Monthly Archives: November 2009

#doctorwhofail

I watch a lot of Doctor Who — New Who, yes, but we’re also working our way through the old series (we started with, and recently finished, the 4th/Tom Baker era, and are now on to 5th/Peter Davidson). I also Tweet, um, rather a lot. And so I often find myself tweeting about Doctor Who — and, being the kyriarchy-butt-kicker I like to think I am, I find myself tweeting about when Doctor Who fails. And oh, does it!

I don’t mean the inevitable science-hashing of all scifi (although, really, six minutes in deep space without a helmet before the cold gets to you? how about when your body explodes instantly from the relative pressure differentials??) — I mean the race fails, the “jungle primitives”/”noble savages” played by white folk in bronzer (or green body paint, depending). I mean the gender fails, with the screaming, “hysterical” woman, and the oh-so-calm and stoic men. I mean the disability fails, when physical “disfigurement” leads to “mental instability” leads to murdering everyone in sight. I could go on.

And sometimes, someone asks me why I care about the failures of a 30 year old show. Or says we’ve made such progress, eh? Or explains it away as “different times”.

My answer is: it may be easier to spot the failures from 30 years ago, and perhaps, yes, some few improvements have been made. But do you really think we’re so much better now? Really?

When was the last time you saw a trans woman on the screen, big or little, NOT played by a a cis woman (if the character is supposed to be “good”, but “deceptive”), or a highly masculine cis man (if the character is supposed to be “bad”, or “funny”)?

When was the last time you saw a person in a wheelchair who was not a one-line, one-dimensional character (or caricature)? …who was not played by a physically able-bodied person? (How about all those fancy CGI techniques to portray people with amputations? What, are there really no one-armed actors out there? Somehow, I find that hard to believe.) Or the Innocent Angel(TM), especially a person with Down’s syndrome or the like, whom a TAB must sweep in to rescue, there for the moralizing only.

And we’re still doing it on race, too. How many shows headline American Indians, or Aborigines? How many times do we figure “Japanese, Filipino, [or any other Asian or Asian-ish ethnicity] close enough”? How many women in hijab have you seen outside of the odd episode where they were used to make some Point about “religious oppression” or “cultural tolerance” — used for our ends, rather than fully realized persons/characters with their own reasons for covering, and concerns aside from that one choice?

We might pretend improvements have been made, we might pat ourselves on the back — but everything wrong with my favorite 30-year-old cheap-looking scifi show is still getting done wrong today. Fundamentally, the system that values certain bodies, and ignores others except when useful for its own purposes, still remains. There are no perfect, unproblematical shows: all of us who consume media in any form are complicit to some extent.

This is why I tweet about the failures of old pop media: because all the same problems are here and now, too. If we’re going to watch, we damn well should recognize the inherent flaws, the oppressive, damaging tropes as well. We must hold our entertainment accountable, and be responsible, or we are responsible for supporting the oppression and pain not just of made up characters, but of real people.

The Boychick (who, yes, watches Who with us) may be too young to have deep, nuanced conversations about this yet. (When he asked me “Why are those people green?”, I first, exasperated with the show, said that it was a highly ham-fisted and racist attempt at making a moralistic anti-racist statement, but then, upon his continued perplexion, said “green body paint”. I do give some nod to age-appropriate answers.) But I comment on the failures while watching, and The Man and I discuss the problematical plots, and as he grows, this is what I hope he’ll learn: that media can be enjoyed, loved even, but also can be, and must be, examined critically.

Paraskevidekatriaphilia

paraskevidekatriaphobia n. the fear of Friday the 13th

I do not have paraskevidekatriaphobia. Nor triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13). Quite the opposite: 13 and I are dear friends. I look forward to Friday the 13th whenever it rolls around.

This probably originated with my innate contrariness. 13 is unlucky, society says? 13 is my lucky number, says I! Be afraid of Friday the 13th, society says? Friday the 13th is my favorite day, says I!

I have mostly outgrown the childishness of anticonformity (if nonconformity is finding your own path, anticonformity is running the track the wrong way, and about as useful), but I haven’t yet — and I hope never to — let go of my perhaps perverse adoration of all things 13, Fridays especially. What’s not to love about 13, after all? It’s a prime number, it’s one of the factors of 39, and isn’t that an interesting number itself? Plus, the poor neglected thing is so underused, and underappreciated, and all because of some silly misunderstanding. It’s oppressed, really, the victim of stereotyping. As a social justice worker, it’s practically my duty to champion it.

And of course, what’s not to love about Fridays?

I used to joke that it was Monday the 13ths that were a problem — ok, so I lifted it from Garfield, back when he was half amusing, but I had proof: see, 13 is a good thing, and Fridays are a good thing, and a positive times a positive is just a positive, right? But Mondays, ah, everyone knows Mondays are bad, and a positive (13) times a negative (Mondays) is a negative.

I was a bit of a dork.

(Was?)

And then, of course, it was a 13th (Saturday, but who’s counting?) that The Man and I first kissed, and every 13th since that we’ve celebrated being together. Counting that first fateful Rocky Horror night (told you I was a dork), we’ve had 144 13ths together — and yes, we are that obnoxious couple that celebrates, or at least pauses to acknowledge, every lunaversary.

To further support my love for this day, a dear friend just texted me, saying she’ll be in town this evening with her son, and would The Man and I like a date night while they play with the Boychick?

I told you this was my lucky day.

So perhaps you’ll forgive me for my paraskevidekatriaphilia. May your Friday the 13th be as blessed.

WFPP Guest Post: The Family Poster

In this entry to the Womanist/Feminist Parenting Primer, we see that sometimes the little moments and the big moments are the same thing.

When Susannah told me this story, of making her preschooler’s “family poster” and realizing it’ll be the first time he’ll really be vulnerable to homophobic bigotry — or “simple” ignorant schoolyard teasing — for having two moms, I asked her to share it with us for the Primer, because it so encapsulates the fear and the hope and the determination we so often feel when raising our children “different” in a kyriarchal world. She so touchingly makes the point that the best thing we can send our children off into the world with is love — and the knowledge that love matters most of all.

The Family Poster

Dearest little one,

Last Thursday when I dropped you off at school the parent helper handed me a blank white poster board. She said to fill it with pictures as a way to help you tell your classmates about your family. We took it home that day and talked about how big our family is – those people we were born to and those people we have chosen as our own. Our family is spread fairly wide – Nana and Grandpa Rollie in Los Angeles; Uncle Jay, Aunt Shekar, and baby Karolina in Pittsburgh. Closer to home are Grandma, Uncle Randy, Auntie Shane, Auntie Shae, Aunt Tori, Aunt Cyndi, Sarah, Tonya, Gram, and all of my aunts, uncles and cousins.

“Jerome? And Lucia?”
“Yes, baby. Jerome and Lucia are part of our family too. So are Julia, Sonja and Asher.”
“Yeah. (pause) Who else?”
“Grandpa Angelo. We should put a picture of him on the poster too, shouldn’t we?” You never met your grandpa as he died before you were born, but your grandma talks with you about him all of the time.
“And mama?”
“Yes, mama too.”

When we got home we went about our merry way and forgot about the family poster that had sparked a half hour of discussion. I worked through the week to find a fun group of pictures that gives an idea of who your family is. Tonight after you fell asleep I gathered them all together to assemble on the poster board. It wasn’t until I started to lay down the pictures and saw all of the faces that it struck me – this is when the teasing could start for you. You, my love, are blessed with two moms.

I knew the day would come when we’d face this (and I hate our society for making it an “issue” needing to be faced) but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. You will be four years old next week and I am thinking of you sharing about your family with your preschool class. Will someone tell you that you can’t have two moms? What will your teacher say? How many kids will ask you where the picture is of your dad? What will your response be to that? We’ve talked about how there are kids who live with grandparents, aunts, uncles, a mom, a dad, the possibilities are endless. You know the story of how mama and I wanted a baby and Uncle Randy agreed to be our donor. Every so often you ask to hear the “Uncle Randy story” but at nearly four you will not have the words to explain this to your class. You may not even feel the need to explain it.

My belief is that if any questions do come up Teacher Amy will do a wonderful job of supporting you in saying that yes, you do have a mommy and a mama. You do not have a daddy. She will talk about how families look different but that what matters is love. You, Keagan, are SURROUNDED by love. You were born of a love so great that we could never have imagined today. You pushed your way into a world already filled with a family who loved you.

At the same time, you arrived into a society in which many people have strong ideas about who “should” and “should not” be defined as family, marry, love each other. These definitions leave our family out, acting as the proverbial circular peg trying to fit into a square box. Perhaps that act of trying to fit in is the problem. Sometimes it makes more sense to help send a message so big (Um, hello world, wake up and smell the fair-trade, shade-grown organic coffee. EMBRACE diversity! EMBRACE love!) that it would cause that little square box to implode and a new definition to blossom like a phoenix rising from steaming ash.

Love ties together a family – the people who you love, and the people who love you. Your family is made of those people who build you up rather than tear you down, support you at all times, these are the people with whom you feel safe. A blood connection may or may not exist. There is no room in this definition for placing boundaries on love through things like gender, sex, class, race, ethnicity, color, (dis)ability, religion. If you can walk away knowing that when someone questions your definition of family, then I’ve done something right. A family is love. Period. And you, Keagan, are my family, my heart.

I love you up to the moon and back,

Mommy

Susannah lives in the American Pacific Northwest, where her just-turned-four-year-old is blessed with a large, loving family, including, yes, two mothers.

But how do they all fit?

Around here, we do — or aim for — intuitive eating for the whole family. We started with breastfeeding on cue; we did self-feeding (also called baby-led weaning, with the British definition for “wean”: to introduce anything other than milk) with the Boychick since he first had solids at 7mo, eating the same food we ate; and we’ve always tried to honor his requests for milk, water, foods, and so on. (So, sometimes we’ve told him we were all out when we might not have been, but as he grows more perceptive, we limit that — not only because we can’t get away with it, but because we’d rather not lie to him, and have him learn that lying is acceptable.) We do all eat as a family, and only make one meal, but no one is required to eat anything they don’t want.

Sometimes, this means the Boychick has strawberry ice cream for breakfast. Sometimes, this means we do eggs for dinner. Sometimes, this means he asks for grapes for dessert (sometimes we even have them). Usually, this means he avoids zucchini like the plague, and eats all carrots of any kind placed in front of him (cabbage is another favorite, except in lo mein — don’t ask me, I only live here). It means sometimes he has three plates of food, and sometimes three bites. We don’t cater to him, but he does, basically, get to eat what he wants, when he wants.

Yesterday? It meant he ate four peanut butter and two Vanilla Almond Crunch granola bars — in less than two hours.

My only question? Where did he fit them all??

Diaper-free, but kyriarchy-laden

I’ve been pestered a few times to write a post on elimination communication (or EC), because even among the “crunchy” set, it’s pretty uncommon, and we were “successful” with the Boychick: he’s been diaper-free (by his choice) since he was 9 months old, and more or less continent and “toilet trained” since around a year and a half. This is probably not the post they were expecting, because I have no desire to do a how-to, or even a story of what-we-did. While I am most definitely a fan and an advocate of EC, it’s one of those topics that gets a whole lot of people a whole lot of defensive, and really, that’s the last thing I want. But I finally thought of how to write about it in a way that might be of interest even to my non-parent blog readers.

For a basic explanation of EC, please see the glossary entry on EC /elimination communication. There are many advantages to this practice (communication, reduced crying, reduced diaper rash, earlier toilet independence, reduced waste or waste water, etc), as well as disadvantages and challenges (especially in this universal-diapering culture), but what I want to talk about is its role in kyriarchy. For to be sure, it does have (a highly complicated) one: while it’s not true that only “stay at home moms” can practice EC — even part time EC at home and conventionally diapered in child-care is beneficial for infants –, there are several factors of privilege that play into the ability to choose this parenting method.

First, it is much easier when one is able to be at home (or otherwise) with one’s child full-time: for ease of pottying, to meet the child’s expectation of being pottied, and in order to be “in tune” or entwined with the infant — and when one’s home has flush toilets, and running water, and a clothes washing machine. It’s also easier when one can wear little, or things that won’t get ruined (or ruin one’s day) for getting baby urine on them: it’s not necessary, but having baby naked or wearing just a thin layer of absorbency does increase the “success” rate, even as it exposes the family to the consequences of any misses. That’s a lot easier when one can stick close at home, or otherwise not need to be “presentable”.

Secondly, a hell of a lot easier when one is white, and middle-class, and physically-able, and cis, and has apparent straight privilege. Here’s the thing: practicing EC draws a lot of negative attention in a culture that expects — demands — universal diapering for at least the first two years of a child’s life (such expectation growing ever longer as we, thankfully!, abandon the punitive, shaming, stressful “potty training” methods of yesteryear, and, not so thankfully, diaper manufacturers grow ever more successful at selling bigger and later stages of diapers). Weathering that attention is a thousand times easier when one exists in a place of privilege — that is, when one is not already under excessive and unreasonable scrutiny, due to one’s ethnicity, race, class, gender, sexuality, age, and so on. Existing in a body privileged by kyriarchy also makes much of the attention neutral-to-positive, where someone without that privilege would receive more judgment and more negativity.

There’s also a uniquely racist aspect to much of EC advocacy — inadvertent, perhaps, but no less damaging therefore. The cultures perceived in the white Western world-view to have not yet universally adopted full-time diapering (rightly or not) are the poorer areas of the globe — “brown” areas. Thus when white, middle-class, privileged parents look for modern examples of this age-old practice, we look to, and glorify and exotify, people of color. It becomes about “those brown people”, who are so “natural”, so “unspoiled by modernity”, so “primitive”, and it becomes about using them (or rather, our white idealized vision of them) for our own ends (instruction, objectification), rather than recognizing and honoring their own personhood, their own culture, their own struggles and oppressions, their own dignity.

(Of course, opposition to EC often takes racist forms as well: “It’s all well and good for those people, who don’t mind getting pissed on, who are too poor for carpet, who already live in dirt and filth and poverty. Really, they’re just jumping at the chance to get disposable diapers!” — once again Othering people of color, as well as ignoring the roles kyriarchy, internalized racism and colonialism play in that poverty, and in that desire for “modernity”.)

Yet I do not believe that these problems, as serious as they are, are inherent in the practice: rather, they arise from the placement of the practice in a kyriarchal culture. Like breastfeeding, elimination communication is the biological expectation: it cannot be racist itself, because it is universal to our species. But like breastfeeding, the current kyriarchal culture — with its racism, its power imbalances, its dearth of examples of each in modern white cultures –, combined with the distorting lenses it shoves on the eyes of those of us with privilege, creates an environment in which said racism (and classism, cissexism, ageism, etc)  is nearly inevitable.

And as a further complication, elimination communication also works to subvert the kyriarchy: we reduce our reliance on capitalistic consumption of products; we reduce the amount of waste designed to be shat on and thrown away in landfills; we raise our children more in touch with and aware of their bodies and their needs; we teach them by modeling to listen to and honor the needs of those with less privilege. EC is obviously not necessary for many of these things: one can, of course, reduce consumption, respect one’s child’s autonomy, have a loving relationship, and so on, without practicing EC. Nor is EC a guarantee of any of that. Like so many other things, it is but a tool — one which can be used by the kyriarchy to maintain hierarchies of oppression as well as by activists to reject the strictures kyriarchy has placed on us.

In this way, EC is much like breastfeeding, like many aspects of biologically appropriate parenting, like many choices which are possible due to and often prop up privilege — for this is a pattern recognizable across an array of stuff white people do; this is a function of kyriarchy: privilege allows people more choices, more autonomy (yet still a highly imperfect, highly constrained simulacrum of autonomy) than those without, and so we are freer, comparatively, to choose those options which the kyriarchy opposes; and when we do, our privilege practically guarantees we enact those choices in ways which contribute to the oppression of those who, by lack of privilege, are unable to.

Would I recommend EC, regardless of this catch-22? Oh yes, absolutely. But do I pretend it is a choice devoid of consequence, unconnected to our assigned and enforced role in the world? Do I pretend its pursuit is uncomplicated, as simple for everyone as it was for me? No. I maintain that anyone who can care for an infant can do it; I maintain, all things equal (which they never are), it is the right choice for babies; I do not maintain that therefore everyone must. Like with so much else, I will continue to advocate for it, and to educate about it, but I will not engage in the prescriptivism, the arrogance that would be so easy for me to slip into as a person with so much privilege, that alienates so many.

So them’s my thoughts on EC. I did tell you it wouldn’t be what you expect: mine is not a how-to parenting site. There are lots of great sites out there that will help teach you about how to practice elimination communication. And when I was pregnant, I ate those up with a spoon, fast as I could; having come out the other side, though, this is what I was left with: EC was absolutely the right choice for our family, and especially now, in the third year of life, when I see so many struggling with the transition from diaper dependence to toilet use, I am so glad we put in the early effort to listen to and honor the Boychick’s communications. But I also see, from this vantage, just how privileged we were that it was an option for us at all, and a relatively easily chosen one. It’s not an entirely comfortable realization, but then, awareness of privilege shouldn’t be.

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