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Tag Archives: feminism

To Whom It May Concern:

31 Friday Jul 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dolphin, feminism, first draft, freedom of speech, old boys network, open letter, opinion, reaction, reflection, The Letter, The Rebuttal, unihemispheric, Ursula LeGuin

I’ve been pacing for days trying to sort and decide what to say, if anything at all, about “The Letter” posted in the esteemed Harper’s magazine and the “Rebuttal” that made a little splash by the unwashed masses of social media. Does anyone care what these 153 suffering signatories think? Who asked their opinion on open debate, cancel culture, justice, and fear that their powerful voices will somehow be silenced, vanished from history? Frankly, I’m more interested in reading the responses of the unwashed masses who do not have a Harper’s or a platform of any kind to share their stories of being ignored, bullied, shut out, and surely underpaid for the fruits of their sweaty, wrung-out Word documents?

Chomsky, Rushdie, Atwood and…. Rowling? Who invited her to this “mighty” list of elites where she can shore up support for her (deeply unfortunate) views on transgenderism? In this very same paragraph I must examine my prickling view of The Letter against my bristling reaction to a group of male authors who yawned and called Ursula LeGuin overrated again. On one hand I defend Ursula and her right to shine with the lofty (mostly male) Sci-Fi / Fantasy writers of our time, while the other hides my snickering at JK Rowling’s fear of being cancelled. Both women endured their lumps in the writing “community” for their perceived lack of talent and their personal views, and here I am committing the same sin. In this paragraph I must re-examine my views on true freedom of speech. I must learn how to keep writing while remembering to use my Super Girl Powers for good, not evil, to keep speaking out for inequality no matter where it is found, especially when I find it in my own pages.

My thoughts are ungelled, imperfect, unready to share and certainly without authority. They are an open letter to no one in particular, written in smeared ink, carried away on the back of a rogue dolphin. (He reminds me to write about cultural appropriation in fiction next time, knowing I have a mind full of that and plenty of space to share my unsought, frightfully overrated opinions.)

Sexist Me

21 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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anger, bullying, change, Equality, feminism, justice, march, politics, real lasting change, sexism, victim, voice, woman

In 1984, at the age of sixteen, I heard about female genital mutilation.  I was horrified and angry, but I had nowhere to share this information or how I felt, no way to make a change. People at home were too busy fighting, and everyone at school was all about everything you can imagine going on in high school. Horrified, angry, and helpless make for flinty bedfellows. I internalized and built me a case for hating men.

In 1991, five years after I graduated from high school, Anita Hill testified that Clarence Thomas, supreme court nominee, sexually harassed her.  I thought she was brave for coming forward, I believed her, and after he was confirmed my hatred for men accelerated.  How could anyone let this pig become a judge?  (Side note: I didn’t even understand at the time that he would be a judge for a lifetime and what that meant, or how his wife’s politicking everyone ignores.)

Four years later, 1995,  I married my best friend. My high school years and many after did nothing to help me learn and grow into becoming the best person I could be. I was a man-hating woman hell-bent ready to punish everyone and everything who brutalized women. I. Won’t. Be. Your. Victim. Anymore!!!   Those years were tumultuous, years without a strong support system. I hated men less because my husband was kind, but the lurking vigilante shadow was never far away, and I did little to banish it.

In 1998 my son was an infant, and I was enmeshed in the daily life of being wife and mother.  I kept up with the news in a fairly background noise kind of way.  I heard that Clinton was being accused and dragged to court and impeached for lying under oath. Well that was stupid, Bill, what the hell were you thinking?  I heard the woman he was with was a willing, if not eager, partner, and I gave him a pass.  What?   Yes.  I gave him a pass.  He seemed like a charming dude, really good on camera whether it was an address or a spot on a talk show.  I mean, how could a dude who seemed so decent (yes, he had a dalliance and he’s all humbled by it) be the predator these other women and politicians made him out to be?  I felt like the women coming forward were the unfortunate victims of those who had a political axe to grind.  I felt like, if Hillary stood by him, why shouldn’t I?  I gave Bill Clinton a Democratic pass because he favored the same things I did, he was charming, and I was not paying attention to the deeper, more relevant, issues.

Twenty-eight years after I graduated high school, 2014, I found myself in the lobby of a hospital waiting to visit my son.  I picked up a copy of Vanity Fair which I don’t normally read, but this issue caught my attention.  I read about Monica Lewinsky’s life after the scandal.  The focus of the article was humiliation and bullying. 2014 was a pivotal time for me in so many ways, and this article was part of it.  Ms. Lewinsky describes her life after the scandal and her hopes for what women need to do going forward.  Monica had been a throwaway for me. She was a willing participant in an affair, so what, let’s move on. After reading the article I learned how wrong I was.

In October of 2016 I became enraged and sickened by the words of a president-elect caught on tape. I looked forward to his sad-faced confession and withdrawal from the race, but that did not happen.  People did not seem to care that he admitted to groping women without their consent, enjoying it without fear of retribution because when you’re famous you can get away with it.  The Narcissist-in-Chief is our president, and I mourn every day.

It is November 2017 and I am questioning everything I know about myself as a woman and everything I believed right up until this day.  Three women accused Bill Clinton of rape or misconduct. No one cared. Sixteen women came forward to describe being abused by Trump before his inauguration. No one cared.  Harvey Weinstein was exposed, a tap was opened and it appears the floodgates are breached. Every day more women and men are coming forward to share stories of their abuse by the famous and the unknown.  As I sit back in amazement at the revelations I cannot help but look at myself for being complicit.  I gave Bill Clinton a Democratic pass, ignoring the women he abused. Should I give that same treatment to Al Franken because his sins were not that big a deal? Why turn my back on Roy Moore but not Charlie Rose?

The harder we put men’s bad behavior under the microscope, the harder I take a look at myself, the closer I listen to my internal tape recorder. I am shocked by what I find. I read a female journalist’s book and in several places I felt annoyed and frustrated that she was complaining about her hair, or her choice to give up her relationship and comfortable life in exchange for face-time on air covering a presidential candidate. I heard my inner voice saying to the cashier where I buy groceries, “Geez, lady, would it kill you to smile?”  I am sexist just like all the rest, but at least now I know it and I am willing to work hard to do better. I no longer want to exercise vigilante justice under the cover of my superpower, invisibility.  I know now that knowledge is power, and so is my voice. I have to stand up and speak out equally for what is right, instead of giving a pass to the folks I kinda like because they’re cute or funny on a talk-show.  Justice looks so different to me now. I hope my voice will add geometrically and make a real, lasting change.  I pray for equal vision, equal treatment, and an open heart and mind always.

Movies, Journeys, And A Lump Of Coal

25 Tuesday Apr 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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abyss, anger, darkness, evil, evolving, feminism, Fury, movies, Nietzsche, sayhername, Solnit, The Handmaid's Tale, woman

 

And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. — Nietzsche

I saw my share of scary movies back in the day, but there were a limited few I refused to watch on principle. I believed some were touched by true evil, that if I looked into their celluloid eyes, the evil would surely look back into me and open me up to who knows what.  Superstitious tosh, you might say, certain and strong when the lights come on.  I guess my tender spirit just needed extra time to grow thick, comfortable, and confident enough to say “I got this.”  It must have, for I recently said to myself, “Come on now. Be a grown-up and watch the damned movies, they’re just movies for pete’s sake!” So I did.  I knew everything about them, alpha to omega and the minutiae in between, but never saw their scenes unspool in a dark, silent, living room.

“Rosemary’s Baby” turns out to be very good. It holds up for me as a “modern” viewer through a slightly-educated feminist filter.  In some ways, Rosemary had it all. (My friend suggests she was a fairy-tale princess.) She had a thoughtful, playful, loving husband, a fancy apartment, and the promise of starting a little family, all while getting to stay home and chat with the neighbors. What woman could want more? But from the moment she chose to take the step into motherhood it went from being a horror movie to watching a woman violated, stripped of personhood, all control taken away, from what to eat, what to wear, what to drink, what doctor to see, what not to read, not to think too much or worry, to disregard her instincts, and criticizing her dramatic haircut.  But she held on, she fought the gaslighting, fought for control of her body, her pregnancy, and her sanity right up until the end. I ask now what is more important? Having a quiet, happy, carefree life or being in charge of your body, en totale? Why not both?

“The Exorcist” was not as good as “Rosemary’s Baby.” After watching it in a silent, dark apartment with a taste of apprehension, I felt like I was missing something. Where was the horror? I guess I’ve seen “Constantine” so many times that my superstitious edges are dull. The story brought me a strong, successful, independent woman (Chris) struggling with her daughter’s failing health. Chris had it all: homes, fame, parties, friends, and a daughter she loved to the moon and back. What more could a woman want? But everything she earned was taken away when every man she encountered (doctors, priests, and the handyman) basically told her, “You don’t know what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing, and you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a hysterical woman that just needs to calm down.” She gave a simple order to her maintenance man: put rat traps in the attic. “There’s no rats up there,” he said. His statement implied that since he didn’t hear rats there aren’t any, so he’s not going to do what she asked.  I was furious! These movies were less about horror than about women having their voice, their personhood, beliefs, rights and authority taken away. And here’s a petty but fair question: Does anyone remember the name of the lady scientists in Jurassic Park?

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.  — Nietzsche

Taking a journey means every now and then you have to lift your head up and look back to see where you began.  With hard work and some luck, there will be some good distance between those points. I look back at my teenage and young adult years to recall the injustices and inequality I saw everywhere, the anger that rose up in me. I remember Thomas Covenant raping Lena at the start of a very famous fantasy series. (I tossed the books and refused to finish them.) Watching my parents fight, powerless to stop mom’s tears.  Radio DJs mocking Nicole Simpson’s 911 call with a Guns ‘N Roses song. (And what about that Guns ‘N Roses album cover.)  Reading about female genital mutilation. The years of being bullied at school. I built some tough walls for self-protection, found some good ways to channel my anger, but I never learned how to cope with the soft parts, the crying parts, the wounded woman parts. The parts that are waking up and shaking me while I watch old, scary movies.

Looking back for me is like looking through a spyglass, sometimes distant and blurry, sometimes sharp and in focus. Sadly in focus, for the anger, the outrage is still here, and the distance between my journey points aren’t as far apart as I’d hoped. I acknowledge that anger will always be with me because I am human, but I have chosen to use what I’m learning to make things better for young women as my goal instead of wanting to kill, vigilante-style, the perps who had it coming.

And that is the danger of looking into my abyss, to allow it to open so that I may see the softest, most broken, sad, angry, fearful parts while watching a movie, re-reading “The Handmaid’s Tale” or essays by Rebecca Solnit. The real evil I should be on guard against is the anger that rises up when I think of women silenced and their rights taken away, or the smaller indignities like getting patted on the head or being told to smile. It is anger that stitches closed the arteries that should be feeding my womanhood. Kindness, forgiveness, and peace choked off instead of flowing out into the world.  It would be so easy for me to fall into that abyss, close it off, and never give you a kind word or a smile again. (You had your chance, world, now piss off!) Or…I could put my anger into that shiny piece of coal I found on the beach, as often as I need. It will be a safe place to acknowledge that my dark feelings exist and will always be with me, but they’re quite small and manageable sitting on the windowsill.  I named that piece of coal Fury, and we are partners, now, in the next act of this woman’s journey.

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