The Twelfth Carnival of Radical Feminists is now up at Burning Times, and I'm deeply honored to say that one of my posts here, Feminism Unadulterated: The Politics of Housework, was recommended by the Carnival host Debs. Thank you, thank you. The list of articles in this month's Carnival looks especially juicy and illuminating, so go for it, folks. New writers/ideas/blogs to discover!
Another of my posts, the Helen 'Wheels' Keller piece at Maoist Orange Cake, also got honored. One of the folks I mentioned in that essay, author/director Terry Galloway, recently let me know she's finished her biography Mean Little Deaf Queer and it's being considered by a publisher. Here's hopin'!
I have volunteered to be an editor/host for this Carnival, and will filling that post in May. I am very much looking forward to reading all the essays submitted and having Meta Watershed display the results.
I also want to let you know, this weekend will be the Blog Against Theocracy, promoting Religious Freedom in America around the blogosphere, and I plan to participate in this effort here. Be sure to check in!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
TWELFTH CARNIVAL OF RADICAL FEMINISTS IS UP!
BROAD CAST 19 MARCH 2008: SEX ED, ADVANCED WOMAN OF COLOR FEMINISM, STOPPING SURVEILLANCE
(Real place, in Austria)
Okay, this is going to be flat-out theft, but I can't write it any better than Sue Katz over at her Consenting Adult blog, so I'll link and beg her indulgence. Ya'll should be reading her stuff, anyhow. In her post entitled Can You Stand Some Good (Sex) News?, she writes:
"THE EUROPEAN UNION GETS JIGGY
Finally, to promote the European film industry, the European Union has spent 44 seconds of celluloid (click below) showing 18 couples carrying on, according to Ananova.com.
"The lovers – fat, thin, straight, gay – are all humping and cumming – but a trembling egg yolk sitting on a piece of toast is for me one of the hottest images. There is even some toilet sex, before it wraps up with an idea that’s hard to argue with: 'Let’s All Come Together.' Disney, can you match it?"
It's a great video, so I'm embedding it below and yeah, Sue, I agree with you about the egg yolk.
(Poster available from the Chicago Women's Liberation Union Herstory Project)
Speaking of what ya'll should be reading: La Chola. Every day. Her Comment Policy begins "This site is an advanced RADICAL WOMAN OF COLOR FEMINIST site" and just this part alone is an education. Go here, open your ears, and get grown. Her posts on the front page right now include:
Media Justice: Seymour M. Hersh (about the anniversary of My Lai)
Two excellent posts about Obama and the Race Thang, obama picks up the race discussion and interesting religious differences
The brilliant for Allies: how “gender trumps race” plays out in the real world pt 2, which ends with the question: Do you see that even if 100% of all women of color prioritize race 100% of the time in their activism, the point is not to change women of color, but to change feminism? Because when women are under attack for ANY reason, that reason is ALWAYS gendered?
Her transcendant Media Justice: Writing, which begins with quotes by Hattie Gossett and Gloria Anzaldua (an excellent hint of what's to come)
The essential reporting in the criminalization of language
(A billboard altered in real life, not a Photoshop trick)
Chris Soghoian, author of the Surveillance State column at C/Net, has an article offering some handy tips on how to stop or reduce Dubya's government listening in on your private communications at The Day The Wiretaps Go Dead. He says:
"While there are so many scary things being done by intelligence and law enforcement, hope is not far away. Easy to use privacy technologies are upon us, and with them, comes a radical shift in the balance of power. As this article will explain, the scalable techniques with which the NSA, FBI and other agencies can spy on innocent Americans may soon be made useless - forcing them to go back to the old school (and labor intensive) black bag job."
We shouldn't make it easy for them to ignore our Constitution.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
GINNY BATES: MEETING LIZA COWAN
(The back salon at PSAW)
Another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. The action in the story resumes immediately after my post yesterday. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.
NOTE: We're in danger of creating an existential wormhole here, but -- I'm thrilled to say that the REAL Liza Cowan has posted a link to this blog at HER blog, See Saw, under the title Fictionaliza - In Which I Play a Cameo Role in Maggie Jochild's New Novel. Can you tell we're having a blast? Judy, Alix, Holly, Sigourney, Doris, let me know if you, too, want to make art and fiction blur! (Oh, and Isabella, of course).
August 2006
After returning from Michigan, Ginny plunged back into weeding and harvesting her garden. For a few days, the sound of the pressure cooker infiltrated Myra's attempts to sort out all the pieces of writing she'd done on the trip -- Ginny was making late summer marinara, canning pickles and putting up beans. David had a canvas going in her studio and showed no urge to rush back to Denver. Both kids had done well in their absence. Carly was more or less living with them, working with Gillam part-time as a lifeguard, part-time waiting tables. Margie, about to start her senior year, was sleeping until noon and staying out late every night.
Myra opened her e-mail one morning to find a letter from her old friend, Claire. She called out to Ginny in the kitchen. "Hey, Claire is house-sitting on the coast of Maine, some island, and says we should come visit her."
"I've never been to Maine" said Ginny, coming into the study and wiping her hands. She smelled deliciously of garlic and onion as she leaned against Myra's chair.
"I've never been to New England, period" said Myra. "She'll be there through the end of September. I mean, we just got home and the kids are about to start school, but if David is still here, we could sneak off for another week, I bet. I miss the hell out of her."
"You know -- " said Ginny speculatively. "I just got a notice about an art opening next month, a show with Alison Bechdel and Phranc together, at a gallery in Vermont."
"Holy fuck, together? I mean, that's fucking amazing. What gallery had the brains to do that?"
Ginny grinned. "The one that belongs to Liza Cowan. I think it's in Burlington -- here, do a Google search, let's have a look."
They researched the gallery and the show's description, then Myra munched her way through Liza's website while Ginny went to check on her sauce. When Ginny got back, Myra had her atlas out and was checking distances in New England.
"These states are so itty bitty, Ginny, I can hardly wrap my mind around it. But look, here -- it only takes three hours to get from Burlington to Amherst, Massachusetts -- I mean, that's less than it takes to drive from Austin to Dallas, for godsakes."
"What's in Amherst?" said Ginny, confused.
Myra stared at her. "Emily Dickinson. They have her room exactly as it was when she lived there. Her desk."
"Oh, forgive me, I forgot" said Ginny, laughing.
"And then from there to Maine is only another few hours. We could do all three in a couple of days, have three days with Claire, a half day of travel each way, and still be gone less than a week. When is the art opening?"
"September 8 and 9" said Ginny.
"We could get to Burlington by the 8th, spend the night there, drive to Amherst on the 9th and meet Claire there. Spend the night in Amherst and begin traveling with her after that."
Ginny said "I would love to talk art with Liza Cowan directly, we've only exchanged a couple of e-mails here and there."
"Let's check with David and the kids. I'll call Claire right now."
"Shall we ask Allie and Edwina to go with us, Myra?"
"Uh, no. Allie's not wild about Dykes To Watch Out For, for one thing, and for another, won't Edwina be teaching then?"
Ginny stared at Myra. "What's wrong with the strip?"
"She doesn't like people of color characters who don't live in people of color communities, says it's a white folks fantasy of getting to have their ethnic cred without having to really change how they live" said Myra, a little distracted by the map of New England.
Ginny thought for a minute. "But...our circle, it's more white than not, when you include the kids."
"Yeah, I know" said Myra, looking up at her. "Allie and Edwina have other friends besides us. Close friends."
"Who aren't white" said Ginny. "And -- they don't really ask us over for dinner with them, do they?"
"Well, they practically eat with us every other night as it is, Gin. Only it's almost always here because since the kids were born, it's just been easier to stay here. But way back when, before you and I got together, I went with Allie a lot to her friends' places, and I was sometimes the only white woman there. I was always in the minority" said Myra.
"You gave that up because of me?" said Ginny, disturbed. "This is news to me."
"No...Gil died, and I crashed and burned. I gave up a huge chunk of what had been my social life at that point, narrowing it down to Allie, Chris, Sima, a couple of others. Plus therapy and my writing. Then -- well, right when I was ready to get back out there, I realized how I felt about you. And that was all she wrote for a while, you remember how it was. By the time that wore off, Margie was here. You know, when I read essays about how the movement died because of all of us who coupled up and had babies, I feel so guilty. I really did shift gears" said Myra.
"But...That doesn't explain why my contribution to our circle has been so white, does it?" said Ginny slowly.
Myra thought about reminding her of Edwina. Instead, she said gently, "No. Nor does it explain why I've not made sure my children, our children, had their feet in other communities, more than they've had, I mean. Explanations of convenience don't completely account for it."
"The rest is racism, is that what you mean?" said Ginny.
"I think so" said Myra. She didn't add "As is you putting all these pieces together like this for the first time", because she didn't need to, Ginny's upset expression revealed it.
"Does Allie think that?" asked Ginny.
"You'll have to find out from her. But my guess would be yes. Just one more way she crosses over to us more than we cross to her" said Myra.
Ginny nibbled briefly at her own lip. She said "When we're not full-time parents any more, I'd like to change that dynamic."
Myra grinned. "I'm with ya, babe."
Ginny stood upright and said "Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Myra."
"What is it?"
"Pasta with marinara, you moron, whaddya think?"
Once in Burlington and in a rental car, Myra got so nervous about meeting lesbian heroes that she asked Ginny to do the driving.
"Can you read the Mapquest print-out, or are you too starstruck to manage that, too?" teased Ginny. "We're looking for Pine Street."
"I don't understand how you can be so blase about this" said Myra. "I guess it's because you're a nationally-recognized painter, you know the visual artists will think you're cool."
"You're as cool as they are, Myra" said Ginny, taking her hand. "You are my hero, but you are to a lot of other women, too."
"I wish Allie would've come with us" said Myra, not really hearing Ginny's reassurance. "She'd stand with me in the corner and we could be nervous together."
Ginny took her hand back. "Myra, I'm going to be right beside you, you know."
"How does my hair look? Is the cowlick -- oh, hell, Ginny, look at it, it always gets floppy when I go to a different climate."
"Myra, is this the exit I need coming up? Put away the visor mirror and read the damned map."
Myra obeyed, but was immediately distracted by a shiny silver diner they were passing named Al's French Fries. "Hey, let's go there for breakfast tomorrow!" she pointed.
Ginny, for her part, was having a little trouble focusing on the road because of the late afternoon light pouring from the west, and the glimpses of lake she was getting. Once she turned left onto Pine Street, congestion grew -- every single parking space was occupied, and literally thousands of pedestrians spilled over into the street. Myra insisted they could park across the street in the lot of an apparently abandoned factory. After making the block three times, Ginny decided to risk it in the slowly filling lot. They followed the crowds and the signs for Art Hop.
Myra had seen Alison before at book signings, so almost as soon as they walked through the double doors of the gallery, she spotted her across the jammed room and whispered to Ginny "There's Mo. I mean, Alison."
"And Phranc beside her -- we have to get her to sign something for Margie, remember how cute she was in that crewcut when she was little?"
Ginny had her hand in Myra's, pulling her gently behind as they threaded a way through the throngs. Ginny said "Look at the color on this wall, Myra -- we need to repaint your study, and this green is the same family as your study but I think much richer, don't you think?"
Myra focused on the wall, taking deep breaths. "Yeah, actually. Can you match that?"
Ginny snorted. "You forget who you're talking to." She added "This is a large gallery, My. You know, I've thought about starting a gallery sometimes."
Myra looked at her keenly. "Really? That would be interesting."
"Yeah, except it takes creative energy to do it, it's not just commerce. Maybe after the kids are grown."
"You'd be good at commerce, I bet" said Myra. "But I thought after the kids left, we were going to live in small hotels around the world where there's good light and good food, so you can paint and I can write." They were standing chest to chest, grinning at each other.
"Maybe a gallery in Paris" said Ginny. "You could edit a small but extremely prestigious international literary journal."
From the corner of her eye, Myra spotted a gorgeous dyke with bright white hair and intelligent dark eyes approaching Ginny. Myra began saying under her breath "Oh god oh god oh god". Ginny saw the woman too and turned to face her. The woman stuck out her hand and said "And there you are -- Ginny, right? It's me, Liza." Her voice was full of humor.
Ginny beamed, shook her hand and said "I've never seen a gallery so full, how many people are here?"
"I've lost track, hundreds at least" Liza said happily. "It isn't usually like this, but it's Art Hop." She turned to Myra and said "And you must be Myra the poet."
Myra was delighted to be called a poet instead of the person who'd written Skene. She responded "And you must the woman both dimpled and smart."
Ginny caught the reference and noticed also that Myra had gone from basket-case to smitten in the space of a heartbeat. Liza said "I'd love to talk with you both further, but this place is a zoo and I have to keep track of a zillion things. Will you come find me later?"
Ginny took Myra's hand again and they made the rounds for a couple of hours. It was hotter than Seattle had been, which Myra appreciated, and Ginny kept taking mental snapshots of the light. After talking to Alison and Phranc, they wandered outside and found a local sausage stand where even Ginny tried the organic beef offering and declared it excellent. They followed the yellow balloons which indicated other artist's spaces, Ginny acting as spontaneous docent for Myra.
When they returned to PSAW, they talked to Liza again for a while. She got claimed by a customer, and Myra pulled out her notebook and began writing notes. "What's that, ideas for poems?" asked Ginny.
"Nope, stuff I want to buy. Gin, I hope you won't be jealous but there's art here I've got to own" said Myra.
Ginny was pleased. Sipping at a bottle of water, she said "I want a show in this gallery. I'd feel accomplished to be shown here."
"I know what you mean. Oh, Gin, I love our generation, I really do."
"I think you have a little crushie -- don't you, My?"
Myra looked to see if Ginny was bothered, but she was grinning. Her dimples were those Myra loved best. She nodded ruefully and said "She's a force of nature. With a mind I could never get tired of."
"It's starting to thin out a little. Let's go talk to Liza one more time and then find Willard Street and its inn" said Ginny, no concrete change in her tone but Myra felt a small tingle.
After a late breakfast the following forenoon, they returned to the gallery and wound up spending most of the day there instead of trying to find whatever was the local version of thrift stores as they had planned. Liza and Ginny began talking in sentences that wove together and overlapped each other. Myra made her list of purchases, arranging for shipping in a week when they'd be home to pick up the larger items. They went next door and got a take-out lunch for themselves and Liza, returning to eat at the picnic table outside.
The area was still buzzing with people, though not as many as the night before, and this time Myra's notebook was being filled with observations and lines of verse. Periodically Myra jackhammered her way in through the art talk and Liza easily switched to politics and revolution. When Liza's young daughters arrived, Myra fell for them just as hard and kept them laughing in a way her own children had not granted her as freely in years, since they had entered disdainful adolescence.
As the afternoon light began to shift, Myra turned to Ginny and said, with regret, "I need to be at Emily Dickinson's tombstone by dark."
Liza burst into laughter, saying "There's a sentence I've never heard. Or ever expected to hear." Ginny joined her laughter, explaining their plans. She said "We obviously have to come back some time. Let's call each other, okay?"
"And if you're ever going to be in Seattle, stay with us, okay?" said Myra. "I mean, seriously. Or just come out anyhow, come just to see us."
Ginny started goodbye hugs and shepherded Myra back to their car.
"I'll drive" she said a little testily. "I don't want to interfere with your daydreams."
"Oh, Ginny" said Myra. "Cut me some slack. Less than a month ago I was watching Dakin leave her fingerprints all over you, and I was a total sport about it, remember?"
Ginny laughed. "You're right. And it was Liza Cowan, after all."
"Exactly."
When they got to Amherst and found their hotel, Claire had booked them rooms side by side. As soon as Myra saw her, she forgot about all crushes. Claire was lanky, with chestnut brown curls and hazel eyes, and a James River accent that Myra thought she could use as topping for ice cream. They strolled back to their rental car and found the cemetery easily enough, within line of sight of the Dickinson homestead. The gate was still open, despite a sign saying the cemetery closed at dusk. But the array of graves was far more extensive than Myra had anticipated, and she had no map of the cemetery.
Ginny, who was driving, said "What do we do?"
"I'll channel her" said Myra. She heard Claire laugh from the back seat. "No, really. Just go where I tell you to go." Myra closed her eyes for a minute, thinking of lines of Emily's poetry. "Wild nights, wild nights, were I with thee, wild nights should be our luxury..." She opened her eyes and, pointing straight ahead, said "Drive that direction."
After a minute, halfway down the main drive, she said "Turn left here. " After a few plots, she said "Turn left again." It was complete dark, and Ginny was crawling along. After several more plots, Myra said suddenly "Stop. She's close."
Claire's voice came from the back seat. "Uh, My? That headstone right there says Dickinson." She was pointing to her left.
Myra scrambled out of the car and didn't wait for the others. She walked quickly to a plot fenced by black iron. Facing the fence, a few inches away, was a row of tall white marble headstones. All of them were for Dickinsons. The third was Emily Elizabeth. A scattering of colored rocks, flowers, and child's toys were lined along the top. Myra put her hand through the fence and laid it flat against the marble. The stone was unbelievably cold, almost icy to the touch. She burst into tears and, sobbing, leaned back against Ginny as Ginny's arms came around her from behind.
"Thank god I live now" Myra gasped. "Thank god I have the choices I do, and you, and my friends. Thank god I live in the same time as Liza Cowan, who blazed a trail for me."
"You blazed trails, too" whispered Ginny.
"I did, didn't I?" cried Myra. "And I publish my writing, and I get to love who I want!" Claire came up beside her and held her hand. After a minute, Claire said "Why would somebody leave a toy airplane on Emily Dickinson's grave, for heaven's sake?"
This sent them all into laughter. Myra wiped her face on her sleeve and said "I want to leave something, too."
"Let's find pebbles" said Ginny, turning around and then realizing she couldn't even see the ground, it was so dark.
"No, wait" said Myra. "My pack, in the car." She opened the car door and grabbed her pack from the back. On the pull-tab of the zipper was a small silver armadillo Gillam had given her years before. It was one of her most prized possessions. She walked back to the grave with it clutched in her hand.
"I can't believe you're giving that up" said Ginny.
"I have worlds of treasure" said Myra. "Love is something if you give it away -- you end up having more."
She balanced the little armadillo on the center of the headstone. It caught a bit of starlight and stood out in the darkness.
"I am so ready for dinner" said Ginny. She put her arm through Claire's and said "This island of yours -- are there whales nearby?" Myra said goodbye to Emily and followed them to the car.
After Myra and Ginny returned from Maine, Ginny persuaded her father to stay through the beginning of Rosh Hashanah. The weekend after he departed, in early October, Myra, Ginny and Gillam drove to Olympia for a two-day visit, leaving Margie at home alone because she had a crewing meet she couldn't miss. Allie and Edwina privately agreed to check in on her regularly.
On the way back from Olympia, Gillam was sprawled in the back seat, buried in a collection of Irena Klepfisz poetry. As Myra drove, Ginny was explaining an art technique to her which involved using a series of sea sponges to apply different colors.
Myra said "Speaking of sponges -- did you ever use those for your periods? Back in the day?"
"Oh, yeah" said Ginny. "I boiled mine first, avoiding the nasty yeast infections some of my friends got. And I tied dental floss around the middle so I could pull it out."
"I used dental floss, too. One time...." she began giggling. "I went to a day-long something anti-nuke with Deena Metzger speaking at the convention center. I was having my period, and around the middle of the day, I could tell I was about to start leaking. I went in the public restroom, which was packed, mostly the earnest middle-class straight white girls who ran that movement. Once I got the sponge out of me, I realized I would have to go to the sink to rinse it out." Ginny started giggling too. "So I pulled my overalls up halfway and walked out of the stall with a gory mass in the palm of my right hand. By the time I had water running in the sink, that room had cleared."
They were roaring. "Oh, my god, how much I'd give to have been there!" said Ginny. "You know, I saved my blood. I squeezed it out into a ceramic bowl in a thin layer, and it would dry up into these gorgeous crimson flakes. Eventually I created a dye out of it, using a fixative, and dyed a gauze shirt with it. Came out this lovely bronze color. I wore that shirt for years."
"You guys are unbelievable" came from the back seat in a faintly revulsed tone of voice.
"Oh, now, you'll thank us when your future sweetie finds out how comfortable you are with women's menstrual knowledge" teased Ginny.
"Do you actually believe this is making me more comfortable with menstruation?" retorted Gillam. "And why are you assuming my sweetie is a she?"
Myra looked sharply at Gillam in the rear-view mirror as she pulled up to a red light. After a pungent silence, Gillam said "I mean, I haven't yet been able to completely enjoy the sensation of having a full tailpipe, if you get my drift, but I'm working on it -- "
Ginny twisted around in her seat to look at Gillam. "What?"
Myra hissed at Ginny "You fucking well better have gotten him a good supply of condoms, it was your turn."
Gillam went on "I have to say, though, I really love the taste of his cum, especially when he's already been inside me once."
The light they were sitting at had turned green, but Myra was frozen, staring ahead blindly. The car behind them honked suddenly, and Myra shoved her hand out the window with a vicious jab of her middle finger into the air.
"Myra!' said Ginny. "What if he's a skinhead? Or a pig?"
The honking became continuous.
"Pull over" commanded Ginny. "There's a spot right there at the curb, pull in there." Myra did such a botched job that Ginny was clutching the dashboard, prepared for impact with a lightpole. When the car was finally in park, they both turned to look at Gillam. His arms were across his belly in silent hysterics. Seeing their faces sent him off into loud shrieks. "Oh, my god, I GOT you! I got you BOTH! I totally fished you in. Wait till Margie hears about this!"
Ginny said, peeved "What if she'd been on the freeway? We could have all been killed." Myra scowled at her.
Gillam kept howling "You can dish it out, but you...can't...take...it!"
Ginny finally started laughing, and after a moment, Myra did too. On the next block, she pulled into a Fatburger.
"What are you doing?" demanded Ginny.
"I need a tonic. I'm getting a Coke" said Myra. She looked in the rearview mirror. "Gillam?"
"I'll have a kingburger, onion rings and a chocolate shake" he said far too knowledgeably. As Myra pulled up to the speaker, Ginny said "Oh, hell. Get me some chili fries."
The next week, Gillam came home from school with a kitten tucked into his buttoned-up shirt. Myra heard its mews as he walked in the door.
"Oh, no. What have you done?" she demanded.
"It was in the traffic median on the boulevard" he said. He pulled it out so she could see. Its fur was filthy, but it looked like it might be black and white. It was skinny and did not appear to be even six weeks old.
"Fleas" said Myra. "You have to bathe it before it sets foot anywhere." She stepped over to the kitchen sink and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature back and forth before putting in the stopper. "Go to our bathroom and get the Dr. Broner's and some towels -- not the good ones." She reached under the sink to get Dinah's flea comb.
She had Gillam make a dilute mixture of the soap with water. "You ought to wear gloves for this" she said.
"It needs to feel my hands" argued Gillam. Myra shrugged.
The kitten yowled, deep piteous cries, as it was lowered slowly in the water, but it didn't scratch or bite Gillam. Gillam started at its head, carefully rubbing in soap away from the eyes and using the comb to corral the sinous strands of fleas running for cover. By the time he was done, the water was almost opaque with dirt and thickly peppered with drowned fleas. Gillam lifted the kitten and looked at its underside briefly, then wrapped it in a towel and began rubbing its fur.
"A tom" he said. After he had most of the fur just damp, he switched to a new towel. As he bundled up the kitten, it went to sleep, utterly spent.
"Uh-oh" said Myra. She had begun scrubbing out the sink with cleanser. She pointed to Dinah, sitting puffed up to twice her size on the dining room table. "The Dragon Lady is here."
She said to Dinah, "Get off the table." When Dinah did not respond, Myra flicked water at her. Dinah hissed ferociously, then scampered for the back of a living room chair, where she still had a clear line of sight on the intruder.
"You'll have to keep him quarantined, anyhow, until we can get to the vet tomorrow. I can't imagine Dinah letting another cat live here -- Narnia's bad enough, in her estimation. But we can keep him until we find a home for him" said Myra.
Gillam's face was stony. He got from the cupboard a can of the pricey wet food that Dinah disdained and emptied it onto a dessert plate. The kitten woke up at the smell of the open can and began frantically trying to climb out of the towel. Gillam set the plate and the kitten on the breakfast bar. The kitten walked right into the food, wolfing down bites desperately. It was moaning as it ate. The slicked down fur showed his skeletal condition. He was literally skin and bones.
"Oh, god" said Myra, choking up. She reached out for Gillam's hand. "He wouldn't have made it another day, would he?"
"I'm naming him Beebo" said Gillam stubbornly. Myra glanced resignedly at him, then said "I'll go call the vet's office."
Ginny also reacted less than gracefully to the news of the kitten. "A tom? He'll spray unless we get him neutered as soon as possible."
Myra saw Gillam pull back almost imperceptibly to this comment. She said "You know, in all the years we've lived here, we've never had a male pet." Ginny looked at her, then at Gillam. Her voice was changed as she replied "About time, then, huh."
Dinah continued to silently stalk the kitten. When Margie got home from visiting Amy, with Narnia in tow, the big shambling still-puppyish dog sniffed at Beebo in Gillam's hands and looked up at them all, grinning in her doggy way. No problemo, her expression said.
Beebo ate another small can of food before bedtime. Gillam held him constantly, and Beebo made no move to get down and explore. That night, Dinah kept vigil outside Gillam's closed bedroom door. Gillam rigged a shoebox lid with litter in it, plus food and water, beside his bed. By the afternoon vet visit, Gillam worried at Myra "He's peed but not pooped yet. Do think his digestive tract is not developed enough for wet food?"
But Dr. Mekonnen said the kitten was simply using every scrap of food that he was taking in so far. She proclaimed him severely malnourished but likely to survive. She said to bring him back next week for his first series of shots, he wasn't stable enough yet to have them.
After a couple more days, Beebo finally had a bowel movement, making Gillam cheer. He also had enough energy to climb down from Gillam's lap and strike out across the study floor. Dinah was crouched next to the wall, a gargoyle expression on her face. Beebo pittered about, checking out the light spilling on the floor, hopping once in a looney way that sent them all into delighted laughter. Finally he noticed Dinah. He stopped in his tracks and blinked at her. A low murderous growl could be heard coming from her, at the bottom register of human hearing. He wound up his kitten behind and then make a headlong run straight at her. She cocked her paw and slammed it across his face so hard that he somersaulted backward. Gillam started to reach for him, but Myra said "Nope. Let 'em work it out."
Beebo picked himself back up, shook his head, and then looked around excitedly for Dinah. Spotting her, he took off in her direction again. After a second of disbelief, she leaped lightly up to the top of a nearby bookshelf, still growling. Beebo sat below the shelf, gazing up at her entreatingly and crying for her to come back down. After a minute of this, she began washing herself, ignoring his very existence.
A few days later, Gillam went off to school forgetting to lock Beebo in his room. Ginny and Myra went out for the day also, to a museum, having a late lunch, getting groceries, and then picking up Gillam and Margie on their way home. When they all came in the front door, Dinah was lying on her side on the couch. Tucked in between her front paws was Beebo, sound asleep. As the humans gaped, Dinah looked slightly embarrassed, then gave Beebo a lick on his already washed forehead.
"Fuck me running" said Gillam. "Who would have ever thought she could be maternal?" When Beebo heard Gillam's voice, he awoke and meowed to be picked up. Gillam said to Dinah "Okay with you?" before he scooped Beebo into his arms. She stood stiffly and left the room.
Ginny said, "Beebo -- you don't know how you've scored." She and Myra went to put away the groceries.
© 2008 Maggie Jochild.
GINNY BATES: CHANGE OF LIFE
Another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. The action in the story resumes immediately after my post on March 10th. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.
May of 2006. Margie is 17, Gillam 15, Myra is 50, Ginny 49. Truitt is going to Evergreen in the fall.
When Myra came home from the grocery store one Saturday, there was a message on voice mail from Patty in Olympia. Her voice was odd as she asked for them to call her back.
"Did you hear this, Gin?" she asked, walking into her studio with the phone. "It's from Patty; sounds like something might be up."
"No, I had the ringer turned off. Kinda working here."
"Well, do you want to be the one to call her back?" Myra waggled the phone.
"No, go ahead. I'll get on if she needs to talk with me." Ginny still had not looked up.
Myra dialed Patty, and after exchanging hellos, Patty said "I wanted -- I needed to tell you two -- Pat and I have split up." She began crying.
"Oh, no, Patty, I am so sorry. Are you sure?"
Patty wept, "Oh, yeah. I left her. I'm done with it."
"Would you like to come stay with us for a while? Or us come down there?"
Ginny put down her brush and walked over. She motioned for Myra to give her the phone.
"Patty, Ginny wants to talk with you, okay? But I'm right here, any time. Ask for me back if you want." Myra handed the phone to Ginny.
With the phone pressed to her ear, Ginny settled in on her daybed. After a moment, Myra went to put away the groceries.
An hour later, Ginny came and found her.
"What happened?" said Myra.
"Pat was screwing around on her. As usual. Patty's finally had enough." Ginny sounded furious.
"As usual? I didn't know about Pat ever doing that."
"Pat was a pussyhound before they ever got together, and all of us who knew Patty back then -- well, we just hoped it would work out. Especially after they had the boys."
"But she's been having affairs all along? I mean, do you know who?" Myra was trying to reconcile this.
"I don't feel like gossiping about that" snapped Ginny. "Patty asked to take you up on your offer for us to come down there." Then she added, "I wish you would check with me before volunteering me for things."
Myra was nonplussed. "I just assumed -- I mean, Patty is an old friend, she was your friend long before me -- ..." Her voice trailed off.
"Of course I want to go, that's not the issue. It's just making decisions for me, that's all." Ginny was rooting through the vegetable bin in the refrigerator, seeing what was in all the new bags.
"I...apologize."
"So now we're committed for next weekend, we are going to miss that concert we'd talked about." Ginny began cutting up a cucumber into sticks with sharp whacks of the knife on the cutting board.
"That's okay. Ginny, what is up with you?"
Ginny's back was to her. Her shoulders flexed.
"Oh, Myra. I just have a hard time with break-ups, that's all. Scares the daylights out of me."
Myra embraced Ginny from behind. "Not gonna happen to us. Not."
Ginny leaned back against her, putting her cheek against Myra's. Myra could hear the crunch in her own ear bones as Ginny chewed cuke.
Ginny said, "I'm not a Randy Newman fan, but I always liked those lines in that one song: 'All the nickels and the dimes of my days'. About what it means to add on day after day together."
"Auden has a line like that, too. 'You were my working week and my Sunday rest'." Myra coaxes Ginny around to face her.
"'Were.' Past tense -- One of them took off?" Ginny was seriously agitated.
"Died. It's an elegy."
"Same thing." Ginny did not appear to be consolable at this moment
Myra tried anyhow. "We are rock solid. You do know that, don't you?"
"People die, you just said it. Things happen."
Myra thought this might be the rape coming back up.
"Yes, but at this moment we are both alive and we make good choices together."
"You're more the rock these days than I feel like I am." Ginny looked like she might cry. Instead, she bit off another chunk of cuke.
"We've always taken turns, Ginny Bates. Some turns are longer than others, but it comes back around. I feel even-steven with you."
"Good" Ginny said. She looked out the window, then said "What will we do with the kids? Next weekend? I'm sure Gillam will want to go see Carly, so I guess we take Margie, too?"
"Yeah, unless Patty asks otherwise. Since Margie seems to be set on going to Evergreen next year, maybe we can do a tour of the campus while we're there, maybe even check out local apartments."
"Oh, no, I want her in a dorm. One with a curfew." Ginny pulled away, put cucumber peelings in the trash. "She needs a focused environment."
Focused, or guarded? thought Myra. "If you imagine living in a tiny room with a stranger and a hallway full of music and sex-crazed freshman is going to help her focus -- I mean, where did you go to school, Ginny? I don't think they have curfews any more. And I'm willing to bet all the dorms at groovy Evergreen are coed."
"I can't talk about this right now, I really can't. I'm going back to work. Will you call Patty and fix the details? Let's definitely stay at a motel, I will need some down time. Separate room for us from Margie. And if I'm still painting when the kids get home, will you be the one to tell them? I have no slack for any kind of whining."
"Sure." Myra watched Ginny as she walked away.
They left for Olympia before rush hour on Friday, planning to stop for dinner along the way. Gillam called shotgun and sat up front next to Ginny. He fastened his seatbelt, then pulled a book out of his pack: The Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Dyke. Myra said "Don't lose that" as she slid into the back with Margie. Margie put on ear buds before the car was even started. Myra leaned forward and tapped Gillam on the shoulders "What else of mine you got in that pack?"
He began pulling out books. "Uh...Dreams in Harrison Railroad Park; Giving Good Weight, that's a John McPhee; and The Wanderground by Sally Gearhart."
"It's pronounced GAIR-heart" said Myra. She thought I've been working on the railroad, then said "Pass me back the Nellie Wong poetry." Despite Ginny's timing, they hit traffic anyhow.
After an hour, Ginny finally gave up on finding anything along the highway except major chain restaurants and pulled into a Denny's wannabe, with puffy orange booths and purple carpeting. As they slid into their seats, Myra put on a manic expression and said to Ginny, "I love you, Hunny-Bunny."
Ginny immediately replied, "I love you too, Pumpkin." Then she stood back up, saying in a suspicious manner, "I'm going to case this joint" and walked toward the bathroom.
Gillam looked questioningly at Margie. She said scornfully, "I have no idea. Probably some 70's dyke thing."
Margie snickered behind her menu. After Ginny got back, Gillam asked, "Can I get a steak?" Ginny said "You had sausage for breakfast, meat boy." But Myra pointed to the inch of wrist sticking out from his shirt cuff, a shirt that had fit him perfectly six weeks ago, and said "Long bone growth."
Ginny blew out a breath and said, "Fine, whatever. Texans are always ready to kill another cow." Then she turned to Margie: "What are you getting?"
"I think just a salad."
"Don't you dare tell me you are dieting again."
Marjorie jeered "Okay, then I won't tell you."
Ginny pushed on. "If you get a salad, it has to be something besides a little dinner salad. Something with protein in it. Here, they've got a shrimp bonanza bowl, with real veggies instead of iceburg."
Margie refused to answer. Ginny looked over at Myra. "How about you?"
"Oh, if it was up to me I'd get pancakes every time I go to a diner. But that's like eating Snickers. What looks good to you?"
Ginny flipped back and forth in the menu a minute, then said "Scallops. With broccoli and, oh, the creamed spinach."
Myra said, "Perfect. Me too."
"Suck-up" said Marjorie under her breath. Ginny told Gillam to stop picking at his face.
When the waitress came, Ginny grilled her about whether the whole wheat rolls were in fact whole wheat or just white flour with caramel coloring added. The waitress clearly didn't understand the difference, kept saying "They are WHEAT rolls, ma'am." After she finally escaped with their order, Ginny slumped back in the booth. Myra looked over at her.
"Hunny-Bunny really could use a big old shotgun right about now."
Ginny managed a grin. "I didn't used to be such a prick when we traveled, I used to enjoy everything about it."
Myra replied, "It just occurred to me that two of us at this table are going through the mid to late stages of puberty and two of us are launched into menopause. We are all experiencing some version of hormone hell. No wonder we're so cranky."
Ginny laughed. "Picky."
Margie added "Snarky."
Everyone looked at Gillam. "What?" he demanded.
Myra said, "I think we're all choosing our names as members of the Four Hormonal Dwarfs. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's round the bend we go."
"Then I guess you should call me Farty" said Gillam, with a voice crack adding volume to the last word just as the waitress returned with their drinks.
After eating, Ginny was in a better mood. When they got to Patty's house, Ginny and Patty retreated to Patty's office to talk, while Myra hung out with the teenagers. She said to Carly and Truitt "Well, you know my rep for touchy-feely, so to be in character, do you want to talk about what's going on with your moms? Vent, dump, ask me questions? Or would you rather jump at the chance to think about something else?"
Carly laughed and said "I vote for the jump." Truitt said fervently "Me, too."
"Well, then...we've got five here, perfect for poker. How about 25 cent limit, stud, draw or hold-em?" Carly went to get their cards and chips, while Truitt helped Myra pull out snacks of the sort Ginny would never have allowed in their pantry. They played with aggressive competition, or at least the semblance of such on Myra's part, though she made sure to always lose if Carly or Truitt seemed to have a good hand. Carly could bluff, but Truitt had a number of tells.
Casually, here and there, Myra asked questions about where Pat was, what things had been like, not gossiping but opening the door for comment. Both boys took advantage of it, expressing weariness and, on Carly's part, open irritation with Pat. Myra cracked slightly over-the-edge jokes that made them all laugh. By the end of the evening, she was down over four dollars and all the kids were completely relaxed.
Gillam of course stayed with Carly. Margie borrowed a campus map and the fall semester course catalogue from Truitt. When they got to the motel, she bought a newspaper from the lobby, took the Olympia map from the glovebox in, filching one of Myra's legal pads and sprawling on the bed in her room to make one of her unusual maps, using classified ads and other Margie-determined data to determine which neighborhoods near Evergreen would be where she'd hunt for housing next year.
Ginny was tight-lipped about this endeavor. She announced she was going to bed, Margie was not to leave the motel under any circumstances without them. Margie nodded distractedly, and Ginny closed the connecting door between their rooms without waiting for Myra to say goodnight to Margie. She went to brush her teeth and wash her face. Myra put on a T-shirt and sweats -- she didn't like to be naked in motels at night, in case of emergency -- and waited until Ginny was out of the bathroom before going in for her own ablutions.
When she came back out, Ginny was sitting up against the headboard, picking at her cuticles. They were going to talk, then. Myra slid in beside her and said "So? How's Patty?"
"Having to start over at a time of life when some people are ready to retire" said Ginny angrily. "Pat made 2/3 of their income, so the financial end is disastrous. Even if Pat settles for her share of what she's put in the house, Patty will have to take out a loan to cover that plus pick up the entire mortgage. The one bright spot is that Truitt's tuition is reduced because Patty works at Evergreen."
"Isn't Pat contributing toward the boys' sustenance?" asked Myra, shocked. "I mean, legally, she's off the hook, but -- "
"Oh, she says of course she will, but she's not offering to make anything official. It'll just be her mailing a check of her own volition every month. The woman she was screwing around with is not sure if she's going to break up with her own partner -- they have a son, too, who's in grade school -- so Pat has to get an apartment. She's offered for Truitt to come live with her when he starts college in the fall, which makes Patty scared that he'll take Pat's side and also that Pat will, at some point, use it as an excuse to not pay her share." Ginny was getting more furious, not less, as she talked.
"Truitt, but not Carly?" said Myra.
"Carly's balking at spending time with Pat. Says he's fed up. Of course, that's Patty's version" said Ginny.
"No, that fits with how he was tonight when we talked about it. Though we didn't get into it in depth" said Myra.
"And of course they had to move down here, for Pat's job, so all the friends they've managed to make are either from Pat's work circle, which means they're not calling Patty now, or they're friends with the couple that Pat is possibly splitting up, so they don't want anything to do with Patty simply from the contagion aspect. They should never have moved. Of course I didn't say that to her, but I did tell her she had to get a counselor, sooner rather than later. And I told her if Carly wanted to see Nancy, we'd make weekend appointments for him and pay for the sessions, is that okay with you?" said Ginny.
"Absolutely. You know...I mean, this is a little weird, but Carly feels like partly our responsibility, too, he's so blended into our family at this point...I'd like to offer her money, certainly for his schooling but anything else to do with his well-being..."
"I feel the same way, Myra. I'll find a way to broach it to her tomorrow." Ginny sighed tiredly. "I wish we were going home tomorrow evening, instead of staying through Sunday."
"Well, let's get them all out, do something in nature or in the community, as much as we can. Extended family kind of outing, so it's not just sitting in that house and dwelling on things" suggested Myra.
There was a silence, and Myra wondered if Ginny was ready to go to sleep. She certainly was. She said "Wanna lie down and spoon?"
Ginny didn't respond immediately. After another silence, she said "We'll need to retool when both our kids are in college. Even when Margie leaves, it'll be a huge adjustment. We're supposed to dedicate all our energy and attention to them, nonstop, until suddenly they walk out the front door and that's it, they'll never live with us again and we won't be first in their hearts. It's a kind of exploitation, you know."
"The human choice, an extended childhood so we can teach them more and more culture. Clearly there's an evolutionary advantage to it" mused Myra.
"Oh, don't go all anthropological on me" said Ginny irritably. "I'm talking about us, not some abstract."
"Well, what do you want me to say?" countered Myra. "That it sucks? Yeah, it does. But it will also be great to not have their nearly constant jabbing at us. I feel like I'm just coming into my own as a writer, I'll be thrilled to eat quick salads and live at my desk."
"You say that like I'm not in the picture" said Ginny.
"What the fuck is up with you, Gin? Of course you're in the picture, when I'm at my desk you're seldom more than a few feet away. But when you're painting, I could get struck by lightning and you might not notice" said Myra.
"So are you planning to ignore me in some kind of retaliation, is that what you're driving at?" said Ginny, her voice going up. "And quit asking me what's up with me, as if I'm some kind of badger in a hole."
"I'm a patient woman" began Myra. When Ginny snorted, Myra pushed back the covers and said "Make that WAS patient. If you need to pick a fight, you can start back in on Margie tomorrow, she's always ready to tangle with you. I'm going to sleep in the other bed." She chose the side farthest away from Ginny and lay down without looking at her. The sheets felt cold. There was no sound from Ginny. After a minute, the light went out and she heard the rustle of covers in the other bed as Ginny stretched out. Damn, damn, damn.
She thought she wouldn't be able to drop off now. She felt aggrieved and underappreciated. However, she could hear the faint sound of television from Margie's room and was distracted by that. After a few seconds, she recognized the music as the ditty they played on Letterman when they did their "Will It Float?" bit. She wondered what item they were tossing into the water this week, and as she mused over past attempts, she slid distractedly into exhausted sleep.
When she woke up again, the room was still dark. She had a moment of not knowing where she was, then remembered it was a motel. Ginny's arms were around her from behind and she could hear Ginny's breathing at her shoulder. She remembered the fight, and put her hand over Ginny's, pressing into her. Ginny pressed back slightly, even unconscious. Myra rolled over and kissed Ginny's forehead, and Ginny fitted herself onto Myra's shoulder blindly, never waking up. Myra went back to sleep.
In the morning, Margie woke them up, saying "Gillam called, he says they're hungry and want to meet us at some diner for breakfast, did you sleep through the alarm?" Myra opened her eyes but felt too sluggish to move anything else as Ginny sat up. She saw Margie eyeing the rumpled second bed. Ginny said "We forgot to set it. Guess we have to get dressed fast."
By the time Myra dragged herself out to the car, last to leave the room, she had a headache. She hoped a Coke would take care of it. Ginny was being nice to her, but there was caution in how they were treating each other. Just about the last thing on earth she wanted to do right now was be around someone going through a break-up plus four smart-aleck teenagers.
It was a long day, full of bickering between everybody but her and Ginny as they spent way too much time in stores. Myra begged for an early dinner and the others obliged her so they could go to a movie afterward, The DaVinci Code. Myra had read the book, found it a crappy plagiarism of other texts, and fell asleep during the middle, waking up violently when Margie jabbed her with an elbow and hissed "You're snoring!"
When they finally got back to the motel, Margie came into their room with them, saying "Can we watch SNL together?"
Ginny looked at her. Myra, too tired to censor, said to Ginny "I know we need to talk but we're seeing Nancy tomorrow, I can live with our truce until then. I'm sorry I left last night. Though you were being an asshole."
Ginny's lips tightened. In her peripheral vision, Myra saw Margie's eyes go wide. "Funny way to keep the truce" said Ginny evenly. "Still, I agree." She turned to Margie and said "I need to shower, you can start without me. You get your own bed, however."
Myra fell asleep before Ginny got out of the bathroom. When she woke up in the morning, she felt finally rested and physically connected to Ginny again. The TV was still on, though mercifully muted, and Margie was sprawled face down on their other bed. Ginny whispered "You up?"
"Yeah. You waiting on me?"
"No, I think -- when your breathing shifted, it woke me up" said Ginny. "Tell me that you love, Junie Moon."
They kissed lightly and Myra said "My bladder is pulsating, sorry" as she hustled to the bathroom.
When she got back, Margie was stirring. She showered and dressed as Ginny packed their bag and Margie complained about her hair. Finally Myra said to Margie "I have a pocket knife, want me to give you a definitely original style?" Margie got up, then, and stalked into her room as Ginny said "Remember that T-shirt, the first march we were on together?" They giggled.
After brunch and goodbyes, Myra began to feel giddy at the prospect of home and her computer. They did stop at a farm stand to buy a dozen ears of early corn and some peanut brittle. At the house, Myra said to Margie and Gillam "Dinner is up to you tonight. Plus laundry for the week, Gillam, and it's been two weeks since you mopped, Margie." As they both began complaining, she walked away, her desk a tractor beam pulling her along.
At their session with Nancy the following day, both of them cried torrents about crap so early Myra wasn't able to even come up with words for her end of things. They were calm afterward. Myra said "She's good, that Nancy" and Ginny said "Mmm-hm."
At home, Ginny called David to make plans for their trip to the coast. Margie wanted to take Amy as well, and Edwina's schedule was tight because she had to teach a summer session, but they finally figured out a six-day window. Ginny then called Patty to invite her, as well as Carly and Truitt, to accompany them. When she got off, she sighed and said "I don't understand her. I think there's some part of her that hopes Pat will beg her to take her back. Anyhow, Patty says no, Truitt's not interested, and Carly of course says yes but Patty says he has to come home afterward and not spend the whole summer here."
Myra raised her eyebrows. Ginny said "I think she's just insecure about her home at the moment. We'll keep talking. Anyhow, we can make the reservations now."
[NOTE: The next few sections of Ginny Bates are already posted online in other sections. You can find the section beginning 14 July 2006 and the kids' reaction to Israel bombing Lebanon here, and the August 2006 trip by Myra, Ginny, Allie and Edwina to the Michigan Women's Music Festival here.]
© 2008 Maggie Jochild.
LOL WEEKLY ROUND-UP, 18 MARCH 2008
I think I'll make this an-every Tuesday feature, the 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.
(This one is by Debs Gardner, clearly a fan of William Carlos Williams, at her wonderful blog Go Frolic)
Monday, March 17, 2008
BROAD CAST, SAINT PATRICK'S DAY
I'm eschewing all those cliched versions of Irish culture. You'll get enough of that elsewhere. Today, I'm passing on three arts-related recommendations, in honor of the tremendous contribution Celtic culture has made to the world's creativity. Since my own background is overwhelming Celt, I'm particularly grateful.
(Satsu and Buffy in B-E-D.)
Buffy tries women.
Yep, for real. According to an article this weekend in the New York Times, "In a new issue of the “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” comic book series, being released Wednesday, Buffy sleeps with a fellow slayer. And, oh yeah, she’s a woman."
Read the article for details and comments from Joss Whedon. This is NOT Buffy coming out, it's just her and Satsu sleeping together. Still, I'm down wif it.
(From the fabulous Stella Marrs)
Ironic Sans has an interesting exploration of the art of courtroom sketch artists. Courtrooms are spaces where the digital age has been held at bay: No camera or videos are allowed, testimony is recorded by a stenographer typing entire syllables and words via a sophisticated but still manual keyboard, and our memories of OJ and Michael Jackson are from pencils and pastels. But these artists don't just draw for a living there, they have expressive lives in other genres. Nice to see. And nice to plug this blog with y'all, it's a goodie.
("Uninvited Advice", sculpture near Columbus Park in Stamford, Connecticut)
Below is People In Order, a wonderful short film by Lenka Clayton and James Price, showing people ages 1 to 100.
(Hat tip to Austin Kleon's always fascinating Tumblelog)
Sunday, March 16, 2008
THINKING OUTSIDE OF THE BALLOT BOX -- AURORA LEVINS MORALES SPEAKS
(Aurora Levins Morales)
Last night I was avoiding reading some of my heretofore favorite political blogs, especially Daily Kos which has, to quote a blogger friend of mine, turned into a seething viper's nest of misogyny. I was tracking down a piece of women's herstory, or trying to, when I ran across an essay which broke air and light into every fissure of this campaign for me. Now for something COMPLETELY different...
I want to share the whole thing with you, but I also want to support the site on which it appears, online archive of the Chicago Women's Liberation Union, so I'm linking to it and will extract fair use portions to whet your appetite here.
A bit of personal background: The author, Aurora Levins Morales, is a woman I knew and respected without qualification in the Bay Area. (Pay note to that "without qualification" -- not many people get that accord from me.)
Raised Jewish Puertorriqueña, she's been a bridge builder her entire life. She's a poet, essayist, community historian, activist, and curandera. Her essay on being middle class dropped into the lesbian-feminist 1980s community like a lifeboat, ending any number of class wars. She's a mother, a straight woman whom I trust as much as any dyke, and a woman of color who -- well, years ago I was at a gathering where Barbara Love, an African-American activist, said the notion of building bridges is overused (as I just did above) because most of the time, the bridge between us already exists, has been there all along. It's simply obscured by the debris of lies. And it's important to realize this because building a new bridge is much more work than clearing an extant structure of garbage. So, I revise my definition of Aurora: She's got one hell of a broom, and she's clearing strutwork with every breath she takes.
At the outset, Aurora says:
"First let me make clear my view that as progressives in this country we have very little impact on the outcome of the elections, and less still on the post-election behavior of the winner; our votes are not the kind of favors presidents reward. In a way, that means we have less at stake in the short term and can concentrate on our long term goals. We're a small part of the electorate. We're far more potent as organizers and catalysts than as voters.
"Our ability to save our species from extinction and create a world we can thrive in does not depend on who wins this election. It depends on our ability to dismantle profit-based societies in which greed trumps ethics. As my brother Ricardo Levins Morales points out, we live in an empire in steep decline. The election is about finding a CEO capable of holding domestic constituencies in check as they are further disenfranchised at breakneck speed and, as much as possible, make them feel that they have a stake in the military aggressiveness that the ruling class understands is necessary. Having a Black man and a woman run helps to obscure the fact that this decline of empire is what is driving the whole political elite to the right. Both these people represent very reactionary politics in ways that I don't want to get started on. Part of the cleverness of having such candidates is the very fact that they will be attacked in ways that make oppressed people feel compelled to protect them.
"There are two points here:
1) Neither Obama nor Clinton represents an alternative human strategy to propping up a failing empire that is based on pirating the world's resources (including ours) for the sake of a small elite.
2) The fact that someone is being targeted by oppression may arouse our outrage and lead us to identify with them, but it doesn't change their actual political positions."
A while later, she points out (and backs up fully):
"Among all the candidates running for national office Clinton and Obama rank first and second as recipients of health industry contributions, and are in the top four recipients of donations from the finance (banking, investment and insurance), energy/natural resources, communications/electronics and construction industries. What's more, Obama is ahead of Clinton in taking money from pharmaceuticals, electrical utilities, internet companies and foreign and defense policy PACs."
She goes on to clear a giant path for us with:
"First let me say that as a woman of color, though I am not surprised, I am disgusted and angry at the way a Black man and white woman have been put into the ring against each other, while the white male elite looks on. So should we all be. As Robin Morgan says in her essay Goodbye to All That #2 , it's strongly reminiscent of the way the same two constituencies were pitted against each other to compete for the right to vote during the late 19th century. It was utterly predictable that the first serious female and Black presidential candidates would run against each other.
"The people who disappear in this contest are women of color who are subjected to both sexism and racism, and who, with our children, are suffering more devastation at a faster rate than anyone else in this country. In 1981 I was a contributor to This Bridge Called My Back: Writings of Radical Women of Color, a collective refusal to make an untenable choice, and resist the pressure we faced to abandon ourselves either as female or as people of color, to distance ourselves from the political struggles of one or the other of our peoples or face being called traitors. The book had a strong impact on many progressive people, but not, of course on the wider society. In 2008 we are being told, as usual, that we have to choose between a man of color and a white woman, neither of whom will do much to change the increasingly desperate conditions of our lives."
Aurora makes it clear throughout her essay that she is neither a supporter of Clinton nor Obama, not in the advocacy sense. She says:
"I began this article in response to Robin Morgan's article on the viciousness of the sexism in this campaign. What it's permissible to say in public is only one marker of oppression, but it's an important one. I agree with her that its important to notice and talk about how much easier it is for Clinton's opponents and the media to go all out with violent and degrading sexist attacks on her than it is for the same level of racism to be openly expressed at Obama. Which is not to say that he isn't constantly targeted by racism, but in the public arena where this battle is taking place, sexism is considered trivial.
"The power brokers expect Obama to be a model minority candidate, and he has that option. He can assimilate himself enough to be Black in a way that's acceptable to a workable number of white people. There's no comparable role for Clinton. To the degree that she assimilates by acting like one of the guys, or taking hawkish positions on the war, she loses her femininity and becomes less acceptable, not more. A model female doesn't run for president."
And, finally, she give us the blessed relief of an utterly fresh viewpoint (fresh for those of us impaired by racism):
"Recent history gives us another way to redefine American politics. America is much larger than the United States. After five hundred years of brutal economic and social oppression, Bolivia, the poorest country in Latina America has elected a radical indigenous man with a mandate to take back the countrys natural resources and redistribute wealth into the hands of its majority indigenous population. In Venezuela, under the leadership of a mestizo man, petroleum wealth is being used to put power into the hands of working people, and to improve the quality of life and build solidarity and mutual support far beyond its borders. Cuba, in spite of 49 years of economic blockade, has one of the best health care systems and most ecologically sustainable economies in the world. Together with newly elected progressive governments in other Latin American countries, they have created an alliance that allows them to start defying the corporate powers that force their will on so much of the world.
"Imagine that instead of arguing about Clinton and Obama we put our considerable energy and smarts and capacity for thinking big toward joining that alliance; toward stripping illusions, revealing possibilities and overcoming discouragement in order to make such a thing possible."
Imagine...
(Aurora Levins Morales at the River Residency, a program of Tulane University)
Other blogs linking to this post: Yes We Can (do anything): On the elections, feminism, and our future, by Victoria Marinelli at Anachroclysmic.
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