I just finished reading "Bastard Out of Carolina." If you are a sensitive, "Woman's Day" kind of person, I wouldn't delve into this novel. If you like grit in your teeth, hair and heart, this is a book for you.
This is where the spoiler alert would go, but I ain't giving up the ghost. Suffice it to say, this novel touches on all things dear to my little black heart; broken men, strong women, poverty, young motherhood, peach moonshine and survival. That last bit gets right to the core of the matter.
How have we made it this far? I am in constant awe that I am 35. Awe and dread, because I thought for sure that I wasn't long for this mortal coil. In fact, 30 was supposed to be the magic age. I could feel the shadow looming by the time I was 27 years old. Life, then, was not good. I was sick of being poor, sick of moving from house to house, sick of being sick, sick of feeling guilty about my non-conventional parenting style. Sick of drinking and burying.
The woods were thick and I was so, so lost.
Sounds like a bad opening scene to a Nicholas Sparks novel (gag, cough, puke), but it's true. The tidal wave of life was drowning me, filling my nostrils with salt and grit. To think that humor and Maker's Mark were the taproots of my existence...sad stuff really.
And family, my god, family. The main character in the novel, a 12-year-old girl goes by the name of Bone, must have been taken out of the Dupont family scrapbook or something. I saw everyone in Bone, including myself. There was my daughter, an unofficial bastard, strutting around in her Converse, not knowing, never caring about the big empty hole on her birth certificate. There was my grandmother, snapping the ends off of peas, alternately weeping and humming listening to Carter family classics on the radio. And there I was, and there was my mother, physically numb to harm, living a tough life with a recklessness that many would deem dangerous. Everybody's washcloth, nobody's love.
Like I said, gritty stuff.
I will never know what happened to Bone, the novel ends pretty abruptly (and, of course, violently). But I can guess. Oh, I can guess. If all goes relatively well, she will be weeding the hell out of her garden one day and suddenly realize that she is worth something. A lot of something. She might even crack open a beer on her back steps and shake her head in disbelief and pride that the children are fed, the garden is yielding and that love is just the gravy on the grits.
It's a hellish road, but you have to start somewhere. You might even have to kick the crap out of that 12-year-old living inside you that keeps telling you that you are all that you will ever be.
Horseshit.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Innards
Let me preface this post by saying that I was just looking at potential bathing suits/bikinis online. While the colors and styles are inspired by old Havana, the model looks like she could use a bucket of fried chicken and trip to Dairy Queen, you know, maybe grow some hips, boobs, something. It was hard to take her seriously when I am assuming her shoes weigh more than she does. Havana my ass.
Anywho, I promised my best girl pal that I would write about the experience we had yesterday. And I want to do it now, while the whole thing is still fresh in my mind.
It all began with a trip to the mall. I hate malls. I mean truly despise them. In fact, I think that at the front entrance to every mall, there should be a kiosk where you can buy anti-depressants and nip bottles of Wild Turkey. That's for starters. Maybe some Imitrex, too, for the inevitable migraine you will get.
But, I love her, and she, I don't think, doesn't know how much I hate malls (well maybe now she does). We were on a mission to get her a decent suit for a job interview. Sounds pretty simple, right? I mean, it's a suit. Pants, jacket, shoes to match, you're done.
Not quite, Nichole. Not quite. You see, like almost every other woman I know, my friend has a unique figure. She calls herself a pear. I tell her she has more curves than 40 miles of bad road. And let's just say that it's hard to put a pear in a matchbox. Our first stop was at Lane Bryant, a supposed "plus size" store. Although, I have no idea what that even means. Plus what? Plus the 85 lbs a runway model weighs?
A trip to the dressing room revealed that the blazers were gonna work great. A second trip indicated that pants were going to be a problem.
"We can just try Macy's" we both agreed nonchalantly. Yeah, sure. Way, way back in a neglected corner of the store, that wasn't well-lit and smelled weird, the "women's 14-24" section loomed lonely. A thorough combing over of the pants options revealed a)that most of the pants were elastic waist "mom" pants with no style at all b) the only color options were brown, navy and black and c) you have to be at least 6 feet tall in order to wear plus sizes.
It was a depressing adventure.
"I want you to blog about this," she said. "This right here, this is how it has been for me. Welcome to my hell." I could feel her confidence fading. On the car ride to the mall, we were both piss and vinegar. Sarcastic, laughing, optimistic--talking about our, ahem, conquests, our accomplishments, the awesome dinners we did and didn't make.
All over a f*cking pair of pants.
Later, after a few crappy mojitos and mediocre margaritas, the car ride home (most of which we travelled in neutral due to a "fuel level misunderstanding") provided me with a confessional opportunity.
"Ya know, I think this has less to do with what's on the outside than what's on the inside," I said. "I put on a good show for the most part, but sometimes, girl, I feel like an ugly-ass seventh grader, a freak trapped in a woman's body. God, we're good at messing ourselves up."
"We're experts," she said, lighting her third cigarette. "I think everybody is like that. Inside themselves, I mean. Some of them can hide it really well."
"Or, they're just too cocky to even know where that mess is."
"Yeah, well, once you find it, you gotta clean it up, and that's no fun."
Anywho, I promised my best girl pal that I would write about the experience we had yesterday. And I want to do it now, while the whole thing is still fresh in my mind.
It all began with a trip to the mall. I hate malls. I mean truly despise them. In fact, I think that at the front entrance to every mall, there should be a kiosk where you can buy anti-depressants and nip bottles of Wild Turkey. That's for starters. Maybe some Imitrex, too, for the inevitable migraine you will get.
But, I love her, and she, I don't think, doesn't know how much I hate malls (well maybe now she does). We were on a mission to get her a decent suit for a job interview. Sounds pretty simple, right? I mean, it's a suit. Pants, jacket, shoes to match, you're done.
Not quite, Nichole. Not quite. You see, like almost every other woman I know, my friend has a unique figure. She calls herself a pear. I tell her she has more curves than 40 miles of bad road. And let's just say that it's hard to put a pear in a matchbox. Our first stop was at Lane Bryant, a supposed "plus size" store. Although, I have no idea what that even means. Plus what? Plus the 85 lbs a runway model weighs?
A trip to the dressing room revealed that the blazers were gonna work great. A second trip indicated that pants were going to be a problem.
"We can just try Macy's" we both agreed nonchalantly. Yeah, sure. Way, way back in a neglected corner of the store, that wasn't well-lit and smelled weird, the "women's 14-24" section loomed lonely. A thorough combing over of the pants options revealed a)that most of the pants were elastic waist "mom" pants with no style at all b) the only color options were brown, navy and black and c) you have to be at least 6 feet tall in order to wear plus sizes.
It was a depressing adventure.
"I want you to blog about this," she said. "This right here, this is how it has been for me. Welcome to my hell." I could feel her confidence fading. On the car ride to the mall, we were both piss and vinegar. Sarcastic, laughing, optimistic--talking about our, ahem, conquests, our accomplishments, the awesome dinners we did and didn't make.
All over a f*cking pair of pants.
Later, after a few crappy mojitos and mediocre margaritas, the car ride home (most of which we travelled in neutral due to a "fuel level misunderstanding") provided me with a confessional opportunity.
"Ya know, I think this has less to do with what's on the outside than what's on the inside," I said. "I put on a good show for the most part, but sometimes, girl, I feel like an ugly-ass seventh grader, a freak trapped in a woman's body. God, we're good at messing ourselves up."
"We're experts," she said, lighting her third cigarette. "I think everybody is like that. Inside themselves, I mean. Some of them can hide it really well."
"Or, they're just too cocky to even know where that mess is."
"Yeah, well, once you find it, you gotta clean it up, and that's no fun."
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
It probably isn't a mystery to anyone that most coporate-type environments are run like African villages. At least, that's been my experience over the years. The women in the office hustle around all day getting sh*t done and the higher ups, mostly men, sit under the proverbial tree drinking palm wine until they cannot stand up. The whole time waving their arms around, yelling out an order or two, talking politics and gambling. Never, of course, offering up praise or, in most cases, help.
It's a sad metaphor, but so far, I have yet to see it any differently.
Many of us worker bees, in addition to the heavy workload, also have babies (figurative or literal) strapped to our backs, and when we return to our respective villages from a long day "in the fields" we are expected to prepare meals, issue tasks, scrub the children clean, address the dwindling sexual needs of the dominant male, and then, with not an ounce of energy left in us, fall into a dead sleep, only to do the whole thing over again the next day.
Sounds like fun, right?
This would, by the way, be a good time to give a shout out to the non-corporate gents who abstain from the palm wine and make it a point to shoulder at least half of the burden of life and work with the women. You are the rock upon which your children can comfortably lean. Here, here!
I recently resigned from the dysfunctional village. It wasn't for lack of love or lack of work ethic, but there comes a point when the sun blares too hot, the day is too long and the children are too neglected.
Yes, I am speaking in metaphorical code here, but it has a nice ring to it!
Or, there comes a day, when you are driving home from a long, long day at work, and the men under the tree decide that, in addition to your workload, they will throw coconuts at you and see if you can deflect them before they hit you square in the head. That is the a-ha moment.
At least, that was my a-ha moment. There is something wrong with popping two extra strength Tylenol, four Bayers, a Zantac pill and three Kava Kava every day just to make it through the morning. Washing it all down with a coffee you barely have time to drink and then somehow, being productive amidst insult, injury and flourescent lights.
Again, a bit metaphorical. My a-ha moment really took hold when I noticed the gray tinge to my colleagues' faces, and when I realized that I was training my future boss.
I guess I just can't swallow that much sh*t pie. It doesn't go so well with the breakfast cocktail of pain relievers and mood stabilizers. I generally like pie, but not that kind.
Ironically, I loved my role in the village. I ignored the men laying under trees and learned so much from the other worker bees and the amazing people just outside of the hive.
It's off to a new village, I suppose. Hopefully the chief is sober and the trees aren't for loitering.
It's a sad metaphor, but so far, I have yet to see it any differently.
Many of us worker bees, in addition to the heavy workload, also have babies (figurative or literal) strapped to our backs, and when we return to our respective villages from a long day "in the fields" we are expected to prepare meals, issue tasks, scrub the children clean, address the dwindling sexual needs of the dominant male, and then, with not an ounce of energy left in us, fall into a dead sleep, only to do the whole thing over again the next day.
Sounds like fun, right?
This would, by the way, be a good time to give a shout out to the non-corporate gents who abstain from the palm wine and make it a point to shoulder at least half of the burden of life and work with the women. You are the rock upon which your children can comfortably lean. Here, here!
I recently resigned from the dysfunctional village. It wasn't for lack of love or lack of work ethic, but there comes a point when the sun blares too hot, the day is too long and the children are too neglected.
Yes, I am speaking in metaphorical code here, but it has a nice ring to it!
Or, there comes a day, when you are driving home from a long, long day at work, and the men under the tree decide that, in addition to your workload, they will throw coconuts at you and see if you can deflect them before they hit you square in the head. That is the a-ha moment.
At least, that was my a-ha moment. There is something wrong with popping two extra strength Tylenol, four Bayers, a Zantac pill and three Kava Kava every day just to make it through the morning. Washing it all down with a coffee you barely have time to drink and then somehow, being productive amidst insult, injury and flourescent lights.
Again, a bit metaphorical. My a-ha moment really took hold when I noticed the gray tinge to my colleagues' faces, and when I realized that I was training my future boss.
I guess I just can't swallow that much sh*t pie. It doesn't go so well with the breakfast cocktail of pain relievers and mood stabilizers. I generally like pie, but not that kind.
Ironically, I loved my role in the village. I ignored the men laying under trees and learned so much from the other worker bees and the amazing people just outside of the hive.
It's off to a new village, I suppose. Hopefully the chief is sober and the trees aren't for loitering.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Have I not commanded you...?
My daughter seems to have a problem with my, ahem, straightforward nature. When I drive, she usually sits in the front seat with her jaw dangling in horror at my unplanned foray into violent cussing. Of course, her mouth could be wide open because she is sassing me or she is laughing and unable to breath. That has happened, too.
"MOM! Seriously? Can you even hear yourself? You just called that guy a f*ckhead!"
"I'm sorry, really. I just, I mean, did you see what he did?! I've got kids in the car for chrissake's!"
"Um, yeah, ya do. And we can hear everything you say."
Suddenly my son pipes up from his book (which is currently the 'Wit and Wisdom of Ben Franklin,' swear to god).
"Who's a duck bed? What's that?"
I smile smugly at Anna. "See. He doesn't hear everything. I know what I'm doing."
"Whatever."
Last night I took my pre-teen fiest-fest to a flamenco show. She was looking very grown-up and very French, I might add, in a striped dress and her "special occasion" lip gloss. In fact, the only element that led me to believe that she was under the age of 15 was, god love her, a tri-colored pair of custom Converse sneakers the likes of which might be found on a Sesame Street set, or the streets of Paris.
We ate dinner, laughed at her clumsiness (that day she knocked the cap to the shaving cream into the toilet as it was flushing. A mess we have still to figure out), and decided that yes, it was OK if she got her hair straightened this summer. I cringe, but the girl has a point.
"I want to see what it is actually like to have long, flowing hair," she said between bites of a fish sandwich.
"It's totally overrated, babe."
"Yeah, sure. That's why every actress, even the black ones, have long hair right?"
Astute little thing.
The show was amazing. When I told Anna it would probably be about two hours long, she sighed and looked doubtful.
"I can't sit that long. Genetics, you know."
She was right, she couldn't sit that long. The girl was on her feet clapping and stomping and yelling 'Ole!' after every sweaty, passionate number. She loved the dresses, she loved the music, and then, of course, there were the shoes.
"I feel like this is something I could do," she said. "I mean, I could actually stomp around in those shoes and not fall. Not like in ballet. Remember ballet?" She giggled and so did I.
"Not everybody is a ballerina, honey." The unfinished thought, of course, was that not everyone is 9 feet tall with an Afro and a genetic code for clumsiness that some would describe as disastrous. Pure and simple. I've seen this child in action. It isn't pretty, and I'm not sure it's something she will grow out of.
On the dark ride home, her voice broke through the crickets and my car's plane-like engine. No, btw, it is not a diesel. Sadly, it makes that noise on its own.
"I'm so afraid we're going to get into a car accident. I mean, it could just happen, and we could die."
"It could just happen, and if it does, then most likely there was nothing we could do to prevent it. But I'm a safe driver and the odds are in our favor."
"But it could happen."
"Anna, a lot of things could happen. And they do happen. But you can't live in fear all the time. It will ruin your life."
"Yeah, a lot of people have been saying that to me."
"And they're right."
"It doesn't seem like you have any fear. I mean, you say whatever's on your mind. And you don't seem to be afraid to do anything."
"What's the point," I said. "If I had fear, I would never have had the experiences I've had. And I would sure as hell never have had you."
"Do you know people who live in fear?"
"Of course I do. And they're miserable. They've never left this town to do anything. Never travelled, never took risks."
She named off a few people who she thought had fear. People I love, people in my own family.
"Yeah," she said. "There doesn't seem to be any spark left in them."
None whatsoever. I didn't tell her that my fear, my real fear, is turning into that. Being so bogged down with what-ifs and supposed obligations and frustrated silence, that my spark dies like a summer day.
The conversation faded off, she asked me what places I've been, when I've had the most fear. I was honest. But kept the swearing to a minimum.
"Were you afraid when you had me?" she asked, finally.
"Anna, it was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. Having a baby alone. But look at us now."
"Yup," she said, slumping down in the seat a little. "Look at us now."
"MOM! Seriously? Can you even hear yourself? You just called that guy a f*ckhead!"
"I'm sorry, really. I just, I mean, did you see what he did?! I've got kids in the car for chrissake's!"
"Um, yeah, ya do. And we can hear everything you say."
Suddenly my son pipes up from his book (which is currently the 'Wit and Wisdom of Ben Franklin,' swear to god).
"Who's a duck bed? What's that?"
I smile smugly at Anna. "See. He doesn't hear everything. I know what I'm doing."
"Whatever."
Last night I took my pre-teen fiest-fest to a flamenco show. She was looking very grown-up and very French, I might add, in a striped dress and her "special occasion" lip gloss. In fact, the only element that led me to believe that she was under the age of 15 was, god love her, a tri-colored pair of custom Converse sneakers the likes of which might be found on a Sesame Street set, or the streets of Paris.
We ate dinner, laughed at her clumsiness (that day she knocked the cap to the shaving cream into the toilet as it was flushing. A mess we have still to figure out), and decided that yes, it was OK if she got her hair straightened this summer. I cringe, but the girl has a point.
"I want to see what it is actually like to have long, flowing hair," she said between bites of a fish sandwich.
"It's totally overrated, babe."
"Yeah, sure. That's why every actress, even the black ones, have long hair right?"
Astute little thing.
The show was amazing. When I told Anna it would probably be about two hours long, she sighed and looked doubtful.
"I can't sit that long. Genetics, you know."
She was right, she couldn't sit that long. The girl was on her feet clapping and stomping and yelling 'Ole!' after every sweaty, passionate number. She loved the dresses, she loved the music, and then, of course, there were the shoes.
"I feel like this is something I could do," she said. "I mean, I could actually stomp around in those shoes and not fall. Not like in ballet. Remember ballet?" She giggled and so did I.
"Not everybody is a ballerina, honey." The unfinished thought, of course, was that not everyone is 9 feet tall with an Afro and a genetic code for clumsiness that some would describe as disastrous. Pure and simple. I've seen this child in action. It isn't pretty, and I'm not sure it's something she will grow out of.
On the dark ride home, her voice broke through the crickets and my car's plane-like engine. No, btw, it is not a diesel. Sadly, it makes that noise on its own.
"I'm so afraid we're going to get into a car accident. I mean, it could just happen, and we could die."
"It could just happen, and if it does, then most likely there was nothing we could do to prevent it. But I'm a safe driver and the odds are in our favor."
"But it could happen."
"Anna, a lot of things could happen. And they do happen. But you can't live in fear all the time. It will ruin your life."
"Yeah, a lot of people have been saying that to me."
"And they're right."
"It doesn't seem like you have any fear. I mean, you say whatever's on your mind. And you don't seem to be afraid to do anything."
"What's the point," I said. "If I had fear, I would never have had the experiences I've had. And I would sure as hell never have had you."
"Do you know people who live in fear?"
"Of course I do. And they're miserable. They've never left this town to do anything. Never travelled, never took risks."
She named off a few people who she thought had fear. People I love, people in my own family.
"Yeah," she said. "There doesn't seem to be any spark left in them."
None whatsoever. I didn't tell her that my fear, my real fear, is turning into that. Being so bogged down with what-ifs and supposed obligations and frustrated silence, that my spark dies like a summer day.
The conversation faded off, she asked me what places I've been, when I've had the most fear. I was honest. But kept the swearing to a minimum.
"Were you afraid when you had me?" she asked, finally.
"Anna, it was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. Having a baby alone. But look at us now."
"Yup," she said, slumping down in the seat a little. "Look at us now."
Friday, April 6, 2012
Lineage
I'm not a big weeper. Not because I am holding back the urge to shed salt water from my face, but because, I think, that there is a certain numbness that washes over me that beats out the tears. It is the sad result of living in a world where the good is so good and the horrible is so horrible that they seem to cancel eachother out.
Notice I didn't say balance.
Anyway, this blog is not about whether I cry a lot or a little, that bit was for effect. So that you know that if something brings me to weep, it's either too sad, too gorgeous or too enraging to put words to. I tell my kids that I express myself through fluids. Lucian doesn't get it. Anna thinks it's gross.
Two nights ago, I made the mistake of browsing through my CNN app right before I (tried) to nod off to sleep. The usual suspects: health care, the Trayvon Martin mess, the 2012 election, etc. But there was a new one in the mix, one that maybe a few of us missed because of the many dog and pony shows happening on other stages across the world. This one was subtle, but it sliced right into the core of the place in me that carries a sureness of my situation in the world. You could call it my identity, but that's too sparse. It's the place that I feel most assured of who I am, what I am doing and that, for the most part, things are good.
Things are not good, folks. Not anymore. I've been popping Zantac like Pez for the last few days. The low-lying nicotine problem has blown up like the goddamn smallpox (although, I am hiking a lot more, too, go figure) and my restless leg syndrome is back in full force.
So, what did I see? Well, the headline read: Mississippi tightens abortion restrictions.
I knew right then and there that I should've waited until the morning to read it. But, of course, I am a news gal and this is my vice. In sum, the good state of Mississippi has but one abortion clinic (yes, only one for the whole state) which may be shut down, due to tighter legislation regulations requiring obgyn's to have "admitting privileges." Who the hell knows what that means. Anyway, the governor of the state is practically gleeful that the clinic may have to close its doors. Last year he tried to get it to shut down by introducing, I shit you not, a Personhood Amendment stating that "life begins at conception." Of course, that got thrown right the hell out. The good governor said that in closing the clinic, he is protecting the women and children of his state. What a benevolent protector, wow, great guy.
I don't need your protection, Mr. Governor. I need protection FROM people like you. Looking back in history, ancient and modern, it seems that no man has taken it upon himself to protect women. In fact, according to my calculations, woman and children have been ravaged and destroyed by men and their deeds since the dawn of humankind. It is a mass genocide that it allowed to continue in every corner of the globe. When you think of child abusers, rapists, human traffickers and "lawmakers," most of them are men, and many of them go out of their way to feed their perversions, washing their hands on women and children. What protection? And what is this 'personhood' shit?! What about the 'personhood' of the women who already exist? Where is our amendment stating that we have rights and that we may enact those rights at any time? Who is banging the gavel for women these days?
That's right, nobody. Not even our venerated president (it kills me to say this, btw) who remains silent and watches on as, state by state, women's rights (the same women who hold up this economy, who raise millions of children alone every single day and night) are obliterated in the flame of Puritan politics. Where are you, man? You have two daughters, and this is the greatest tragedy this country has ever seen. It is a drawn out funeral and the bodies are being stacked like twigs in the mass grave of freedom.
A few weeks ago I had lunch with a group of Native American artists who will be exhibiting in our local museum this summer. At the end of the lunch, I chatted with a woman who is a beadwork artist. She is extraordinary, truly. We got on the subject of ceremony in her tribe, and how the men brutalize themselves through near starvation and exhaustion in order to become closer to the "Spirit" or God, or whatever you want to call it.
"The only way to do so is to truly humble yourself," she said.
"What about the women," I asked. "Do they do the same thing?"
She shook her head. "Some of them fast for a little bit, and do the dances. But we don't really need to do much to get closer to God," she said. "The men know that. We bleed every month, we carry children in our bodies, we birth children, we work, we suffer a lot more just for being women. They know that. We have a direct bloodline to the sky."
I've been thinking about that conversation since that day. About the ways in which women are humbled every single day; hard work, child-rearing, periods, poverty, abuse, abandonment, war, politics, loss. Women are brought low, very low, very often. And yet it seems that there are many who would have us lower, who are gripping at our ankles to keep us from our personhood. If I catch you at my daughter's ankles, I will cut off your hands.
Don't mess with God's messengers, we know how to bleed. And eventually we will figure out how to use these wings of ours.
Notice I didn't say balance.
Anyway, this blog is not about whether I cry a lot or a little, that bit was for effect. So that you know that if something brings me to weep, it's either too sad, too gorgeous or too enraging to put words to. I tell my kids that I express myself through fluids. Lucian doesn't get it. Anna thinks it's gross.
Two nights ago, I made the mistake of browsing through my CNN app right before I (tried) to nod off to sleep. The usual suspects: health care, the Trayvon Martin mess, the 2012 election, etc. But there was a new one in the mix, one that maybe a few of us missed because of the many dog and pony shows happening on other stages across the world. This one was subtle, but it sliced right into the core of the place in me that carries a sureness of my situation in the world. You could call it my identity, but that's too sparse. It's the place that I feel most assured of who I am, what I am doing and that, for the most part, things are good.
Things are not good, folks. Not anymore. I've been popping Zantac like Pez for the last few days. The low-lying nicotine problem has blown up like the goddamn smallpox (although, I am hiking a lot more, too, go figure) and my restless leg syndrome is back in full force.
So, what did I see? Well, the headline read: Mississippi tightens abortion restrictions.
I knew right then and there that I should've waited until the morning to read it. But, of course, I am a news gal and this is my vice. In sum, the good state of Mississippi has but one abortion clinic (yes, only one for the whole state) which may be shut down, due to tighter legislation regulations requiring obgyn's to have "admitting privileges." Who the hell knows what that means. Anyway, the governor of the state is practically gleeful that the clinic may have to close its doors. Last year he tried to get it to shut down by introducing, I shit you not, a Personhood Amendment stating that "life begins at conception." Of course, that got thrown right the hell out. The good governor said that in closing the clinic, he is protecting the women and children of his state. What a benevolent protector, wow, great guy.
I don't need your protection, Mr. Governor. I need protection FROM people like you. Looking back in history, ancient and modern, it seems that no man has taken it upon himself to protect women. In fact, according to my calculations, woman and children have been ravaged and destroyed by men and their deeds since the dawn of humankind. It is a mass genocide that it allowed to continue in every corner of the globe. When you think of child abusers, rapists, human traffickers and "lawmakers," most of them are men, and many of them go out of their way to feed their perversions, washing their hands on women and children. What protection? And what is this 'personhood' shit?! What about the 'personhood' of the women who already exist? Where is our amendment stating that we have rights and that we may enact those rights at any time? Who is banging the gavel for women these days?
That's right, nobody. Not even our venerated president (it kills me to say this, btw) who remains silent and watches on as, state by state, women's rights (the same women who hold up this economy, who raise millions of children alone every single day and night) are obliterated in the flame of Puritan politics. Where are you, man? You have two daughters, and this is the greatest tragedy this country has ever seen. It is a drawn out funeral and the bodies are being stacked like twigs in the mass grave of freedom.
A few weeks ago I had lunch with a group of Native American artists who will be exhibiting in our local museum this summer. At the end of the lunch, I chatted with a woman who is a beadwork artist. She is extraordinary, truly. We got on the subject of ceremony in her tribe, and how the men brutalize themselves through near starvation and exhaustion in order to become closer to the "Spirit" or God, or whatever you want to call it.
"The only way to do so is to truly humble yourself," she said.
"What about the women," I asked. "Do they do the same thing?"
She shook her head. "Some of them fast for a little bit, and do the dances. But we don't really need to do much to get closer to God," she said. "The men know that. We bleed every month, we carry children in our bodies, we birth children, we work, we suffer a lot more just for being women. They know that. We have a direct bloodline to the sky."
I've been thinking about that conversation since that day. About the ways in which women are humbled every single day; hard work, child-rearing, periods, poverty, abuse, abandonment, war, politics, loss. Women are brought low, very low, very often. And yet it seems that there are many who would have us lower, who are gripping at our ankles to keep us from our personhood. If I catch you at my daughter's ankles, I will cut off your hands.
Don't mess with God's messengers, we know how to bleed. And eventually we will figure out how to use these wings of ours.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Not a vessel
It is hard to imagine that on a beautiful morning like this in which the birds are wildly excited, the sun is bright and the mud is thick, that there is a war being waged in this country, the likes of which I have never seen. Here it is, 2012, and quite suddenly, it seems that the G.O.P. has taken it upon itself to use women's health, issues and bodies as trampling ground for a conservative agenda. Just look at the headlines. Every day, it's another Planned Parenthood closed, or another service taken away, or another human being insulted and ridiculed for having a uterus and a voice.
I've had it.
More than half of the voters in this country are women. Women are now the backbone of this economy, the mothers (and fathers!) of millions of children, the mentors to young minds, the steel beams that hold this fragile nation up. I'm serious. Just take a look at the Census if you doubt the role of women in this country and the world. And yet, and yet, funding by the millions is being taken away state by state--funding for breast cancer treatment, ovarian cancer screening, childcare, sick leave, contraception, reproductive health--you name it, it's dissolving under the banner of "God" and "morality." How is leaving more than half of your citizens out in the cold considered morally upright? We are, in essence, no better than the Taliban if this sh*t continues at the rate it's going now. By the time the next election comes, Title X, equal pay, and adequate health care will be completely off the table. Then what?
As if the daily struggle isn't hard enough. I am a woman, I work hard every day, I raise two children, so I can only speak from my own experience, but let me tell you, this ain't no cake walk. Sometimes I can barely contain my rage knowing that still, to this day, with all of my education, my experience and my expenses, a man makes more money than I do, simply for having a penis. Why? Why, when more than 13 million women in this country are raising kids by themselves and responsible for MUCH MORE than their single, male counterparts, are they still making less? It is a muddy pit and there doesn't seem to be enough shovels to get out.
And all of this legislation, and fighting over birth control and contraception is, in my eyes, a veil over a much deeper problem. For some reason, this culture still hates females. Not sure why. We all have mothers and sisters and daughters and we love and respect them in our daily lives. But the culture itself, it seems, does not. I've been on this tirade before, and sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but you would not be here, we would not be here, if it weren't for the power of the women around us. No way, no how. And yet, we are sluts, bitches, prostitutes, drama queens, idiots...AND, women clearly don't know what to do with their bodies, clearly.
I have always been in silent awe (not good awe) of the way that the abortion issue is treated. Even the terms "pro-life" and "pro-choice" are totally ridiculous. What the hell is "pro-life" supposed to mean? I love life, I would never murder someone, the thought that life ends is too sad to endure sometimes. I am totally pro-life. Live it, struggle through it, help others, you bet! I am not pro-control of what people do with their bodies and their lives in order to get through a very tough time. Why aren't pro-lifers standing outside the urlologist's office protesting vasectomies and prostate screening? BECAUSE that's a man's territory. That's why. He's making a responsible decision to stop populating the earth by getting snipped. What's the f*cking difference. Sperm are live, eggs are live--fertilized or unfertilized, the argument doesn't stick.
And as for "pro-choice." What do people think, that making the decision to have an abortion is easy? Are you kidding me? It's not like picking out what color shirt you're gonna wear that morning!!! Yes, there is some choice involved, but it is a choice that comes as a result of simply being a female. Oh shit, I'm pregnant, now I have to make a "choice." More like a gut-wrenching, sleep deprived decision that, either way, will haunt you for the rest of your life. Always.
I am not a vessel for the government, neither is my daughter or my son for that matter. Take your nasty hands off my body, our bodies, and focus on something else, like poverty, or jobs, or this crumbling nightmare of an education system, or hell, equal pay for women. I don't care what "party" you belong to, we all owe it to the women in our lives to stop this hate train before the next pile of coal is loaded into the engine. How would any of us feel, because it's coming, if our daughters, due to this legislation, died of breast cancer because screening was denied? Or if we watched them struggle through the rest of their lives because of a pregnancy that could have been avoided had they been on the pill?
We have to think more locally than this, people. These ARE people we love who will suffer and suffer greatly. All for some strange, elusive ideology that was never right in the first place.
I've had it.
More than half of the voters in this country are women. Women are now the backbone of this economy, the mothers (and fathers!) of millions of children, the mentors to young minds, the steel beams that hold this fragile nation up. I'm serious. Just take a look at the Census if you doubt the role of women in this country and the world. And yet, and yet, funding by the millions is being taken away state by state--funding for breast cancer treatment, ovarian cancer screening, childcare, sick leave, contraception, reproductive health--you name it, it's dissolving under the banner of "God" and "morality." How is leaving more than half of your citizens out in the cold considered morally upright? We are, in essence, no better than the Taliban if this sh*t continues at the rate it's going now. By the time the next election comes, Title X, equal pay, and adequate health care will be completely off the table. Then what?
As if the daily struggle isn't hard enough. I am a woman, I work hard every day, I raise two children, so I can only speak from my own experience, but let me tell you, this ain't no cake walk. Sometimes I can barely contain my rage knowing that still, to this day, with all of my education, my experience and my expenses, a man makes more money than I do, simply for having a penis. Why? Why, when more than 13 million women in this country are raising kids by themselves and responsible for MUCH MORE than their single, male counterparts, are they still making less? It is a muddy pit and there doesn't seem to be enough shovels to get out.
And all of this legislation, and fighting over birth control and contraception is, in my eyes, a veil over a much deeper problem. For some reason, this culture still hates females. Not sure why. We all have mothers and sisters and daughters and we love and respect them in our daily lives. But the culture itself, it seems, does not. I've been on this tirade before, and sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but you would not be here, we would not be here, if it weren't for the power of the women around us. No way, no how. And yet, we are sluts, bitches, prostitutes, drama queens, idiots...AND, women clearly don't know what to do with their bodies, clearly.
I have always been in silent awe (not good awe) of the way that the abortion issue is treated. Even the terms "pro-life" and "pro-choice" are totally ridiculous. What the hell is "pro-life" supposed to mean? I love life, I would never murder someone, the thought that life ends is too sad to endure sometimes. I am totally pro-life. Live it, struggle through it, help others, you bet! I am not pro-control of what people do with their bodies and their lives in order to get through a very tough time. Why aren't pro-lifers standing outside the urlologist's office protesting vasectomies and prostate screening? BECAUSE that's a man's territory. That's why. He's making a responsible decision to stop populating the earth by getting snipped. What's the f*cking difference. Sperm are live, eggs are live--fertilized or unfertilized, the argument doesn't stick.
And as for "pro-choice." What do people think, that making the decision to have an abortion is easy? Are you kidding me? It's not like picking out what color shirt you're gonna wear that morning!!! Yes, there is some choice involved, but it is a choice that comes as a result of simply being a female. Oh shit, I'm pregnant, now I have to make a "choice." More like a gut-wrenching, sleep deprived decision that, either way, will haunt you for the rest of your life. Always.
I am not a vessel for the government, neither is my daughter or my son for that matter. Take your nasty hands off my body, our bodies, and focus on something else, like poverty, or jobs, or this crumbling nightmare of an education system, or hell, equal pay for women. I don't care what "party" you belong to, we all owe it to the women in our lives to stop this hate train before the next pile of coal is loaded into the engine. How would any of us feel, because it's coming, if our daughters, due to this legislation, died of breast cancer because screening was denied? Or if we watched them struggle through the rest of their lives because of a pregnancy that could have been avoided had they been on the pill?
We have to think more locally than this, people. These ARE people we love who will suffer and suffer greatly. All for some strange, elusive ideology that was never right in the first place.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Bum "Rush"
I'm gonna start with, what we call in the news industry, a hard lede. Straight up, if Rush Limpbaugh had said n*gger in any context that fat Bible-belt-don't-even-fit-him bastard (yes, this whole thing is getting personal, game on) would have been fired that day. At least, that's what the rational optimist in me says would happen. But as things stand in this misogynistic culture, it takes a friggin' mattress company to take a stand and pull their advertising from the ultraconservative dick farm he calls a "radio show." My ass. For Chrissake's, Don Imus (remember him, another mouth on fire) called Limbaugh a "fat, gutless, pill-popping loser" in an interview on The Morning. This is the one and only thing that Imus and I will ever agree on, for the record.
So, the pill-popping loser--wait a minute, pill-popping doesn't even hit the tip of that fat ass iceberg. Pill-popping is one thing, but as I recall there is a difference between a loser and a friggin' criminal. Anyone remember that big arrest for FRAUD when the big boy lied to doctors in order to get more monkeys (i.e. Vicoden) to throw up there on his flabby back? What's most disturbing to me is that Limbaugh couldn't even convince a doctor that he needed pain meds. Do you know how easy it is to get opioids in this country, legally? The doctors hand out those scripts like a Pez dispenser shoots candy. Sh*t, my 8-year-old son has only to cough once or twice and suddenly he's got a milk-jug bottle of Codeine with his name on it.
So, Rush is dumb, we know this. What's the big deal that he called Sandra a "slut" and a "prostitute"? There are two camps here, one is the outrage camp, the other is the "just ignore him, he's not a real human being anyway" camp that I so want to be a part of, but I can't. Ignore him?! I wish. But the thing is, people actually listen to this guy and believe the rolling pile of sh*t that comes out of his mouth. He's got the trademark red-faced, gin-inspired anger of a tele-evangelist and a marital track record almost as bad as Henry VIII. But people still listen to the guy, including his latest wife, Kathryn Rogers, who is, btw, a year older than me.
I wonder what she has to say about all this...seeings how she wears the financial pants in that f*cked up family. I can just imagine her and that oversized chipmunk lying in bed (gag,cough), it is dark, they've had a fight about his "Fluke" comments and she leans over to him and whispers "who's the real prostitute?" That guy is a money-whore, but why she married him is beyond me. It's gonna suck for her when his employer stops paying for his daily Cialis prescription.
I know of several radio stations that have pulled his show right off the air. Smart thinking since more than half of this country is comprised of women--bankers, business owners, mothers, and yes, even prostitutes. The backlash from this, I'm hoping, is gonna be a lot longer than that pathetic 4-hour erection he might have thanks to the grand mercy of his health insurance. Maybe he has a point, I don't want to pay for that flaccid conservative to ever be able to get anything up in the air again.
So, the pill-popping loser--wait a minute, pill-popping doesn't even hit the tip of that fat ass iceberg. Pill-popping is one thing, but as I recall there is a difference between a loser and a friggin' criminal. Anyone remember that big arrest for FRAUD when the big boy lied to doctors in order to get more monkeys (i.e. Vicoden) to throw up there on his flabby back? What's most disturbing to me is that Limbaugh couldn't even convince a doctor that he needed pain meds. Do you know how easy it is to get opioids in this country, legally? The doctors hand out those scripts like a Pez dispenser shoots candy. Sh*t, my 8-year-old son has only to cough once or twice and suddenly he's got a milk-jug bottle of Codeine with his name on it.
So, Rush is dumb, we know this. What's the big deal that he called Sandra a "slut" and a "prostitute"? There are two camps here, one is the outrage camp, the other is the "just ignore him, he's not a real human being anyway" camp that I so want to be a part of, but I can't. Ignore him?! I wish. But the thing is, people actually listen to this guy and believe the rolling pile of sh*t that comes out of his mouth. He's got the trademark red-faced, gin-inspired anger of a tele-evangelist and a marital track record almost as bad as Henry VIII. But people still listen to the guy, including his latest wife, Kathryn Rogers, who is, btw, a year older than me.
I wonder what she has to say about all this...seeings how she wears the financial pants in that f*cked up family. I can just imagine her and that oversized chipmunk lying in bed (gag,cough), it is dark, they've had a fight about his "Fluke" comments and she leans over to him and whispers "who's the real prostitute?" That guy is a money-whore, but why she married him is beyond me. It's gonna suck for her when his employer stops paying for his daily Cialis prescription.
I know of several radio stations that have pulled his show right off the air. Smart thinking since more than half of this country is comprised of women--bankers, business owners, mothers, and yes, even prostitutes. The backlash from this, I'm hoping, is gonna be a lot longer than that pathetic 4-hour erection he might have thanks to the grand mercy of his health insurance. Maybe he has a point, I don't want to pay for that flaccid conservative to ever be able to get anything up in the air again.
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