Hot Monday morning, Americano in tow, I'm recapping on a weekend spent with various thoughtful friends who weighed in on the subject of dating and mating under a feminist politic of kindness. Specific topic of interest: the perfect rejection line.
To set the scene, over the last couple of weeks, I've been fielding business cards and friend invites to unprecedented extents. I am not complaining (yet), just a bit confused. Maybe I'm seeing the world with new eyes, making better eye contact, wearing my hair down more... in any case, it seems I'm giving off the single vibe. This is, of course, exciting to realize and play with, and one of the major perks of being unattached, but with it comes the task of telling someone you're not interested in them. My usual claim, "Sorry, I would, but my boyfriend/partner/baby daddy/mommy would beat you up," doesn't ring so true anymore, so I'm on the search for something polite and direct.
The topic of shutting someone down kindly may seem like a petty problem (it is), but the truth is, airy encounters can suddenly turn ugly at the end of the night and can become so intimidating that sometimes I dread talking to new people or even going to parties, period. I also dread the idea of being rejected by someone who felt the need to come up with an excuse to prevent me from bawling in a bathroom stall. Yuck.
The topic of shut-down lines started last week with a group of my colleagues, three of us single, one in a serious relationship, all straight and in our 20s. One woman, a period film buff, claimed to taking her cues from Jane Austen: "What honour you have done me in your fair proposal. You must give me leave to flatter myself for I think of you highly in favour, but to accept is impossible as my feelings forbid me from it" (...or something like that). This approach appeals to my streak of etiquette and nicety obsession, but the chances of that sliding out of my mouth coherently on a sweaty post-soccer pub night are slim.
Another of the women at the table, who enjoys a night out at the club as much as the next girl, is noticeably more jaded at the ineptitude of men to understand and accept what the frack she says to them. She advises giving it to men straight, with no glimpse of even the slightest sliver of hope that might become a kernel of potential in the quick explosion of she-must-want-me man denial: "No, I don't want to date you. It's not that I don't want to date right now, it's that I don't want to date YOU. EVER."
The dysfunctional need-to-please-and-be-loved in me knows I could never say anything closely resembling that.
The conversation continued at brunch this weekend with two of my girlfriends (one married and pregnant, the other engaged and unpregnant as far as we know), when I asked for their go-to shut-down lines. We each confessed to pulling the "I'm in a relationship" card, but one of the girls exclaimed, "Sometimes I don't want to have to say that I'm married. I want to be able to say, 'you're being a jerk, and that is why I am not interested in seeing you again.'" True that. Why should people (especially women) need to confess that they are, in fact, already possessed by someone (already someone's property!) in order to express disinterest? Doesn't sound very feminist. This idea got me going...
Yesterday I brought up the 'not wanting to say I'm married' issue with a close teammate, a highly perceptive 30-year-old overeducated jock/writer with a streak of small-town conservatism. I was sensitive to the fact that he is a guy, so I tried to sugar-coat the need for rejection lines, saying, "Not that being picked up at a bar or cafe is a gendered thing... I just mean... you know... rejection lines for anyone... something you might use..." to which he replied, "Amanda, men pursue women far more viciously in general. I know what you mean." Whew.
He advised something along the lies of a white lie. "I'm not really dating right now / I just got out of something / I don't feel comfortable giving my number to strangers." I liked this approach. Seems innocent and simple enough... though still, do we need to rely on dishonesty?
Sure, it's easy to agree that not only should one not have to lie to get out of a social situation, it's simply kinder to tell the truth (cue Nick Lowe: you've got to be cruel to be kind). What I loath, though, is that sometimes people get huffy and become intimidating in the face of clean rejection. I'd like to continue dialogue along this vein, and for now I offer a note to everyone, which I hope to internalize myself: if you are rejected, it need not be such a smash to the ego.
From the brutally honest and borderline cruel, to the white lie, to the default admittance to being off the market, to the full-on spiraling-out-of-control untruthfulness ["You know I would give you my number... because it's been great talking with you... but I'm getting this new cell phone... and I'm travelling a lot soon to, like, this really weird place... and so I have to lend my phone to my friend, who's a bit silly about stuff... and my house is actually on fire right now and so I need to go.... right now." -- a personal favourite of mine], rejection need not lead someone to feel so rejected. Liken the dating game to choosing the breed of a new puppy, to which/whom we will bestow our love and affection - all puppies are cute, but some people prefer shaggy, bouncy, hypo-allergenic; others the slick, svelte, running animals; others, short, stumpy snorting things with smushed in faces; and others still, a mixed breed mutt with character to spare. Be you pug or golden doodle, one person's trash is another person's treasure.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
we found things to do in stormy weather
At the beginning of this thunder showery week, I finally took advantage of a Christmas gift that was about to expire and booked myself a day at the spa.
To those of you out there who do this regularly, I officially envy you. I felt like a very important human being as I was touched and rubbed and polished to classical music and lavender candles. I also felt more spoiled than all of the stressed out bureaucrats I strolled past upon my release onto Sparks St.
Since I'd never had a massage in my life (with the exception of multiple non-sensual [usually painful] physiotherapy appointments), this part was especially luxurious, though I had to consciously push down feelings of strangeness at the intensity of the experience of a stranger being paid to touch me. The sensation was truly provocative, as the physical release of the massage triggered corresponding emotional releases, all of this occurring in a dark closed room with a girl I had just met. Is it okay to cry at the spa? Interesting culture of privilege we have in this world.
Whatever, I stomached my guilt and pondered the incalculable beauty of Moonlight Sonata until I wept into the massage bench face cradle (What was Beethoven thinking when he wrote that song? It's perfectly blurry, profoundly dissonant, emotionally exhaustive, I cry through the whole third movement, OMG). Then I put myself together enough to choose an opalescent sheen for my fingernails and watched Desperate Housewives until I sank comfortably back into shallow thoughts (of pick-up lines, of shopping lists, of what I will name my puppy).
Thoughts on spa days, feminists?
To those of you out there who do this regularly, I officially envy you. I felt like a very important human being as I was touched and rubbed and polished to classical music and lavender candles. I also felt more spoiled than all of the stressed out bureaucrats I strolled past upon my release onto Sparks St.
Since I'd never had a massage in my life (with the exception of multiple non-sensual [usually painful] physiotherapy appointments), this part was especially luxurious, though I had to consciously push down feelings of strangeness at the intensity of the experience of a stranger being paid to touch me. The sensation was truly provocative, as the physical release of the massage triggered corresponding emotional releases, all of this occurring in a dark closed room with a girl I had just met. Is it okay to cry at the spa? Interesting culture of privilege we have in this world.
Whatever, I stomached my guilt and pondered the incalculable beauty of Moonlight Sonata until I wept into the massage bench face cradle (What was Beethoven thinking when he wrote that song? It's perfectly blurry, profoundly dissonant, emotionally exhaustive, I cry through the whole third movement, OMG). Then I put myself together enough to choose an opalescent sheen for my fingernails and watched Desperate Housewives until I sank comfortably back into shallow thoughts (of pick-up lines, of shopping lists, of what I will name my puppy).
Thoughts on spa days, feminists?
Friday, June 17, 2011
as always, the personal is political. and scholarly.
As I prepare to submit my SSHRC application this September on a dissertation topic that hits frighteningly close to home, I have to come clean with my research question. This requires facing my own soul searching speed bump - how do women (read: I) experience the choice to pursue doctoral studies and how does this choice intersect with plans for family formation?
I've spoken with my queer and straight friends about what we're looking for in a romantic partner, and many of us are shamefully honest about one fact: we want to be treated equally *and* swept off of our feet at the same time (okay, it's mostly my hetero friends who admit to desiring the latter). We are looking for men who want a balanced partnership, but who also fit the mould of a Prince Charming who we can look up to, who is older, wiser, stronger, well-connected socially and more financially stable than us. The difference between most of us and Cinderella besides an extraordinary bust-to-waist ratio is that we aren't passive, quiet, meek, poor, bored or socially isolated, and we aren't that young anymore. From what I can tell in my personal exploration, the fairy tale ending for women is going to take an average man with a very large broom to do the sweeping.
This is not a pleasant realization. In fact, I often neglect writing about this personal subject in favour of more socially and life threatening global issues so that my miniscule issues pale in comparison. There are certainly more important problems in this world than this modern-day version of 'bored housewife syndrome,' but, as I've said in the past regarding privileged struggles, recognizing this intellectually does not take away from the lived emotionality of it all.
I knew the single woman doom was palpable yesterday when I strolled past a cute boy walking a cute puppy in a Glebe park. We both said "hey" and kept walking, and by the end of the next block, I had daydreamed our wedding linen colours. I literally stopped myself on the sidewalk to take a deep breath and give my own head a shake. Nothing about my thought process was rational.
I take some responsibility for my vain desires, but I also resent popular discourses that no doubt influenced the construction of these as such. I want to bleep "Someday My Prince Will Come" out of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (and its equivalent in every other Disney princess tale) in lieu of, "Your prince is unlikely to come. You will pursue a lesser version of Prince Charming and settle for him, and you'd be lucky if the one you choose does not steal from you or have erectile difficulties. This is okay. You will be happy enough, and you'll have your career to keep you stimulated when pillow talk wanes. And remember, he is settling for you too, princess."
This is a jaded rant, and I'll hardly write on the topic of romantic love with this severity in a day or two, but for now: parents, let your kids listen to Jagged Little Pill early on and provide caveats to every princess tale to ease their future disappointment.
I've spoken with my queer and straight friends about what we're looking for in a romantic partner, and many of us are shamefully honest about one fact: we want to be treated equally *and* swept off of our feet at the same time (okay, it's mostly my hetero friends who admit to desiring the latter). We are looking for men who want a balanced partnership, but who also fit the mould of a Prince Charming who we can look up to, who is older, wiser, stronger, well-connected socially and more financially stable than us. The difference between most of us and Cinderella besides an extraordinary bust-to-waist ratio is that we aren't passive, quiet, meek, poor, bored or socially isolated, and we aren't that young anymore. From what I can tell in my personal exploration, the fairy tale ending for women is going to take an average man with a very large broom to do the sweeping.
This is not a pleasant realization. In fact, I often neglect writing about this personal subject in favour of more socially and life threatening global issues so that my miniscule issues pale in comparison. There are certainly more important problems in this world than this modern-day version of 'bored housewife syndrome,' but, as I've said in the past regarding privileged struggles, recognizing this intellectually does not take away from the lived emotionality of it all.
I knew the single woman doom was palpable yesterday when I strolled past a cute boy walking a cute puppy in a Glebe park. We both said "hey" and kept walking, and by the end of the next block, I had daydreamed our wedding linen colours. I literally stopped myself on the sidewalk to take a deep breath and give my own head a shake. Nothing about my thought process was rational.
I take some responsibility for my vain desires, but I also resent popular discourses that no doubt influenced the construction of these as such. I want to bleep "Someday My Prince Will Come" out of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (and its equivalent in every other Disney princess tale) in lieu of, "Your prince is unlikely to come. You will pursue a lesser version of Prince Charming and settle for him, and you'd be lucky if the one you choose does not steal from you or have erectile difficulties. This is okay. You will be happy enough, and you'll have your career to keep you stimulated when pillow talk wanes. And remember, he is settling for you too, princess."
This is a jaded rant, and I'll hardly write on the topic of romantic love with this severity in a day or two, but for now: parents, let your kids listen to Jagged Little Pill early on and provide caveats to every princess tale to ease their future disappointment.
Monday, June 13, 2011
fighting against follies: my endorsement of Friends of Lansdowne
HOORAY FOR THE COMMUNITY! Friends of Lansdowne ramped things up this weekend with a successful fundraiser just days before the legal challenge against the City of Ottawa goes courtroom stylez.
Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending the FOL fundraiser, Lansdowne Follies 2, at the proud-to-be-local Mayfair Theatre. FOL is a city-wide grassroots coalition for the ethical revitalization of Lansdowne Park. The group is fighting (against the City of Ottawa) for a sustainable public space that is accessible to all.
As promised, the afternoon followed the original Follies event (held in February) with a "unique blend of entertainment and information." The entertainers, Kellylee Evans and Terry Tufts, were absolutely soul warming and the FOL lawyer, Steven Shrybman (whom I admire big time for being so active in the Ottawa community and for speaking publicly about his work on human rights, access to water and cultural diversity), updated the crowd on the upcoming court date.
Lansdowne Follies, indeed. FOL contends that the city acted unlawfully (against city bylaws) when closing a design competition to accept a sole-sourced public private scheme with the OSEG. According to Shrybman's talk on Sunday, the City has made it hell for the community group to access records on the whole 3-year catastrophe. From what I've seen of Mayor/dictator Jim Watson, I'm not at all surprised. Shrybman prepared us for the propaganda that will no doubt be circulating through the Ottawa Citizen this week and encouraged us to set the record straight with letters to the editor and other public outcry.
From what I can tell, the City doesn't have a leg to stand on in this legal battle. This isn't just a bunch of nimbys protecting a quiet street. It's a community group (that happen to be mostly wealthy retired professionals attracting prominent lawyers, no doubt hugely responsible for its success thus far) that is fighting against political corruption. As my hero, Maude Barlow, so eloquently illuminated, this battle by FOL is an important local fight over public space against the corruption of a municipal government, but it needs to be situated in the global battle for the commons against the commodification/privatization of nature. I put my cynicism about the demographic of the Glebeites aside as their fight is worth supporting.
No matter our cynicism about a pretty public park when there are more dire battles to be fought in our neighbourhoods, I think we should embrace the work of FOL as this case is setting new legal precedents for grassroots groups to challenge municipal government. This is privilege being put to good use, perhaps paving the way for future legal fights. I wish FOL luck this week and congratulate them on their success thus far.
Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending the FOL fundraiser, Lansdowne Follies 2, at the proud-to-be-local Mayfair Theatre. FOL is a city-wide grassroots coalition for the ethical revitalization of Lansdowne Park. The group is fighting (against the City of Ottawa) for a sustainable public space that is accessible to all.
As promised, the afternoon followed the original Follies event (held in February) with a "unique blend of entertainment and information." The entertainers, Kellylee Evans and Terry Tufts, were absolutely soul warming and the FOL lawyer, Steven Shrybman (whom I admire big time for being so active in the Ottawa community and for speaking publicly about his work on human rights, access to water and cultural diversity), updated the crowd on the upcoming court date.
Lansdowne Follies, indeed. FOL contends that the city acted unlawfully (against city bylaws) when closing a design competition to accept a sole-sourced public private scheme with the OSEG. According to Shrybman's talk on Sunday, the City has made it hell for the community group to access records on the whole 3-year catastrophe. From what I've seen of Mayor/dictator Jim Watson, I'm not at all surprised. Shrybman prepared us for the propaganda that will no doubt be circulating through the Ottawa Citizen this week and encouraged us to set the record straight with letters to the editor and other public outcry.
From what I can tell, the City doesn't have a leg to stand on in this legal battle. This isn't just a bunch of nimbys protecting a quiet street. It's a community group (that happen to be mostly wealthy retired professionals attracting prominent lawyers, no doubt hugely responsible for its success thus far) that is fighting against political corruption. As my hero, Maude Barlow, so eloquently illuminated, this battle by FOL is an important local fight over public space against the corruption of a municipal government, but it needs to be situated in the global battle for the commons against the commodification/privatization of nature. I put my cynicism about the demographic of the Glebeites aside as their fight is worth supporting.
No matter our cynicism about a pretty public park when there are more dire battles to be fought in our neighbourhoods, I think we should embrace the work of FOL as this case is setting new legal precedents for grassroots groups to challenge municipal government. This is privilege being put to good use, perhaps paving the way for future legal fights. I wish FOL luck this week and congratulate them on their success thus far.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
feeling safe until captured (on film)
Maybe it's because there's sun in the sky and the forecast said rain, or maybe it's because my triple berry muffin had extra berries in it. Whatever the reason, brace yourself: I am about to compliment the Ottawa Police Service.
Yesterday afternoon, I attended the Anti-Harper (or Anti-Tory) rally in Ottawa's downtown core to protest Harper's speech at the tory convention. Holy impressive demo, activists! Well led (individual shout-outs to uOttawa student and rogue page Brigette DePape for speaking at the park, uOttawa grad student Taiva Tegler for co-organizing and speaking to media, Carleton Ph.D. student James Meades for carrying the speakers [literally, the sound equipment] and NOII from out of town for the extra leadership help), well attended (endorsed by most of the human rights groups in Ottawa I know of, including POWER), peaceful, angry and solid. At one point, when we were entering the intersection of two major traffic arteries, I heard some shouts behind me and saw a hoard of police officers darting horizontally into the crowd. A protest leader spoke calmly into a megaphone asking us to please sit down. We sat, the police left the crowd, whatever anxiety-causing behaviour had been happening ceased. What a neat tactic! Power in a sit-down!
Anyway, my police compliment. There were dozens of officers lining the march and surrounding streets and, for the most part, I was impressed by their passive presence. It was a little daunting to see officers on motorcycles manning street corners hours prior to the march, but most of the officers who started at Dundonald Park were wandering around with their coffee mugs, donning bike helmets and nerdy black running shoes. This helped me see them as members of the community enforcing law within a passionate climate of civil disobedience. Sure, there were the usual puffed up white guys who looked like they were about to burst out of their vests at the first sign of trouble, but even they didn't freak me out too much. Something about bicycle helmets and neon traffic jackets...
So of course I'll conclude a little flippantly with a dose of cynicism directed toward our blessed OPS. I saw about a dozen officers perched on ladders and street curbs filming the protesters. See my twitter feed for some shots. I felt weirdly proud, angry, horrified and sad about having close-ups of my face captured under police surveillance (so I took photos of them taking photos of me, of course!). I've told a few people about the filming and reactions have been as disparate as "No way!!" and "So what? Good for them." I think police surveillance of anti-government activism is scary and always unsettling upon sight for a host of reasons, but the simple one that comes to mind this morning is as follows. It was the (protected) job task of those officers to shoot the videos last night, so my capturing camera-carrying officers on my personal camera is of no consequence to them. Not so, the other way around.
Care to weigh in on your thoughts about police filming protests? I'd be curious to hear. Enjoy a sunny day ♡
Yesterday afternoon, I attended the Anti-Harper (or Anti-Tory) rally in Ottawa's downtown core to protest Harper's speech at the tory convention. Holy impressive demo, activists! Well led (individual shout-outs to uOttawa student and rogue page Brigette DePape for speaking at the park, uOttawa grad student Taiva Tegler for co-organizing and speaking to media, Carleton Ph.D. student James Meades for carrying the speakers [literally, the sound equipment] and NOII from out of town for the extra leadership help), well attended (endorsed by most of the human rights groups in Ottawa I know of, including POWER), peaceful, angry and solid. At one point, when we were entering the intersection of two major traffic arteries, I heard some shouts behind me and saw a hoard of police officers darting horizontally into the crowd. A protest leader spoke calmly into a megaphone asking us to please sit down. We sat, the police left the crowd, whatever anxiety-causing behaviour had been happening ceased. What a neat tactic! Power in a sit-down!
Anyway, my police compliment. There were dozens of officers lining the march and surrounding streets and, for the most part, I was impressed by their passive presence. It was a little daunting to see officers on motorcycles manning street corners hours prior to the march, but most of the officers who started at Dundonald Park were wandering around with their coffee mugs, donning bike helmets and nerdy black running shoes. This helped me see them as members of the community enforcing law within a passionate climate of civil disobedience. Sure, there were the usual puffed up white guys who looked like they were about to burst out of their vests at the first sign of trouble, but even they didn't freak me out too much. Something about bicycle helmets and neon traffic jackets...
So of course I'll conclude a little flippantly with a dose of cynicism directed toward our blessed OPS. I saw about a dozen officers perched on ladders and street curbs filming the protesters. See my twitter feed for some shots. I felt weirdly proud, angry, horrified and sad about having close-ups of my face captured under police surveillance (so I took photos of them taking photos of me, of course!). I've told a few people about the filming and reactions have been as disparate as "No way!!" and "So what? Good for them." I think police surveillance of anti-government activism is scary and always unsettling upon sight for a host of reasons, but the simple one that comes to mind this morning is as follows. It was the (protected) job task of those officers to shoot the videos last night, so my capturing camera-carrying officers on my personal camera is of no consequence to them. Not so, the other way around.
Care to weigh in on your thoughts about police filming protests? I'd be curious to hear. Enjoy a sunny day ♡
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
YES! Toronto's SlutWalk goes viral and we look at feminism
On Friday, Jessica Valenti (famous third wave feminism blogger and author of Full Frontal Feminism and many other important reads!) wrote on SlutWalk in the Washington Post! In SlutWalks and the future of feminism (thanks, Jeremy, for sending the article and provoking this post!), Valenti praises SlutWalks for being the most successful feminist action in 20 years. As a highly critical, informed and brilliant feminist author herself, Valenti critically situates the SlutWalk in the recent history of second and third wave actions, both in its style and its cultural goals, and confesses that the fed-upness revealed through this initiative and its popularity give her hope for the future.
I obviously loved it for many reasons. Here are my thoughts:
1) I'm thrilled to see Slutwalk getting so much attention - because it is grassroots, it is active and it is organized by women who seem to know the ebbs and flows of the feminist movement in its political and theoretical messiness. Through the noise both inside and out, they have compiled a series of sound bites that pack punch.
2) Speaking of active, Valenti gives due credit to the proactive-ness of slutwalkers. Feminism as a movement, she acknowledges, is often on the defense. How true! Instead of complaining and moving on, women reacted to a statement that arguably points to a bigger problem, they got angry, they organized around an extremely comprehensive and inclusive mandate, and they collected (are collecting) a ton of labour to maintain a hub for copycat marches all over the world! Bravo Toronto!
3) On a personal note, it's hard to believe this all started in a Canadian city among my distant peers. This inspires me and will continue to give me a sense of purpose on low activist days. Valenti gives the original organizers due credit.
4) Sidebarring Valenti's article for a moment, SlutWalk Toronto has done an incredible job managing a touchy subject. They deal with all sorts of flack (death threat style even) and the responses I've seen in public forums have been strong and eloquent. Once I noticed that someone was writing some seriously misogynist comments on the facebook page. He was given fair warning to please participate in productive dialogue. When his comments were eventually banned, the folks at SW posted an apologetic explanation to fans of the page. How cool is that?!
5) Okay, reason 5 is a bit of a secret. I hope this doesn't get me in trouble (note: above praise for SlutWalk!), but here goes: I hate that in order to get attention, women have to take their clothes off in public. Fuck. The burning bra myth, Riot Grrl sexuality, SlutWalks. This is how we have to do it. Ironic (is it?), and so fucking backwards. I get the other side -- we usually have to spend our time in the public domain covering up, so expressions of the body, especially nudity, are radical acts -- fine. I'm just sayin'...
To close, it's clear to me that the future of feminism (post? Patty?) is moving in many directions: even further toward anything goes (on the left and the right), and in some cases, back to the core tenets of liberalism. Want to wear heavy makeup? Do it! Raunch clothing? Sure! Religiousity? Alright!
In practice, I like the inclusivity. It certainly works for my many contradictions. In theory, I hope we know what we're fighting for.
I obviously loved it for many reasons. Here are my thoughts:
1) I'm thrilled to see Slutwalk getting so much attention - because it is grassroots, it is active and it is organized by women who seem to know the ebbs and flows of the feminist movement in its political and theoretical messiness. Through the noise both inside and out, they have compiled a series of sound bites that pack punch.
2) Speaking of active, Valenti gives due credit to the proactive-ness of slutwalkers. Feminism as a movement, she acknowledges, is often on the defense. How true! Instead of complaining and moving on, women reacted to a statement that arguably points to a bigger problem, they got angry, they organized around an extremely comprehensive and inclusive mandate, and they collected (are collecting) a ton of labour to maintain a hub for copycat marches all over the world! Bravo Toronto!
3) On a personal note, it's hard to believe this all started in a Canadian city among my distant peers. This inspires me and will continue to give me a sense of purpose on low activist days. Valenti gives the original organizers due credit.
4) Sidebarring Valenti's article for a moment, SlutWalk Toronto has done an incredible job managing a touchy subject. They deal with all sorts of flack (death threat style even) and the responses I've seen in public forums have been strong and eloquent. Once I noticed that someone was writing some seriously misogynist comments on the facebook page. He was given fair warning to please participate in productive dialogue. When his comments were eventually banned, the folks at SW posted an apologetic explanation to fans of the page. How cool is that?!
5) Okay, reason 5 is a bit of a secret. I hope this doesn't get me in trouble (note: above praise for SlutWalk!), but here goes: I hate that in order to get attention, women have to take their clothes off in public. Fuck. The burning bra myth, Riot Grrl sexuality, SlutWalks. This is how we have to do it. Ironic (is it?), and so fucking backwards. I get the other side -- we usually have to spend our time in the public domain covering up, so expressions of the body, especially nudity, are radical acts -- fine. I'm just sayin'...
To close, it's clear to me that the future of feminism (post? Patty?) is moving in many directions: even further toward anything goes (on the left and the right), and in some cases, back to the core tenets of liberalism. Want to wear heavy makeup? Do it! Raunch clothing? Sure! Religiousity? Alright!
In practice, I like the inclusivity. It certainly works for my many contradictions. In theory, I hope we know what we're fighting for.
Monday, June 6, 2011
IR shoptalk: Arab spring to bloody summer
Today, catching up on the 100 day anniversary since the ousting of Hosni Mubarak, I considered how desensitized I have become to discourses circulating through the Arab spring. Journalists for papers like the Observer, the Washington Post, etc., have cleverly narrated tales of disorder, revolution and counter revolution in the 'Arab world' since February, and I'm embarrassed to admit (even to myself) that I have become less interested in how the stories progress compared to how I sat on the edge of my seat during the bloodshed in Tahrir Square.
Additional rising and falling actions to these stories have come to be expected in world news, so much so that I cursorily scanned over Ian Black's graphic phrase, "Arab spring fades into a bloody summer." It seems the revolt of millions of people has lost its shock value, and now I'm impatiently looking forward to the resolution of the fairy tale. Yuck. And to keep me passively following along, the Guardian has semi-permanent banners between its International News and UK News sections called "Arab unrest" and "The new Egypt."
Again, what strikes me is how quickly the devastating aftermath of a major revolution comes to carry little emotional impact to me as a reader. According to a recent article by Ian Black, the Guardian's Mideast editor, there is real alarm in the Egyptian air and danger is rife. Hospital attendants are being beaten, streets are clogged with cars parked illegally and it's a well-known rumour/fact that counter-revolutionaries are to blame for stirring things up. Letting his article sink in, I'm sad that the ongoing attacks on public workers (women?) make for less glamourous journalism than do the deaths of heroic (masculinist?) revolutionaries.
To the counter-revolution end, Black quotes a middle-aged engineer living in Cairo: "I salute those who made the revolution [... but] we can't have these excessive freedoms." I cringe at the words (can true freedom ever be considered excessive? who gets to say?), but I guess I can see what he means. As Egypt transitions into a state of exception where lawlessness rules, lives are less livable than before. Short term pain for long term gain? Hard to speak this way when bodies are being killed in the interim.
Additional rising and falling actions to these stories have come to be expected in world news, so much so that I cursorily scanned over Ian Black's graphic phrase, "Arab spring fades into a bloody summer." It seems the revolt of millions of people has lost its shock value, and now I'm impatiently looking forward to the resolution of the fairy tale. Yuck. And to keep me passively following along, the Guardian has semi-permanent banners between its International News and UK News sections called "Arab unrest" and "The new Egypt."
Again, what strikes me is how quickly the devastating aftermath of a major revolution comes to carry little emotional impact to me as a reader. According to a recent article by Ian Black, the Guardian's Mideast editor, there is real alarm in the Egyptian air and danger is rife. Hospital attendants are being beaten, streets are clogged with cars parked illegally and it's a well-known rumour/fact that counter-revolutionaries are to blame for stirring things up. Letting his article sink in, I'm sad that the ongoing attacks on public workers (women?) make for less glamourous journalism than do the deaths of heroic (masculinist?) revolutionaries.
To the counter-revolution end, Black quotes a middle-aged engineer living in Cairo: "I salute those who made the revolution [... but] we can't have these excessive freedoms." I cringe at the words (can true freedom ever be considered excessive? who gets to say?), but I guess I can see what he means. As Egypt transitions into a state of exception where lawlessness rules, lives are less livable than before. Short term pain for long term gain? Hard to speak this way when bodies are being killed in the interim.
throne speech day and getting used to the con-maj
Admittedly, I have turned my eye from national news since the election. It’s official: the Conservative majority has paralyzed me into political apathy. Hmph. Unfortunately I was beckoned to the National Post on Friday morning (it just had to be the NP on Throne Speech day, both of which I love to hate) as I waited for a friend sans easy reading material, and sure enough, I was reminded of why I have been in hiding.
It was journalist Terence Corcoran’s revival of the National Post’s 2010 pre-(federal)budget series: The Chopping Block that captured my gaze like a car accident. “The Post beings its year-long look at helping Ottawa find the cuts in its $120B budget: $1B spending cut? Not even close.” As Corcoran acknowledges, Harper and Flaherty would speed up the cogs of their propaganda machine Friday and Monday (okay, he didn’t ‘acknowledge’ the propaganda machine part), ‘reminding’ Canadians of the Conservative government’s “even-keeled and prudent” economic management and their ability to provide stable governance in the times of uncertainty that lie ahead.
Pre-election frustration bubbles quickly popped to surface: AHH! HOW DO THEY GET AWAY WITH THIS LIE OF A REPUTATION?!
Not looking forward to seeing where Tony Clement's make-shift team will find the upwards of 1.3% of government spending over the next several years. Cuts in transfers to the provinces and the erosion of health and wellness for our nation’s most vulnerable? Back to sports and arts news again as the budget is announced... Go Canucks! Argh.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
loving + being a kid
It's a scorcher in the NCR! Between panting and running through sprinklers, I'm wrestling with a contract and alternating between three contrasting reads: Black Like Me (John Howard Griffin, 1961), Conversations with Rabbi Small (1981), and Female Masculinities (Judith Halberstam, 1999). The thematic cocktail of these, along with some deep emotionality in my personal life, has led me to a new set of musings about expression and love. Mostly, I'm sitting with a sense of wonder with regard to what we, as different people, are exposed to in life and love, by choice or circumstance (are these things even separate?)... and what this does to us.
I've been thinking about all sorts of effects on love (I wish I had my colleague Patty's romantic love expertise here) including childhood experiences with siblings and peers. I know there are lots of offshoots of Bowlby that I haven't read and I'd like to return to attachment theories one day. Along this old school stream of psychology, when I was working as an addictions counsellor, I read something on effect of sibling order on personality and behaviour. I was skeptical as I thought the theory was trying to mash functionalism with pop-psych to birth some knowledge for the addictions field, but upon scanning the descriptions under "eldest child," "middle," "youngest," my skeptical self was humbled by how well the list described the behaviours of my own siblings and me (minus the corresponding drug habits).
This came to mind a few mornings ago as I sat in a cafe window watching a dad try to wrangle his three young girls and grocery bags down the sidewalk to the car. The younger one was a toddler. She was throwing a temper tantrum and the dad was grabbing onto her arm insisting she calm down. The middle one had wandered down the sidewalk and was winding herself around a parking meter and singing to herself. The eldest (who was carrying a grocery bag) stood about 4 feet southwest of the screaming child and watched in silence how the dad dealt with her. When the toddler stopped asserting herself, the eldest grabbed her hand and they walked to the car together.
As my dad used to say when I swung way into social constructionism, "Amanda, just watch children play. Boys throw rocks up the slide, girls organize their dolls in a circle" (or something like that). Maybe some things are the way they are, in all of their crude essentialism. I'm reminded of a Tina Fey interview in which she was asked by a member of the Google audience about raising her daughter to feel empowered to cross the boundaries of typical womanhood the way she herself has done with comedy. She responded by describing her bewilderment with her daughter's obsession with Barbies (and made some joke about how she'd be in trouble if she had a son with a corresponding gun collection).
But the sibling order stuff shows how we are also shaped by our surroundings and relationships. Watching the eldest child supervise dad + sibling in the sidewalk tantrum (no doubt so she can recount to mom), I had a flash of glee as I remembered what that felt like. Memories of my brothers and I squabbling at Extra Foods, my mom pausing with the cart to hurriedly scan her list or price check as we swarmed around her, and all of us queuing up like angels at the Valley Fair Mall bakery counter for smiley face cookies rewarding our good behaviour (even though it was never good) rushed to mind.
Now I'm wondering how my eldest child syndrome affects how I love. Do I love like a big chicken unconditionally loves a spazzing chicken? Do I love like a student classroom monitor loves the kids who stay in their seats? I shudder at the thought. I might have to start a poll.
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