Cheryl: What's Been Getting Me By Lately

Since I've quit my job, I've begun another search for an awesome activist community. The one I had at Hofstra isn't relevant for me another, since I am not a student and I don't feel roots in Long Island. Some of folks I started to meet in NJ have been exceedingly helpful. Mostly I feel a bit adrift, and I wonder why American society makes it so hard to find community when we leave the boxes we inhabited for so long.

I get by with a little help from my friends, far and wide...

"Do-Me" Feminism and the Rise of Raunch by Andi Zeisler

Target Women: Disney Princesses

Carol Queen

Make/Shift - subscribe! and donate to Bitch,which is financially flailing! these mags that sustain and speak out need help to continue doing so.

Beth: A Sane Response to an Insane World

I enjoy going to the movies with my partner. We see a lot of them together. We debate the merits of an actor's performance or the director's point of view. We eat a huge popcorn and drink a big soda and complain about our stomach's on the bike ride home.  It is a simple date-but we enjoy the idea of being engrossed in a film for about two hours after a long laborious work week.

...but the movies are not always a safe place.

I have seen at least 4 movies in the theatres this past month.  Of those four movies-two of them dealt in some scene with rape.  One made light of it, the other portrayed a gruesome intense scene.

The first movie was Choke. This is a comedy about a man who is a sex addict. It is based on the novel by Chuck P (whats his face).  I won't debate the movie, I am no public film critic.  I will say the main character ends up on a date with a womyn who is asking him to participate in her rape scenario fantasy.  The date and the acting out of the fantasy are consensual and use safe words and the such in the movie.   I have to admit that this fantasy makes me uncomfortable-super uncomfortable, but I am not willing to impose sexual norms on what people play out in consensual role playing. What made me uncomfortable while watching this scene in the movie is the snickering of the audience.  The movie is a dark comedy, and the scene was directed in a way that leads into absurdity, but the laughter of the audience still made me feel really uncomfortable. Throughout the whole movie, where this sex addict finds himself in absurd sexual situations, the laughter of the audience made me feel creeped out.  I know how I perceived the movie and how I experienced it, but how were OTHER people perceiving it.  I am left to speculate, but because rape runs rampant in our society, I am left with speculations that sicken me.

The second movie I saw as Blindness. It is about a virus that attacks a city, that causes everyone to go blind. People are sent to detention centers and left to fend for themselves.  Food is provided, but needs to be rationed. One ward in the detention center seizes the food. They first demand money and valuables in exchange for food. When that runs out, they demand the other wards' women.  It is a plot that shows what happens when power goes unchecked, and how acts of violence against womyn are acts of domination systematically. I REFUSE to describe the 15 minute long scene that occurs. I was closing my eyes and plugging my ears. I begged for it to be over. It was absolutely brutal. The director played with light and darkness, so little was actually seen, but it was nothing short of brutal to bear witness to. My partner, turned to me and asked if I wanted to leave.  To be quite honest, if I wanted to I couldn't because my body and legs were frozen.   I literally could not move, and just waited for the scene to be over.  The end of the movie changes and is supposed to be bring hope...but for me that is not what I left with.

The scene itself was not unlike an attack.  In retrospect I should have fought back.

I biked home with my partner , left with the hauntings of that scene. I was nauseated and had a lot of trouble riding. We got home where I had a hard time falling asleep. I didn't even eat that much the next day.

A friend of mine got to talking. She had a professor in a women's studies class that asked the womyn of the class to list all the things they do to protect themselves against rape while walking, biking or driving home.  Some said they carried mase. Others said they did not carry mase for fear it could be used against them.Others carried their keys like knuckles. Some carried baseball bats in there cars. Some wore baggy sweatshirts. The class filled a blackboard.   Many admit that their actions seemed irrational even to them.  The professor responded that they are sane response to an INSANE world.

I am not a film director. I don't know how the director could have done it differently. I understand that violence, coercion and dominance when left unchecked are used against womyn in society.  I understand how it is part of the storyline.  But I do know it COULD have been done differently.  Because I should not have had to pay $11 + popcorn and soda to be assaulted through visuals and sounds. FUCK THAT. Because I am harrassed every day because of my gender-when I walk alone, ride my bike, have a drink with friends, or walk with my partner. Because rape is used as an act of war against people around the world. It is used to "teach people a lesson" when they step out of norms for their gender and society.   I go to the movies to be in a safe space and get lost in a film.  I shouldn't have to see that shit-because the realty for our gender and our gender variants is much more painful and graphic.

The lady who wrote the book CUNT says we should walk out of films like this and demand our money back.  

How many movies have you watched this month that depict horrible acts of violence against womyn?  How were they filmed?  I know how I respond to them, but sometimes do you ever think how somewhere there is someone getting off on them, because they are shot in such a way. does that sicken you? Because it makes me want to vomit.

FUCK that.  Next time I am walking out. And I am letting people know why I won't sit through that shit again. 

Cheryl: Different Versions of Yourself

This summer, the start of my post-college life, I moved back home, started a new job, left LI behind mentally as well as physically. Additionally, the very day after my graduation, I said goodbye to my sweet boyfriend of seven months so far, Rex, who returned home to Guam for the summer (yes, I am dating a Guamanian. yes, Guam not only a real place but also is U.S. territory, so he is not dating me for a green card. these were seriously the concerns of friends and family.)

Since May 19th, I have fallen into a pattern of moving beyond Hofstra emotionally, throwing myself into my Jersey life, with my Jersey friends and family. Whenever I visited home during the past four years, it felt like a trip back in time, and I always knew my family and friends from home did not adjust to my sometimes new and always vocal opinions so easily. Now I am myself full-time. It hasn't created any major predicaments, but it has been interesting to be who I am now, in the place that created the me I was. I sought out what I found I thrived on, like cafes, less popular movies, open discussion and free art. Luckily, I have met a lot of folks here who are politically active, concious consumers, and such, mostly through my job. For some reason, it feels new to encounter people like this in "real life", rather than at school.

Since Rex is literally on the other side of the world, moreover, I have gotten used to operating largely as a single gal, seeing friends every weekend and gallavanting on my own when the mood strikes me. Of course, there are emails and phone calls that bring me back every few days, but no physical obligations, or, for that matter, perks. This will change in eight short days when he returns, at which point I will likely be visiting Brooklyn every other weekend. I am looking forward to the return of my relationship to my life, as well as the opportunity to spend time regularly in the city I adore. But it will be different from what I have crafted here since graduation.

Last week I had the house to myself for 2 straight days. I got a glimpse of how I would live if I lived by myself - messily and rushed. I am not the most responsible person, unless I know someone else will be inconvienced by my mess. But I am reliable when others are involved; despite staying up til 3 am on Friday night (thanks, L word season 5), I rose at 6 am to head to Long Island to meet my family.

My grandfather has been in his house in Massapequa for 53 years, 52 of them with my craft-inclined grandma, who lives in a senior home since her advanced Alzheimers makes it impossible for him to take care of her. This weekend my entire family (meaning, my other grandma, my grandpa himself, my mother, bro, and I) banned together to sell as much of the accumulated 53 years of stuff as possible at a yard sale. It was aggravating, but successful, and I acquired a lot of cool old jewelry that belonged to my grandma. It is pretty overwhelming to see so many half-accomplished projects and pieces of a life spread out across a lawn.

One thing that I noticed however, was the feeling of being the post-grad me around my family. My job, my interracial relationship (my grandparents often exhibit themselves as lingering racists), my style, my vegetarianism, my tendency to have my nose in a book, is acknowledged and accepted, despite my family's probable apprehension and bewilderment at my choices, and the hope that I will grow out of them.

But there were no lectures. I decided my own arrival and departure time to this family affair. Then I chose to make a stopover in NYC, and I bought an impromptu single ticket to Rent (which will be gone soon), I enjoyed the feeling. I don't fear the city, my family, or the future. I feel pretty confident, capable and optimistic. Bring it on, life.

beth: THE BIG SHE BANG

For those of you in New York today.  Sorry such late notice.  My piece on Jodi is going to be presented.  I also wrote a piece about community and illness support.  There will be a lot of great thing there today. I highly suggest you check it out.

Blyth: A Quick Ugh In The Morning

Russian Judge Rules Sexual Harassment Is Okay As It Ensures Survival Of Human Race

A woman seeking to become only the third woman ever to successfully bring a sexual harassment case in Russia was dealt a shocking rebuke when the judge threw out her case, ruling that sexual harassment is actually necessary for the survival of the human race:

She alleged she had been locked out of her office after she refused to have intimate relations with her 47-year-old boss.

"He always demanded that female workers signalled to him with their eyes that they desperately wanted to be laid on the boardroom table as soon as he gave the word," she earlier told the court. "I didn't realise at first that he wasn't speaking metaphorically."

The judge said he threw out the case not through lack of evidence but because the employer had acted gallantly rather than criminally.

"If we had no sexual harassment we would have no children," the judge ruled.

Foreign Policy's blog notes that while Russia has made it a major priority to reverse the nation's population decline, this is perhaps not the best way to go about it, considering how dismal working conditions are for Russian women already:

According to a recent survey, 100 percent of female professionals said they had been subjected to sexual harassment by their bosses, 32 percent said they had had intercourse with them at least once and another seven percent claimed to have been raped.

Blyth: Down By The Waterfront

I've lived in San Francisco for over a year now and sometimes I still forget how fucking beautiful it can be.














This weekend, after much debauchery, my dating partner and I took a long walk down Funston beach. It was aaaamazing!














There are moments in my life that feel so surreal. Moments when I pause expecting some overly sentimental soundtrack to start playing, like I'm not actually living this moment. Like it must have been scripted. But alas the Indigo Girls never start playing (well almost never...). This is my life. My real life. I live here. That shit is crazy.

I'm in love with the ocean. But I'm trying really hard not to fall in love with the womyn who was standing beside me. They're both beautiful but they're both really fucking dangerous. And I haven't yet learned how to avoid hir at high tide.

Still Saturday there was hangliders, crashing waves, dance lessons and an unbelievable sunset. Cue the music....

Taylor: Chinese Takeout and the Single Girl

I'm highly affected by what I see/do/think about before I go to sleep at night. It's a bit of childish psychosis that I wish would change, but for now, it's something I often have to consider if I want a restful evening. It's one reason why I prefer not to watch horror films. After seeing one of the Scream movies, I had nightmares that someone in one of those masks was trying to kill me. Once or twice would have been manageable, but that dream recurred over a period of about a month. Since my normal television watching agenda includes plenty of death - lately it's CSI and Deadliest Catch - I end up watching a fair amount of outwardly sappy shit right before I go to sleep. Romantic comedies? Bring 'em on.

To relieve myself from one day's dose of television death, I turned to Kissing Jessica Stein before bedtime. It's not a particularly great movie, but it will always have a special place in my heart for giving me the term "sexy ugly" (but that's another post for another time). As I snuggled into bed and set the sleep timer on the TV, the movie went into the "she's so lonely" scene, where Jessica came home to a messy but nice (and completely unreal for NYC, by the by) apartment. This involved the standard single girl refrigerator shot: nothing except a Chinese food carton. Right then it occurred to me: How in the hell did the "single girls' refrigerators are all empty except for Chinese takeout" idea become a stereotype? Even this video - which I find hilarious - does it. So when and why did it start? And are there single women who actually eat like that?

I have a few logistical items to pick with whoever started this movie trend (and I'm going to guess it was a man). As an example, we'll use myself and my roommates. One of my roommates is in one of those long running "It's Complicated" relationships and the other has been in a committed relationship for a little over a year. And yours truly? Freer than "Freebird." I would like to note that I am a New Yorker and absolutely qualify as a busy woman - the kind that, in a movie producer's eyes, would be a prime candidate for empty fridges and Chinese food ordering.

Examining our fridge on a regular basis, just under half of the things in there are mine, and at least one fourth of the things that belong to my roommates are either a) expired or b) things they're never going to eat. If we're going to do this right, we should examine cupboards as well, and my dry food? Takes up two cupboards. Each of my other roommates has one. I can safely say that in a contest of total in-house food ownership, I'd probably take it. I might even have as much as the two of them combined. (Except in rare cases, like when one of them decides to cook for their SO, or prepares food for a party or something.) What can I say, I like to cook. A lot.

That knocks off the "empty" part of the stereotype. Now, as to the takeout.

Personally, I don't like Chinese food, so let's change Chinese takeout to takeout in general. Of course, if we want to expand this like I did before, it should include meals outside of the house, sit down style.

On average, I go out to eat about once or twice a week, usually on the weekends. On average, one of my roommates beats this in about half the time, and the other probably matches it. One of them is an aspiring foodie, so she and her SO go out for dinner about three times a week, generally at very nice places. My other roommate cooks a lot for her and her SO, but they go for an out of the house meal from time to time, probably just a hair more often than I do.

On the other hand, for takeout meals both roommates win. In the past week, we've had two versions of takeout leftovers in our fridge (one set Chinese, the other set Thai), both belonging to my roommates. The last time I ordered takeout was when I wanted sushi for lunch while watching a Salman Rushdie documentary - which was, according to Netflix, back in June.

I'm sure that, in part, the takeout stereotype stems from assuming that no one wants to go sit in a restaurant by themselves, and I have a slight bone to pick with that, as well. Firstly, single women have friends. They likely even hang out with these friends more frequently than those in a relationships. The catching up with a friend dinner is a pretty big staple in my life - in fact, I'm going on one tonight. Secondly, I don't have a problem with eating by myself in a restaurant. The pathos of worrying what people are going to think about someone alone in a restaurant is awful and ridiculous. Treating oneself to a nice sit down meal can be an incredibly freeing experience, much like going to movies or concerts alone. You don't have to worry about waiting for anyone else or considering what someone else wants to eat/see/listen to. Some of the best dining experiences I've had have been when flying solo. Because you're alone, waiters are much more attentive, and the food arrives more quickly.

The takeout trend might also stem from the idea that single girls are going on so many dates that they never eat at home, and that doesn't really hold water, either. Even the people I know with the most active dative lives aren't eating out every single night.

So, single ladies, I'm curious, does the only Chinese takeout in the fridge movie stereotype resemble your eating habits?

And if any movie buffs can shed light on this stereotype, please do.

Mary: learning in nyc

A coworker of mine told me today that I should stick to straightening my hair everyday because it looks "thin" and "flat" when I let it wave naturally.  When I was a little girl, I had very thick, very straight, dark dark dark brown hair.  After puberty, my hair behave to make tight waves and the excessiveness of it calmed down.  I was never one to look in the mirror and admire myself, but I've always enjoyed my hair as one of my stronger features.

Needless to say, I didn't need the cruel comment this morning.  Nor do I need the daily dose of criticism from this coworker - calling me "rabbit" because I eat a lot of salads, asking me if I'm "special ed" when I don't answer her questions quick enough, which usually involve extremely important tasks like refilling an electric stapler or turning up the brightness on her computer screen.  I intern for the City of New York and while I've always heard jokes about the attitude and laziness of city employees, particularly those with civil service qualifications, I've never been one to really commit myself to a stereotype.  But working at this agency for the past 10 months, I'm becoming more and more convinced.

Today at 4:00pm when I went to clock out, I asked my coworker why she was so edgy today.  She suffers from constant crankiness, but today was terrible, even by her standards.  She told me they were changing her hours from flex time (any 9 working hours between 8am and 7pm) to standard 9-5.  She travels from the Bronx, a long subway/bus commute to downtown Manhattan, and she worries about standing on the trains during rush hour with her chronic back/neck problems.  At 60, she is looking to retire, but needs 3 more years to recieve the maximum payout from her pension.  Together, we found the phone numbers she could call to inquire about a disability package and tomorrow I am going to help her figure out if she qualifies for 3 years disability before retirement.  Regardless, I can pretty much guarentee that tomorrow, my coworker will be equally as miserable as she has been every other day of work since I began last October.  

At school, when discussing the struggle between public property and private housing, the term eminent domain is frequently used.  Basically, it means that the government has the right to take your land, pay you for it, and then do whatever it wants to with it.  History shows lots of examples of this happening, especially in poor neighborhoods, when the government thinks it can "fix" an area by capturing the land and building "affordable" housing on it, or even worse, taking the land and selling it to a private developer.  While the buildings are beautified and the lawns are kept with bushes and trees and gardens, the original residents are displaced and priced out of their former neighborhoods. Look up "urban renewal programs" to get a better idea of this.  NONETHELESS, when these disadvantaged people, now homeless or stuck in an overcrowded facility get angry or violent or frustrated, the city has a fit and says, "SEE! This is why we can't get anything done in this neighborhood, because these people are unruly!" when it is the city's fault in the first place for pissing them off.  I'd be pretty upset if one morning I woke up to news that I was being kicked out.

I guess it's far fetched, but I see a serious relationship between these two situations.  We have displaced people, pissed off because they were dealt a crappy hand, and even more angry because the government sold their house to a rich contractor to build a duplex while they are forced to live in a comparable slum in a different neighborhood.  They are economically, socially and emotionally torn apart.  Then we have my coworker, who has a grudge on her shoulder, probably because her health is a mess but who really just needs someone to cut her a little slack and allow her flexible working hours.  Or, maybe it's time for her to retire, but she doesn't know how to take the first step in maximizing her pension package so she can support her grandchildren that live with her while their mother finishes her drug-bust prison sentence (true story).  I'm first to admit that in many situations, especially those that involved the entitlement of a citizen to government aid, the issue is the laziness of the victim, or the inflexibility and arrogance of the victim.  However!  a lot of the time it's the crap situation the person has been dealt.  We never really, fully understand the struggles of others.  And while it is so easy for the City of NY to wag a pointed finger at those living in the slums, it is equally as easy for someone like me to roll my eyes and give a pathetic glare to an unkind coworker with a serious lack of sensitivity.  I could very easy come home and rant and rave about how low-class this person is, and sure, sometimes I do because yes, sometimes she fulfills every stereotype.  But I'd like to think that for the most part, the bulk of us do the best we can, even if in that particular moment the best we can is kind of crappy.

Blyth: Hitting Walls Within Myself

Last night I felt myself hit a wall. A mental wall. And it wasn’t a hit so much as a slam.

Things have been great. I’ve been dating someone for a little over 4 months and the past few weeks have been the best of our time together. I moved into a new house with perfectly colored walls. I’m working with an organization I adore. All things add up to my life being awesome. But there’s something missing. Some purpose.

I find myself talking about the persin I used to be. I used to try harder to live by my values. I used to be intentional with my words. I used to seek out opportunities to help. I used to incorporate anti oppression work into my day to day life. I used to do all those things. But what the fuck am I doing now? I fear San Francisco has turned into that black hole that I feared…yet craved. For the first time in my life I am able to distract myself with convenience. Life, for the most part, is easy and that has been surprisingly hard for me.

Sometimes I lose sight of how much work I’ve done to get here. I get wrapped up in a moment and I forget that I’ve already done this. I know the answer. I can make the right choice. Because lately I’ve made the easy choices: staying in the relationship I know isn’t good for me, eating the food that is more tasty than it is nutritious, fucking around on the internets instead of writing, throwing myself into social situations instead of processing through my shit. And all these easy choices have taken a toll. They have moved me farther away from who I want to be more than any move to an uber liberal city could.

So I guess that’s it. I’m lost. I know what I need to do to get back on track and I’m absolutely annoyed at my unwillingness to just get it done. I’m frustrated by my exhaustion when my life is the easiest it’s ever been. Instead of being nourished by supporting others I feel drained, tricked, trapped. And I hate myself for that. I suppose the truth is that part of me is tired of carrying everyone else’s shit and part of me needs it. So where the fuck do I go from there?

I think I just hit the wall of knowing that this emptiness I feel is my own doing…..

Caitlin: Must Rekindle Sense of Adventure...

The guy I've been seeing for 12-8 months (depending on how you look at it), is moving to NYC for grad school in two days (ironic, isn't it?). So I've been spending the last week or so licking my wounds and trying to be helpful, stay sober, and in some way or another, remain positive.

But I am very blue about it, and on top of just losing someone I really care about --- I am also having a personal crisis of my own. Like, what the fuck am I doing with my life? In the past I have set my sights on graduate school, or a lofty writing goal, some sense of adventure that seemed infallible, or the love of a man, but right now I don't have any of those things. I can list off all the things I do have, and I do feel really lucky for the family/friends/cats/housing/health that I have but at the same time, I still have that endless void inside that only gets covered, and never filled.

So I need advice! So should I just get another desk job? Should I reconsider graduate school once again? Should I travel? Should I teach English in some crazy part of the world?

My question is: If you suddenly lost your job and your relationship, but you had a somewhat hefty severance package and a totally empty plate, what would you do?

I will consider anything.

Mary: Sunday.

This morning I ran 13.2 miles through New York City for the Annual NYC Half-Marathon. This being my second half-marathon, I knew what to expect in length, time and points of extreme fatigue along the way, but my experience running today was like none I've ever had before.

We started in Central Park around 86th street. My dad and I drove into Manhattan from our home on Long Island at 5:30am because we knew after such a long run, the last thing we'd want to do is sit on public transportation for a 50-minute train ride home. On the way in, the rain was so thick and so strong we could hardly see through his windshield. Neither of us said much as lightning stuck overhead through the blotchy sunroof of the SUV. We were screwed if the rain didn't stop, even worse if there continued to lightning. But as we approached the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, the rain slowed to a drizzle and all the storm commotion came to a stop. The car went into a parking garage and we walked to the start line.

But first, back uppppppp.

On the first Sunday in May, my dad and I ran the Long Island Half-Marathon. It was my first half and his 7th. He turned 56 this week. Pretty impressive, old man! The previous year, he was recovering from prostate cancer surgery/treatment and obviously was not exercising at all. 2007 was the only year he missed his spring/summer marathon routine and I vowed to be his running partner once he was back on his feet. My first serious run was a 5k in September 2007, which I happily completed at 9am with a notorious hangover, then another in December. It was fast training, which did not work well with my first-year graduate school schedule, but I needed something to obsess about and running was a perfect object. As suspected, my dad dragged me through the last 3 miles of that May marathon and as tears streamed down my face, with only a mile or so to go, I knew I couldn't have finished alone. Tears of pain, frustration and regret, I should add - not tears of joy, happiness or accomplishment. I told myself I would never do a run like that again - and yet, a few months later, I found myself training on hills in the local park, preparing for the steep and difficult elevation of Central Park.

It's difficult to describe how exciting it was for us to finally be together, running through the park, at 7am on this Sunday morning. 70 degrees and 90% humidity was far from ideal. But coming out of Central Park on mile 7 and running through Times Square, on 7th Avenue, looking around at the barricaded streets lined with spectators - the emotion was something I've never felt before. My dad and I laughed and smiled and slapped high-five's with people standing close. Police officers gave us thumbs up, yelled to keep on running, told us we were doing great. I'm sure they were bored and exhausted of standing around since 7am, but they showed no signs of weariness. For whatever reason, running through Times Square, it felt like all of New York City was cheering us on to finish the race strong.

And we did - almost 10 minutes faster than the May marathon, despite the added heat, humidity and elevation. Andrew waited with a huge smile at the finish line, jumping and yelling my name with such pride. He came running over to give me a congratulatory hug, sweat and all, sticky with the Gatorade being handed out along the route. He held tight onto my hand while we walked around the after party, while my dad and I collected our free bags of apples and water bottles. He id not let go after we found our way to the 4/5 train back uptown.

When we got to the parking garage once again, I collapsed into the front seat of my dads car, trying desperately to stay awake while we sat in traffic on the ride home. Once again, the skies opened up and it began to rain. The wind increased and the roads turned to steamy mud-like pathways. In our car, we laughed at the irony of rain on the way in and rain on the way out but a perfectly clear run time. Once back in our home, my mom waited with the electricity flickering on and off as local telephone wire breakage caused a problem with the lines, my dad and I told stories of the various people we saw on the run. A man without a shirt had his butt crack hanging out the entire time. A woman was basically wearing a bra and panties in an effort to show off her Amazon-like figure. With perfect patience, my mom smiled and laughed and encouraged us to share what we had just completed. And after all the excitement, as the afternoon wound down, we went to the 5 o'clock mass, like usual, out to dinner with Andrew, like usual and got home in time to watch the end of the Yankee game.

I find it very difficult to communicate the importance of an experience like this, that involved so much dedication and preparation, but is all done and over with in a simple mornings time. Maybe because it's 1am and I've been up since 5am - what's that, 20 hours? I should rest up.

(The next one is September 21st, this time, in Philadelphia.)

Beth: Documenting A Womyn's Life

So by writing this blog I am procrastinating on a writing project that needs to be done really soon. But I need to take a break.

I am co-authoring a biography on a womyn named Jodi Tilton. She passed away, almost exactly a year ago. And she wasn't just anybody, she was one of my best friends both in life and organizing. So in a lot of way's I am chronicling a fallen comrade.


How do you document the life of someone who by HIStory's accord was nothing spectacular? She didn't cure cancer or event a bomb or start a war or something. She didn't slaughter anybody, although she often joked of filling a tote bag full of nails and screws and beating her boss with it.



By HERstory's measure she was nothing SHORT of spectacular. She lived a life full of sincerity and integrity. She was always excited about a friend's new endeavor-even the shitty band you were in-and there were so many shitty bands. She was the kind of person who sent post cards for fun; not the kind you buy but the kind she hand stamped herself. She was the kind of organizer who actually has her shit together and returns emails. She would get to an event at Long Island Freespace to set up, stay late to clean up. She would eat a huge piece of cake with me and complain about how the other vegan cake shop had bigger slices. She would jump into a bar alongside the LIRR for a quick shot.


There are other things I am having trouble documenting. She had a chronic illness. How do you write about how that impacted her life EVERY SINGLE DAY without victimizing her. Because she was no victim to ulcerative colitis. She was PISSED about it, and would let you know, but in so many ways, until the last months of her life she was in charge.

How do you chronicle the complicated love affairs. The really shitty ones that were disempowering and made her feel stupid? They shaped her too. How do you document the happier, fluid loves that still contained a dynamic I still might not understand?


How do I document a womyn's life? All the beauty? All the sadness? All the laughter? All the of the body's pleasures and failures? Are there any examples of people who got it right?



I am glad I came to San Francisco to be surrounded by this group of womyn for this week. A year ago I was sitting in a hospital room, holding my friend Jodi's hand as she lay in coma, praying that the legality of dying would just go through. I need to be surrounded by this group of womyn this week. Because documenting the life of a womyn isn't easy, let alone your friend.

Blyth: The Day I Met Angela

from 9.16.07

Yesterday I met a womyn named Angela. She was screaming on the street below our window as Kristina and I made some Hangover Potatoes. We glanced down like we often do, expecting to see a man piss on a wall or vomit on his already stained and worn shoes. There is a detox center on the corner of our street (coincidently run by St. Vincent de Paul, the organization I now work for) and things like that aren’t so uncommon. People lose their minds from time to time, detoxing off this drug or that, and sometimes things can get loud or volatile. But when we looked down today a womyn was slashing at hir wrists with a piece of dull metal.

Not knowing what to do we ran down the stairs. A womyn who worked at the detox center reached hir before I did, grabbed the womyn’s arms and slammed hir wrist against the wall forcing hir to drop the piece of discarded metal that she had been stabbing at hir wrists with. I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. The womyn from the center was a professional, she knew what she was doing and I didn’t want to get in the way. I didn’t want to make things harder for hir. I asked hir how I could help and she asked me to call 911 but all I had was my cell phone and that wasn’t going to work. She looked at the womyn crouched in front of hir and she held hir arms firmly with concern, trying hir best to keep hir from clawing at hir own skin. She looked at hir and said, “Angela, shh shh shh, it’s ok. You’re going to be ok. You’re going to do this. We’re going to get you some help. Shh shh shh Angela”. I offered to find someone inside to call, but I could tell that wasn’t what she needed. So I sat down next to Angela, put my arm around hir back and held onto hir. The two of us sat there, listening to Angela wail about how she couldn’t do it any more, how she had tried so hard to get clean, and how he was coming for hir. He was coming for hir. He was coming for hir. She threw hir head onto my shoulder and hir hands flew up to try to scratch at hir face and quickly I pulled them down into hir lap, close to hir body, where they would be safe.

It had occurred to me that she might be dangerous, that she might try to hurt me. But as she sat screaming, arms tugging at my restraint, I realized the only persin she wanted to hurt was hirself. I was holding hir on my own now, hir face pressed into my chest, my hands wrapped around hir wrists spotted with blood as she cried. The other womyn took the opportunity to go inside and call the paramedics and I sat alone with Angela, huddled in a doorway. She returned with another womyn that I knew. Hir name is Michelle, I had met hir when I’d taken a tour of the facility on my first day of work. Michelle and the other womyn talked in calm ordinary voices, trying to convince Angela that she was safe and that she could do it. She could be ok. They said, “You know honey, maybe it needed to get this far, maybe this is it, you can do it. I know it’s hard, but you can do it”. Angela responded by calling them bitches, screeching at them to shut the fuck up, leave hir alone, all the while holding tighter to all of us.

I sat mute, not knowing the womyn in my arms, not knowing anything about what she was going through, not wanting to say anything inappropriate or insensitive. Meanwhile Angela ranted incoherently about getting out of prison, going back to hir mothers house and the father that had raped hir since she was a young girl, “He’s coming for me. He’s coming for me. How could she let him do those things to me? I tried to be a good little girl. I tried. I tried. I can’t do it no more. He’s coming for me.” We whispered that she was good, that she was going to be ok. Michelle assured hir that help was coming and we all waited.

The womyn I didn’t know wiped Angela’s tears away with a napkin and held the same napkin so she could blow hir nose. Tears filled my eyes and then quickly dissipated. I remembered all the people in my life that use/used drugs to bury deep painful truths. I remembered being a young girl and watching my mother detox in the corner of hir room, biting down on hir lip so hard that it bled. I remembered every persin that has tried to convince me that “junkies” weren’t people, that they didn’t feel or care. And I remembered all the womyn I know in my life that have been beaten, raped, assaulted. The womyn in my arms was just barely hanging on. She was in a place so raw and so humyn that it seemed impossible to do anything but love hir and hold hir.

Over time police started to show up. Two men with guns, then four, then six. Michelle reassured Angela that they were only there to help, that they weren’t going to hurt hir. For the most part they left us alone as we waited for the paramedics. They stood across the street, talking to one another, laughing about something that had happened earlier in the day, completely detached from what was happening right in front of them. Angela panicked at the sight of them and we did our best to console hir as she thrashed hir arms around. We were still holding hir, doing our best to pin hir arms down with our hands and knees when one of the officers came over to ask us if we wanted hir cuffed. “No!”. He walked away. The paramedics arrived and Michelle and I did our best to stand hir up so that she could walk over to the gurney. But as we lifted hir up, after having sat with hir for the past 20 minutes listening to turmoil spill out of hir, we were told by an old white man who had arrived in his own separate car to leave hir alone so that he could do his job. So we stepped away and a swarm of men laid hir down and strapped hir to a board. First hir feet, then hir wrists, then hir torso. As they wheeled hir towards the ambulance I waved to Michelle and the other womyn and turned around to go back into my house.

Shaken I walked up the stairs to the bathroom sink and washed small smears of Angela’s blood off my arms and chest. I washed my hands several times, knowing full well the risk of HIV and other diseases, feeling guilty for thinking hir blood might be contaminated. I had held hir, listened to pieces of hir story and then did my best to scrub hir off of me.

I moved on with my day, finally eating those potatoes, taking a nap, steaming some artichokes for dinner. I don’t know what happened to Angela, I never will. I hope she received the care she deserves, that someone took the time to try and understand what it might have felt like for hir to get strapped down to that board, or be driven so insane by memory that she would try to take hir own life, but I know that many do not receive even the most basic of care.

Cheryl: Links and Minx

I
enjoy
alternet,

but hate the "this can't be real" reality they have to report about this world.

memory (vag monologues style, my friends): Munich, Germany, August 2007. Bike lanes are adjacent to each sidewalk in the city, which is awesome. I also love that I see women riding to work on bikes while wearing skirts. For some reason, this screams "I will wear and do what I want!" to me. Another reclaiming of the short skirt.

memory: Hempstead, New York, April 2008. I am riding my bicycle, a piece from the 70s given to me by my grandpa (now retired - the bike not the grandpa), on my way down the street to Planned Parenthood, where I work and learn joyfully. Wearing one of my typical knee length skirts, feeling good on a semi-spring day. A guy yells at me "Girl, what's wrong with you, you can't bike in a skirt!" I don't remember if I yelled back at him or just kept going, but either way, I guess I won.

In Video: Family Meals

Caitlin: The Good Wife.

It's not cool to say you want to be a wife. But you know what else isn't cool? Loneliness, celibacy, and cat pee. Those things are all very sucky and all very likely for me if I don't settle into domesticity with a man someday. I don't mean like tomorrow, or even ten years from now, but some day I can totally see myself weeping into a large pan of lasagna, all postpartum and under-appreciated, hoping today is the day he finally brings me flowers "just because"...All the while thinking, "at least I'm not alone." Ugh, whatever, I really do think I will make a great mother and wife some day. Here are my reasons why:

1. All my ex boyfriends say so.
It's true. Upon breaking up, all of my exes said something along the lines of: "maybe we can get together later in life." And I don't think they were just being nice. No, I think they meant that I was just too wife-tastic to be part of their young, seed-spreading years. Go ahead boys, spread your seeds. I'd rather you get it out of your system now than when we are married.

2. I look like a wife.
Petite. Brunette. Perfect teeth. Hips like a peasant. I was made for both sexin' and birth'n and I ain't ashamed. Hell, I am proud of it. Older men love me because I have the face of a child and the body of a neighbor's wife. Covet on gentlemen, covet on.

3. I like food.
Not only am I college educated, but I can also cook! I enjoy baking, stir frying, kneading, and saucing. I like trying new things but I can also get down with old staples. I will cook late at night and also early in the morning. I am not terribly afraid of calories. I think Splenda is disgusting.

4. I don't need to be entertained.
I can entertain myself just fine. I read books, run errands, follow politics and popular television shows. I have my own friends. I partake in my own hobbies. I like to get drunk. And as a caveat to this, I can be brought anywhere. I don't need a chaperon.

5. I like to do it.
A lot.

6. I don't want a real job.
I want to be a freelance writer and nothing else. This means there is a very good chance I will be working from home. Working from home and cooking. Working from home and building forts for us to hang out in when you get back from your 9-5. Working from home and thinking about all the nastiness we should partake in, post lasagna.

7. I will be the Michelle to your Barack.
Even though I don't want a "job" per say, I will still be involved in many great things. I plan on living a life of both leisure and substance. I want to be involved in my community and be a beacon of female-awesomeness to the people around me. I am not sure what this means yet, but I am spending my 20s figuring it out.

8. I will live a long life.
Women in my family live to be very old. One of my grandmothers lived to be 94. My husband will most likely die first. And if he doesn't, I plan on being the haunting-type.

9. I have an impeccable sense of humor.
A truly funny woman is a real gem. When things get old and ugly, having someone around to laugh with you is essential. I don't consider myself very sarcastic though. I mean, except for this post.

10. One of my favorite movies is "Cool Hand Luke".

Sam: Emails from Sam.

hi friends! or others... ertt... i am moving to NH today to live with hippie dippie crunchy granola family that is taking me in while I work for BARACK OBAMA BEEEETCHES. so excited. think my heart might explode-those of you who know me know that things such as shoes, lolcats, stimulant tea, and fighting the good fight like a noble superhero (nobel prize winner) make my heart beat visibly and audibly out of me tell tale chest. i know. i know rambles. well i am going to write as much as a i can while i am there unless they dont have electricity or i am really being abducted into a cult. i think i'd be really good at culting, btw. not the occult though. i love you guys forever.oh yea and i fell in love, again, but am leaving him here. i love him, he is (redacted) you can find him on my myspace. and i love you, will read your everythings on the site soon enough and will respond, post, etcs. byes. please vote. he might not be the best thing, but he's certainly the best thing we've got right now.

by the way three good movies i just saw for the first time which are highly recommended by me:

iron man (favorite movie ever am thinking barack will have a very Iron Man-ish experience on this here trip to the mid east/central asia)

kiss kiss bang bang (american version with downey jr., who by the way will be playing sherlock holmes in sherlock holmes movie. maybe katie holmes will play winston or whatever that other guys name is)

ghostbusters. (doesnt brittawnee look like a young sigourney weaver?)

peace.

sam

Cheryl: Is Life Just Limbo?

I started college sheltered, opinionated, and judgmental. Thankfully, I met folks in the radical and progressive commuinity. So I'm still opinionated, god knows, and judgmental, of those who live in bubbles. But I became vocal and active about it. I let myself have enjoyable experience that I would have not permitted myself before. I talked to people I wouldn't have known how to talk to, about things I didn't even know were subjects before. Life became more complicated, but I felt I fit, and it was good.

Early in senior year I knew I was done. I knew how everything worked, and it wasn't invigorating anymore. When I ended the relationship I had been in since freshman year, the idea came to me by accident. Then I latched on to it and ended it hungrily. I planned my final semester carefully, with classes in yoga, poli sci, and sign language. I knew that I wouldn't want to do school again for a while, so I tried to learn about things I didn't know anything about. Since I seem to be prone to intimacy, I found a new love that is both comforting and challenging. Then graduation came, and I was ready, and I left.

Now I am at home, where I was made sheltered and often uninformed. Granted, this was my fault as much as it was the fault of my family. Despite my reservations when I first tried canvassing, I am a full-time canvasser, career-style, even. I've been trying to get my "feminist fix" from art, like Bitch, Cunt, and the L Word. I also start conversations with those around me, who don't seem to want to have these conversations. I'm getting by. But I wonder, how long will this last? 'Cause it feels like Limbo.

As in: "an intermediate place or state", and "not knowing the result or next stage of something and powerless to influence it."

When I was with my ex-boyfriend, most of the three years was spent urging him to change something. I hated his lack of planning, preparation and vague insistence that someday, somehow, we wouldn't be doing long distance anymore. I said I couldn't wait forever, and then the point came when I couldn't be with him anymore. Untangling his life from mine felt like a new kind of freedom. I should have felt guilty, but I didn't, for which I felt kind of guilty.

I didn't apply to any grad schools, or law schools (to be the next Sarah Weddington) although I am lusting over women's studies programs I could never afford. I don't even know if I want or need any more schooling, or if it is really necessary to make a difference. Since graduating, I feel vastly unqualified for all the awesome jobs I spend hours pouring through on idealist.org. Mostly I am glad that I have a work environment with a strong female boss, with advancement opportunites, at a place where I hear "social justice" and such phrases uttered in places outside my mine. But I don't know how long it is supposed to last, and I can't help feeling I'm in limbo again. I hate limbo. I like to know where I am going. Otherwise, where am I?

Blyth: From Solidarity To Sex

edited a wee bit from a blog i posted in june:

I'm hungry. But I'm hungry for all the wrong things. I want cheese and pizza and grease and fried. I want all the things that leave me feeling trapped and lonely. I want things that don't nourish me, that don't lift me up. So for now, I'm content sitting with the slightly hollow feeling in my belly. The same feeling I get when I'm holding onto something I should let go of. Holding on so tight that I can't move, can't do much of anything but lay in bed and search for distractions.

It's as if I'm being given everything I could want and it just doesn't fit. I'm living this strange fairy tale of a life. I have a tall, dark and handsome lover who sweeps me off my feet in hir white pickup truck. She whispers beautiful things to me in languages I can't understand, feeds me food I've never tasted, brings me bouquets of birds of paradise and red ginger, just because. Because I deserve it she says. But deserve sounds heavy, like I've been paying into it forever. Paying high. And all I get are some fucking flowers. Like she couldn't possibly understand how much I deserve and neither could I.

Since I've moved to San Francisco I've found myself talking about womyn in an entirely different way. I used to rant about solidarity, sexism, shame. I spoke mostly of the struggles womyn faced and how elated I was to be a part of a community fighting back. Now I talk about the dyke community. A world where I have found an unlikely sense of belonging. A bay area bubble that feels sooo good, if you're lucky enough to get let in.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure how I got here. Not sure who snuck me in the back door. Perhaps it was Linda when she pulled me behind hir into the Lexington that night and kissed me in front of the jukebox. Perhaps it was me. Perhaps my desire paved the way. All I know is I'm here. And I've met some of the most amazing womyn you could imagine. Craigslist "date" turned great friend. Quick drink turned weekly dinners. Sly look turned unprecedented sex. Secret attraction turned four months and counting.

Now I find myself talking about the handsome butch in the corner of the taqueria. What kind of sex I had the night before. The womyn my friends are dating. The actual amount of "scissoring" done in lesbian relationships. Whether or not it's ok for hir to pay for dinner every time. Where I may or may not fall on the femme spectrum that day. Etc, etc, etc. My life is a queer sex and the city. And what's worse is I don't feel like I'm losing anything. Well perhaps I do, but right now I'm so overwhelmed by the romance of it all that I don't really give a shit.

I seesaw between feeling embraced and rejected everyday. For the first time in a long time I feel as if I'm seen. All of a sudden I'm desirable, fun, creative, beautiful. I'm all of the things that felt lacking for so many years. For so long I was the activist, the organizer, the caretaker. People called me for help processing paperwork and their shit, but rarely for silly adventures or outlandish dates. I was practical not pretty. But now that I've reclaimed some of that, people (new sf people) seem shocked when I know how to start a propane bbq, troubleshoot car problems, lift something heavy, or help them wade threw emotional shit beyond my years. All jobs that would have immediately been assigned to me just one year prior.

I suppose we are all struggling to learn how to be all of ourselves at any given point. Meanwhile, I've never felt younger in my life. That is to say, I've never felt my age until just now. Once again I am searching for balance. Searching to remember who I am. Searching for the girl between batted eyelashes and oil changes, between tragedy and joy. Searching for what I want and what I deserve.

Caitlin: The Unemployed Professional.

I was laid off yesterday. I saw it coming. Truth be told, I was wishing it would come. My work situation was really awful: a long commute, strange hours, a boss who rarely knew what was going on, general dissatisfaction with all my tasks, the knowledge that I would never really be proud of what I was doing. For the past two months I have been looking for another job, and beyond some obviously not-so-productive interviews, I haven't had much luck. But I had to get out of there, a.s.ap.

I guess in taking all that time off to go to those interviews, to stay home when I was too hungover to get on the train, or when I just wanted to hangout with my boyfriend, I managed to get myself laid off. But here is the kicker: I got laid off with severance, and benefits. Enough severance that I don't have to worry about rent for a couple months. Enough severance that I actually sort of feel like I won at whatever game me and Mr. Boss Man were playing.

I suppose there really is no sadness in losing something you're not proud of and don't believe in. I never liked the company I worked for or what they did business-wise. I never saw myself growing with them, or cashing in my stock options. The money was my only incentive to stay, and as I found out yesterday at a meeting with a temp agency, I could make more just doing standard reception stuff --- which, as idle minded as it is, I sort of like.

I often find myself so caught up in other excitement: the books I am reading, the things I am writing, the politics of the world, the food I want to cook, the sex I want to have, that I can't pin down my passions as they pertain to "a job". And sometimes I wonder if I am a "handicapped" feminist, or just a lazy piece of shit.

Virginia Woolf wrote about this in her essay, "Professions for Women", and this morning, in a moment of nastolgia, I found a piece I wrote about Wolf's essay while I was basically unemployed and living in Brooklyn....and here it is for you*:

(*I haven't looked at this in two years. I cut out some stuff that was dreadful, and the rest could definitely use some work---but I was broke and depressed at the time, cut me some slack!)

Reflection on “Professions for Women” by Virginia Wolf

4/25/06

Lately I have felt gutless and without urge. My thoughts, though honest and light, have been based on nothing more than daily arousal by other people’s nice shoes and my own conflict dealing with my messy bedroom and desire to be outside all day. My moleskin hasn’t been properly creased with the heavy weight of my left elbow in weeks. I cannot say I have been too busy to write. I cannot say that I have been numb and cold to all raw emotion that the instinctual writer finds necessary to pour onto the page. I have more than anything else, just felt silenced.

In January I moved to a new place in Brooklyn, and I have now just really begun to settle. The urban culture and pace of life just consumed me for the first few months. I spent my time with a few different men, trying to be comfortable with the idea that I too, am a New York woman (which I later discovered I am anything but). I wanted to explore the city and learn to navigate the subway. I wanted to make new friends. And the last thing I thought about was scribbling it all down. It was all so new and I had hardly had a chance to reflect on any of it. Not only that, but I had no real emotion to prescribe to it. It was just happening, and I was doing more participating than observing. It was less of “a moveable feast” and more of a bacchanalian purge.

Upon reading “Professions for Women” by Virginia Woolf my eyes began to water and my heart began to race. She was right. So right about everything. In her description of the causal relationship between a female writer wanting to write but being distracted by her own demons, I found such an astute connection to the current events of my own life. I was at once comforted by the truth of her observation and then alarmed by the dated nature of her article. In my small two bedroom apartment that I share with a female roommate, am I really subject to the same kind of “Angel of the House” experiences? And if so, what am I doing wrong? I have to say, for all the joy “Professions for Women” brought me, it also carried with it a hefty load of guilt.

In “A Room of One’s Own” Woolf states that what a woman needs is not just her own place to write but the financial support to do so, so she has the time to stay home with her pens and paper. I have all of that, pretty much. I have time and space, and two dollars in my pocket to get coffee for energy, so why do I still feel so linguistically empty?

After much consideration I rationalized that what is distracting me from writing, more than anything else, is my age and my experience. As Woolf states in “Professions…”: “…a novelist’s chief desire is to be as unconscious as possible. He has to induce in himself a state of perpetual lethargy. He wants life to proceed with the utmost quiet and regularity”. And how can that be possible for me, being a young twenty two year old woman living right outside of New York City? All of my friends are going to corporate parties, dating disingenuous but handsome people, shopping for overpriced clothing in obscure boutiques, and I am watching it all while at the same time trying to catch it on paper. Everything is happening so fast and there is no quiet fisher-girl in a rowboat, just a confused self-conscious Caitlin stuck in a pretentious and superficial expedition through white rapids, desperately trying to keep her pen steady and her paper dry. It is all very messy and it is all very disenchanting.

(...ed. this paragraph was boring and poorly written so I cut it).

In deciding that I am not perfect and but one dry spell does not a failed writer make, I realized something, something Woolf also acknowledged about herself: I am not a professional woman. I am not corporate. I know nothing of business and nothing of being a businesswoman in the business world. Bless those women, but I am not one of them. I am an apprentice to academia, and to writing. That is my profession, and it is a profession that can and must be treated differently. We can, as writers, buy Persian cats instead of suits. We can sit and drink a beer in the middle of the day, much like Hemingway did, and not give a damn about anything other than our own thoughts, our own experiences, and our own good punctuation. As Woolf said, there isn’t an easier profession than being paid to tell stories. So I began to look at my experiences as a new resident of the city not as a separate entity to my writing, but something attached; I can live this life, and feel conflicted about it, and still be able to write. I have some thoughts that will never change, though bustling businesses and rich city boys may try to make them. And upon realizing this, I was able to pick up my pen again and find the conscious unconscious and my security, not fear, of being (and even further becoming) a female writer.