... wait for it... this is roughly the same average age of women giving birth in Canada (29.7). What sorts of social and biological pressures are in the mix here?


Back to the writing assignment due Monday! Please post feedback on this one :) It'll shape my thoughts for the next 5 years!

GossipGirl-induced Identity Crisis

“Post–feminism” is the word in air quotes lingering among my women’s studies colleagues these days. We don’t know what it is or how to use it, and we don’t know if we’re in it, but we know it makes us uncomfortable. Hence the air quotes.

Admittedly, my discomfort borders on identity crisis. If we’re indeed in a post–feminist era, what am I working toward exactly? What is a Ph.D. in Women’s Studies? These are questions I prefer to put out of my mind when I’m working on a SSHRC application…

This identity crisis came to a head last night when I tucked myself into bed with a glass of wine and my laptop to indulge in the latest aired episode of CW’s Gossip Girl. I sank deep into guilty pleasure land, ignoring the irritating voice in my head telling me that my infatuation with an American teen drama series about “Manhattan’s elite” is entirely problematic. So is overlooking plot and character development in favour of drooling over the designer fashions paraded by clear–skinned actors.

Is this what post–feminism is all about? The confusion of desires that dries us of the impetus to be political? The woman characters in Gossip Girl are irresistibly glamorous. They are young, rich, doe–eyed, shiny–legged fashionistas who traipse about the Upper Eastside of Manhattan looking for a scandal at a charity ball. Their bodies are adorned with glittery gowns and leather bags that cost more than my semester’s tuition. To my sadness and shame, I find it impossible to watch an episode without lusting after that representation of femininity. What makes it all the more confusing for me is I can’t imagine admitting this in a doctoral seminar for fear I would be cast into the pile of the abhorred patriarchal dictators and white supremacists, and maybe rightfully so.

Anyway, determined ignorance was bliss last night until the plot of this week’s episode hit a little too close to my dissertation topic. Blair Waldorf’s internship supervisor, the work-a-holic superwoman of W fashion magazine fame, up and quit her job one morning (the morning after breaking what we can assume was a sexual dry spell) to run off with a man and rekindle her true passions, “Eat–Pray–Love style”. How romantic.

Uh oh. Is this the only alternative for women in a post–feminist (non)movement? Kick ass in a man’s world (and be single, hollow, snarky and practically asexual) until you burn out and run off to India, presumably to be warm, open and womanly? A contentious debate among third wave feminists since Susan Faludi’s Backlash, it disturbs me to think that we haven’t come very far at all, and a post–feminist era is certainly not going to help. As I nervously gulped the rest of my wine, Gossip Girl’s narration haunted my self–care time: “They say the universe has a great sense of humor. That sometimes having your dreams come true can feel like a nightmare.”

obscenity in the name of rigour

One of the first people I met when I moved to Ottawa over two years ago was a man named Sean (*named changed). On a warm Sunday afternoon in September, we were sitting next to each other at a trendy cafe, each on our laptops. He was composing the manuscript for his next book about an inner-city school in New York. I found the topic appealing, so I probed politely and we shared a bit of our backgrounds.

He appeared to be in his early 50s. He seemed single as he spoke only of his career and of being luxuriously nomadic. He's lived in 'intellectual cities' (his words) like Boston, New York and Chicago. He exuded 'successful' journalist: stylish, outspoken, oozing social etiquette. I kept most of my personal details to myself, passing cursorily over Vancouver, graduate school and moving to Ottawa.

I ran into him several times per week after that. At some point we exchanged email addresses (he gave me his business card) and he would send me pieces of journalism from time to time. One day this spring as I was writing my masters thesis, I ran into Sean downtown after not seeing him for about a year. It turned out he had been spending more time in New York. He obligatorily asked about my thesis and when I told him (I can't recall what I said...perhaps I only told him the title), he expressed his opposition to my stance with an odour of intolerance. He argued something to the tune of, 'progressive or reformative education, with the goal of social inclusion, completely undermines the rigour of the traditional education system to the detriment of all of society'.

Rigour. There's that word again.

His position alone did not offend me, nor would I entirely discount a more nuanced version of this perspective. His supportive points were ignorant, though, and I noticed for the first time that he was talking down to me. I imagine he always had (his condescension was pronounced after my two years of study in social work). Thankfully I met eyes with an acquaintance of mine a few tables over who kindly bailed me out of the onslaught with the offer to join him for a cigarette.

About a month ago, I brushed over Sean’s published manuscript by happenstance while I was looking for material on textbook censorship at the public library. The book: candid black-and-white photograph, some regal Book Antiqua-looking font, white letters on appealing shades of amber and ecru, his name proudly displayed under the image, praise for the author decorated the back. I cringed.

All of this comes to mind because today he caught me off guard while I was reading at yet a different downtown coffee shop. He towered over me as he listed his most recent accomplishments (they made his book into a critically acclaimed documentary directed by someone cool) and I admitted to seeing his book at the Ottawa Public Library without picking it up. He joked that he isn't interested in whether or not I've read it if I've only borrowed it from the library (and not purchased it). I laughed sociably. Ugh. When I began to tell him what I was reading at the exact moment (a great article from New Zealand about the myth of boys needing male role models in schools), he interrupted me with sexist and obscene comments about boys needing 'real men' role models: "Now that schools are built for the emotional brains of girls, boys are turning into wimps and, well, you know, faggots, even if they are not actually gay. And then everyone's screwed. Men, women, children, everybody." Yikes.

I didn't have the wherewithal to engage in any meaningful debate in the middle of the coffeehouse. It wouldn't have made much difference anyway, judging by his previous articulations around issues of sex and gender in education. I'm an “emotional brain” after all. What do I know?

This man, who I've scarcely thought about directly outside of our brief public encounters, had a remarkable influence on my path into Women's Studies. After our latest interaction, I reflected that every time I run into him, he leaves me feeling surprised and more or less disturbed; surprised because he is the type of man (demographically) I am accustomed to being around, and have been my whole life; and yet, correspondingly, disturbed because I've been socialized to trust the wisdom of this version of man, though he consistently offends me with his opinions, tone, choice of words and general demeanor.

Anyway, as I prepare to lecture my Women's Studies students tomorrow morning under the theme, "Falling Out of the Ivory Tower," I can't help but feel like writing him a back handed thank you card: Thank you, Sean, for reminding me that however abstract or futile the items on my daily research agenda may seem, my battle is certainly real.

promiscuity of the theoretical variety

The video posted here [http://t.co/N5lcxQR] got a bad rap in my doctoral seminar today. To contextualize the class scrutiny, we are five young feminist scholars from various intellectual backgrounds: (I over-simplify:) literature, philosophy, political science, women's studies and sociology (though I consider my academic experiences to be some blend of them all + social work). We are studying pop culture, transgender theory, citizenship, indigenous relations and education respectively. Our discussions are critical, abstract, concrete, thoughtful, respectful, heavy and lighthearted. We read academic essays, we read fiction, we view films and images, we laugh, we drink tea, we meet once per week.


The video posted above was seen by the other seminar members as a "comedic routine" that is incoherent, disrespectful and, ultimately, unscholarly. It was seen as contributing, even, to the poor reputation of interdisciplinary (read: women/gender and cultural) studies, particularly with regard to (lack of) academic rigour. I take these points, though I cynically offered "what's wrong with being entertained?" in so many words...


While Judith Jack Halberstam's presentation is indeed disrespectful of conference parameters (timelines, style, language, etc.) and her colleagues (not to mention, the targets of her defamation were likely audience members) aaaand well-developed and longstanding theoretical paradigms / entire intellectual traditions (god forbid!), I found myself piqued by her stuttering, slippery (hypersexualized!) (Lady)Gaga (and Beyonce) Pheminism. I gulped her every spoken-way-too-quickly-for-an-academic-forum word. She sang right into my scatterbrained ideas and (dare I say?) perhaps composed a melody for/of my generation -- that is, a generation of feminists that must jive with the multiple rhythms of the global condition in a way our moms did not. We're out there in geographic and cyber space flaunting some aspects of our sexuality while concealing others, claiming new gender order while willingly complying with subordinate roles in our personal and professional lives, calling for world peace while committing colonial violence in our everyday consumer habits...  We're fighting -isms with -isms.


All of this to say, we can't climb onto our mothers' soapboxes because our (rightful) fears of committing the violence of slogan-itus require that we speak with too much nuance for the loudspeaker. What would I put on a t-shirt? "Stop violence! But don't stop it with other violence. And let's try to find out where it's coming from, who is being killed, and who is doing the killing. It all boils down to class. I mean gender. I mean race. Colonialism. Religion. Capitalism. Fuck."


WE'RE CONFUSED, OKAY? I say don't throw Halberstam out with the bath water. Her jittery, albeit selfish, performance is a depiction of the future of pheminism. Theoretical promiscuity to the max! The more thoughts the better. The less "get to the point", the more realistic. The world is incoherent, so should our theories be.

"I don' wanna think anymore, I lef' my heart and my head on the dance floor!" - Lady Gaga