Take me to the river, Shakesville.
Melissa McEwan's post For The Record has been seconded many places on liberal, woman-respectful blogs in the last week, so you may have already seen it. But if you have not, I say "Read it" and then "Me, too".
I have never voted for Hillary Clinton. (Though I did vote for Bill, twice, and am not a bit sorry for it.) I even wrote once that I agreed with Molly Ivins when she said she was giving advance notice, she would NOT vote for Hillary for President. But I had to publicly take back that blustering statement when Hillary became an equal contender for the nomination because, the fact is, if Spongebob Squarepants turned out to be the Democratic nominee this time around, I AM GOING TO VOTE FOR HER/HIM. The alternative is unthinkable. I found Hillary and Barack equally acceptable and equally unacceptable, although I do agree with Howie Klein's assessment that Hillary is/was demonstrably more liberal than Barack.
Yet any time I commented on a so-called progressive blog to protest hate language which was being aimed at Hillary on the basis of her being a woman, a wife, an older female, I was assumed to be a Hillary supporter. Not just that, a Boomer identity-politics-troglodyte racist C**T of a Hillary supporter who could not understand change or hope or vision if it bit me on my white, fish-smelling ass.
Yep, that's me to a tee.
Despite my best efforts, it got to me. And I've been sick inside as I've watched the testosterone-fueled fist-pumping victory dance. Because for some of these guys, too many of them, it was not just Hillary who was going down in flames. It was all the uppity bitches who ever denied their male superiority. We really can tell the difference, you know. You asswipes fool NOBODY but each other. And your exalted candidate did not lift one fucking finger to interrupt it. Which means when it's time to let YOUR values get assaulted, he'll choose silence if it serves him in the long run there, too.
PUH-LEEZE don't begin with your lizard-brain rebuttal of all the things Hillary's campaign did or said that were racist. I've read them. I agree. One does just not justify the other. Can you fucking understand that much? It's not a goddamned football game, nobody is keeping score of racism vs. sexism (except for you morons). I have and will continue to speak out just as much against racism, in all its forms. It's completely unacceptable.
And so is woman-hating.
I'm going to excerpt one part of Melissa's post here:
"...these women have witnessed this despicable but spectacular marriage of aggressive misogyny and their long-presumed allies' casual indifference to it, and wondered what fucking planet they were on that dehumanizing eliminationist rhetoric, to which lefty bloggers used to object once upon a time, was now considered a legitimate campaign strategy, as long as it was aimed at a candidate those lefty bloggers didn't like.
"And these women felt, quite rightly, like feminist principles were being thrown to the wolves in a fit of political expedience.
"And these women felt personally abandoned. By people they had considered allies.
"And while they struggled to understand just what was happening, while they were losing their way along well-traveled paths that no longer felt familiar or welcoming, they were admonished like children to stop taking things personally. They were sneered at for playing identity politics. They were demeaned as ridiculous, overwrought, hysterics. They were called bitches and cunts. They were bullied off blogs they'd called home for years.
"(But don't take that personally.)"
You have all shit in your beds, and you are too dumb to understand how. But nonviolent, steadfast refusal to cooperate with your cherished machinery will eventually get your attention. I'm asking all my sisters, mothers, daughters, and our allies to ELECT THIS DEMOCRAT, we have no healing option otherwise. He'll do some good, and he'll stop some of the death and destruction that's eating us alive. Boycotting this vote is suicide, and if you hint such a thing my way, I'll consider you self-destructive and unreliable.
After the election, though? The bot-boys are OUT. Lock the door. We know who we are, we know who stayed clean in the blogosphere, we took names and paid attention. Jesse Wendel, Lower Manhattanite, Shakesville, Crooks and Liars, Digby, Orcinus -- at the top of the list of those who can manage to fight injustice without resorting to racism or sexism. (Feel free to give praise to others in the comments here.)
Playing fair means, eventually, that only other fair players will sit down at a table with you.
But you'll always have Bush to whine with.
---------------------------
For those of you with energy to deal with denial, recommended reading to help you not feel crazy:
From Dave Neiwert at Orcinus, How right-wing crap polluted Democrats' political waters
Shakesville keeps a simultanous Hillary Sexism Watch and Barack Racism Watch. The latest I could find are Hillary Sexism Watch #104 and Obama Racism/Muslim/Unpatriotic/Scary Black Dude Watch Part Forty-Goddamn-Six.
A request by Melissa McEwan at Shakesville to provide concrete evidence of posts and comments on "progressive" blogs of woman-hating directed at Hillary produced this depressingly long and detailed list:
List of Leftie Misogynist Hate Against Hillary
Saturday, June 7, 2008
WHAT SHE SAID
UPDATE TO WHITE NIGHT RIOT POST
Two days after the anniversary of the White Night Riot, posted about on this blog, the City of San Francisco unveiled a monumental statue of former Supervisor Harvey Milk in the rotunda of City Hall. It would have been Milk's 78th birthday.
An Associated Press article about the statue relates "The bust, sculpted by Daub Firmin Hendrickson of Berkeley, Calif., and based on a photograph taken by a friend, shows Milk with a wide grin and his tie fluttering in the San Francisco wind. It sits atop a solid granite base inscribed with a prophetic statement he had recorded in the feeling he might, indeed, be slain. 'I ask for the movement to continue because my election gave young people out there hope. You gotta give 'em hope,' it reads."
"The bust stands in the ornate ceremonial rotunda outside the Board of Supervisors chamber, a spot where couples frequently choose to get married." Jill Manton, director of public art for the San Francisco Arts Commission, "she expects the bust to be popular with City Hall visitors, especially now that California has legalized marriage equality."
(1974 campaign photo for Elaine Noble)
Three other items in the article deserve mention. To begin with, there is a statement that Milk is "the first openly gay person elected to prominent public office anywhere in the United States". This is definitively incorrect. Two years before Milk, out lesbian and women's rights advocate Elaine Noble began serving in the Massachusetts House of Representatives. She served two terms as representative for the Fenway-Kenmore/Back Bay neighborhoods of Boston (which was working-class, NOT queer-friendly turf), winning 59% of the vote and making her election all the more groundbreaking. I met her in 1975 when she came to a statewide lesbian and gay political conference in Austin, Texas. I later wrote her a fan letter and she wrote me back personally. In most authentic histories (herstories), she is credited as the first out lesbian/gay person elected to public office.
Additionally, in the early 1970s, Nancy Wechsler —- a member of the Ann Arbor, Mich., city council —- came out as a lesbian during her term. In 1974, Kathy Kozachenko, also an out lesbian, was elected to fill Wechsler's seat on council. Janna Zumbrun (an open lesbian-feminist activist) was appointed to the City of Austin Human Relations Commission in October 1975, making her the first lesbian to serve in Austin city government. There are examples I easily pulled from memory; I'm sure there are others which predate Milk. First in San Francisco DOES NOT EQUAL first everywhere.
Next, the article has a quote from Anne Kronenberg, who is identified as Milk's "former aide". She was, in fact, a politically-savvy motorcycle dyke who was very close to Harvey, had been his campaign manager, and was his heir apparent.
(Anne Kronenberg, 2008, standing next to signs for Milk and her own campaign in 1978)
However, the misogyny of the Castro area was so high at that time, despite Milk's request that if something happened to him, Kronenberg be allowed to fill his shoes, the boys (and new Mayor Dianne Feinstein) would not hear of it. Eventually Harry Britt, even less of a liberal than Milk but a white gay boy (which is all that mattered to the neighborhood) was appointed to replace Harvey. I remember him as doing a mediocre job, representing no one except white gay men.
Kronenberg now serves as deputy director of policy and administration for the San Francisco Department of Health.
Lastly, the article mentions "A film on Milk's life, directed by Gus Van Sant and starring Sean Penn, was shot in San Francisco in the spring and will be released in the fall." I will predict here and now that the strong lesbian content of the real story surrounding Harvey Milk will be scrubbed from the film -- no mention of us leading the riot, no mention of Anne Kronenberg being prevented from taking Harvey's place, and no mention of Elaine Noble or any of the other (female) pioneers who paved the way for Milk.
To read a 2007 interview with Elaine Noble published in the Windy City Times, go to A Talk With Elaine Noble.
Friday, June 6, 2008
COCO WANG'S STRIPS ABOUT THE 12 MAY CHINESE EARTHQUAKE
Over at the Dykes To Watch Out For thread, a commenter has posted a link to a Coco Wang's comic strips about the devastating 12 May earthquake in China.
These are simply extraordinary. Wang introduces them with:
"...Almost all the TV channels in China are broadcasting 24 hours non-stop of every development and stories of all the rescue operations in all damaged locations.
"I don't know how much information the BBC or any UK media received from us, I imagine the UK audiences were presented with the major developments of the incident, but you are probably unaware of many important and inside details which are only known to people inside China.
"The amount of incredibly moving stories of victims, rescuers, volunteers is simply shocking at the moment. I have been collecting newspapers of all the stories, and telling them in the form of comic strips. I hope these stories could show the UK readers the love, warmth and courage of the Chinese people, also the sad and cruel reality of the horrible 5.12 Earthquake."
Please, go read the strips. Let them boil the grief out of you. Pass it on.
GINNY BATES: CHANGE IS THE ONLY CONSTANT
(Fresh doughnuts at the Daily Dozen Donut Company, Pike Place Market, Seattle; photo by Adriana Grant, printed in Seattle Weekly)
Here's the next segment of my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. This will follow my post of May 29th.
If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.
Summer 2012
The next morning at breakfast, Myra pushed over a sheet of paper to Ginny as she was finishing her tea. "It's a newish poem. I've redone it, and I think I should send it out" she said.
Ginny read the title, "Anna Cortez", and gave Myra a searching look before she read on. When she was done, she lay it down beside her teacup and said "Well. Do I get to ask questions?"
"That's why I gave it to you" said Myra.
"Who is it about?"
"Nobody. I mean, not in particular. There are parts where I was thinking about you -- most of the second stanza, and that short section near the end."
Ginny picked it back up to re-read the pertinent sections. She licked her lips and said "What about these lines where you are semaphoring across the silent void, to one who never said goodbye -- is that about Karin Barbaras?"
"Huh. Hadn't considered that. No, Gin, I was thinking about Mama there."
"Who do you know with red hair?"
"No one currently" said Myra. "That's an imaginary section."
"You have exes with red hair -- Myra the Second, and Blue Rosenthal."
"It's not about them, Ginny."
Ginny handed the paper back to Myra. "It's very good, and I'm sure it will get published. Which means a new wave of speculation about what it means. Who it means, to be specific."
Thursday, June 5, 2008
LOSING BOBBY
(Childhood diary entry of Maggie Jochild. Date corresponds to date in Brasil, where we heard of the news.)
In December 1967. when I was 12, my family moved to Aracaju, Brasil for a year. We lived on a one-block-long street near the edge of the city, our house facing north. Two or three houses to our east, on the same side of the street, was the residence of a young woman named Lucia, who was around 18 years old. Not long after we moved in, she came to introduce herself and was a frequent visitor, primarily to practice her English, possibly also to keep the rest of the street informed about our Yanqui ways. She was very nice to us.
However, she had older brothers living in the same household who were hostile to us, apparently because we were from the United States. I don't remember how many brothers there were -- somewhere between 3 to 6 -- because there were also other young men usually hanging out there as well. They were all thin, shorter than U.S. men, and most of them wore berets. My mother said they were Socialists. They either did not speak English or refused to, and whenever we walked by with our mother, if they were out front, they called things out to us. Things which did not sound friendly or nice.
They never harassed me or my little brother. It was my parents, particularly my mother, who were their target. One day, one of them gave the Nazi salute as we walked by on the way to market. My mother's face, already wooden, flushed with rage. She gave them an involuntary glance. Immediately all of them lined up, hooting and yelling "Heil fuhrer!" as they stood in Nazi salute. Mama was angry the rest of the day. She refused to explain it to me, aside from spitting out "They were just trying to find the most offensive thing they could do, and they nailed it". As a result, for several years, I associated Socialism with Nazis, until a high school teacher helped me disentangle the two.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMANDA!!!
(Amanda as she looked when we were newly friends, in Austin, TX 1998)
It's the birthday of my dear, great friend, Amanda. We've known each other since 1995, when Amanda was working at WATER House (Women's Access To Electronic Resources) here in Austin. The very first time I got on the internet, it was Amanda who sat at my elbow, teaching me how to join the cyberworld. Yep, she's the one who started me on this path. What Amanda hath wrought.
Amanda has seen me through several incarnations, with unfailing support, honesty, and humor. I love her unconditionally.
(Amanda 2007)
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUND-UP, 3 JUNE 2008
Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there. As usual, those from little gator lead the pack.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
HERITAGE AND INTERPRETATION SHOULD BE IN CONSTANT FLUX
(Mary Jo Atkins, Midcontinent Supply, Bowie, Texas, 1945)
When I was 13 we moved back to the tiny North Texas town where my mother, her mother, and three generations before that had grown up (and gone to the same school). What remained was the school, a gas station, and an occasionally-meeting Baptist church, plus houses and trailers of people who had not yet moved away.
My mother was valedictorian in high school. She was also two years younger than her classmates because she had twice been moved ahead a grade. Smart as hell. And, I slowly learned, had a wild streak. Her father was a Wobbly and that whole line was radical as well as bookish, so I figure it comes from them.
PAULA GUNN ALLEN
No.
I just found out Paula Gunn Allen died two days ago.
I can't write about it right now. You can read a great tribute to her at Women's Spaces. Or you can read what I've written about her by searching my Labels in the right column.
We've lost someone we can hardly do without.
LOOKS
(Mae Snyder and friend, unknown date and place, from Isle of Lesbos Vintage Images)
In my early 20’s, I didn’t think people were beautiful. It wasn’t just that I had rejected society’s rigid definition of beauty; I didn’t find the appearance of human beings attractive, even people I loved. Until I went to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival for the first time, I never let anyone see me naked, not even my lovers, but this was not modesty or shame – I didn’t want to see anyone else naked, either. This was painful and confusing to me, and I learned after a time or two that trying to talk it over with someone I trusted was not a good idea. (People can be so insecure.)
At 25 I came out as an incest survivor, part of the first wave in this country. My entire personality heaved up to the surface like boulders in a field, broke apart and demanded I walk differently in the world. After this process was launched, one Sunday afternoon I was driving myself and a woman who soon would become my girlfriend up to Mount Tamalpais from Sausalito. Still on the leeward side of Mount Tam, we came up behind a solitary bicyclist struggling with this steep, winding ascent. There were no turnouts on this narrow road within sight, passing was not possible, and we weren’t in a hurry, so I geared down and dropped back a respectful distance to prevent the young man ahead of us from feeling harried.
We drove several minutes this way, in silence. The day was brilliant, and with no ocean wind penetrating even the top of the canyon, sweat was cascading down the biker’s bare torso. His back was brown, his head was bent forward, and as he pushed each pedal arduously down, swiveling his hips from one side to the other, it seemed as if every muscle in his body was being flexed and briefly outlined under a lacquer of oil. Just before we reached a small lay-by where I knew I could safely ease around him, my friend remarked, “He’s really beautiful, isn’t he?”
To my amazement, I had to agree. His body WAS gorgeous. It felt like some kind of rescue, to be able to see this. A minute or two later, I recovered enough to turn my head and look at my friend. She, too, was beautiful. I sucked in air at how perfectly she was formed, her snub nose, the gap in her front teeth, the rolls at her waistline. I stared at her until she laughed with embarrassment and told me to watch the road.
At that time, in the Bay Area and elsewhere, lesbian feminists were exploring and promulgating the theory of looksism: The idea that any kind of opinion based on someone’s appearance was a lie and inherently oppressive. The theory arose partially from the revolution of rejecting gender imprisonment imposed by makeup, tight clothes, bras, and high heels. But it had, I think, an equal genesis in our struggles with how class judgments were linked to clothes and to the racism of all common beauty standards, a racism first brought to public attention with the mind-blowing affirmation of “Black is beautiful”. Looksism tied all these superficialities together and, in a logical extension, also demanded that we find the beauty in fat, in disability, and in age.
It’s hard to realize how revolutionary this concept was. Looksism has been among most attacked and ridiculed positions identified as “PC” in origin. But the backlash, especially from the many industries who profit ceaselessly from our hatred of how we look, is an accurate gauge of how right we were. If we could easily, instantly, see the beauty in every kind of human appearance – or, more to the point, if that ability to recognize this were not systematically stamped out of us very early – justification for all kinds of oppression would melt inside us and be cleansed away by our sifting hearts.
A decade later, I was again on the edge of Mount Tam for a weekend workshop. One of the workshop leaders, Caroline, had been in a wheelchair since a car accident at 20 had left her hemiplegic. I just plain adored Caroline, and despite some serious obstacles (mainly, the fact that she was straight), I often devised scenarios wherein she might come to desire me. It’s likely that these imaginings were not completely concealed by my actions or my expression. But Caroline was generous to me, and liked me for who I was, and kept me in arm’s reach.
That evening, we ended one group session very late for dinner, and everyone rushed out the door toward the cafeteria. I needed something from my dorm room and headed for it by way of the connecting bathroom. When I swung open the door to the bathroom, I heard a voice call “Hello? Who’s there?” It was Caroline, struggling with a stall that was not really wide enough for her chair; this was not the designated disabled bathroom.
She was defensive as soon as she saw me. “I know, but I couldn’t wait, it’s been too long since I changed….” I picked up where her voice trailed off, with a questioning “Catheter bag?” She nodded fiercely, not meeting my eyes, focused on trying to get her pants unzipped.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“Well, you can lift me, right?” I was enormously strong in those days, and could, easily. “Okay, once I get my pants down you can lift me from my chair and put me on the toilet, because I can’t get close enough to make the transfer myself.”
“Okay.”
She still wasn’t looking at me. “You’re gonna see my twat.”
Since I had more than once had fantasies about seeing her twat, this was definitely not a hardship for me, but I was pretty sure I shouldn’t reassure her from that angle. Silently I moved her from the chair to the toilet. She interpreted my silence as discomfort, and fumbled as she tried to detach the catheter tubing. Suddenly, it jerked free, spraying an arc of urine over the door of the stall.
Her humiliation was complete. “God fucking DAMMIT” she cried. She looked like she might rip the catheter out of her, and I gently took the bag from her hand. She began pounding on her numb legs, crying and yelling “FUCK” with every blow.
I have raised a child, and seen several animals into decrepit old age. Piss and shit are just a fact of life for me. Further, my particular chore at this workshop was to clean this bathroom every day. There were supplies near at hand, and a drain in the middle of the tile floor.
“Hey” I said, trying to get her attention. She looked at me with fury and grief dripping from her eyes. “Wanna see what it’s like to be a guy?”
I turned the valve on the bulging catheter bag so the tube was open and a vigorous stream of piss splashed out into the floor. Pinching the tube, I could aim at the wall opposite the stall and a satisfying yellow arc cascaded down the tile. Caroline gave out a shriek, then said “Gimme!”
We emptied the bag in all four directions, hitting sinks, mirrors, windows, and, Caroline’s achievement, the light fixture. The only thing I felt like I had to throw away was the toothbrush left behind by a workshop participant. The rest came clean with Pinesol in hot water, and Caroline saved a plate for me in the cafeteria as I mopped up.
(© 2008 Maggie Jochild; originally written 6 February 2001)
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