Watch the brilliance of Joy Nash in A Fat Rant and Fat Rant 3: Staircase Wit1. (I found Fat Rant 2 to be too problematic with its portrayals of various compulsive disorders to recommend it, but I adore both of the other two.) I’ll wait.

***

Done? Good. Take a [...]]]> And honey, that ain’t an insult.

Watch the brilliance of Joy Nash in A Fat Rant and Fat Rant 3: Staircase Wit¹. (I found Fat Rant 2 to be too problematic with its portrayals of various compulsive disorders to recommend it, but I adore both of the other two.) I’ll wait.

***

Done? Good. Take a moment to compose yourself from the swoon. (It took me all afternoon. I’m still on a high.)

***

It’s — finally — warm and dry here in Portland. Shorts and tank weather. And I, fat pale flabby stretchmarked unshaven woman, am loving it. I’m sitting here now in a new sleeveless shirt-dress my mom got me, loving the fit and the feel and the color and the girly skirtedness of it, enjoying the breeze on my arms, smiling whenever I catch a glimpse of my shoulder “beauty mark” (aka mole), which has been hiding all the long rainy season.

Sexism doesn’t affect all women the same way. In mainstream US culture, a conventionally pretty woman — of the right age and right race and right coloring and right height and right proportion and right shape and right weight and right features and right symmetry — is told she must bare herself to public gaze (perfectly coiffed, in stylish and “flattering” clothing), that the public (meaning men) might consume her beauty. But the rest of us? Must never be seen. Certainly if we dare to go out in public, we must never wear that which is deemed unsuitable for our status as hideously unattractive, lest we permanently shrivel the phalluses of any men casting their eye our way, or cause the sparky explosion of nearby electronics, or wilt crops, or whatever else it is the sight of pale flabby arms like mine is supposed to do.

These are some damn strong arms, apparently. I think I’m flattered.

The point is, while some women are fighting for the right to not have to do girl-drag, some of us are working hard to have our right to do that very thing accepted.

There’s a lot of privilege in the look-good-while-fat movement, to be sure. (Any time dressing well is seen as an obligation, there’s a problem.) And given the culture which, as Joy Nash points out, barely thinks we should be allowed to wear clothes, looking good as a fat woman usually takes either money or sewing skills and time, all of which reflect various privileges.

I? Would not be sitting here in this lovely shirt (dress, if I don’t bend over or if it’s a good underwear day), with two more lovely new shirts hanging in my closet², if it were not for the indulgence and bank card of my visiting mom.

But I have that privilege, and I get to — sometimes — shop at the fat boutiques, where I’m in the smaller or middle of the size range, where if they don’t have something in my size it’s because it’s sold out, where I don’t have to choose between tents and polyester frocks that will fall apart before I get it home which is what’s offered in my size in the shops I could afford to frequent.

I am fat. My unapologetic existence is subversive. Daring to go out in public, in revealing clothes — unskirted bathing suits and short little sun dresses and cut off shorts? Revolutionary.

Will you join me? Whatever your body size or shape, whether conventionally pretty or subversively beautiful or happily plain, be. Wear what you like. Be as you like. Dress up, dress down. Shave, or trim, or wave in the breeze. No apologies. No put-downs. No backing down.

Revolutionary.

Now to my topic, which is [...]]]> First, the good news: Tiwonge and Steven have been pardoned! (Warning on link for misgendering.) Although psychological violence continues to be done to Tiwonge via misgendering, and their life is likely to continue to be hard, I am glad that these two are being spared, and I wish them well.

Now to my topic, which is not so much about them as about the conversation we in the West are having about them:

Tiwonge Chimbalanga is a woman. (Whether she’s a trans woman or an intersex woman or a woman according to her own cultural ideas that Western thought is not capable of understanding is irrelevant to this particular conversation: she is a woman, and that is all we need to know here.) Steven Monjeza is a man. Therefore, calling them a “gay couple” (much less “Malawi’s first openly gay couple”) is both inaccurate and highly offensive.

But.

I’ve been seeing a lot of commentary, on Twitter (with its limitations on characters) especially, calling them, therefore, a “straight couple”.

I have a problem with this.

Acknowledging that Western¹ ideas of sexuality and gender are not universal and therefore are likely to be inadequate to conceptualize or express this couple’s reality, how we talk about them reflects on us. And the language of “gay couple” and “straight couple” doesn’t reflect very well.

Our best information on Steven, from his own words, is this: “I have never had sexual feelings for ladies, but I had them with Tiwo”². To Western understanding, this implies either asexuality or homo/bisexuality³ — which is to say, not straight. And as a not-straight person, I really, really hate being referred to as being part of a “straight couple”. It’s not a matter of denying the reality or privilege of my relationship, or wanting to score “queer points”, but that it feels wrong, and, intentionally or not, erases my identity.

The problem is that we use the same words for orientation as for relationships. Unquestionably I am a part of a woman/man couple, and I have abundant privilege therefore — but I am not straight, my relationship is not the same as it would be if all parties were straight, and I do not, as “straight relationship” implies, have straight privilege. We need a way to talk about relationships which does not by implication of orientation erase the identities of people like me, like Steven — for never is there a “bisexual couple”, or a “pansexual relationship” or a “queer relationship” (unless the genders of one or more participants is understood to be “queer”, or outside the binary). No where in “straight couple” or “gay couple” do we allow for anyone who does not fit neatly into the gender binary, for that matter⁴.

None of the alternatives I’ve encountered have seemed satisfactory. My so-far favorite — male/female/mixed relationship — is a step up, but still highly problematic in that it assumes binary gender, and would lump together relationships involving people with nonbinary genders (who do not, generally, receive societal approval and relationship privilege) with binary woman/man relationships (who do).

What I want are new words, words which allow us to describe the ways in which some relationships are privileged above others⁵ but which do not state or imply anything about the orientations of the people involved, which do not assume one man and one woman as the default (nor casts them as diametrically opposed, as does “opposite-sex couple”), which acknowledge that man and woman are not the only genders possible.

Given the beautiful complexity of humanity, I’m not sure that entirely unproblematic language is possible, but I am completely convinced we can do better than this. We have to.

Yeah, Day Three fucked my back up. Or rather, my back, injured long long ago when I was twelve, decided it had had enough and wasn’t going to take it any more, and I wasn’t going to give yet another massage, I was [...]]]> You know that fabulous class I was gushing over in my last post?

Yeah, Day Three fucked my back up. Or rather, my back, injured long long ago when I was twelve, decided it had had enough and wasn’t going to take it any more, and I wasn’t going to give yet another massage, I was just going to lie on the floor and cry for an hour.

That day? Also the first of my cycle. And the spasm came while I was trying to put on my pants, so I was on the floor wearing only a nursing tank and my bright red undies¹. So, that was fun².

On the other hand, if you’re going to have a great big physical and emotional break down, there are worse places to do it than a room full of nurturing women half of whom are doulas (some wonderfully radical) and all of whom are massage therapists or massage students.³

This has happened to me before⁴, and it will likely happen to me again, although I’m working on preventing it. But this has me thinking a lot about privilege⁵, and access to medical care, and sick days, and disability, and, oh, lots of things.

Like there’s this: since it happened, I’ve seen a massage therapist, a physical therapist, and the chiropractor twice. The latter two are almost entirely covered by my insurance, and the former offers me a student discount (which I can only be because I had good enough credit to have taken out a massive loan to cover my schooling — it’s really true that the more you make, the less you spend).

And there’s this: The Man took two days off, took a super long lunch to get me to an appointment the third day, and has a job that allows him to work from home once a week so he was around again to help me out today. He’s salaried, has abundant⁶ sick and vacation days, and is in a class of work that allows for flexible hours and minimum oversight.

And this: when I am not up to writing, when I am not up to taking out my own damn sponge, I can do nothing but sit around and pop NSAIDs and ice my back and go to body work appointments and bitch about #backpocalypse2010 on Twitter. I lose some readers and some momentum, I miss a week of The Boychick’s Bookshelf and am five days late on a monthly menstrual post⁷: I do not lose my job, I do not worry about paying my rent, I do not grit my teeth and soldier through and further damage myself to avoid those things.

And then there’s how hard it is to ask for help, the socially imposed conditioning to apologize for being hurt⁸ that I’ve struggled with, the allowances I am given because this is presumed to be temporary, the language used to describe the incapacity⁹ that is today only for me and every day for others, the suggestions that it’s my own fault for not taking better care of myself, the voices¹⁰ saying that if I’m so damaged what am I doing trying to be a massage therapist… there’s rather more going on than I can identify, much less analyze. Especially as the ice pack melts and my hips start tingling and my back starts twitching and my bed starts calling — loudly, in the form of snores from my child and texts from my lover.

But I haven’t forgotten you¹¹, and soon I’ll be back with another Boychick’s Bookshelf (and there may be a collaboration there to announce soon — stay tuned!), and a review of Flow (oh so mixed), and whatever else I can eke out time for (ideas I never lack — time to follow through, often). And I promise it’ll be a little less apocalyptic¹², and a lot more topical.

[A] US professor of philosophy… a single mother, has been accepted to participate in a month-long European seminar this summer, but her acceptance was made conditional on her demonstrating to the satisfaction of the directors of [...]]]> Laurie (knitmeapony) shared the following post a couple days ago on Twitter, Today in existing while woman, about this case:

[A] US professor of philosophy… a single mother, has been accepted to participate in a month-long European seminar this summer, but her acceptance was made conditional on her demonstrating to the satisfaction of the directors of the host Institute that she has full-time childcare arrangements in place. She was given 12 hours to provide this satisfactory proof, or her acceptance would be withdrawn.

The age of the professor’s child was quoted as being 13 years old in the post (I heard from a second source that he is 12, and in 6th grade); the following is based on the assumption that the quoted age is accurate.

I wholeheartedly agree with the analysis of the linked post on the misogyny inherent in the institute’s demand, but there is another angle worthy of pointing out: since when do 13 year olds automatically require “full-time childcare”? What happened to 13 year olds doing childcare?

Now, not all 13 year olds are up to being by themselves 40 hours a week; most people, frankly, would find that boring, and a 13 year old in most places would have a limited set of options for self-amusement (in the United States, for instance, many malls disallow anyone “of school age” entrance by themselves during school hours; still other places disapprove of unaccompanied minors entering at all, ever). And to be sure, there are many 13 year olds with whom I would not entrust the Boychick — but there are equally small numbers of 23 year olds, 33 year olds, and so on, whom I would find responsible enough!

But I find there’s something very, very wrong with a society that treats teenagers — “even” young teenagers — the same as they do infants and toddlers, who most certainly do still have need for high levels of supervision. “Adolescents” — persons who have (usually) entered puberty and matured sexually — are, basically, adults. (Robert Epstein calls teens “apprentice adults”.) The only absolute categorical difference between teens and adults is years — not wisdom, not maturity, not even experience, but years¹. Those years usually mean that adults have had more opportunities to exercise judgment, to make — and with luck, learn from — mistakes, to gain experience in a wider variety of situations, true; but not necessarily. Before going off on how many teens have “bad judgment” and make “bad choices”, I ask you to think of all the adults you know; are they, to a one, paragons of wisdom and virtue? I guarantee the answer is no. Then why do we expect any more from teens? Why are their mistakes used as justification for a categorical condemnation of their entire cohort? By that measure, adults — of any age — should surely not be allowed to drive or vote or run businesses.

All children are people, and deserve respect and autonomy appropriate to their development; honoring the personhood of teens requires that we recognize that they are not rebels, not enemies, not delinquents, not signs of the eventual downfall of society, not good-for-nothing loafers and thrill-seekers concerned only with their own pleasure: and to the extent that they are, or act that way, consider that this is a natural response of any person to having their self-determination thwarted, their autonomy disrespected, their personhood and very humanity belittled (as when we say about teens that they are “wild animals” or “hormones on legs” — as though adults aren’t!).

If teens are irresponsible, it is because they are categorically denied any opportunities for responsibility; if they are self-centered (as though adults are universally not!), it is because they are not given chances to serve; if they rebel, it is because they are told they must stop acting like children, but are not yet treated like real people, and because they are told to get out now, so they can move on to “settle down” into “real life” later. They are told, and usually have been told their whole lives, that they are not trustworthy or capable or responsible; is it any wonder should they give in, and believe it of themselves, and act to fulfill those predictions?

Not to sound too much like the proverbial story of “I walked to school in the snow! up hill! both ways!”, but by thirteen I had been menstruating for three years. I was 5′9″. I was just starting high school, I’d been biking myself to school for half a decade, I’d been babysitting friends for a couple years, and I’d laugh if you told me I needed “full-time childcare”. My mom took me along to conferences (sometimes a few days, sometimes a full week), and generally I kicked around the hotel by myself for most of the day (and this was before the days of everyone having cell phones, although my mom had one and knew I could reach her should I need to). By sixteen, I’d found and started a relationship with the person who was to be my lifemate.

I’m not saying that I expect all 13 year olds to “be like me” — but I do expect them to be like them, and some, perhaps most, could have the ability to be responsible and “mature” (and non-destructively self-entertaining!) if we let them. Teens — “even” young teens — tend to be a lot more competent and able and responsible than adults give them credit for.

Of course it would be ridiculous to one day simply dump responsibilities and duties and finances and the expectation of full independence on a 13 year old; but it’s equally ridiculous to do the same to an 18 year old. More sensible than either would be the gradual transfer of independence and responsibilities, and always, at any age, respect and trust in the abilities an individual shows (remembering that one needs opportunities for capability to be demonstrated!). And yes, arbitrary age limits attached to the transfer of certain rights (like voting), to some extent, are practical and perhaps even necessary. But let’s try to make those ages reasonable; culturally, let’s make sure that as many persons as possible reach those ages well able to handle those responsibilities because they’ve had the chance to prove to themselves their competence well before then.

Maybe this particular 13 year old needs someone watching him at all times (I don’t know and no one except he and his mother can know); certainly, for a month-long trip, ensuring (or helping him to ensure for himself!) that he has something to do during that time, for at least part of it, seems reasonable. But how about putting him to work, should he wish, in the childcare? The average 13 year old is far more likely to be suited for that, if with supervision — or better yet, mentorship — than for being on the other side.

I just read this fabulous post over at Spilt Milk: Let us eat cake, and in the comments, in my own rambling, I had something of a revelation, immediately followed by a reality check:

I said that the Boychick never “doesn’t like” [...]]]> That, of course, is the first rule of nutrition. And there are no other rules.

I just read this fabulous post over at Spilt Milk: Let us eat cake, and in the comments, in my own rambling, I had something of a revelation, immediately followed by a reality check:

I said that the Boychick never “doesn’t like” what we have for dinner, and then joked that I’d regret saying that later. But then it occurred to me — it is often the case that he doesn’t eat what we have for dinner. Or rather, he’ll eat only part of it (say, only the broccoli, or everything but the broccoli — don’t ask me!), or will eat only a very little bit of it, or, very very infrequently, will decline to eat with us at all (which on the two or three occasions that’s happened has been more about him wanting to run and play right then than a commentary on the meal itself).

And my revelation was that some parents might frame that as “not liking” what we served. Because he’s not eating it. Or because, tonight, unlike the three hundred nights that preceded it, he says he doesn’t like noodles. Or broccoli. Or chicken. Or whatever it is he’s declining to consume on this particular night.

But never, not once, has it crossed my mind to conclude that, thus, he “doesn’t like” what we made. Because I know that toddler tastes change by the day — sometimes by the minute. Because I know that his choice to not eat something right then doesn’t say anything about whether he’ll like it at some other time. Because I know that he ate it yesterday, and even if not, he’ll probably eat it tomorrow¹.

But mostly because we trust him. We trust that he’ll eat what he wants, and how much he wants, when he wants. It’s how we fed him as an infant — as much breastmilk as he wanted whenever he wanted, in which he got tastes of everything I ate — and it’s how we introduced solids² — whole foods, the same foods we were eating — and it’s how he eats now. He eats spicy black beans and chicken makhani and mushroom stroganoff and pretty much whatever we eat. Except for when he doesn’t. Which is ok, because he’ll eat something else later.

The reality check is that there is absolutely privilege in this: we completely have the first rule of nutrition covered. If he doesn’t eat what’s on his plate right now, no one’s going to starve. No one’s going to go hungry because he wasn’t interested in that food right then. There will always be plenty more food later, and different food, and enough food to fill him up, and enough food to waste.

And that is not true for everyone all the time. That is not true for many people within just miles of me. That may not be true for all the people reading this.

Which is something we need to remember — I need to remember — when extolling the virtues and joys of unconstrained living, of intuitive eating, of whatever privileged philosophy³ is being promoted that day. Some of us simply do not have those options. Some of us must make our children eat whatever is in front of them right then because who knows when or what the next meal will be.

Sometimes, it is eat this — or die.

Feminist Parenting: Teaching History

I’ve never had any thought of telling her about [Elizabeth Cady] Stanton thru rose colored glasses. Far [...]]]> If you follow me on Twitter, you’ve seen most of these. For those of you who don’t follow me on Twitter¹, I highly recommend reading the following, if you haven’t already (most are not recent posts):

Feminist Parenting: Teaching History

I’ve never had any thought of telling her about [Elizabeth Cady] Stanton thru rose colored glasses. Far from it. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring up the equality question. But I should have known better.

Anti-racist parenting: It’s for everyone

Now, I have several anti-racist parenting allies who are the white parents of white children, but far more of my white friends and acquaintances see racism mainly as a function of the past. …  They “don’t see color” and neither, they insist, will their children.

White Noise: White adults raising white children to resist white supremacy Long, but worth it. The comment thread is illuminating too.

Thandeka in her book, “Learning to Be White: Money, Race and God in America,” states that the first act of child abuse directed towards all white children is that the minute they come out of the womb, they are being taught to be racist. So the game has already started, whether or not we ever directly address race and whiteness in our family.

The last two are not explicitly parenting-related, but are nevertheless important for those of us tempted (by virtue of our whiteness) to consider oppression “only” through gender — which really means through gender and whiteness:

Black Women Need Not Apply

What’s great about how our beauty oppression operates is white women can still feel like feminists when they engage in hand wringing about their looks being picked apart by men without once having to examine their race privilege or acknowledge the way in which their status as highly valued hurts and oppresses marginalized women.

What If Black Women Were White Women?

What if suddenly, instantly, the power of white femininity were transferred to black women?

The answer is clear: Black women would represent value, purity; and based on their natural traits would be worthy of protection and instantly become the objects of universal desire. White women would represent the opposite.

“Beauty tar potion” would become globally popular to get the “black look.” “Dove” would be replaced with a black soap called “Raven” to help exfoliate the skin and bring out subtle hints of melanin.

I have posts bubbling away in the back of my brain — threatening to boil over if not attended to soon — but at this moment, I am out of fuel to address them adequately. Tomorrow, though: watch this space!