feminist blogs

It’s no secret that Florida is an unfriendly environment for its LGBT residents. So it should not come as a surprise that the state is now attempting to censor the portrayal of LGBT people — and other images of “nontraditional family values” — in the media. From The Palm Beach Post: Movies and TV shows with gay [...]

From the Riggs Studio - Part 1

SUZE

Suze  loved her drink and her pills

but she loved her bulimia more

She felt safe to act out her lack of control

behind a locked bathroom door

*********************************

MARRYPOSA

Brewery Bay on wedding day

The world in the palm of my hand

Turned to mad hot ashes slipping through

my fingers like hour glass sand

I frantically tried to reclaim each grain

and count them one by one

But the sun left the sky in the blink of an eye

Leaving us blind, deaf and dumb

********************************

COTTAGE

She was here before me

A pretty girl like Plath

No one talked about her shotgun wedding

or

her shotgun death

Self inflicted ends are not discussed

in homes with  proper speech and  lies

It was easier for them to pretend her away

than admit that she wanted to die

***********************************

ROOT (for J.M.)

How does it feel for you

now

that you are alone in the country of old age and isolation

The seniority of clarity during the hours, minutes and seconds of each day

aware that your caustic hate finger poked and pushed too much

the innocent and gentle

YOU

hit too hard

took it too far

Look at the road behind you now

you are close to your mortal end

The wreckage is heaped on the once empty places in between

where your love is supposed to be

Two wives died to get away from you

and your son overdosed in his bed

But you know that I know that you are the twisted root

the cause of the rot and disease

and when I hear of your longed for demise

your final rolling away

I can’t deny

I’ll smile all day

Vindictive bitch that I am

I won’t mourn your loss of life

I’ll be too busy being  terribly pleased

Reading this nice, short article about the importance of break-up songs written by one of my favorite writers of break-up songs, Thao Nguyen.

Making a zoetrope with my daughter and her daddy.

Meeting a friend for lunch at Big Al’s (if you love veggies, ask for the Sarah Special!) and getting inspired to job-hunt again. I’m also grateful for friends helping me out so much! People are good.

Applying for a State Job! I liked it because I finally found where people who don’t work at Universities and/or non-profits work (or attempt to find work). I saw sooooo many interesting folks whom I immediately wanted to befriend. The life stories I imagined! My favorite was the 77-year-old Supervisor lady with a silver side ponytail and a loose-fitted tweed pantsuit. If I get a job anywhere near her, she better be ready to chat!

Watching a cute, li’l documentary about the crafting and DIY revolution in America.

And FINDING MY CAMERA (!!!) so I can take pictures of stuff and show the pictures to people!

What did you love this week?

Spring

I can take no credit for asking this question or raising this issue. Many people I respect have written about this subject before. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find most of these posts through Google, though I remember that one appeared here. You see, when I first started seeing these posts, my response was [...]

Cartoonist Alison Bechdel is the author and artist of the twenty-seven year running comic strip Dykes to Watch Out For as well as the graphic memoir Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic (2006). Dykes to Watch Our For chronicles the lives of a group of lesbians living in an unnamed all-American college town. The strip is fun [...]

This past weekend I got an email from Josephine Tsui, a Mills and University College London alumna. Josephine and Piyali Bhattacharya have started a web project called Good Girls Marry Doctors, a site for diasporic women from East Asian, South Asian, and other non-Western backgrounds who are working to reconcile their feminism with their family traditions. Josephine and Piyali are putting together an anthology: Retaining Control, Negotiating Roles: South and East Asian Diasporic Women and their Parents, and are looking for submissions. Here’s their call:

Are you a good girl? You know what we mean: you listen to your parents, there’s no gossip about you in the “community.” Or are you a bad girl? Were you caught smoking in high school? Did you marry that white boy against your parents’ wishes?

We ask you to contribute your story to a forthcoming volume: “Mama Says Good Girls Marry Doctors.” This book focuses on the pressures on South and East Asian women who have grown up in North America to be “good girls.” It seeks to collect the stories of such women, and their traumas, victories, and defeats as they face the control that their immigrant parents try to exercise over them in relation to the choice of a partner, or a career, or their freedom. We want to know how negotiating these pressures affects young Asian diasporic women, their relationship to feminism, to their parents and to their partners or siblings.

We do not seek academic essays, but creative non-fiction pieces, narratives, reflections and personal histories and memoirs. You can tell your own story or that of a friend or relative. As Asian women who have experiences such issues ourselves, we want this volume to bring a range of stories out in the open and available to other women who are facing these issues.

More details at their website, and make sure to check out the blog Josephine and Piyali have started.

Josephine kindly notes that she found this post of mine from early 2009 to be particularly helpful: Peer mentoring, young Armenian feminists, and mapping a route out. It was a post of which I was proud at the time, and am happy to say that I’ve had some good success putting young women from that particular culture together to share strategies for negotiating a path to both freedom and cultural preservation. I got some very nasty emails after that post appeared, mostly from young Armenian men (and a few parents) who were incensed at what they saw as a crude assimilationist agenda. (One of the only times I’ve ever received a physical threat serious enough to consider reporting it to campus police came in one of those emails.) I emphasized to them what I emphasized in my post: it’s not cultural betrayal to insist that women’s individual happiness matters. It’s not cultural betrayal to offer support to young women from traditional backgrounds assistance in discerning what of modern feminism they want for their lives — and what they don’t. It’s not ethnocentric to encourage slightly older women who have had some success in mapping a route “out” to mentor younger women who are unsure of the way. If I can quote myself from one of the posts below:

… if feminists can agree on one thing, it’s this: the collective sacrifices of your parents, ancestors, and culture do not trump your own personal right to be happy.

Some related posts of mine:

Some lengthy thoughts on feminism, traditional families, contingent happiness and daring to disappoint

Dating to Disappoint: the Bulworth Solution

Dare to Disappoint: Cheering on Sandra Tsing Loh

“Kindly Remembrance”: of faith, ancestors, and debts to the past; a long post in response to Daisy B.

My BFF Sterlin and I are both from the tiny, rural town of Holdenville, Oklahoma. And we both now live in the thriving metropolis of Tulsa. The difference is that lately he wants to move back to that small town lifestyle. He is happy in Holdenville; he is inspired there. He has almost 100% fond memories of his life there. But me? The thought of living back there makes me queezy and limp in the knees and hyperventilate a little. I mean I love, love, love some things about the country (see my last post). But, I just want to visit Hville, not live there. I never felt completely comfortable there; some of the discomfort was, to be sure, just the universal awkwardness of growing up. But some of it was an indescribable stifling that I blame on my particular small town experience. Anyway, Sterlin and I got to talking about our different experiences of growing up in small town, OK, and here is what was said:

Me:  Okay. We both come from a small town, but you have a much rosier picture of the small town lifestyle than I do. Don’t you?

Sterlin:  Yes. We have very different versions of the same place… I think.

Me: What do you mean?

Sterlin: I mean, we both grew up in the same place and knew some of the same people, yet you could let it get sucked into a hole in the ground whereas I would move there tomorrow.

Me:  Well, I always felt suffocated by the lack of opportunities and by the lack of diversity. Take religion. I mean, there are absolutely no Jews or Buddhists. There are hardly any Catholics. Pentecostals but everyone makes fun of them. I read about different religions and cultures in magazines, but that was it.

Sterlin: I don’t know… I feel like I had a lot of diversity religiously speaking.  My family always held native beliefs and held the traditional ways in high regard.  I spent most of my youth at an Indian Baptist Church (more than one, actually), and I was also an altar boy at my Grandma’s Episcopal church when I stayed the night at her house.  Lighting candles, carrying crosses, and drinking wine.

Me:  Hmmm. I guess my time in a Southern Baptist Church really tarnished my view of the space for freedom of religion. Going to Falls Creek and hearing preachers talk about how abortion was murder and a moral sin then going home where my dad was a doctor and kinda a health nut telling me that, no, an abortion was a medical procedure and a very private ordeal. It was a very conflicted environment for me. Quite uncomfortable, as far as morality, religion, spirituality, and all that goes.

Sterlin:  Yeah, but you were also REALLY into religion for a while.  I feel like me and my friends always held it at a safe distance… just enough to keep us in check but far enough so that we could do what we want.  Yeah, so that reminds me.  All the Indian churches go to a different Falls Creek.  We called it Indian Falls Creek.  But we always wondered what “white Falls Creek” was like. I got my first kiss at Indian falls creek. It was a girl from Weleetka.

Me: You’re the devil. White people didn’t do anything at Falls Creek but worship the Lord. Gaw.

Sterlin: I also had friends that lost their virginity at Indian Falls Creek.

Me: Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! How did you handle that guilt? The guilt that is like ‘Oh, God is watching me, and I might burn in hell or at least seriously disappoint Him for this action that is really just funny kid stuff’?

Sterlin: Didn’t worry about it too much.  It was a badge of honor if you came in late at Falls Creek.  Especially if you had a hickey.  You were talked about for years.  I do remember, though, that it was right when AIDS awareness was huge and I was scared you could get it from kissing.

Me: Do you think, then, that some of your positive small town experiences had something to do with you being Indian, or you being male?

Sterlin:  Yes, for sure Indian. I don’t think being male made a big difference though I’m sure you would disagree.  I, of course, don’t have the perspective of being a girl growing up there.  I mean, on the whole, you have to find people that have your similar interests, which can be hard in a small town.  I think I was lucky.  I also remember you having a lot of fun there.  The Indian thing helped for sure.  It’s just a different way of growing up and relating to people.  My family was my community.  Everyone watched out for each other… entertained each other.  It kind of breaks my heart that a lot of that doesn’t exist back home anymore.  My cousins are gone all over and elders are dying.  It gives me a huge urge to want to be home and to not be a part of that community’s demise… I want to be a part of it’s strength and continuation.

Me:  Gotcha. I think you were lucky, too. I remember you always looked so comfortable socially. So free.

Sterlin:  I love city living. New York City is one of my favorite places in the world but as I get older I feel like the guy standing on my rooftop looking towards the country.  I want chickens.  I don’t want to shop at Whole Foods anymore.

Me:  Whatever, you love Whole Foods, and you wouldn’t know WTF to do with a chicken!

Sterlin:  Yeah, but I’d learn. I would need an internet connection for that, though. And the thing is, my Grandma who raised chickens her whole life is still alive!!! But she lives in Holdenville, and I’d need to be there to learn from her.

Me:  So what do you think about raising a 21st century daughter in a small town? Do you think that you would have to pre-emptively prepare or do some padding or work harder to create a positive environment for her? Or to create healthy, sustainable, and fulfilling opportunities for her?

Sterlin: Yes, I think that you would have to work hard to raise a 21st century daughter in a small town but it’s the same in the city.

Me: ‘Cause she’s gonna grow up and leave us someday and become the 1st Native female President of the US, ya know?

Sterlin:  Yes.

Me:  I’m sure you have a more positive vision of our daughter being in a small town. I tend to think of the problems that could arise like methamphetamines, lack of comprehensive sex-ed, etc.

Sterlin:  The thing about having a kid in a small town… or specifically my hometown is that there are things that a parent can never teach a kid.  I’ll never be able to teach her what my parents can teach her.  I’ll never be able to teach her what her great grandma can teach her.  It’s not like they are having lesson time or anything… it’s just that kids can get a lot from their grandparents by just observing them and being around them.  I think that’s a very Indian way of community.  Not just their grandparents but also their cousins and Aunts and Uncles.  I feel like my Aunts and Uncles are second parents.  I also think that there’s something educational about growing up in the country. When the shit hits the fan and our whole society breaks down I want to be surrounded by people that know how to manage in the woods.  I don’t want to be stuck with lawyers or real estate agents.

Me:  I’m with you on that one.

Sterlin:  For instance, this past hunting season I butchered my first deer.  Now, that’s knowledge that I need to survive.  I also recently learned how to start my own blog… and I’m learning how to use my Wacom tablet and draw in layers on Photoshop.  The last two don’t amount to a hill of beans compared to butchering a deer.

Me:  A hill of beans?

Sterlin: Wouldn’t you agree?

Me:  Yes, but I also think that you can learn those survival skills no matter where you are. That’s what’s so fascinating about urban gardening and farming or all these community gardens around Tulsa or building a garden in my very own backyard. Slowly learning these skills, putting in the manual labor and getting paid in food. THAT’S AWESOME! That’s a survival skill that all of us can do no matter where we live. And no matter if our parents and grandparents are still alive or not. Also, you can raise a few chickens in your own backyard in Tulsa. There’s no ban on backyard chickens here.  And don’t knock beans.

Sterlin: True.  I never trust the soil of the city though.  It’s weird, but I worry what’s in it. Just paranoid.  I love Tulsa but it does rank pretty low as far as environmental health goes.  I guess we just have to plant more trees and make it more like the country… or… I don’t know.  I’ll just move to the country. I’m also paranoid about tap water.

Me: Don’t you remember when the tap water in Holdenville was making people sick?

Sterlin: Yeah, but that’s ’cause the city folk came in and made the water filtration system because in their city, they were polluting the rivers with chemicals. It’s the joys of capitalism: cause a problem and then pay people to maintain it… not fix the problem.

Me: Oh. Thanks for the insight.

Sterlin: There are ups and downs of both the city and the country… I just think that the country suits me.

Me: Well, when you find a place in the country, will you report back and let me know how things are going?

Sterlin: Yes, I’ll bring you eggs fresh from my chicken and milk from my cow.

Me: Will you get our daughter a pony?

Sterlin: Of course.

For more musings from filmmaker, writer, dad, and countree-boyee Mr. Sterlin Harjo, you can check out his new blog (!) here.

Yesterday, the air was cold and clean, drenched in winter sunlight.  My friend Margaret Clark stood at the door greeting people.  She was dressed in hot pink.  We spoke for a few minutes about inconsequential things.  I wasn't in a hurry to go up the stairs, so stepped outside for a moment just as Janette and her son Luke showed up.  We walked back in together.  More and more people began to arrive at 775 Washington Street.  Well dressed people wearing  black; cashmere and leather and silk.  Margaret said, I've been to bar mitzvahs here, and even danced here when it was a nightclub in the early 90's. What is it today, I asked.  Primarily a photography studio, she replied.

Finally I took to the stairs, and then up a cement ramp that curved to the right.  On the landing, a slide show projected onto the large white wall.  Jasmina Anema in all her glory; dressed in gold lame with matching gold sneakers, wearing a two piece bathing suit, laughing and giggling, her long braids, her wide smile.  A six year old girl.  I stepped into the main room flooded with sunlight.  Row upon row of white chairs, and in the front of the room, a little white coffin and two large sprays of roses.  Jasmina's mother, Thea, seated in the front row on one side, on the other side, Jasmina's birth mother and family. 

Jasmina had a fought a year long, much publicized battle with a particularly virulent form of leukemia. Tragically, she lost that battle last Wednesday night.  This was her funeral.  I walked up the aisle, gave my condolences to Thea, and stepped up to the coffin.  There was Jasmina dressed as a fairy princess, the coffin lined with toys and a picture of her with President Obama.  Nothing prepares you for this.  Soon the service started.  Many people spoke, musicians played, two of Jasmina's friends from school sang Twinkle, twinkle little star.  My heart ached for Thea.

I only knew her casually through Margaret, but throughout the years, I heard all the stories, all the adventures of Thea and Jasmina; how they traveled around the world, how Jasmina knew Dutch and Mandarin, their summer house in the Catskills.  Margaret told me the story about how Thea stitched up a mermaid costume when Jasmina had to undergo a painful procedure at the hospital. When I saw them together, I was humbled, they were such a pair, mother and daughter, bonded for life.  The love was palpable. But now it was over.  At one point in the service, a man sang a song about how lonely he was going to be, and suddenly the birth mother burst into tears, inconsolable. 

I thought about how incalculably generous Thea was--- inviting the birth family.  And it was strange to see adults and children who looked so much like Jasmina, but who never really knew her.  Thea reached out to them at some point during Jasmina's illness. They bonded.  I couldn't get over Thea's courage. I thought how strange, sad and even wonderful that there were two mothers at this funeral for a little girl.  Both had, in their own way, lost their child.  But Thea was the true mother who raised her, loved her, and who, day after day, stood by Jasmina's side and never gave up.  She never spent a night alone in the hospital.

There was no religion at this funeral.  No priest.  No 23rd Psalm.  No drive to the cemetery.  Instead in a photography studio flooded with late winter sunlight, a mother and her community grieved the loss of a remarkable and beautiful little girl.  My heart is still breaking.