This may or may not be a series, if people continue to be redonkulous. These are some bizarre things that have been said to me or in my hearing recently.
Animal rights groups (emphasis mine) and middle easterners are the people discriminated against these days.
Ok. What?
First of all, let's get rid of this idea that anyone who is "different" from the "norm" (read: straight, cis, white, presently-abled, young, etc) is NOT facing discrimination every. single. f-ing. day.
Secondly, animal rights groups? Really? You mean, these people? The same people who were racist, fat-shaming douchebags to Aretha Franklin? The same people who compared owning a pet to the horrific murder, rape, degradation and enslavement of millions of people for centuries?
Discrimination against fat people also, insert gay people, women and smokers is the last acceptable form of discrimination.
Listen. Nothing is the new racism-against-black-people. Black people still have to deal with racism every single day.
Secondly, why are "black people" and "women" always two separate categories? Do you mean to tell me that people who tick off both the "woman" and "black" boxes on their census forms are nonexistent, like unicorns? Are you telling me that Angela Davis, Renee of Womanist Musings, Gabi of Young, Fat and Fabulous, Latoya Peterson of Racialicious- these African-American Woman-people are imaginary?
Hmm.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Dear Governor Jan Brewer;
I lived next door to illegal immigrants for a short while. Know what they looked like?
Well, they were white Canadians on expired student visas.
...but of course, the police are gonna be on the case of people like that.
Well, they were white Canadians on expired student visas.
...but of course, the police are gonna be on the case of people like that.
Babakiueria- Watch this film!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Read this book! #2
Good afternoon, everyone! *squints into the empty theater* Hi, reader. Thanks for coming.
I just want to tell you about this fabulous book I finished reading! What is it?, you say? No? You just have to pee? Ok, go ahead. I'll just talk to myself here.
Anyway, here it is: The Untelling. This is the kind of book that you finish and sigh. If you're me, you put down yourapple enormous chocolate-chip cookie and close your eyes. Tayari Jones doesn't leave anything unsaid, but you still want there to be more book there. Maybe it's because Aria is so much like so many of us; imperfect. Hard on herself. Fallible. Sometimes, weak. Get yourself a nice tall glass of iced tea and settle in with this one. You're not going to want to stop reading.
Speaking of books that make you seriously consider only working on your legs since barbells make you have to put the book down, here's another one I read recently: Wench, by Dolen Perkins-Valdez (Powell's thinks she's just Dole- she's not). Wench is Perkins-Valdez's first novel, and takes place at a resort in free Ohio during slavery times that was visited by white men and their black mistresses. I wish there was another word I could use here that takes into consideration the complicated relationship a "favored slave" could have with a man with whom she had no choice but to sleep with- in any case, this book is amazing, and heart-wrenching, and you should read it.
I just want to tell you about this fabulous book I finished reading! What is it?, you say? No? You just have to pee? Ok, go ahead. I'll just talk to myself here.
Anyway, here it is: The Untelling. This is the kind of book that you finish and sigh. If you're me, you put down your
Speaking of books that make you seriously consider only working on your legs since barbells make you have to put the book down, here's another one I read recently: Wench, by Dolen Perkins-Valdez (Powell's thinks she's just Dole- she's not). Wench is Perkins-Valdez's first novel, and takes place at a resort in free Ohio during slavery times that was visited by white men and their black mistresses. I wish there was another word I could use here that takes into consideration the complicated relationship a "favored slave" could have with a man with whom she had no choice but to sleep with- in any case, this book is amazing, and heart-wrenching, and you should read it.
Monday, April 12, 2010
what privilege looks like
I arrived at the Philadelphia airport at approximately 5:30 AM for a flight at 7:10 AM and checked in at the terminal. A young African-American woman was attempting to check in next to me. After a few tries, she tapped me lightly to get my attention.
"Excuse me, do you know how to use this?"
"I'm doing the same thing you're doing," I replied dubiously, but then I looked over at her screen. She was attempting to check a bag. TOO CLOSE TO FLIGHT TO CHECK BAGS, read her screen. "When's your flight?" I asked her, alarmed.
"6:15."
"You should definitely ask an attendant to check your bag manually."
We've all been there, in some capacity. At least, any of us who fly from one place to another on occasion. Certainly you want to be there two hours before your flight, but life happens. Sleep happens. Traffic, and rental-car trainees happen. Getting lost happens. And really, it wasn't too long ago that the only people who were consistently at the airport an hour ahead of their flights were the anal-retentive types. Now, you could spend an hour in security alone.
I finished checking in, watching her try unsuccessfully to get the attention of the airline employee, a middle-aged white woman, for a good five minutes. This employee, who was having a leisurely conversation with an older white woman, did not even make eye contact with the young lady beside me. There was not even an impatient, eye-rolling, "I'll be right WITH you."
Nothing. My fellow traveler might as well have been invisible.
I gathered my bags, printed my receipt, and strode over to the airline employee, who was roughly two feet away from me (in other words, there is no way she could have simply not seen or heard the young lady trying quite politely to get her attention through words and hand gestures. "Excuse me," said I in my best imperious voice. This tone, which I learned from my mother, is polite and firm. It says, 'I am an important white lady and you will acknowledge me NOW.'
Naturally, she looked up and met my gaze head-on. "Yes?"
"This young lady is having difficulty checking her bags. Can you please help her?"
And then I stood there until she walked over there and started talking to the lady in question.
Then, I went through the security line.
As a fat (but not TOO fat), young, able-bodied, cisgendered, US-citizenship-having, white person travelling alone,
I was not subjected to a random luggage search.
No one detained me and asked me why I was travelling and what I was planning to do.
No one reported me as a potential terrorist, or asked me to get off the plane. Everyone smiled at me, called me 'dear', and wished me well.
My seatmates sighed and groaned about having to sit next to my fatness, but I was not asked to buy a second seat as the armrest went down and the seatbelt fit me.
I did not have to worry about being asked to remove braces or go through security in pain and agony, as I could walk all by myself.
I did not have to worry about being unable to take essential medication for several hours, as I am not currently taking any medications.
I did not have to suffer the humiliations of being grilled about having been born with a different name than the name I carry now.
I did not have to present several forms of ID. My driver's license was just fine.
There are things I did not have to worry about that I do not even KNOW about, as I am a person of privilege.
The face of privilege is MY face.
We with privileges have three choices.
One: we can simply lament our privilege, and yet still benefit from it.
Two: we can fail to acknowledge our privilege, and yet still reap its bounty.
Three, and this is my choice: we can acknowledge that our privilege is like an extra twenty dollars in our pockets every day, and we can use those extra monies to benefit those who don't get paid.
What does this mean?
Speak up for others.
Don't choose comfort over what is right.
Allow people who do not have your privilege to tell you when you have spoken with the voice of privilege. Take your medicine, and let it make you better.
EDIT, 2:38 PM:
Here is another very different account of air travel by a person with a disability. Part of privilege is the assumption that everyone gets treated with respect, and that if they do not, it is their fault. Let us not make such assumptions.
"Excuse me, do you know how to use this?"
"I'm doing the same thing you're doing," I replied dubiously, but then I looked over at her screen. She was attempting to check a bag. TOO CLOSE TO FLIGHT TO CHECK BAGS, read her screen. "When's your flight?" I asked her, alarmed.
"6:15."
"You should definitely ask an attendant to check your bag manually."
We've all been there, in some capacity. At least, any of us who fly from one place to another on occasion. Certainly you want to be there two hours before your flight, but life happens. Sleep happens. Traffic, and rental-car trainees happen. Getting lost happens. And really, it wasn't too long ago that the only people who were consistently at the airport an hour ahead of their flights were the anal-retentive types. Now, you could spend an hour in security alone.
I finished checking in, watching her try unsuccessfully to get the attention of the airline employee, a middle-aged white woman, for a good five minutes. This employee, who was having a leisurely conversation with an older white woman, did not even make eye contact with the young lady beside me. There was not even an impatient, eye-rolling, "I'll be right WITH you."
Nothing. My fellow traveler might as well have been invisible.
I gathered my bags, printed my receipt, and strode over to the airline employee, who was roughly two feet away from me (in other words, there is no way she could have simply not seen or heard the young lady trying quite politely to get her attention through words and hand gestures. "Excuse me," said I in my best imperious voice. This tone, which I learned from my mother, is polite and firm. It says, 'I am an important white lady and you will acknowledge me NOW.'
Naturally, she looked up and met my gaze head-on. "Yes?"
"This young lady is having difficulty checking her bags. Can you please help her?"
And then I stood there until she walked over there and started talking to the lady in question.
Then, I went through the security line.
As a fat (but not TOO fat), young, able-bodied, cisgendered, US-citizenship-having, white person travelling alone,
I was not subjected to a random luggage search.
No one detained me and asked me why I was travelling and what I was planning to do.
No one reported me as a potential terrorist, or asked me to get off the plane. Everyone smiled at me, called me 'dear', and wished me well.
My seatmates sighed and groaned about having to sit next to my fatness, but I was not asked to buy a second seat as the armrest went down and the seatbelt fit me.
I did not have to worry about being asked to remove braces or go through security in pain and agony, as I could walk all by myself.
I did not have to worry about being unable to take essential medication for several hours, as I am not currently taking any medications.
I did not have to suffer the humiliations of being grilled about having been born with a different name than the name I carry now.
I did not have to present several forms of ID. My driver's license was just fine.
There are things I did not have to worry about that I do not even KNOW about, as I am a person of privilege.
The face of privilege is MY face.
We with privileges have three choices.
One: we can simply lament our privilege, and yet still benefit from it.
Two: we can fail to acknowledge our privilege, and yet still reap its bounty.
Three, and this is my choice: we can acknowledge that our privilege is like an extra twenty dollars in our pockets every day, and we can use those extra monies to benefit those who don't get paid.
What does this mean?
Speak up for others.
Don't choose comfort over what is right.
Allow people who do not have your privilege to tell you when you have spoken with the voice of privilege. Take your medicine, and let it make you better.
EDIT, 2:38 PM:
Here is another very different account of air travel by a person with a disability. Part of privilege is the assumption that everyone gets treated with respect, and that if they do not, it is their fault. Let us not make such assumptions.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Colored Girls are People, Too
I've been reading the comment thread over here for a day or two, now, and I've had enough, I think.
When defining a "classic" work of literature, people, most especially man people, often toss off things like "universal appeal" and "overarching themes" and "human experience."
In the thread I linked to, a commenter named Michael Cronin commented that:
-=-
Just a few weeks ago, the category of Best Director was triumphed over by a woman for the first time ever. There has still never been a black Best Director, but that's another story. The picture that Kathryn Bigelow won for was a gritty war drama. Its stars were men.
I am not going to say that it wasn't a good movie. I have not seen it yet, but there is not a single person I have spoken to who did not say it was a wonderful movie. Real. Gritty. Emotionally appealing but not sappy. And then, there comes that word: universal.
See, I have a private theory that Ms. Bigelow would not even be a contender for best director had that movie she made been about women, even women at war. Sure, you argue, but Precious got nominated and so did its director! Well, you see, men are allowed to make movies about lady stuff. Women, on the other hand, have to constantly fight for their movies to be considered serious business. I have no doubt that if Ms. Bigelow made a wonderful, emotionally jarring film about women in combat, that it would be praised and praised and-
relegated to "niche" status. Or maybe my favorite, "cult classic". Which cult, exactly? The cult of people who think that women are important, too?
Yeah, right, you scoff. Women directors are always making schmaltzy movies about romance! Nia Vardalos had to fight to keep the star of her comedy, "My Life In Ruins" female. Of course, this comedy about a post-twenties loser-type who has a journey of self discovery and eventually finds love is a movie for the ladies, only, amiright? Let's call it a fluffy rom-com! Let's compare it to Mamma Mia, which it totally resembles because it is about ladies! (One should never compare Mamma Mia, a movie based on Abba songs, with a movie like Across the Universe, a movie based on Beatles songs, because it is about a man! And the lady who does not understand!)
-=-
I suppose that it should come to no one's surprise that women are not considered people.
If we were, then the idea of using the right to have a clean, safe, legal abortion would not be debated and discarded by representatives elected by the people and allegedly working for the people. If we were to be considered people, male hormonal birth control would have come out years ago. Maternity and paternity care would be sufficient, paid, and enforced by law. Rape victims wouldn't have to prove, in court and in society, that they weren't raped due to their own negligence/suggestion/past sexual behavior. Campus safety guides would instruct would-be rapists on how not to rape someone instead of discussing pepper spray and the buddy system with women. If women were people, male and lesbian female domestic violence survivors would not be laughed out of the police stations, and their claims would be seriously considered by the law and their peers. If women were people, we would be equally represented in both government and media sources. We wouldn't have to work twice as hard for half of the recognition. Women's health services like STD screening and pap smears and birth control would be fully funded via insurance, and pregnant women would never have to worry about their babies being delivered via a C-Section they did not consent to.
And the debate over whether to include a beautiful, heartwrenching, revolutionary work written by a woman of color in which she invented a new genre (!) the choreopoem, containing universal topics and themes-
sex, love, loneliness, suffering, bad relationships, strength, pregnancy, doubt, rape- the themes are many and yes they are absolutely universal.
The fact of the matter is that in the 70's, when this work was created, women of color were routinely denied humanity on the basis of both gender and color.
And today, in 2010?
Not too terribly much has changed for WOC.
The fact that this choreopoem has as much power today (and is as solidly controversial) as it did at its first production leaves only one possibility:
For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf is as much a classic as that much lauded novel about a mysterious millionaire named Gatsby.
When defining a "classic" work of literature, people, most especially man people, often toss off things like "universal appeal" and "overarching themes" and "human experience."
In the thread I linked to, a commenter named Michael Cronin commented that:
"I couldn't really tell you if its a classic or not. It never moved me, but it wasn't really written for me anyway. What I do remember is coming home from elementary school in the late 70s and catching my mother/single parent sitting on the floor with a copy in her hand crying her eyes out. Its pretty safe for me to say she considered it important. My daughter recently read it and her only comment afterwards was "I don't wanna talk about it."Further down, a commenter named Msladydeborah adds that:
"I am from the generation of Black women who supported For Colored Girls. Do I think it could be deemed a "classic" play. Yes. Why? Because at this particular time our voice as WOC was not being heard in this manner. No one was talking about our lives and the different changes that we went through during our twenties. These were sistas that I could relate to. There are moments in this play that I know about because I have lived through them."
-=-
Just a few weeks ago, the category of Best Director was triumphed over by a woman for the first time ever. There has still never been a black Best Director, but that's another story. The picture that Kathryn Bigelow won for was a gritty war drama. Its stars were men.
I am not going to say that it wasn't a good movie. I have not seen it yet, but there is not a single person I have spoken to who did not say it was a wonderful movie. Real. Gritty. Emotionally appealing but not sappy. And then, there comes that word: universal.
See, I have a private theory that Ms. Bigelow would not even be a contender for best director had that movie she made been about women, even women at war. Sure, you argue, but Precious got nominated and so did its director! Well, you see, men are allowed to make movies about lady stuff. Women, on the other hand, have to constantly fight for their movies to be considered serious business. I have no doubt that if Ms. Bigelow made a wonderful, emotionally jarring film about women in combat, that it would be praised and praised and-
relegated to "niche" status. Or maybe my favorite, "cult classic". Which cult, exactly? The cult of people who think that women are important, too?
Yeah, right, you scoff. Women directors are always making schmaltzy movies about romance! Nia Vardalos had to fight to keep the star of her comedy, "My Life In Ruins" female. Of course, this comedy about a post-twenties loser-type who has a journey of self discovery and eventually finds love is a movie for the ladies, only, amiright? Let's call it a fluffy rom-com! Let's compare it to Mamma Mia, which it totally resembles because it is about ladies! (One should never compare Mamma Mia, a movie based on Abba songs, with a movie like Across the Universe, a movie based on Beatles songs, because it is about a man! And the lady who does not understand!)
-=-
I suppose that it should come to no one's surprise that women are not considered people.
If we were, then the idea of using the right to have a clean, safe, legal abortion would not be debated and discarded by representatives elected by the people and allegedly working for the people. If we were to be considered people, male hormonal birth control would have come out years ago. Maternity and paternity care would be sufficient, paid, and enforced by law. Rape victims wouldn't have to prove, in court and in society, that they weren't raped due to their own negligence/suggestion/past sexual behavior. Campus safety guides would instruct would-be rapists on how not to rape someone instead of discussing pepper spray and the buddy system with women. If women were people, male and lesbian female domestic violence survivors would not be laughed out of the police stations, and their claims would be seriously considered by the law and their peers. If women were people, we would be equally represented in both government and media sources. We wouldn't have to work twice as hard for half of the recognition. Women's health services like STD screening and pap smears and birth control would be fully funded via insurance, and pregnant women would never have to worry about their babies being delivered via a C-Section they did not consent to.
And the debate over whether to include a beautiful, heartwrenching, revolutionary work written by a woman of color in which she invented a new genre (!) the choreopoem, containing universal topics and themes-
sex, love, loneliness, suffering, bad relationships, strength, pregnancy, doubt, rape- the themes are many and yes they are absolutely universal.
The fact of the matter is that in the 70's, when this work was created, women of color were routinely denied humanity on the basis of both gender and color.
And today, in 2010?
Not too terribly much has changed for WOC.
The fact that this choreopoem has as much power today (and is as solidly controversial) as it did at its first production leaves only one possibility:
For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf is as much a classic as that much lauded novel about a mysterious millionaire named Gatsby.
Monday, February 22, 2010
On the street
Today, I spoke with four strangers.
To one, over the phone, I unloaded my entire f-ed up recent personal history and bad feelings. It was a phone interview for a sliding scale therapy clinic, and as far as I understand, I have my first appointment tonight.
To the second, I spoke via Chatroulette for approximately 20 minutes. We got disconnected after a while, but he was a 20 year old German student and we had actually a great conversation about English, nudists, mishaps and clumsy people, which we are. Also, about the beauty inherent in making mistakes.
The third was on the bus. I told him I was engaged but if he wants to be friends he can call me. Stupid? Sure. However- I'm trying to move past being a shut-in, and he builds model trains as a hobby.
Crossing the street to the library, I spoke to a fourth. She spoke to me, actually. I believe she was telling me that if I was 100 pounds, I'd look better in my current outfit (which, I lament, is a dress and black velour yoga pants). Honey- if I was 100 pounds and decided to wear my bra and some spanx as outerwear, the whole of society would approve. As it happens, I'm over 200 pounds- and I leave the house anyway, as a matter of course.
Oh, hey, people on the street? I am a fat lady. Bein' fat. Sometimes, while being fat I do such things as walk, talk, laugh, sit, read, ride the bus, ride the train, and eat. I know, right? Pretty f'ing scandalous. In any way, I just want to assure you that I AM aware that I am fat, am also aware that I would look more like a supermodel if I was skinnier, and I still continue to exist. Plan to exist for as long as possible, really. And I may always be fat.
To one, over the phone, I unloaded my entire f-ed up recent personal history and bad feelings. It was a phone interview for a sliding scale therapy clinic, and as far as I understand, I have my first appointment tonight.
To the second, I spoke via Chatroulette for approximately 20 minutes. We got disconnected after a while, but he was a 20 year old German student and we had actually a great conversation about English, nudists, mishaps and clumsy people, which we are. Also, about the beauty inherent in making mistakes.
The third was on the bus. I told him I was engaged but if he wants to be friends he can call me. Stupid? Sure. However- I'm trying to move past being a shut-in, and he builds model trains as a hobby.
Crossing the street to the library, I spoke to a fourth. She spoke to me, actually. I believe she was telling me that if I was 100 pounds, I'd look better in my current outfit (which, I lament, is a dress and black velour yoga pants). Honey- if I was 100 pounds and decided to wear my bra and some spanx as outerwear, the whole of society would approve. As it happens, I'm over 200 pounds- and I leave the house anyway, as a matter of course.
Oh, hey, people on the street? I am a fat lady. Bein' fat. Sometimes, while being fat I do such things as walk, talk, laugh, sit, read, ride the bus, ride the train, and eat. I know, right? Pretty f'ing scandalous. In any way, I just want to assure you that I AM aware that I am fat, am also aware that I would look more like a supermodel if I was skinnier, and I still continue to exist. Plan to exist for as long as possible, really. And I may always be fat.
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