Gender Theory: I love it.
No, really. I LOVE IT.
Why do I love it so much, you ask?
Here are some reasons:
"You're beautiful. Really beautiful...but women are supposed to have long hair." --7 foot tall high school senior, Mr. Football Player Guy. (He said this to me when I was a freshman, brushing my hair out of my eyes while he did so. True story. I blushed first, then choked on the other half of the statement.)
"Boys will never like you unless you learn to keep quiet." --Friend's mother.
"I don't even know why you'd want to get married. How are you ever going to submit to your husband?" --Same friend's mother.
"You'll never get married unless you get submissive." --Other friend's mother.
"It's just hard to decide between the girl I can have a conversation with and the girl I'm attracted to." --Dude friend I had begun to crush on, until that moment.
"Why can't I find a smart, hot girl in this school?" --Dude friend in whom I had no interest beyond Conciliare.
"J is a boy. She likes boy stuff, so she's a boy." --My four year old daughter, speaking of my six year old daughter.
"Isn't it hard for you to run this record store by yourself? You know, because women aren't as bright." --Customer. (My response: Get the fuck out of my store.)
"Where's your daddy? No daddy? Well, where's your husband? I want to do some business." --Various Customers X 3. (My response: I'm the boss, here. You're welcome to do business somewhere else, if you want.)
For contrast:
"I think your whole empowerment thing is super hot." (My husband of eight years. I'll leave my response to your imagination.)
I have other reasons too, of course. Including, but not limited to: my daughters, the unfortunate popularity of the Twilight series, plastic surgery statistics, the APA report on the sexualization of young girls, my mother, my sisters, romantic comedies, dude friends, girl friends, the irrational bias against homosexuality, rednecks, Fox News, misandry, the objectification of sitcom men, the infantilization of EITHER sex, the designation of men as pigs or fools, AND the idea that masculinity is threatened if a man isn't a "man's MAN."
What, you ask, is an example of a man who isn't a man's MAN? He is arty, educated, loves musicals and romcoms, reads books, has complicated opinions on politics, hates sports, doesn't have a damn clue how to fix anything, wouldn't be caught dead in Hooters, likes babies, loves gossip, doesn't care who makes more money and thinks empowerment is hot. Who is this mythical non-man's MAN man? By this definition, my husband. Now, my husband also provides for his family and would never ever dye his hair or paint his nails. HOWEVER, if he did, he wouldn't not be a man. Fingernail polish is not penis remover. I REPEAT: FINGERNAIL POLISH IS NOT PENIS REMOVER. So, what's the reason for this mostly meandering rant?
TOEMAGEDDON 2011. John Stewart, in collaboration with a fb friend, is the reason. Apparently, a J. Crew ad which featured a mom laughing with her son after having painted his toenails neon pink, has drawn some fairly insane criticism from the mainstream media. One Fox News contributor called this "an assault on masculinity." Painting a 5 year old's toenails is an assault on masculinity. That's what he said. Here are some equivalent statements: Letting your daughter play tee ball is an assault on femininity. Dressing your infant in yellow is an assault on heterosexuality. Giving your son a teddy bear is an assault on masculinity. I could go on and on. There is no civil rights issue that doesn't fit into this model. Specifically, there is nothing folks haven't been historically prohibited from doing that couldn't worded in this way. It's the model of ignorance everywhere: Electing a black president is an assault on the white population. The existence of Islam is an assault on Christianity. Immigration is an assault on the current population. Gay marriage is an assault on heterosexual marriage. These ridiculous accusations are statements I heard less that two weeks ago while sitting in a cafe in my hometown. My grandmother loudly asked me if we should leave since "they let all kinds of horseshit in." I said no, since she had already ordered. But I wondered aloud: "How does it hurt my marriage for someone else to marry? How am I affected if migrant workers pick fruit in California? How is my race diminished by the prominence of one member of another race?" The old men at the offending table stared at us, ate quietly, then left.
I am not even-minded enough to think we aren't in a culture war. I think maybe all open societies are in perpetual states of culture war. That's what keeps us in balance. That's what keeps outrage over fingernail polish from turning this country into Iran. They don't like polish there, either. Sometimes they put people in jail over it.
I know I have to fight every day to make sure my daughters are able to call bullshit when they're spoonfed the same hegemonic ideals I swallowed about what it means to be a woman.
I didn't know to call bullshit until I was 23. This caused a lot of misery, because if there is any place where I don't excel, it's traditional femininity. Maybe that makes me a gender bender. I think it makes me well-rounded. I'll keep to my action movies and maybe sometimes I'll watch a romcom because my husband likes them. We will remain perfectly balanced: the man's woman and the woman's man. And we'll be happy. Maybe the little boy in the J. Crew ad is happy. It's possible that he's a little culture warrior, too. But then again, he's 5--he's probably enthralled with the wonder all around him, and happily ignorant of the truth that there are those in the wide world who think his toenails have something to do with sex.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
An Open Letter to the Wife of My Mother's Ex-Husband.
Dear Madam,
It would be easy for me to call you trash. It would be easy for me sit on my leather couch, in my nice home, with my educated, productive husband and my gorgeous, excessively intelligent daughters and tell myself that I don't associate with trash. It would be easy to tell myself that I am a well-adjusted, well-respected, generally successful person, or even to chant to myself that I am a liberal feminist with an I.Q. of 155 who could wear your sons' testicles as garter belts if they tried to engage me in scholarly debate, if they did anything but mispell, misuse and name call. It would be easy sit in silence and console myself with the knowledge that there is not a single way in which I am not superior to you...but I've never been much for easy, anyway.
The truth is, I've always thought of you as a woman of average intelligence. My estimation in that regard has fallen somewhat now that I know you think you need an apostrophe to make a word plural. Still, it would seem that you are at least intelligent enough to know the story of your own life, and thusly, that you should know the sources of your shame. I will not add additional shame by recounting who you are and what you've done. I simply mean, here, to respond to some of the things you said, in public, on DW's facebook status, about me.
First of all, with regard to the assertion that I need to remember where I came from, I would like to reassure you that there is never a day when I forget. My husband says that I should not write this, now, and especially that I should not send it to you. He says that I am out of my hometown culture in my real life, and that I need to get out of it in my head. He is right. But I do not toil under the weight of guilt for abject hatred. I do hate that town, and several of its inhabitants--because I still care about it, because I still think it has potential, and because really, deep down, I believe people need to be delivered from its dominant doctrines. And, most of all, because I care about some of the people I was a girl with and I don't want to see them waste their lives in factories. As to the metaphysical implications which rest with that missive: I will never forget that I am the bastard child of a crazy woman. I will never forget that I am very odd, that I was trailer trash, that I use my intelligence to overcompensate, that I think more highly of myself than I ought. I assure you, ma'am, there are other things I will also never forget.
Secondly, it is true that I have never lived anywhere but Arkansas. I abandoned my opportunities. My siblings were still at home, you see. I felt my honor was more important than my ego. I felt loyalty to those to whom I found myself committed.
I have no doubt, however, that no matter where else you have lived, your mind stayed right at home, in Alma, in the smallness of the small town's delusion of grandeur. There are, after all, Almas all over the country. I am, in that respect, more well traveled than you--no matter where I have lived. You said that people from all over think I am a redneck. I don't care if they do. Redneck isn't about physical location, it's about the culture of ignorance. I am close-minded, yes, but no one could accurately describe me as ignorant.
With regard to your "medical license" as evidence of your intellectual prowess, I was very glad when my sister told me that, in your 40s, you had finally found a vocation. Kudos on making yourself better than you were before. I mean that in all sincerity.
I am sorry that you took offense to the term "Common Man." I thought I was very kind in my little concession speech. There is nothing wrong with being common. Most people are common. You should consider yourself lucky to be counted among them, and that here, on this blog, no one knows who you are and will be substituting some other common woman's face with yours. Maybe you will be lucky and they will use the face of someone who has moral fiber.
With reference to the last name: if I were you, I would fall before my feet and worship me, because someday, someone might mistake your youngest son for one of my relatives. I was the first good thing that ever happened to that name. I became so fond of the idea that my teachers praised me for surpassing my "dad," that I kept it. My legal name is hyphenated. I considered it "hailing the subject," a term which means to appropriate a negative word and reverse its meaning, applying it to oneself in a positive way. It, like you, reminds me of where I came from. I love to be reminded of how much I have overcome. There is no better food for my ego than thinking of you, of your husband, of your culture.
For the record, I did not call your son a redneck. I said his attitude caused him to be "stuck in redneck hell," which was not a slam. It was the truth. I do appreciate that you people all stand up for yourselves, even when it is not necessary. I was making philosophical conversation with an old friend from high school, before you all got country about it.
My husband says you are irrational, and a lost cause--that I am stooping to your level by writing this at all. I do not agree. I think you deserve to be confronted. I think you deserve to know that you are, in fact, important enough to be a blip on my radar--because you are the stepmother of my siblings, even if you never call them on their birthdays. So, no, I will not sit in silence and think that you are trash. I will not objectify you. I will say to you, straight up, that you are worth standing up to. Even if I have to stoop to do it. I will even say: Sometimes, you are right. But mostly, you are sad. And that you may have bullied my mother, but you will not bully me--on Facebook or anywhere else. I'm Jessica fucking B-W, with a good reputation, accomplishments, success, IQ, a savings account, and a nice, middle class life. Who the fuck are you?
Sincerely,
Jessica F. B-W.
It would be easy for me to call you trash. It would be easy for me sit on my leather couch, in my nice home, with my educated, productive husband and my gorgeous, excessively intelligent daughters and tell myself that I don't associate with trash. It would be easy to tell myself that I am a well-adjusted, well-respected, generally successful person, or even to chant to myself that I am a liberal feminist with an I.Q. of 155 who could wear your sons' testicles as garter belts if they tried to engage me in scholarly debate, if they did anything but mispell, misuse and name call. It would be easy sit in silence and console myself with the knowledge that there is not a single way in which I am not superior to you...but I've never been much for easy, anyway.
The truth is, I've always thought of you as a woman of average intelligence. My estimation in that regard has fallen somewhat now that I know you think you need an apostrophe to make a word plural. Still, it would seem that you are at least intelligent enough to know the story of your own life, and thusly, that you should know the sources of your shame. I will not add additional shame by recounting who you are and what you've done. I simply mean, here, to respond to some of the things you said, in public, on DW's facebook status, about me.
First of all, with regard to the assertion that I need to remember where I came from, I would like to reassure you that there is never a day when I forget. My husband says that I should not write this, now, and especially that I should not send it to you. He says that I am out of my hometown culture in my real life, and that I need to get out of it in my head. He is right. But I do not toil under the weight of guilt for abject hatred. I do hate that town, and several of its inhabitants--because I still care about it, because I still think it has potential, and because really, deep down, I believe people need to be delivered from its dominant doctrines. And, most of all, because I care about some of the people I was a girl with and I don't want to see them waste their lives in factories. As to the metaphysical implications which rest with that missive: I will never forget that I am the bastard child of a crazy woman. I will never forget that I am very odd, that I was trailer trash, that I use my intelligence to overcompensate, that I think more highly of myself than I ought. I assure you, ma'am, there are other things I will also never forget.
Secondly, it is true that I have never lived anywhere but Arkansas. I abandoned my opportunities. My siblings were still at home, you see. I felt my honor was more important than my ego. I felt loyalty to those to whom I found myself committed.
I have no doubt, however, that no matter where else you have lived, your mind stayed right at home, in Alma, in the smallness of the small town's delusion of grandeur. There are, after all, Almas all over the country. I am, in that respect, more well traveled than you--no matter where I have lived. You said that people from all over think I am a redneck. I don't care if they do. Redneck isn't about physical location, it's about the culture of ignorance. I am close-minded, yes, but no one could accurately describe me as ignorant.
With regard to your "medical license" as evidence of your intellectual prowess, I was very glad when my sister told me that, in your 40s, you had finally found a vocation. Kudos on making yourself better than you were before. I mean that in all sincerity.
I am sorry that you took offense to the term "Common Man." I thought I was very kind in my little concession speech. There is nothing wrong with being common. Most people are common. You should consider yourself lucky to be counted among them, and that here, on this blog, no one knows who you are and will be substituting some other common woman's face with yours. Maybe you will be lucky and they will use the face of someone who has moral fiber.
With reference to the last name: if I were you, I would fall before my feet and worship me, because someday, someone might mistake your youngest son for one of my relatives. I was the first good thing that ever happened to that name. I became so fond of the idea that my teachers praised me for surpassing my "dad," that I kept it. My legal name is hyphenated. I considered it "hailing the subject," a term which means to appropriate a negative word and reverse its meaning, applying it to oneself in a positive way. It, like you, reminds me of where I came from. I love to be reminded of how much I have overcome. There is no better food for my ego than thinking of you, of your husband, of your culture.
For the record, I did not call your son a redneck. I said his attitude caused him to be "stuck in redneck hell," which was not a slam. It was the truth. I do appreciate that you people all stand up for yourselves, even when it is not necessary. I was making philosophical conversation with an old friend from high school, before you all got country about it.
My husband says you are irrational, and a lost cause--that I am stooping to your level by writing this at all. I do not agree. I think you deserve to be confronted. I think you deserve to know that you are, in fact, important enough to be a blip on my radar--because you are the stepmother of my siblings, even if you never call them on their birthdays. So, no, I will not sit in silence and think that you are trash. I will not objectify you. I will say to you, straight up, that you are worth standing up to. Even if I have to stoop to do it. I will even say: Sometimes, you are right. But mostly, you are sad. And that you may have bullied my mother, but you will not bully me--on Facebook or anywhere else. I'm Jessica fucking B-W, with a good reputation, accomplishments, success, IQ, a savings account, and a nice, middle class life. Who the fuck are you?
Sincerely,
Jessica F. B-W.
Monday, April 11, 2011
New News is Bad News
Choosing the right specialist is a little like choosing the right grad school. That is to say: it is vitally important to your success, and choosing the wrong one can negatively impact the course of your life. No pressure. Luckily, I already knew which specialist I wanted because he came with a modifier. When my other two doctors, some family members and a few friends talked to me about which GI guy to see, they said, "Well, there's Dr. D, he's the best." I started to think of him as Dr-D-He's-The-Best. I was told it would be six months before I got in to see him. My appointment was two weeks from the date of referral. I considered myself fortunate.
When I arrived, I was the youngest person there--by about 40 years. The age disparity highlights my sense that none of this is fair, my sense that I'm too young to spend THE REST OF MY LIFE sick. I begin to feel not-so-lucky. I sat silently and read my Denis Johnson stories, looked at my shoes, wrote some lines in my head about them both, and the old people, and the spots on the carpet...
My surgeon, who I am so very fond of, said to me, "GI docs are not as personable as you and I."
He was not wrong. But maybe not very many people are as personable as the two of us. We did, after all, discuss what I would call my disease inspired punk rock band: "Toxic Megacolon." Every time he mentioned a new horrible possible outcome, he added "And that should be the title of the first single," or, "You should make that the album title." During my last appointment with him, he told me I would probably be disembowled and that I might just lose my liver and my vision as well. I walked out of his office feeling awesome. He's the bedside manner master. Like I told my close friend Jack, I say we throw that man a parade.
Now, let me say: I like Dr. D. He's one of those superduper smart people I can admire--BUT I walked out of Dr. D's office feeling like shit. Mostly because of some miscommunication. You see, I was high on drugs the day of my diagnosis. I don't remember a damn thing about what the surgeon said. I only remember cursing, weeping inconsolably and telling the surgeon "MY BODY REALLY DOES HATE ME!" in between sobs. My husband, mother and grandmother all three had conflicting stories about what the diagnosis actually was. I understood it to be severe distal ulcerative colitis. I was wrong. After talking to me about symptoms, pushing on my belly, reading the surgeon's report, examining the biopsy report (which, btw, "could not rule out infectious agents" i.e.: was inconclusive) and looking at pictures of my horrendous little wound-friends, Dr. D said "Well, I am certainly convinced. Your pictures are like a textbook." He then proceeded to tell me that my entire colon is involved. All the way up to the cecum. I still have Ulcerative Colitis, but now it's severe pancolitis. Which is the very worst damned one to have. Lucky me.
He also said, "You don't need to start worrying about cancer for eight years." I thought: I'm 27. I'm 27. I'm 27. In eight years I'll be 35. I don't need to start worrying about colon cancer for 8 years?! Thanks for being so flippant about it, D. Then I remembered the waiting room, considered that maybe he thought he was talking to a 90 year old, and forgave him.
In other news: Apparently the specifically-for-my-disease drug is not currently at a therapeutic dose. All of the improvement I have seen is the result of that Devil, Prednisone. He upped the dose on my 5-ASA (Asacol)--which moved the price from $250/month to $362/month. I will only just be on the therapeutic dose at that level, and may have to bump up again.
So, yeah, when I left his office I felt like shit. He did make one ass joke: "This disease is the proverbial pain in the ass. But it's manageable." I am currently a big fan of ass jokes. But I need more than one a visit to balance out that much unpleasantness.
FURTHERMORE, surgeons AND specialists sure know how to push on organs. I feel like I've been stabbed again. I managed to keep my energy up and did the troop leader thing tonight, in a new dress I bought to console myself about the fact that I still hate my new Edgar Suit. I'm trying to buy myself one clothing item a week, until my birthday money runs out. It'll be at least two years before my skin is ready for a new tattoo anyway. Have I mentioned how very lucky I am?
Actually, it's a good thing I don't actually believe in Luck or Anything Else, or I'd have some real anger issues. I'm so glad my life sucked enough to purge me of belief before now. I don't think I could handle adding Existential Crisis to my list of Things To Overcome.
I may post the poem I wrote today. It's not ever going to be good enough to save for anything.
When I arrived, I was the youngest person there--by about 40 years. The age disparity highlights my sense that none of this is fair, my sense that I'm too young to spend THE REST OF MY LIFE sick. I begin to feel not-so-lucky. I sat silently and read my Denis Johnson stories, looked at my shoes, wrote some lines in my head about them both, and the old people, and the spots on the carpet...
My surgeon, who I am so very fond of, said to me, "GI docs are not as personable as you and I."
He was not wrong. But maybe not very many people are as personable as the two of us. We did, after all, discuss what I would call my disease inspired punk rock band: "Toxic Megacolon." Every time he mentioned a new horrible possible outcome, he added "And that should be the title of the first single," or, "You should make that the album title." During my last appointment with him, he told me I would probably be disembowled and that I might just lose my liver and my vision as well. I walked out of his office feeling awesome. He's the bedside manner master. Like I told my close friend Jack, I say we throw that man a parade.
Now, let me say: I like Dr. D. He's one of those superduper smart people I can admire--BUT I walked out of Dr. D's office feeling like shit. Mostly because of some miscommunication. You see, I was high on drugs the day of my diagnosis. I don't remember a damn thing about what the surgeon said. I only remember cursing, weeping inconsolably and telling the surgeon "MY BODY REALLY DOES HATE ME!" in between sobs. My husband, mother and grandmother all three had conflicting stories about what the diagnosis actually was. I understood it to be severe distal ulcerative colitis. I was wrong. After talking to me about symptoms, pushing on my belly, reading the surgeon's report, examining the biopsy report (which, btw, "could not rule out infectious agents" i.e.: was inconclusive) and looking at pictures of my horrendous little wound-friends, Dr. D said "Well, I am certainly convinced. Your pictures are like a textbook." He then proceeded to tell me that my entire colon is involved. All the way up to the cecum. I still have Ulcerative Colitis, but now it's severe pancolitis. Which is the very worst damned one to have. Lucky me.
He also said, "You don't need to start worrying about cancer for eight years." I thought: I'm 27. I'm 27. I'm 27. In eight years I'll be 35. I don't need to start worrying about colon cancer for 8 years?! Thanks for being so flippant about it, D. Then I remembered the waiting room, considered that maybe he thought he was talking to a 90 year old, and forgave him.
In other news: Apparently the specifically-for-my-disease drug is not currently at a therapeutic dose. All of the improvement I have seen is the result of that Devil, Prednisone. He upped the dose on my 5-ASA (Asacol)--which moved the price from $250/month to $362/month. I will only just be on the therapeutic dose at that level, and may have to bump up again.
So, yeah, when I left his office I felt like shit. He did make one ass joke: "This disease is the proverbial pain in the ass. But it's manageable." I am currently a big fan of ass jokes. But I need more than one a visit to balance out that much unpleasantness.
FURTHERMORE, surgeons AND specialists sure know how to push on organs. I feel like I've been stabbed again. I managed to keep my energy up and did the troop leader thing tonight, in a new dress I bought to console myself about the fact that I still hate my new Edgar Suit. I'm trying to buy myself one clothing item a week, until my birthday money runs out. It'll be at least two years before my skin is ready for a new tattoo anyway. Have I mentioned how very lucky I am?
Actually, it's a good thing I don't actually believe in Luck or Anything Else, or I'd have some real anger issues. I'm so glad my life sucked enough to purge me of belief before now. I don't think I could handle adding Existential Crisis to my list of Things To Overcome.
I may post the poem I wrote today. It's not ever going to be good enough to save for anything.
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