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Tag Archives: women

August, Just In Time.

23 Sunday Aug 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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aunt, belonging, brother, cicada, family, Mom, neighbor, rain, summer, women

Late summer nights in Jersey the council of women would convene beneath the maple tree. Dinner dishes dried and put away, beach chairs snapped open, metal frames scraped to find level ground to sit upon, and after a while they did rest their bones. It was time for us kids to make ourselves scarce, the women were gonna talk. It was lightning bug time, so wandering off wasn’t so bad. And yet…

The women smoked, their cigarettes cherry red targets in the fallen night. When I crept closer to eavesdrop on mom and her sisters and maybe a cousin or two, because nothing could be cooler than whatever it was they were talking about, the chatter stopped. They swished ice in their tea glasses and waited for my boredom to lead me elsewhere or shooed me away, nothing here to see, ma’am, move along. There were no men here at the council, just me snooping and hanging out with my little brother. One woman’s voice frequently rose above the others, edgy, aggressive, often brought the laughter. I wondered who was wearing the admonishment tonight.
***
I padded down to the pagodas half hour before a cloudy sunset. No breathtaking palette here this time. The neighbors were chatting, seated level in their sandy beach chairs. A stray cicada came to inspect us, clearly wanting to bump into us but settled on singing its chainsaw song beneath the pagoda then flew away. One of us smoked. Two of us drank. I didn’t add much because I was feeling like a kid on a late summer night who should probably be off catching lightning bugs. It rained on us some though the sky was patchy, the water was surprising. None of us moved. I speak for the council when I say the little water was welcome.

What Does Your Flag Remember?

13 Sunday Aug 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Confederacy, evolving, flag, heritage, justice, march, one small world, peace, race-traitor, silence, weapon, women, Women's March

Quickly! Quickly Betsy, fast as ever you can, we need to see each other from a long way. Make the flag of canvas or cotton or linen, use everything you can, but we must carry our message into the field and beyond when we’ve taken out those lobsterbacks!

Quickly! Quickly, Constance, as fast as ever you can, we need to see each other from a long way. Make the flag of canvas or cotton, linen or silk, use whatever is at hand, but we must carry our standard into the field so the Yanks know we’ve forced their retreat, our message clear!

Ah. Ackh. This flag tastes like ghost pepper, my eyes and nose and mouth are thick and throbbing.  That’s all right. No biggie. Sliding this flag off this stick 1-2-3 and you’re mine now, pathetic, race-hating antifa motherfuckers!

Ah. Ackh. This flag tastes like ghost pepper, my eyes and nose and mouth are thick. That’s all right. No biggie. My friends will douse me down with water. We got some good Go-Pro footage of everybody hollering and jeering, until they decided it was time to come and get us. Now? My flag tastes like salt and blood and I dunno what. The flag isn’t really the thing, it’s more like, standing up for what’s right.

Maybe they’ll remember Heather’s name or maybe she’ll have some 15 minutes of fame in her deceased state, you know, walking along a street wanting to stand against bigotry and white nationalism. I don’t know whose face or what place to mark that she was here. Seems like we all have to make our mark, somehow, something that says we were here. We did something. It meant something. We want our times and times and times to remember what we stood for. The little girl of me wants to remember the best of us.

What does your time, your greasy fingered baby-back rib in the front of a cave mark, stand for? Was it peace? Did you stand for neutrality to escape getting your ribs cracked because you took a stand? Or did you lick your fingers clean?

(the women’s march on dc included very specific instructions that we were not allowed to carry signs, banners, or anything sharp or cudgel-like, and we followed that rule. we carried lots of 8 x 10 inch paper, cloth, pillowcases, hats, shirts, lots of people walking to and from the mall with one goal in mind, and that goal was not to stand behind a shield, and beat you with a stick or throw bottles filled with urine or cement. why was that rule not in place in charlottesville? i await the governors reply)

We smear meanings on the wall, things we want to remember, things we teach our young. Something happened here, and smear that moment on your face so you know you are part of it. Your cannon mates, your tent mates, the buttons on your tunic, that bit of cloth that tells us where to rally, or retreat, and did you understand what it all really meant?

Flags, unholy acrid, captured and desecrated. Flags damp in the dew of morning on the way to capturing you.  Flags rising up, defying a surrendered past, denying defeat and demanding glory, wanting to tell its silken story to a crowd that sits restless in chains or brings its thin pole down and down and down upon you, race-traitor.

We will remember you, in your place as we savor gobbets of meat from the fire.

Another Look

09 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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conservative, Equality, liberal, point of view, PP, protest, women

Complicated mix of feelings about the use of International Women’s Day as a day to remove herself from society for a day; no work, no purchases, and wear red for solidarity.  I understand their mission statement and goals for A Day Without A Woman when I read it on a laptop screen, but I just couldn’t get completely behind it. I hate to tell you, ladies, but the world is gonna go on without us.  You know, tides, time clocks, hungry tummies, calves, earth’s rotation, traffic, the stock market, and the sun will still set all without us, red shirts, pink hats, outrage and all. What did we earn, what did we gain on this day?

I spent the day focused on women’s writing, on women who came before us who made so many things possible for us, things I take for granted. I focused on what being a whole woman looks like and feels like, where my deficiencies are, and what can I do to help the sun go down in kind, tangible ways for others.  Twasn’t easy, especially since I began the day in an irritated state, but the reading helped it abate.

This morning’s news held no surprises for me. I wasn’t expecting a wall-to-wall woman blackout, massive protests in the streets or even across the world.  International Women’s Day was celebrated yesterday, as it has since its inception in 1909, but in a muted kind of way. I do so hope that women across the globe took a moment to learn about its history. Fascinating it’s a national holiday in Russia. One only has to look at the reason why.

We are very lucky, perhaps the privileged few, who can step out on a job for a day. One wonders if the bodegas that closed in the cities on A Day Without Immigrants had a lot more to lose. A helluva lot more.  I hope this intersectional movement will stand for being much more than hard feelings towards a president.

I took to the internet to keep up with the news, then the usual social media outlets to keep up with the noise. This morning I came across something that rocked me back a little. An acquaintance posted her approval of a conservative news article that painted A Day Without A Woman in a bad light. The comments were a fascinating snapshot of conservatism. I read these articles and comments to keep myself grounded: I will lose if I stay in a silo. So more than 3,000 comments on this article, and they all basically said the same thing: They object to the disgusting, pink pussycat hats; the protesters are liberals, college age, still living with parents, no responsibilities; they are clueless snowflakes, delicate ornaments that can’t handle losing the election. More importantly, the commenters said, “I love and respect my wife. My husband loves and respects me. I’m raising my daughters/grandchildren better than these protesters. I’ve always worked hard for everything I have, I’ve always stood up for myself. I am a strong, happy woman, these protesters don’t speak for me.  They need to get jobs and stop whining.  Me and my husband work at the same hospital and we make the same, good wage.  My boss is a man and he respects me, how do I know, because he tells me so. I work on a ranch, I don’t get to take random days off, I am respected by my coworkers, I work hard, I am proud to be a woman, and I don’t know what these privileged girls are whining about.”  Three thousand people replied to this article, 9,000 shared it, and I spent more time than I probably should have reading them, but I needed to.

Three thousand people said they were never sexually harassed on the job, are getting equal pay, they are happy and proud to be women, and have very narrow, disgusted feelings towards protesters.  Hmm.   I wonder if I’m on the wrong side of the fence, here.  Did my little feelings get hurt when he said, “I moved on her like a bitch?” Should I just get over it, let it go for the locker room talk that it was, take the high road and be the best person I can be?  Did my little feelings get hurt when my boss, a woman, didn’t promote me to lead person because I didn’t suck up to her, buy her lunch, and worship Sara Palin?  Do I believe women are victims of their gender that are seeking a place to lay the blame?  What could we have done differently to get the job, the promotion, the next pay grade if gender wasn’t the issue–what did we do to hold ourselves back?  Are we spending too much time reading comments on alt-right web pages wringing our hands in fear that that’s us they’re talking about? We let our daddies down and we only have ourselves to blame?  Three thousand people seem to think so. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say, “Fuck your feelings.”

One of the commenting multitudes suggested that the real protesters should be white men because they’re getting the short end of the stick on everything. They’re the ones suffering.  I sharpen my pencil and get ready to write my sad, snowflake feelings on what will probably come to be known as White History Month.

Meanwhile… the new and improved healthcare act will cut funding for Planned Parenthood.

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