CFP: What is intersectional about intersectionality now? PLEASE SHARE

Call for Proposals

“What is intersectional about intersectionality now?”

Special Issue

Atlantis: Critical Studies in Gender, Culture & Social Justice

Editors: Corinne L. Mason and Amanda D. Watson

DEADLINE: June 30, 2014

Following the coining of the term “intersectionality” in Kimberle Crenshaw’s (1989) essay, “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color,” feminist theory, methodologies, practices, pedagogies, and activisms have aimed to be intersectional. In fact, intersectionality is now understood as the most important theoretical intervention into feminist studies, and its mainstreaming marks a major paradigm shift in feminist praxis (McCall 2005; Nash, 2008). For example, the phrase, “My feminism will be intersectional or it will be bullshit” is now a ubiquitous phrase in the feminist blogosphere (Flavia Dzodan, 2011). Its popularization within the field has lead to increasingly sophisticated analyses of power, and yet, the mainstreaming of intersectionality has also lead to the hollowing-out and depoliticization of the concept. In this edited collection, we aim to collect timely essays that map out the intellectual and political terrain for intersectionality scholarship and practice in the context of ever shifting, changing, transforming, and mutating systems of domination, crisis, control, terror, and boundaries. We are particularly interested in the failures of intersectional ttheorizing to plot the constitutive functioning of the political, economic, and social at this historical moment. Following Jasbir Puar’s (2007) critical analysis of intersectionality, we will solicit essays that take seriously the institutionalization of intersectionality, and what is lost, gained, and made im/possible in these sites of feminist praxis.

We are particularly interested in the following topics and themes:

• Intersectionality and pedagogy/intersectionality in the classroom/intersectionality in the academy

• Feminist activism and intersectional critiques
• Intersectional failures, post-human, and new technologies
• Assemblages, affect, and intersectionality
• Identity politics, politics of naming, and dis-identification
• Transnational feminism and global intersectionality
• Institutionalization of intersectionality (government, women’s organizations, shelters, research hubs)
• Queer/ing intersections
• Indigenous feminisms and intersectionality
• Intersectionality, blogging, Third/Fourth Wave Feminisms

Please email a 250-word abstract and 150-word bio note to atlantisintersectionality@gmail.com by 30 JUNE, 2014.

Doxle Impatience in Twin Peaks Territory

We both had stress dreams in Big Timber, but I was sad to leave. At sunrise, we drove down the dusty main drag and Peter took pictures of the hotel and saloon, backdropped by twinkly mountain peaks.

The road got curvy through the central Montana summits and into Idaho. Somewhere in Wisconsin, Peter took to drinking Dr. Pepper and eating bags of Spitz, which he skillfully cracked in his mouth by the handful, shooting shells into his empty coffee cup. A country song with the lyrics "bag of Spitz" incorporated his habit into the culture of the trip. We didn't stop much on account of our excitement to be home, so we stuck mostly to car groceries.

Until McDonalds. At 10:45am, we exited the interstate at the infamous arches, and I vowed not to put it in the blog. Breakfast had ended early. Tragedy. We pouted and sulked. Filet-O-Fish would have to do. Molly ran through some mud, seemingly protesting the truck. Nobody wanted to get back in the truck. It was brimming with our things and dirty and covered in fur. We still had to get through Idaho and into Washington and we were tired.

Spokane is uglier than Fargo. Peter noted that at least Fargo evokes industrial efficiency. Spokane reminded me of the stretch of Lougheed Highway in West Maple Ridge, as it traversed endless sprawl of miscellaneous commercial outlets and fast-food chains, enforcing rampant, quick consumption. We stopped for gas and pointed north toward the Canadian border.

I took over the driving in Colville to steer us to my home-away-from-home family cabin. I was excited to introduce Peter and Molly to the best part of my childhood. The border couldn't come soon enough. We wound through the beautiful mountainside of Kettle Falls, across the border with thorough questioning but no hitch, and pulled into the land of kilometers and Christina Lake.

To our happy surprise, we were met by my cousin, Katie, and her friend Bryn at the end of our gravel driveway. Molly lept out of the truck. We headed inside for hugs and stories. I called my mom and told her our plan to come home tomorrow, Friday, and she let me know that tomorrow was Thursday. What? We cut a day? I called downstairs to Peter. He was baffled. How had we trimmed a day off of the trip without noticing? Hooray! It's only Wednesday! More cabin time.

For Katie and me, this cabin has been our steady home as our houses in the city and university towns have changed. Not quite the West Coast, this cozy cabin will more than suffice for the Panda Express to rest for a few days before closing our journey at the Pacific.

Wide Open Spaces

“Tumbleweed!” we shouted in unison as the first chunk of former plant bounced across our path. We pointed out a few more until they became synonymous with driving through North Dakota. A few hit the side of the truck. We almost hit a pheasant.

Bad work dreams plagued my sleep in Bismarck. The morning alarm hit hard and I dragged myself to Skype in Eastern Standard Time with my supervisor. It was still hot in the parking lot when we walked Molly for her morning excretions. Peter drove us to see the art deco Capitol building - the Skyscraper on the Prairie - and then for some fruit and vegetable groceries, and we were on the road again.

The day promised more roadside attractions. “There’s Sue!” Peter shouted. “Where?” I asked. I looked ahead to a 12,000 lb Holstein cow keeping watch over New Salem at the top of a hill. We drove up the hill. It was so windy, the door of the truck banged against my shins. Molly and I flailed around the cow at the top of the hill, my limbs blowing out of control, and her little body whipping around in the gusts. Our shirts (and bandana) stuck like Saran Wrap in the prairie windstorm.

We continued west through stripy rock formations between the Badlands and Theodore Roosevelt National Park. The prairie countryside was so breathtaking and promising, we decided to head south on smaller old highways to get a sense of things. The Panda Express barreled down the Enchanted Highway, punctuated with strange metal statues, and stopped in Regent, ND looking for postcards. Alas, the town was closed till high season.

When we crossed into Montana, we reconnected with the interstate. It widened, the speed limit increased by 5 miles per hour, and the country music stations played the melodies of the landscape. During one of Peter’s naps, the only available radio station blared Christian talk shows. A program called Money Sense advised on God’s way of investing savings. A woman called in sheepishly admitting she was separating from her husband after four years of struggling and needed to know how best to manage their poor finances. Instead of money advice, she was counseled to stay with her husband and pray that God heal their relationship. "I'm not saying anything, but you took a vow and need to find respect and love in your heart to put your husband's needs first." Ouch.

We aimed for an historic hotel called the Grand in Big Timber, Montana, because we had been eating carrots and fruit all day and wanted a real country steak dinner from the Beef State. Vegetarianism would cease for this cultural experience. With the sun still high in the sky, we pulled into the cheapest looking motel, nestled at the foothills of the Rockies. The owners sat outside on folding chairs drinking beer. The woman, drunk and chatty, recommended two other eateries besides the Grand because the hotel lounge was expensive with "small portions."

The Grand's portions were huge and affordable. Neither of us hungry road-trippers could finish our bison and beef burgers. A man from Philly sat next to us at the bar and we all chatted about the environment, housing, politics, but mostly our lives, his childhood summers in Montana, and our romantic road trip. When he left, Peter and I turned to each other excitedly that we had just met "Joe Biden! Joe Biden! Oh my gawd, he looked so much like Joe Biden!" We loved him.

Almost fell asleep in my clothes that night. A beautiful day and evening overall, and a perfect country experience.

Three Days West: The Champagne of Beers

I sprayed washer fluid at the windshield to defrost it before pulling onto I94 through Central Wisconsin. Belly full of waffle and fruit, I swelled with masculine pride as I glanced over at Molly and Peter, who were cuddling for warmth.

Two hours later, at a gas station outside of Minnesota, we switched drivers, reflecting our new alert-driver system. As we munched on gas station burritos only two hours after our waffles and oranges, we each confessed having the thought that this processed Tex-Mex selection mirrored the nutritional value of the coveted McMuffin Meal. But it's the principle of the thing.

Through a gentle rain storm, the Twin Cities came and went. From my view in the passenger seat, they seemed architecturally dull and suburban. Chicago has jaded me.

After the Twins, we followed Corinne and Emily's route of large highway things to Otto the Otter (in a nondescript park in Fergus Falls) and "Booming" Prairie Chicken (on the side of the I94 in Rothsay). Molly loved the frequent stops and "walks." So did Peter.

I drove a windy stretch of prairie between St. Cloud and Moorhead. Trailers swung and the Panda Express creaked, but Molly snuggled in tight to my leg and Peter's soothing voice read from the New Yorker. When we stopped for gas, a hot wind stuck Peter's shirt to his body as Molly and I watched from inside the truck. We had gone from freezing temperatures to a hot summer's day in a desert. The change in climate makes the country seem big.

Hours later, each of us with driving energy to spare but growling bellies, Peter led us on an unintentional 45 minutes in Fargo looking for a greasy custard and butter burger stop. Peter spotted this entree-dessert pairing phenomenon on shiny signs in Wisconsin, but we couldn't find such an establishment, and moods started to collapse with appetites. Many defunct diners later, we settled on Subway for our cultural experience. As we toured most of the town, I wondered about Fargo's industry and its low unemployment rate. The town's highways seemed to boast a plethora of roadside farming gear and metal yards. Later, a talk-radio station mentioned Fargo's agricultural equipment-based relationship to Kurdistan. Aha! I felt secure in my powers of observation.

Country music stations rule the waves out here, and I am overjoyed to indulge. Peter's getting into it too, though I must remind him that this is only a snapshot of new country, and there is older, better stuff. He nods, appreciating, and enjoys the open roads and farm air. To a motel receptionist in Bismarch, he referred to me as 'the missus.' It's all catching on.

The days are longer in this western part of Central Mountain Time, so the sun still burns hot as we stretch out at a Bismarck motel. Peter just returned with Miller High Life, bragging about all of the aesthetic of the bottle, the brew's faultlessly summer flavour, and the fact that here in the Bison State, a six-pack is cheaper than six bottles of water. Time to raise a bottle to the country life.

Day 2: The Golden Arches

We ate at McDonald's twice today, and not really out of necessity. Both times, the low sun (once rising, once setting) gleamed off the curves of the happy yellow arches, taunting me toward soft, sweet bun, Peter toward fries. These stops were made less acceptable by the fact that we started yesterday with McMeals before we left Ottawa. During the last stop, we noted how homey the restaurant smelled and got a bit worried about our co-dependent lack of self-control. There will be no more McDonald's for the Panda Express.

Peter pulled us down 8 Mile this morning, as we searched for his dad's old neighbourhood. We found a beautiful brick house on a winding suburban street. Two trucks were parked outside, but many of the surrounding houses were boarded up and left. The neighbourhood and surrounding business district looked like an abandoned movie set.

Driving north into Chicago, we headed straight for Cloud Gate. Peter and Molly needed to see the Bean. Well, it was perfectly reflective and bean-shaped: seamless, glassy, amazing, an ideal set-up for tourists and vain people alike, so it suited us well in every way. We both really liked Chicago and plan to move there.

After the Bean, we drove north of the downtown area where Peter's second cousin and her husband hosted us for lox and bagels in their stunning condo overlooking Lincoln Park. Ellen talked about the city's charms and we fell even more in love. After an hour of freshening our stamina, we headed north toward Milwaukee.

We didn't mean to be heading toward Milwaukee, so after some map-checking, we figured the best and most interesting way to skip around the city was to leave the tolled interstate for a state highway. Hoping to get a sense of Middle America, we were not disappointed. Expansive car dealerships, greasy food joints, and obscure Christian churches speckle the Wisconsin heartland.

As the sun set, the western sky haloed the light traffic into Madison. When it became dark, Panda Express & Co. stopped at a Super 8 located within a set of amusement parks. To Molly Doxle's great pleasure, the fee for puppies is a mere $10, so she is tucked between us having wimpery puppy dreams. Tomorrow, thanks to Corinne Mason and Emily O'Connor, promises many super-sized roadside attractions. Let the kitschy Americana begin!

First Leg: Ottawa to Detroit

I took over the driving in Cambridge, Ontario, after a rushed bite and two to-go hot teas. A pink sunset with Peter reading to me, then the clouds broke and full drops hammered the windshield, echoing through the rickety cab. I flicked the new wipers on high and wound the truck through dreary Southern Ontario, taking sips of tea in satisfaction for the successful passing of spraying transports. Our 1996 Ford Ranger bounced and shuddered with wind and highway divits. Molly Doxle put her head in my lap. I blasted Shania Twain and mumbled to myself how I should have taken the earlier driving shift.

Peter was driving again when we hit the Ambassador Bridge (currently spelled 'bassador' on account of some burnt out lights) from Windsor to the US border. Peter reminded me how terrible would be a repacking process if our border officer decided to search us. Marked with white and class privilege, we squeezed through with all of our worldly possessions after about three yes/no questions and advice that we should say Hail Marys to avoid being ticketed for our bike rack covering our back licence plate. The officer requested nothing of me, nor did he even pay me eye contact. Molly wasn't questioned either.

The highway expanded in front of us and larger, older vehicles sped by as I squinted at a map, using a smartphone to replace the broken interior light of the truck. Having no direction but needing rest, we headed west on an interstate until I predicted a hotel district near intersecting highways and a suburban hospital. After two unsuccessful turn-offs, we took exit 170 from the 275N and, sure enough, emerged in a hotel park reminiscent of Anaheim.

After inquiring for availability at three inns, we couldn't find room for our donkey (Molly) so we stayed put at the last hotel of inquiry and left Molly in the truck with a handful of kibble, two stuffed animals, her sock toy, and, well, everything else that we own. The sunrise comes quickly and we're due at a family brunch in Chicago. May Molly guard well the Panda Express.

Why I Ran

This past autumn, I did a lot of running. I was not a "runner," I was a relatively athletic human training for a marathon, so my determination and enthusiasm were fuelled mostly by fear. Throughout the training, I learned the things that runners care and talk about: hydrating, carb loading, and bowel movements. I experienced runner's high. Then I chased runner's high. Midway through the training program, I began having creative flashes when running solo, and enjoyed short streams of words flowing through my mind, if only a few words at a time somedays. These moments of wordplay made me feel artful and alive. Running was strenuous, and sometimes filled with pain and doubt, but it was joyful.

Running was also social. I joined a running club in the summer of 2011 to distract myself from months of lonely grad school work. Running practice provided the perfect foil for exam readings, and I built my meals and exam goals around my practice schedule. I saw the same group of people up to five times a week. We knew more about each other than did our families and close friends. Hours running elbow to elbow make that unavoidable.

In many training clubs, the longest run of the week is on Sunday morning. After long Sunday morning runs, our group refuelled and debriefed over mounds of eggs and much coffee at the local brunch pub. We were each in different careers and stages of life, but had the running-club personality in common (some more than others). I started as a fly on the wall when it came to running speak. Two seasons later, I knew enough of my own muscle spasms and post-speed-work upset stomach to wax stretching and energy-gel strategy with the fastest of them.

When weeks crept toward the November 2012 Philadelphia Marathon, running became synonymous with breathing. I only took Mondays off, and that day was spent doing a yoga class or stretching on ice packs. Motivated by performance anxiety, I easily declined social activities that would interfere with running, even if it were only the next day's run, or the long run the day after that. I didn't feel the loss of my non-runner friends. I loved arriving at practice well fuelled and rested and ready to go. I was a runner.

The alarm on my BlackBerry didn't exactly replace my friends, but it kind of became my buddy. Early alarm, grumpy morning stomach, splash of water on face and down throat, 12 kilometers along the mothy river at the humid Ottawa sunrise, writing, eating, eating, eating and still mid-afternoon starvation, and early evening brain crash became the routine, and the uniqueness of going through a day on that rhythm was more thrilling than anything. The endorphins didn't hurt either. I grinned ear-to-ear for two straight months.

On one of the last speed training evenings before our tapering regimen, a brisk October Wednesday, my friends Hillary, Randy, Mel, and I jogged from our run club to the gravel track of a local high school. Nights were coming earlier, and the track was unlit. 

After the first fast mile (which came to 4.5 laps of this slightly undersized track), we each peeled an outer layer. In tank tops and shorts, our thighs and arms (deeply tanned from a summer of training in oppressive Ontario heat) glistened with sweat under the moonlight. We were nervous for the laps ahead. We jittered, shook our limbs, spoke excitedly, shared words of encouragement, joked about eating too recently. Randy exclaimed, "This is for Philly." I mumbled 'Philly' to myself as we took to the start line for the next sprint.

The second mile went quickly and I looked forward to the third. I was warm and powerful. By the end of the third, I could feel lactic acid collecting in my quads and my bottom half started to get heavy. In the fourth mile, which was our fastest, my legs wobbled, my lungs prickled, I felt on the verge of tripping, and I had to deny to my brain that there was more to go in order to get it to tell my legs and arms to round that final turn. Come on, body. Do your thing.

In the 5th mile sprint, the last sprint I would do before Philadelphia because I was about to acquire an injury, my brain was alight with motivational vocabulary. As wordy as my brain became on long runs through the Gatineau hills, that particular city night, it was full of adjectives and metaphor. I ran in step with Hillary. As we wound around one end of the track midway through the mile, pushing out air and sucking it back in, I imagined we were precariously attached to each other by a suspended wire, connecting each of our hearts by the cool gelly pads of an electrotherapy machine. If one of us were to change pace, the pads would slip off, leaving us each to suffer the end of the run alone. Without the heart of the other. I imagined the coolness of the gel pads gently vibrating to soothe my beating heart.

My narration went on like that for a few more seconds and I imagined sputtering out to Hillary my thoughtful heart-attacher story. I imagined that the only thing to say in response to something so ridiculous (or in response to any comment made in those excruciating moments, for that matter) was "fuck," so I didn't say anything and kept on sprinting to the end. We crossed that final finish line, everyone high-fived, and after dumping back some powdery water and sliding the top layers back on, we slowly jogged to our respective homes.

Months later, I sit in my physiotherapist's office with a jammed pelvis. I can't run or jump or bike and I miss the folks who are taking laps of the track and piles of post-30k scrambled eggs without me. Since I've been so injured, many people have chuckled at me that, "See? Marathons hurt people! We, as humans, are not meant to run that far!" But I wouldn't trade crossing that Philadelphia finish line with Hillary and Mel and Randy for the world.