Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Keeping up appearances
Crap, someone has linked to my blog. Now I suppose I'll have to post stuff so as not to embarrass her.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Father's Day
My mother died in mid-July of 1971. In the Spring of 1972, I was sent to California to live with her brother and his family. At some point between those two times, I think probably the Fall of '71, my father signed custody of me and my brothers over to my grandmother. I remember it very, very, vaguely, but I know I was there. My brother John was, too. We can't remember whether George was. And we both remember that Papa asked us whether we wanted him to sign.
At the time, I was almost or just turned 11, but precocious by nature and prematurely aged by loss. I knew that taking custody of us was something my father would never have done, wasn't capable of doing, didn't really want to do, although I think he probably wanted to want to. Frankly, while I did feel rejected, I rejected him, too: I'd spent the night at his apartment a few times, both with and without my brothers, and I knew that any life he could have provided wouldn't have been very comfortable.
But I wished so hard that none of that were true, that he was like the men in movies or on TV – Eddie's Father, or Uncle Bill – who would take care of children and make them feel safe, the kind of man who could actually parent the children he fathered. I hated knowing what I knew, and I hated my father a little for making me know it. So I said, “Yes, Papa, you should sign it,” when what I really wanted to say, at some level I wasn’t even aware of, was, “No, Dad, I want you to put down the martini, grow a spine, and be my father.” I think both of us probably wished for that, but it never happened.
I still loved him, though: he was my dad, and the only parent I had left. I knew he loved me, too, in his way, which was warm if not particularly solid, affectionate if not reliable. It was, really, the love of a child: immediate, and heartfelt, and sweet, but not to be depended on. Dependable or not, though, it was the only unconditional love for me I knew of, aside from my grandmother's, and I returned it. And I’ll definitely give him this, he told me a million times how much he loved me and how proud of me he was. If only he could have matched his actions to his words, he’d have been the best father ever.
I’ve always said that my relationship to my father was like that of an innocent bystander to a five-car pile-up who gets hit by flying glass: I got badly hurt, but it wasn’t about me. If my father could have destroyed himself without hurting me, he would have. But he had drinking to do, and finally nothing ever got in the way of that. Eleven years later, after the second of a series of three massive coronaries, he told me, “The doctor said, ‘Jack, if you don’t quit drinking and smoking, you’re going to die.’ And I said, ‘Doctor, if I can’t drink and smoke, I don’t want to live.’”
He got his wish. The third one killed him. Oh, Papa.
At the time, I was almost or just turned 11, but precocious by nature and prematurely aged by loss. I knew that taking custody of us was something my father would never have done, wasn't capable of doing, didn't really want to do, although I think he probably wanted to want to. Frankly, while I did feel rejected, I rejected him, too: I'd spent the night at his apartment a few times, both with and without my brothers, and I knew that any life he could have provided wouldn't have been very comfortable.
But I wished so hard that none of that were true, that he was like the men in movies or on TV – Eddie's Father, or Uncle Bill – who would take care of children and make them feel safe, the kind of man who could actually parent the children he fathered. I hated knowing what I knew, and I hated my father a little for making me know it. So I said, “Yes, Papa, you should sign it,” when what I really wanted to say, at some level I wasn’t even aware of, was, “No, Dad, I want you to put down the martini, grow a spine, and be my father.” I think both of us probably wished for that, but it never happened.
I still loved him, though: he was my dad, and the only parent I had left. I knew he loved me, too, in his way, which was warm if not particularly solid, affectionate if not reliable. It was, really, the love of a child: immediate, and heartfelt, and sweet, but not to be depended on. Dependable or not, though, it was the only unconditional love for me I knew of, aside from my grandmother's, and I returned it. And I’ll definitely give him this, he told me a million times how much he loved me and how proud of me he was. If only he could have matched his actions to his words, he’d have been the best father ever.
I’ve always said that my relationship to my father was like that of an innocent bystander to a five-car pile-up who gets hit by flying glass: I got badly hurt, but it wasn’t about me. If my father could have destroyed himself without hurting me, he would have. But he had drinking to do, and finally nothing ever got in the way of that. Eleven years later, after the second of a series of three massive coronaries, he told me, “The doctor said, ‘Jack, if you don’t quit drinking and smoking, you’re going to die.’ And I said, ‘Doctor, if I can’t drink and smoke, I don’t want to live.’”
He got his wish. The third one killed him. Oh, Papa.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
This made me cry, and gave me hope
Look at this girl. Look at how she doesn't question her right to do what the boys do, as well or better than they do. Look how proud both her parents are of her, and how adamantly they both stand up for her. Look at how she admires and respects her female heros (sorry, heroine just doesn't work for me somehow, it's too much like "heroette"), and honors them even as she hopes to surpass them.
Yes, there's opposition to her playing, and that's a bit disheartening. On the other hand, it's so plain in this instance that not allowing girls to play with boys is about the protection of the boys' fragile egos, rather than the girls' safety, that I think it will make even people with no feminist agenda think about how unfair that is, and maybe even about how crazy the whole gender set-up is.
Because look at the boy at 1:31 into the tape. He's not threatened by her, he's proud of her, of her "greatness", which he says makes him a better player. He doesn't need her to limit herself to protect some sense of gender superiority he's supposedly got to have in order to feel good about himself. He clearly feels fine about himself, and about his awesome female teammate, even if she can run rings around him.
This is progress. It's not enough, of course, and it won't be enough for some time yet, but I have to believe we are getting somewhere, and that it's important to see and to celebrate that. Girls like this, and boys like this, with support like this, will change the world. I believe that.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Self-Plagiarism
I'm "re-purposing" this comment I just made on my fabulous friend Joan Kelly's blog to be an entry on my own, because I love this story. I mean, it's my story about my life, but I'm allowed to love it, right?
Another comment on the blog reminded me of when I was working at the strip joint in Boston (lo these many, many years ago) and this bachelor party of Harvard guys came in. I don’t know how their college affiliation came up, except the general fact that Harvard men think the sun shines out their ass and that everyone must be terrifically impressed by their prestigious alma mater that their dad probably bought them into anyway. But I digress.
So I’m trying to get one of them to buy me a drink, as that was pretty much my job description at the time (I graduated to dancing a bit later), and thinking this will get me some traction, I say, “Oh, well I go to Wellesley.” Which was perfectly true, except that I was taking time off for what one of my friends on the faculty referred to as my “Junior Year *as* a Broad”. The guy’s response was hilarious. He totally didn’t believe me, because anyone who was working there was clearly an entirely different species from a woman who might occupy his rarefied world. So he quizzes me about different places on the Wellesley campus, who’s the President, la la la, all of which I of course pass with flying colors as I am indeed a proud Seven Sisters student.
When he finally managed to convince himself that I was, shockingly, a member of his social class come to some horrible and disgraceful pass, he became very concerned, and started lecturing me on my life choices. “Where will you be in 10 years?” he asked me. “Search me,” I replied. I did in the end get him to buy me an overpriced cocktail, which was all I cared about.
Now I wish I could tell him, “Well, after 27 years, I’m still laughing at you, you pompous ass.”
Another comment on the blog reminded me of when I was working at the strip joint in Boston (lo these many, many years ago) and this bachelor party of Harvard guys came in. I don’t know how their college affiliation came up, except the general fact that Harvard men think the sun shines out their ass and that everyone must be terrifically impressed by their prestigious alma mater that their dad probably bought them into anyway. But I digress.
So I’m trying to get one of them to buy me a drink, as that was pretty much my job description at the time (I graduated to dancing a bit later), and thinking this will get me some traction, I say, “Oh, well I go to Wellesley.” Which was perfectly true, except that I was taking time off for what one of my friends on the faculty referred to as my “Junior Year *as* a Broad”. The guy’s response was hilarious. He totally didn’t believe me, because anyone who was working there was clearly an entirely different species from a woman who might occupy his rarefied world. So he quizzes me about different places on the Wellesley campus, who’s the President, la la la, all of which I of course pass with flying colors as I am indeed a proud Seven Sisters student.
When he finally managed to convince himself that I was, shockingly, a member of his social class come to some horrible and disgraceful pass, he became very concerned, and started lecturing me on my life choices. “Where will you be in 10 years?” he asked me. “Search me,” I replied. I did in the end get him to buy me an overpriced cocktail, which was all I cared about.
Now I wish I could tell him, “Well, after 27 years, I’m still laughing at you, you pompous ass.”
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Gamut
On the one hand, hoo-fuckin'-ray! I'm so proud today that the two states in which I've spent most of my life are Massachusetts and California. It's very true that the fight is far from over, but this is cause for celebration, particularly as it's given our dear Governor Schwarzenegger a face-saving way to stop being a traitorous dickhead.
On the other one, Uh-oh. The DSM V, the new revision of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association, is now in the works, and section on Gender Identity Disorders is up for revision. In and of itself, this isn't a problem; in fact, it might have been a very good thing, in many people's view. But anyone who listened to this two-part series on NPR on three families and their choices on how to deal with their transgendered children -- and has a functioning heart and brain -- knows that Dr. Kenneth Zucker is probably the worst possible choice the APA could have made to be in charge of the panel overseeing the revisions. I'm horrified for the profession I'm about to enter that this man would be considered to play this role. And I'm particularly horrified for the transgendered and intersexed children whose lives are warped and made hellish by this kind of "expertise". I know I'll be making my voice heard; I hope others will, too.
On the other one, Uh-oh. The DSM V, the new revision of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association, is now in the works, and section on Gender Identity Disorders is up for revision. In and of itself, this isn't a problem; in fact, it might have been a very good thing, in many people's view. But anyone who listened to this two-part series on NPR on three families and their choices on how to deal with their transgendered children -- and has a functioning heart and brain -- knows that Dr. Kenneth Zucker is probably the worst possible choice the APA could have made to be in charge of the panel overseeing the revisions. I'm horrified for the profession I'm about to enter that this man would be considered to play this role. And I'm particularly horrified for the transgendered and intersexed children whose lives are warped and made hellish by this kind of "expertise". I know I'll be making my voice heard; I hope others will, too.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Confusion
I just re-read the "Allies Talking" post, and realized I'd misremembered what it really calls for. I guess this is because my heart went out so much to women of color when I was reading up on the controversies and threads that had brought that post about, that what I wanted most to do was just be there to listen to them, to add my voice to theirs in saying how fucked up all of that was.
But no, what it's asking for is for allies to talk to each other about how to help people who come from our same backgrounds wake up and examine and get rid of their own garbage. I don't know that I'm very good at this myself; I get so mad, because it's hard for me to recognize that sometimes people really don't see what they're thinking and doing, don't see how dishonest and hypocritical they seem to me to be.
Particularly if they're my age or older (I'm 47), I think, "You were alive in the 60s and 70s. Were you in a cocoon, did you not see what was being done to people, do you not realize it was in the service of keeping you on top of the pile, or as close to the top as the combination of the dominant hierarchy and your personal configuration (sex, race, class, gender identity, sexual preference, et al.) allows you to be? Much less what still goes on, the vast inequities in opportunity, the battening of the prison-industrial complex on POC, the balancing the budget on the backs of the poor -- how can you not feel slimed by that, how can you not want to acknowledge and denounce and destroy that? And for god's sake, if you're supposedly a feminist, how can you have the audacity to tell people who've experienced forms of oppression you have no clue about what their priorities should be? What would you do to a man who tried that with you?"
But people get tunnel-vision. They feel overwhelmed or at least consumed by their own lives, and particularly if they've never been outside the bubble of their privilege (and if we're talking about upper class privilege, that's a very sturdy bubble), then without intending to be or to do evil, maybe even with the intention to be and to do good, they can become very lazy and unimaginative in their thinking. They can forget to do any kind of check of what they see against what it might look like from another perspective. They can forget that there are other perspectives. It's one of the main things privilege allows you to do, after all, so it's an ingeniously self-sustaining system.
I think I get the most mileage out of using myself as an illustration. I'm someone who made quite a few mistakes as a young woman. I drank, I did drugs, I was highly unwise in a number of ways. But because of my skin privilege and my class background, the only suffering I did for it was emotional. I didn't get arrested, didn't go to jail, didn't come anywhere near all the kinds of consequences that can attend the exact same behavior if you didn't go to a Seven Sisters school and have judges and lawyers in your family tree. Because when most people in this society look at me, I don't look like a criminal to them, even as I'm in the process of committing a crime. No, in the socially-constructed photo album that's being pounded into us by the surrounding culture 24/7, criminals look like poor people, people of color, deviants -- not like me. I was just a nice girl with some problems.
If I can get it to that level, if I can start making people think about the fact that you don't have to want to be a racist to have racist thoughts, and that you don't have to want to be a racist to benefit from racism -- in fact that you can hate racism passionately and still catch yourself making assumptions based on race that are bogus and condescending, and getting big bow-tied presents from a system that gives you unfair advantages whether you want them or not -- then sometimes things can proceed.
I liken it to shopping at a store with fantastic low prices, and then finding out that it's a kind of price club that only people who look like you can join, and that the prices are low because all the goods are stolen from people who don't look like you. At that point, no, it's not your fault that the set-up is so corrupt and godawful -- you didn't make the rules, and you didn't steal the goods. But if you keep shopping at that store and pretending everything's okay and you have every right to shop there, then, well, yeah, you're an opportunist and a racist, and don't expect any sympathy from me if people call you on it.
But no, what it's asking for is for allies to talk to each other about how to help people who come from our same backgrounds wake up and examine and get rid of their own garbage. I don't know that I'm very good at this myself; I get so mad, because it's hard for me to recognize that sometimes people really don't see what they're thinking and doing, don't see how dishonest and hypocritical they seem to me to be.
Particularly if they're my age or older (I'm 47), I think, "You were alive in the 60s and 70s. Were you in a cocoon, did you not see what was being done to people, do you not realize it was in the service of keeping you on top of the pile, or as close to the top as the combination of the dominant hierarchy and your personal configuration (sex, race, class, gender identity, sexual preference, et al.) allows you to be? Much less what still goes on, the vast inequities in opportunity, the battening of the prison-industrial complex on POC, the balancing the budget on the backs of the poor -- how can you not feel slimed by that, how can you not want to acknowledge and denounce and destroy that? And for god's sake, if you're supposedly a feminist, how can you have the audacity to tell people who've experienced forms of oppression you have no clue about what their priorities should be? What would you do to a man who tried that with you?"
But people get tunnel-vision. They feel overwhelmed or at least consumed by their own lives, and particularly if they've never been outside the bubble of their privilege (and if we're talking about upper class privilege, that's a very sturdy bubble), then without intending to be or to do evil, maybe even with the intention to be and to do good, they can become very lazy and unimaginative in their thinking. They can forget to do any kind of check of what they see against what it might look like from another perspective. They can forget that there are other perspectives. It's one of the main things privilege allows you to do, after all, so it's an ingeniously self-sustaining system.
I think I get the most mileage out of using myself as an illustration. I'm someone who made quite a few mistakes as a young woman. I drank, I did drugs, I was highly unwise in a number of ways. But because of my skin privilege and my class background, the only suffering I did for it was emotional. I didn't get arrested, didn't go to jail, didn't come anywhere near all the kinds of consequences that can attend the exact same behavior if you didn't go to a Seven Sisters school and have judges and lawyers in your family tree. Because when most people in this society look at me, I don't look like a criminal to them, even as I'm in the process of committing a crime. No, in the socially-constructed photo album that's being pounded into us by the surrounding culture 24/7, criminals look like poor people, people of color, deviants -- not like me. I was just a nice girl with some problems.
If I can get it to that level, if I can start making people think about the fact that you don't have to want to be a racist to have racist thoughts, and that you don't have to want to be a racist to benefit from racism -- in fact that you can hate racism passionately and still catch yourself making assumptions based on race that are bogus and condescending, and getting big bow-tied presents from a system that gives you unfair advantages whether you want them or not -- then sometimes things can proceed.
I liken it to shopping at a store with fantastic low prices, and then finding out that it's a kind of price club that only people who look like you can join, and that the prices are low because all the goods are stolen from people who don't look like you. At that point, no, it's not your fault that the set-up is so corrupt and godawful -- you didn't make the rules, and you didn't steal the goods. But if you keep shopping at that store and pretending everything's okay and you have every right to shop there, then, well, yeah, you're an opportunist and a racist, and don't expect any sympathy from me if people call you on it.
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