Tag Archives: environmentalism

Cycle of oppression

In addition to me starting Couch to 5K (aside: not going great, level 3 appears to be cursed — not so much doing it, but arranging to do it. but I’ll get through), The Man and I have pulled out our (old, crappy, ill-fitting) bikes, bought a used trainer from Craigslist, and have started cycling. This is in part because running, due to his knees, is not something The Man is able to do; in part because it’s something we can bring the Boychick along for; in large part because parking at his downtown office costs upwards of $9 a day but would be an entirely bike-able commute (all downhill to get there! OK, so all uphill to get back, but that’s what buses with bike racks are for); and also because it’s just plain fun. And if it ain’t fun, I don’t do it.

Anyway, so I’ve been looking lustfully at bikes recently, because what we have are a couple of old bikes that are inappropriate to our purposes and ill-sized for either of us. Plus, I am a consumerist American: new hobby means new chances to buy buy BUY! So I’ve spent inordinate hours in the past week or so with my butt in a chair, eyes glued to an electronic screen, or driving a gas-guzzling pollution-pumping automobile all over town, with the excuse of researching a product designed to get me outside and active and reduce my impact on the environment. (Ah, life as a middle class “environmentalist” American!)

The things I’ve discovered while exploring the new-to-me world of cycling are sort of fascinating (for a certain value of “fascinating” approximately equal to “horrifying”). First, apparently laydeez need speshul bikes with slanted top bars for our voluminous skirts. You’d think teh menz would need the slanted bars so as to avoid massive testicular trauma, but nope, we get ‘em for our skirts. Also, and this probably goes without saying, we like “pretty” colors, like “powder green” and “robin’s egg blue”, and, of course, pink in all its mindnumbingly similar infinite varieties. And — this is a bit less familiar to yours truly — flowers under our rears. Here I thought the seat (in cycler parlance, the “saddle”) was for, y’know, sitting on. But apparently the appearance of something intended for our butts to sit on is highly important. Who knew?

Speaking of butts, the seats of “men’s” and “women’s” bikes are actually one area a difference in design sort of makes sense — if we ignore that some women have penises and testicles and some men have vulvas and wider spaced sit bones. Of course, some women have vulvas and narrow sit bones, some men penises and wider ones. Some people really don’t fit in any neat categories, whether gender or genitalia. But it would be entirely too easy unsexist confusing to just have a variety of saddles classified by size and features. Nope, they must be Men’s Saddles and Women’s Saddles, in case (patriarchal deity forbid!) we ever forget even for an instant that humans come in two distinct easily classifiable non-overlapping varieties, and never the twain shall meet (except under the covers, in the dark, for makin’ teh baybeez and pleasuring teh menz).

But what took the cake, what really pulled an impressive whole-bakery heist and set off a little Twitter storm in my corner of the Twitverse, was the selection of kids’ bikes at a local store. Go, gape at the overwhelming genderization on display for your delectation. It’s a treat (for a certain value of treat equaling “total shite”).

Note how all the bikes come in a Girl’s variety and a Boy’s variety (except for the Electra Hawaii 24″, which is just Pink, but I’m pretty sure by this point everyone knows Pink is patriarchy-speak for Girl’s). Note also, please, how the Boy’s bike (the Jet! because boys are fast, nudge nudge wink wink) comes in dark colors, predominantly black, styled like a motocross/dirt bike, conveniently decked out with fenders because of course boys play in the mud. The Girl’s bike (the Mystic, because women are so mysterious, I just can’t figure ‘em out with all those inside parts and inscrutable emotions!) comes in light colors, mostly pink, styled with pink flowers, with oh-so-practical white tires and plastic pompoms sticking out of the handle bars, and conveniently decked out with a white wicker basket because of course girls go shopping (thanks Kate for pointing that one out).

As Maria says: “whenever i see that kind of gender dichotomy in kids’ products i’m just like, “but where are the REGULAR ones?” gah.” Where are the regular ones indeed. (Silly Maria, don’t know you the regular ones are the Boy’sTM? We GirlsTM should be grateful they have anything for us at all, really.)

Even better, in-store (yes, I went to the store, though in my defense I let my toddler play in there for an hour and a half and didn’t buy anything) they have two toddler tricycles. You’ll never guess the colors. Go on, guess! Oh, you guessed pink and blue? Hm, I guess the patriarchy isn’t that inscrutable after all. Because genderization can never start too young. How will little boys and little girls know whether they’re little boys or little girls if they don’t have the right color tricycle?

I’m still jazzed about riding, and still suffering massive consumerist bike-lust. I’ll definitely be getting a saddle (yes, I’ve adopted the jargon!) “specially” designed for my speshul laydee parts (say it with me people: vulva. it’s a beautiful thing), because having my labia fall asleep while riding just isn’t fun and probably isn’t healthy either. I might even get the powder green drop-bar laydee bike (with the tiny rack in front, for my purse! instead of the big rack on the back of teh Men’s, for big important manly junk!), from the same manufacturer of the lovely kids’ bikes, because it’s comparatively cheap, meets my needs, and hey, the green is pretty. Really though, I could have done without the foray into Products of the Patriarchy just because I want something comfortable in which to ride around town and with which to reduce my personal pollution impact.

But hey, what’s life without a little rage at patriarchal idiocy getting the blood pumping through your veins now and then? Or now, and then, and always, and everywhere, and inevitably, and inescapably. Oops, there it goes again. I think I need a nice relaxing bike ride…

The personal and the political

What do I mean when I say “…getting sucked into attacks and defenses of individual “choices is not only missing the point, it is supporting the patriarchy”?

It is certainly understandable when faced with the task of changing one’s whole culture all in one go to feel overwhelmed, as reader Rachel bemoans: “I think that’s what I find daunting about your posts–you address the larger cultural, societal issues that I feel are out of my control. … But my whole culture. That seems impossible.”

And as Jeremy Adam Smith points out over at Daddy Dialectic, there is a trap on the other side, for those who believe “only after the revolution can our piddling interpersonal relationships be lastingly altered” to use this as an excuse to “neglect their family responsibilities, especially the guys.” After all, if equality in individual lives is impossible to achieve, no point trying, right?

Neither of those are what I’m hoping to advocate.

When Rachel says “I can control (as much as anyone I think) what goes on in my family”, she is right. When Jeremy asserts “how vital and immediate it is for heterosexual couples to [establish] a domestic division of labor that makes both parties happy”, he is right. It is only ever in ourselves, for ourselves, that we can choose. It is only ever our own actions and choices over which we have direct, though not complete, control. And it is so vitally important that in our own, personal lives that we work to implement our ideals and values.

That is the personal.

As for the political: we are social creatures. Society is only and simply the gestalt of thousands and millions of individuals. And that makes us – each individual – powerful, for we are society, and each of us has the potential to influence all the dozens and hundreds and thousands of persons in our lives, and through them dozens and hundreds and thousands more.

The personal is political, and the political is personal. Decisions are made by the ones who show up, the ones who speak out, the ones who write letters and raise funds and cast votes and serve dinners and volunteer at clinics; sexism and racism and other facets of the kyriarchy are eliminated by those who demand better, of ourselves and of our kith and kin and coworkers. It is by making connections at the individual level – with your family, your friends, your blog readers, your neighbours, your shops’ owners, your company’s executives, your government representatives – that we can enact political, societal change.

What does not work, however, and what I speak out against, is the attempt to control those around us, especially through shaming. There may be a fine line between offering influence and attempting control, but it is an important one, and when we are speaking of mothers, who are already a highly persecuted class, already so put-upon and guilt-ridden, maintaining that distinction is even more imperative.

I do not say this because I believe women are fragile, dainty things who cannot take criticism: to the contrary, I am continually amazed by just how much we can take and take on and still do all the work that keeps our families and societies running. But our burdens are already so over-heavy that I decline to add what may be the proverbial straw to any woman’s back.

Further, each of us lives in the society we all create, and that society is kyriarchal, actively antagonistic to us living joyful, unconstrained, interdependent, fully human lives. Each of us has our choices constrained if not outright dictated by the circumstances and intersections of our lives – each of which combinations is unique, but all similar for making us less than fully able to live as we would in a saner society.

How, then, can we help change society without hurting our sister sufferers? We can encourage; we must not order. We can offer a shoulder; we must not sit in judgment. We can support; we must not shame. We can influence those around us by example, by sharing our stories, by offering information and support; but they must be open to it. We cannot attempt to control those around us through browbeating or shame or force – or we can, but it is a violation of our values as well as almost inevitably ineffective.

We cannot avoid offending those who are determine to be offended, but we can, and we must, watch our own words and actions to avoid allowing the kyriarchy’s voice to speak through our throats: that means, in part, declining to partake in the mommy wars in any of its permutations. That means opposing crying-it-out without attacking those who do it. That means defending breastfeeding without insulting those who weren’t able to or chose not to. That means promoting natural family living while acknowledging that all of us have a harmful impact on the planet. That means disagreeing and debating and disputing and refuting each other in a way that respects each side’s inherent humanity and dignity, because the only real enemy, the only true evil, is the kyriarchy.

So speak out, yes: live your ideals as best you can, and tell your truth as honestly as possible. I cannot say it any better than it has been said before, so forgive me for ending on what is almost cliched; nevertheless I believe it true: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” — Margaret Mead

On checklists

I think I’ve mentioned my deep and abiding loathing for checklists before, usually in the context of the “mommy wars” crap: “I babywear and EC and homebirth and no-vax, and (only) if you do all those things I can be friends with you”, etc. Hate. It. I mean, I could rattle off a checklist that would win me most crunchy/AP pissing contests, but really, what does that tell you about who I am, or even how I parent? Almost nothing. I know a lot of women who wouldn’t fair near so well on such a checklist comparison, but are definitely better, more patient parents than I am.

The topic of checklists came up for me again today, in the context of how much we want our kids to be like us when they grow up. And I thought about my conflicts with my own mother over some choices I’ve made in my life, different choices than she would have made, and the conflicts almost inevitably came up when we were focusing on the specifics — the checklist — rather than on the underlying values that the choices reflect. When we did look past the specifics down to what made me make the choices in the first place, we inevitably found common ground that had gotten obscured by the superficial differences.

And that’s the thing: I loathe checklists, I find them close to or worse than useless in discovering any truths about another person, but that isn’t the same as saying that what we do doesn’t matter. What we do, the choices we make, do matter, but I care far more about the process of how decisions are made and the values they reflect than I do about the end specifics. Processes and values are only so, so loosely reflected in checklists, which are all about the end specifics; they are shadows only, if that, especially when there are so many forces outside of our control acting to limit and shape and constrain and dictate what choices we even have available to us.

But I can’t just say that our choices don’t matter, because I do care about the values: I find that I’m going to get along best with other parents who care about attachment with their children, and who care about the environment, and want to teach equality and empathy to their children, and who try to live both authentically and joyfully. And I want the Boychick to grow up valuing justice and social responsibility and simple living and creativity. I think attachment parenting/biologically appropriate parenting and environmentalism and feminism/anti-kyriarchy are inherently good things, things I am passionate about, things I will promote and defend and that I think are worth investing in, and I’m not going to write them off in the name of being “tolerant”, or “unjudgmental”, or what-have-you.

But there are so many ways that those values can be reflected in one’s life, and so many ways life can interfere with their enactment, that a checklist is of so little value in figuring out what a person’s actual beliefs are. And even when there are differences in the beliefs, there is almost always some commonality that can be found once we stop going down our checklists and start actually seeing the person in front of us.

I find it’s hard to remember that sometimes, because the end result, the specifics, are what we outwardly present to the world, and it’s so tempting to use them as short hand, both with our friends and our kids: “she breastfeeds, check, he made it into a good college, check, they use a baby bucket, fail, she wants to be a cheerleader, fail.” No. The real stories will usually surprise those who rely on the external checklists, and they will always be more interesting and revealing. If you want to really know a person, know whether they might be a good friend for you, whether you should be proud of this person you helped raise, toss out the checklists and prepare to spend some time actually listening.

Of course, the kyriarchy doesn’t want us to do that. No, patriarchy and consumerism and racism train us and encourage us and try to force us to focus only on the superficialities: the color of skin, the bits between our legs, the cars we (don’t) drive and products we (don’t) buy. They create the checklists, and make us create our own checklists, and try to ensure we never go beyond them, never dig deeper, never make real connections with other real people.

So destroy the kyriarchy: throw out the checklists. Take the time to look past them. It’ll be worth it. And it’ll be revolutionary.

How I spent Earth Day

Earth Day. Such a fabulous idea. I’m all about environmentalism, and doing things easier on the earth: breastfeeding, cloth diapering and elimination communication, dressing in hand-me-downs, choosing and growing organic foods, buying local, owning one small car and keeping it up, recycling, crocheting with plarn, washing with baking soda and vinegar (including my hair), making do using up and doing without, et cetera, and so on.

(I can do a feminist defense of environmentalism, too, though for now I’ll just offer Having Faith as my evidence.)

So how did I spend Earth Day?

In my car. Driving around aimlessly. For nearly five hours. Probably drove about 100 miles. In circles. (Big circles.) With a feverish toddler zoning out and napping and zoning out and drinking water and napping and zoning out in the backseat.

Yup. That’s how I spent Earth Day.

I may not be a bad mom, but I’m not so sure I’m not a bad environmentalist.

Ah well. There’s always tomorrow.