Letter #5

Dear Veronica,

"One disaster at a time." Those were the last words told to me by my doctor, one of my partners in this process of trying to make you into a cradling reality. Today, I had a hysterosalpingogram which is fancy word for shooting dye through fallopian tubes to make sure they are clear and functioning properly. Your only Tita, my wonderful sister, spoke her usual positive words when I told her that the discomfort was like getting a papsmear multiplied by fifteen, "Well, you never, ever, ever have to get that done again. Ever." And when I told her how they stuck cold metal up my Precious and then inserted a long application into me, and then filled me up with a fluid that made me feel like I was either going to die of cramps or explode, she replied, "Mhm. Sounds great - like reverse birth."

Humor, my dear, will be the key to surviving life. You'll learn that when you are born.

Your father was made to put on a safety apron because it was in an x-ray room. It was scarlet and tightened around his torso with a big piece of velcro. He looked quite anxious when he noticed stains on it, but he tried to keep me laughing. Or maybe both of us to relax before the horrible test I was about to have.

To distract myself from the pain, I tried to imagine what it might feel like to actually be pregnant with you. It's worked so many times before. The discomfort and sense of invasion was so thick, I could hardly get away in my thoughts. That's rare. I'm usually the kind of woman that cannot be followed in the secrecy of my mind. I can usually escape in a moment, but not today.

To make things even more complicated, I have some sort of tear in my - hold onto yourself - my rear end. A fissure, is what it's called, and feels like I am passing GLASS once a day. Yes, glass. More fiber, water, exercise, yoga. I'm doing everything I can, but the pain is so traumatic, so acute. Today it was so consuming, I cried in the shower for a long time. It's been weeks of pain, my dear, and with the thoughts that you may or may not be realized only makes me hold tighter to a thread of possibility that may not even be real anymore, but I still hope.

I have to believe that since the dye cleared my tubes, my surgery was successful, and I am surviving some of the most physically painful times of my life that I am a mother in training. I shovel snow, have my tubes inked, write manifestas, and cook mean meals that stick to your ribs. I am woman.

Hear me roar.

If you are ever born inside me, you'll be the first to hear it.

Love,
Mom

How a Feminist Got Married: A Radical Manifesta, I

Tales from the bedroom are considered sacred, but tales from the corners of marriage are even more forbidden. Why is that?

As I sit on a tender marriage of almost four years, a love ignited for ten years, I often wonder how isolated and crippling that silence can be. Why are married people so quiet? What's with the secretive nature of disclosing details about the primary relationship of one's life? Is it, hold your armrests, it might come to pass that marriage goes through volatile stages of frustration, silence, asexual eras, and betrayal?

Well, we certainly don't want to let THAT cat out of the bag.

Psst...sometimes marriage tastes champagne and sometimes it tastes like rotten arugula.

Well, now that we have shrugged of those nuclei of fear, we can proceed forward.

One of the biggest misconceptions about marriage is one of the biggest misconceptions about primary and committed relationships: it consistently and unfailingly feeds and meets our personal needs of fulfillment.

Read: False.

We all realize that one person cannot meet our every desire, conscious and subconscious, and yet, when we marry, we often fall into a capricious state of allowing community to slip away once we have transitioned into a partnered identity. As children and young single adults, we flourish in groups and find a sense of belonging and purpose. While we grow and develop our sense of self and our yearning for intimacy and partnership root themselves, the communities we once were once active become things of the past, dust on our floors.

Read: Common Mistake #1

As feminists, it is common that we seek out fellow activists, artists, and writers who possess a cosmic understanding of our drive for justice, our commitment to vision. And yet, when it comes to our personal relationships, they often falter because we assume that a 1:1 relationship, especially marriage, is and should fruitfully build on its own accord, heal on its own gifts, and reap harvest from its own soil. That is, you know, how you define a healthy marriage. You don't need ANYONE else.

Read: Facetious.

As a married feminist, I find it ironic that I can clearly understand my need for community when it comes to my career. Writers must write alone in their room, but that room must be heated by the same pipe that warms the entire house, other rooms occupied by thinkers and philosophers. However, when it comes to a growth bump in my marriage, I decide to ride the bridle alone, convinced my balance will come with experience, temporary panic attacks, and large amounts of wine.

Before the village helps raise the child, the village needs to rebuild itself to recognize the needs of radical marriage. One that is built safely on the precipice of equality. Marriage will guarantee times of roaring fire and dying amber. You need to know how to tend and control both. The point is not to avoid getting burned, the point is to learn how to build the fire.

And the fire does not represent the love, the fire represents the soul.

In this harsh winter and cold recession, intimacy between partners can be strained for a whole slew of reasons. But a radical manifesta is not a guide for putting together a broken marriage, a radical manifesta is for piecing together a radical love of self and the other that feeds the often neglected part of our deepest hunger: authentic identity. Something that is often lost in the compromising of life partnerships.

And to build that authenticity in the space of marriage, to create a sustainable and passionate bridge, let's first begin by agreeing to dish the silence. That's not a call to irreverence or ranting about domestic burdens. It's a call to speak into the quiet loneliness of a working companionship that the marrieds often fight alone. The manifesta stands to speak into the radical joys and struggles of authentic identity, evolving love, and awareness that grow in marriage.

Break the silence. You can be in love and outraged at the same time.

And to practice what I preach, this is a poem I wrote yesterday about marriage. A day scattered with temper, short answers, and angry blanket hogging.

Love's Decision

I love you
as surely as I swiftly walk in the winter
and toss my shirts into a bloated floor heap
I love you
as neatly as the cable wires behind my tellie
as conveniently as city parking
and as comforting as a broken compass

I'm yours so long as you continue to lay there
snoring your peace into my side
and my knee kept warm by your palm
I'm yours
without my porch knowing death's arrival date
or the bloom of children

Our chances increase every night
We'll make it
says the meatloaf
and even pillowcases that need changing

We'll make it
thinks the leaning garage and scrappy drive
I hope so
prays our mantel

You are mine like the songs said you'd be
and you fit right beside my cheek
Like how the dandelions flutter
and the dog pulls right of the leash
With the yellow sun filling the sky
on an art paper saved by my mom

All things are as they should be.

I love you.
-LFB, 1/26/09

Figuring Out Figure Skating

As a Christmas gift, I received tickets to the US Women's Figure Skating Championship held in Cleveland, Ohio this past Saturday evening.

Figure skating, like gymnastics, is one of those sporting events which when are on television, you are mesmerized by the seemingly impossible movements made to look effortless. I like skating, but I'm not a frenzied fan. Like most people, I watch it if it's on TV and can list the usual suspects of its biggest stars of Michelle Kwan, Tara Lipinski, Emily Hughes, and Kristi Yamaguchi.

I arrived to the event and was surprised by how much I was transfixed by the figure skating cult: aka, little girls with their parents swooning over the aura, dazzling spins, and the magic of the ice. Their high pitched screams hit falsetto notes that I was not sure was even possible to reach by anyone other than professional opera singers.

You don't hear that on TV.

On television, viewers are graced with the only the top ten skaters, images of their coaches, and their parents supporting in the stands. Once in a while, the network will have a shot of a few fans with signs and cute acronyms. I was anticipating that.

I got so much more.

As my 29 year old body ages, I have come into radical appreciation for my health, flexibility, and its ability to recover from injury. While waiting for the skaters to begin their routines, I overheard a mother of one of the skaters explain to some nearby fans that her daughter skates about five hours everyday. Their discipline and commitment astounded me. So, you can imagine my amazement as I contemplated how much these young women and their families put into these short-lived public careers. Skaters peak young, most of them are in their mid to late teens, a handful in their early twenties. Alissa Czisny, the newest reigning champion, topped the age list at twenty one.

It gave me thoughts as to whether or not I could raise a daughter in such a driven culture. So much of what I was witnessing was artistic and majestic, but the gory details of day to day training, I hypothesized, was less glamorous; a schedule of sacrifice, driving, and more sacrifice. That kind of commitment is hardly glittering like the trademark costumes, but absolutely admirable.

And then the emcees for the arena interrupted my day dreaming. They were rounding up some young girls, all skaters, and asking them who they were cheering for and what they were most excited to see. Their answers were bright, cute, and funny. Their excitement translated to the crowd. And then came the general question, "What do you love about skating?"

The girls paused to think over the loaded question and the emcee filled in, "It's the outfits isn't it? OF COURSE!"

The outfits?

Not the thrill of gliding or the grace of the sport? The competition? Not even, how dare I put this out there, the pure love of skating itself?

The outfits?

I was more than annoyed at the emcee and chalked it up to situation being what it was: the emcee needed a quick answer. Nothing more.

And then I noticed a pattern.

As I sat nestled in between groups of young skaters, I noticed they alternated between screaming, "You hit your sequence! We love you!" and "Your outfit is ugly!" I was stunned.

What stressed me further is that their parents sat right beside them, saying nothing.

You don't see that on TV.

Perhaps it is my ignorance of the skating culture, but I was appalled at the all too frequent references to skating attire, the colors of the skirt, the glint of sequins, the general appearance of the skater and not the glory of their athleticism. Sure, the dress is sparkly and interesting, but what holds the outfit together are the gorgeous muscles and flexibility underneath them, the unimaginable amount of hours pressed into their limbs striving for perfection and flawless landings. The art, sport, and execution of movement calls for respect. Each and every skater had mine. I assumed, wrongly, that those skates and their families who were in that realm of competition would understand and hold to that.

Some could argue that at the level of competition, people say rude and negative things about athletes. But I argue that if we are to raise healthy and strong girls to grow into graceful women who understand the rules of winning and losing, it begins when they are seven and eight years old, screaming disrespectful things to other athletes, and intervening. How we cultivate a sense of mutual respect for women, including our athletes, calls for radical parenting for our young girls.

And if I ever attend another skating competition in the future, I'll try to sit near other regular fans like myself who don't care to know who did the skater's make-up or hair. Or if the colors of the skater compliment one another. I'm in it to appreciate their art, their unyielding effort at perfection, and the emotional bow at the end.

Maybe I'll just stick to TV.

Cross-posted at Bitch Magazine.

Anonymous-ers are BACK!

As the anons can see, I have returned to accepting anonymous comments. How I have missed them!

Don't you all have something better to do with your time! Really...shoe throwing! Why don't you try throwing yourself down in the middle of a store and wail loudly to really stir up some debate. Childish...so childish! If my children threw their shoes (which they don't), I would give them a little swat on their behind and explain to them how you don't throw things when you are angry because it is SOOOOO pointless. That is what you all need....a good swift kick in the A$$!!

I suppose this person is upset with my idea to VIRTUALLY throw shoes. Or it could be that Anon didn't understand the VIRTUAL throw as a funny ha-ha way to bid farewell to W and another not so funny ha-ha way to give a thumbs up to the man who ACTUALLY threw his shoes in the name of people - children, families, civilians - who were ACTUALLY killed in the name of our war against Iraq. Mhm, is it so pointless to use blogging media in an act of solidarity with a man who exercised a culturally demeaning gesture against our terrible former president? I know, it's incredibly childish and futile for those with access to VIRTUAL media to communicate their dissent in VIRTUAL shoe throws.

My question: is it more pointless for me to use voice, humor, and media against a war I do not approve of OR for me to ANONYMOUSLY leave angry comments about something that has already passed?

Oh, Anonymous, how you keep me laughing and young...!

Letter #4

Dear Veronica,

Your Lolo, my die-hard Republican father, called me this morning and said one sentence, "Obama is my president this morning." Oh, how we laughed.

Yesterday was a day that I will tell you about someday when your history text books water everything down and sensationalize the wrong parts of what has taken place these days.

Our first bi-racial President came into office yesterday! But everyone calls him our first African-American president. To me, my darling, he's a man who I see much promise and brings out the promise of others. That's why he got the vote, and first action as a campaign worker, out of me.

I debated as to whether or not I should stand in the cold in Washington, D.C. to be a part of history, or witness history, or however people are phrasing it. And, I decided, I will go and stand on the mall when I see the first womyn take the highest seat. I suppose it would have been worth it to see Obama sworn in, but I feel that I already experienced the best part of history in November, the election day that got us to the inauguration.

That day - election day - is one you'll hear me rave about this until infinity But it was a day I'll never forget and one that I'll never fail to describe. I was able to drive to local campaign office and be partnered up with another volunteer to go canvassing, door to door, and talk with voters to make sure they had exercised their precious right to be heard. Most already had, but what struck me was the feel of my knuckle on the wood, the rapping sound that I caused in a near empty neighborhood and looking into the eyes of a stranger with a smile to ask if Barack Obama could count on their unconditional support that day. Most said, "Of course!"

There were people of every age, a boy on his bike talking about his excitement, a high risk pregnancy woman describing her willingness/ability to still work the phones despite her condition, the fast paced speed at which the organizers spoke, and the long hours I spent with a stranger who turned out to be a physician at a nearby clinic. Her gentle black face and my young brown face smiled for hours as we walked miles and supported one another that day.

Now THAT, my dear, is called being a part of history. If ever you want to be a part of history, remember something: it takes more than just watching. It means sacrificing something along the way and watching your sacrifice unfold in something unpredictable. Being a part of history is a risk, an action. Don't ever just be a witness to history, be one of the holders of the pen that documents it. DO something to make history unfold. They'll always be enough witnesses. Always. Create history instead of witnessing it.

But, still, the majesty and ceremonies was wonderful and the crowds took my breath away on the mall. However, the crowd at Grant Park, the night Obama won, still holds the trophy for wondrous.

Veronica, your father cried yesterday when Obama took his oath and I sprung to my feet and screamed while I jumped up and down in front of our breaking down TV with the largest bunny ears imaginable. No cable choices, we stuck with mainstream NBC to usher us into a new era. I listened as Obama talked about the day you might have children and thought about how your father and I could barely imagine someday having a daughter or son like you to consider, but how the ache to meet you drums louder in our chests everyday.

There are a handful of great days that transpire in life, my love, and yesterday was one of them. Perhaps an even greater day will be the one where I give you a copy of this letter and tell you about this in person.

Love,
Mom

I Throw My Shoe at George W. Bush

Ready to throw? Throw your shoe for the world to see and link back HERE.

It's a nasty thing.

I bought these boots back in '97 when I was a teenager, loving purple, and needing to keep my feet warm. This shoe weighs like a brick and actually fatigues my calf muscles when I wear them for prolonged periods of time. This boot is stained with salt from shoveling sidewalks and driveways. It holds the sweat and dead skin of my feet working for twelve years. It's purple, my signature color.

I throw this shoe for the people terrorized by the anti-terrorist laws that George W. Bush thrust upon the world in defense of 9/11. I throw this shoe for the innocent communities who have been terrorized by our wars and the man who screamed in my face that he was not a terrorist just because he was poor and asking for the right to live in peace.

It is my hope that the salt on this shoe stings the tongue of George W. Bush as a reminder of the dry assault we have inflicted on the people of other countries around the world. It is my hope that the smell of dried sweat haunts the rest of his days with the reminder of those who died for no reason other than being targeted by their government as an organizing community who demand basic human rights. It is my hope that the weight of this shoe is nothing compared to the weight on his shoulders or in his heart with the knowledge that the world, for eight years, simply suffered under his leadership and led a country of horrible debt and challenging policies into an unthinkable state of crisis in every sense of the word.

It is my hope that Muntadhar al-Zeidi, the brave shoe thrower, will return safely to his family and his life is blessed with witnessing the peace his country longs for and so rightly deserves.

It is my hope that when I throw my shoe, it is large enough to wack Dick Cheney as well.

Throw Your Shoe at Bush and Have Some Cake!

Muntadhar al-Zeidi, our favorite shoe throwing activist, celebrated his 30th birthday on January 17, 2009.

Mhm mhm mhm, what an act to do before your 30th birthday. What a statement to be able to say you threw your shoes at George W. Bush. Reports have come in that a few of the guards brought in a birthday cake. I hope it was in the shape of one large shoe. I'd eat the entire thing myself. A vanilla sole. Strawberry shoelaces. Swirls of icing for the knot.

Don't forget to wish Muntadhar al-Zeidi a happy belated birthday as you throw your shoe on Tuesday. (Original post and instructions here.) Get your shoe selected. Pump up your throwing arm's bicep because it's going to be a big day! Let there be cake!

How a Feminist Got Married: A Radical Manifesta

I've spent almost three years of my online life searching for my feminism. I spent the first year trying to understand blogging and feminist online activism/communication/communities. I spent the second year throwing myself into media. And this third year, I am sick of "working on" anything and just want to be me, a voice of a Womyn who is unafraid to say that I don't and can't know everything about politics, repro rights, or global current events. I am not the greatest or most updated blog when it comes to transgender violence. Or eating disorders or conference news. My worst posts have been where I try to understand and write about an issue for which I cannot fully comprehend.

I'm finished with blogging about things for which I cannot do justice. Others, with their specialization and expertise, will always be highlighted here, but I am finished in trying to "cover" issues which I cannot fully give myself toward. I'd like to think that is the most generous thing I can do at this point: develop the voice I do have in the areas for which I am passionate and knowledgeable and ally with those around me. Mostly, I think I now understand the difference between naively trying to take on the pain and oppression of others (and how utterly futile that is) and how to be an ally in my own skin, bringing fire to both my voice and for those with whom I am in community.

Which leaves me with the question: what do I do with My Ecdysis?

(How many times have I asked myself that?)

Last Thursday, Adonis and I agreed to do a presentation on marriage together.

We've been married for about three years and, although great partners in many areas of life, have never presented together on anything.

The preparation for Thursday was intense. It brought all the different ways we work together to the front.

I was nervous. After all, how does a feminist get married?

It was something I had been struggling to articulate for the past four years, since I became engaged and an area in which I had decidedly been quiet. Marriage, a decision and choice I made in love and awareness, is not a one or even two sided road.

Marriage is one of those six stop intersections with traffic lights in all directions; pedestrians walking during the "Do Not Walk," light and left turn signals that don't work. You wait seemingly forever to get to the center only to find people breaking the rules and confused as to which direction to move. People honk for you to go through it and urge you to figure it out later if you mess up while those in the car with you advise you to slow down and take your time. There are a million signs giving you directions and mirrors that reflect your genuine sense of disorientation.

It's messy and there multiple ways to arrive. There are plenty of accidents, a great spot for rage and carelessness, and it's often avoided by those who do not believe in getting caught in the fray. (Those people are so smart.) With all the metaphors out there, this is the best one for me: marriage is one big traffic intersection.

With all that's going on, it's so easy to forget the most important fact, the one thing that truly matters: you're the one, the only one, in the driver's seat.

It's completely your call.

Today, the politics and art of marriage are hardly a quiet topic. From GLBTQ issues, to global and cultural practices, to gender and feminist issues, marriage is one of the most, if not the most, contentious and exhausting topics to tackle as a feminist and as a writer.

So, why am I writing a manifesta on marriage?

Because there needs to be a beam of light on the goods of marriage right now. There needs to be another side of the story told beyond the politics of coupledom, Rick Warren's beliefs, or the extreme lefts and rights of D.C. I wanted to begin writing a story, a glimpse into the real life of a feminist who chose to get married, that is flawed, painful, but real. Mine is the only story I know.

January is a month of delusions. Most people, myself included, delude themselves into thoughts of who and what they "can be" versus who they truly are. There's always room for self-improvement, but I took the first 18 days of January to contemplate where I am taking this blog, where I am taking my writing.

This blog has been my baby and work of art. And it is what I have always truly wanted it to be: a feminist memoir. As I write How a Feminist Got Married: A Radical Manifesta, I hope you engage with me in this timeless topic of kyriarchy, equality, and love.

For Whom Are You Throwing Your Shoe at Bush?

Muntadhar al-Zaidi, the original shoe thrower, sent his footwear into flight in the name of "widows, orphans, and those killed in Iraq." Hurling much more than his shoes at Bush, the shoes, I believe, carried the unfathomable pain of those who have survived eight years of Bush foreign policies. Not just in Iraq, but all over the world.

For whom are you throwing your shoe? Let the world know on January 20, 2009 when Bush officially steps down as the leader of the US government. Take a picture of your shoe. post of your site or blog. Link back to the original post for participation round-up. If you do NOT have a blog or site and still want to participate, send me your shoe (don't throw it, just hand it to me via email awecdysis@gmail.com) and I'll post (throw) your shoe on my blog. Don't forget to send in a small bit about you, your shoe, and for whom your throw is dedicated.

Having problems deciding for whom to throw your shoe? Mhm, I agree, it is a large task. Eight years of blowing up our fellow nations, instigating our violence in the name of anti-terrorism, basically handing our planet over to Darth Vader, and leaving our economy in the gutter leaves a shoe thrower with much to contemplate.

But be specific.

After all, you only have one shoe. Make it count.
Here is my dedication:

I throw my shoe for the poor who are living off garbage mountains, literally. I throw my shoe for the stranger who yelled in my face, after learning I was an American citizen in his land, that his garbage mountainside community has been terrorized and threatened by the Philippine government in the name of the "US charge against terrorism."

These people, who scour the mountain everyday for food or anything they can sell for a peso, have centered their lives on survival, not violence. They are the poorest of the poor - eating inedible food, trying to sell what is no longer useful - and yet they are repeatedly targeted and harassed, their youth kidnapped for days and tortured, under the blanket of "anti-terrorism" laws initiated by the US after 9/11.

My shoe will fly for this man who who repeatedly yelled in my face, "I am not a terrorist! Do I look like a terrorist to you? I am too small, too skinny to do anything but survive."

In essence, he is dying. And our president, our country's allowance of Bush's post 9/11 reaction, have quickened the death of his friends, family, and freedom. The re-election of Bush in 2004 continued the reign of terror in unheard, unspoken communities in the darkest corners of the world where no one dare visit or bother to know.

My shoe will be for this man who screamed his pain into my eyes and I, with the humble privilege of life and blogging, will throw as hard as I can.

How to Choose your Bush-Throwing Shoe

I'm going to keep promoting this until the 20th and I see some serious shoes flying.

If you're uncertain as to which shoe to throw, might I suggest a few tips:

1) Pick a shoe you have zero interest in. After all, you may not get it back after you throw it. Have no regrets when you throw it so choose one with which you have minimal emotional attachment.

2) Select a shoe that makes a statement. A stiletto, perhaps, sends a fine message to the world that not only are you crazy enough to wear those things, but you are of a generous heart - willing to forgo your style in the name of dissent. That sharp heel also communicates that you are serious about your throw. The aerodynamics of a stiletto can be lethal.

3) Throw the most grotesque and foul smelling shoe you own. 'Nuff said.

4) Throw a sneaker with a sock stuffed in it. The extra weight might carry the shoe further in flight, thus resulting in much higher likelihood of hitting target.

5) If you're still not sure if you're down with this shoe throwing event, well, I suggest go light. Choose your bunny slippers or whatever you schlep around in when in the privacy of your home. Their light, compact, and even if it hits the target, feels more like a brush of cotton in the face than the regular weight of a snow boot.

Prepare for the throw on 1/20/2009. Spread the word.

Throw Your Shoe at Bush on January 20, 2009

When two shoes were thrown at George Bush by a journalist who had seen enough dying children and blood spilled on his country, I watched in disbelief.

What stunned me further was how people debated - in detail - if this man should be imprisoned or punished. Let's see what would happen if we could turned the tables. Suppose another country invaded our land in the name of democracy and freedom, and through years and years of violence, shed blood on the bones of civilians and children who were never officially counted or reported about in the news. Might you, filled to the depths of your soul with death and injustice, throw your shoes?

His family maintains he did this out of frustration. Others report saying he was influenced by someone who "beheads people."

From my view, I saw a reporter, an alive being, but filled with death. He was filled with the death of his country and the violence inflicted upon it by the hand of George Bush and our country. For all that has been done to their people, a shoe - or two - seems hardly a reason to beat and imprison him. It was a gesture that, some have argued, is perfect.

Thought for the Day

Today, I was flipping through one of those calendars that has an inspirational thought or quote and this was the thought of the day:

Some goals are so worthy, it's glorious even to fail.

My goal/glorious failure is to write a book. A memoir of spirituality, feminism, immigration, and humor.

What's yours?

I Understand Selfishness Now

There are countless conflicts going on outside my home. From Gaza to the Philippines. The environment to political corruption. From blogs to publishing houses, there are conflicts everywhere.

And the guilty part of me wants to use my blog to show how much we can do - in action - to make this world a better place. The activist part of me wants to throw myself into the middle of the frey and hold on tight to what hope remains, if any, in Gaza.

The truth of what is going on inside me is that I'm worried about my own internal conflict. This mess of an economy we have going on right now and how my own life whirls in response to the instability of it all.

I need a job.

Like my computer genius cousin who was just laid off after years of working with the same company and needs to put food on the table for his baby girl.

Like my friend who spent her finances chasing her dream of working in audiology, got her masters, and now works in daycare.

Like my confidant who is a gifted minister, transferred to IT work, and just got laid off as he found out he's going to be a father.

Like the stories of women who are working three jobs and still cannot provide enough for their rent.

Like my...who lost...has a family at home...is losing their home...
....
I could go on and on.

I understand selfishness now. I understand, as I look out at the dripping icicles of this cold winter, that the dark months of unemployment are going slowly for everyone. And the sick twist in my stomach as I comb the classifieds section of the Cleveland Plain Dealer empties itself in tears. I understand that I am selfish because I am not in danger of being blown to bits or losing my life. There is no war on my doorstep, just the lonely winter winds beating down my door. There is a melting block of ice in my chest and it is chilling my blood.

The time that I want to spend in a job is now spent listening to the women of Gaza and wondering how I can be so selfish as to lay on my couch and cry with worry for my own ridiculous life and then feel so damn frustrated with my weak ass for crying in the first place.

The blanket of 10 inches of snow has quieted Cleveland and its haunting, like the city can hear itself dying in unemployment and laid off positions. The gray and white background of January looks ashen and I can hear the pulled sleds of children squealing down the street. My lentil soups are frozen, ready for the long haul of winter.

With all the time and silence in the world, an inescapable question sits in front of me, "What do you want to do with your life?" And my only reply in my head is that it doesn't matter what I want, what matters is what I can do.

I don't know if I mean the women in Gaza, my job search, and or the creeping plague of joblessness drowning the boat so many of us are in.

A1 is A-Sexist

Over at The Bilerico Project (who is up for the Best GLBT blog Weblog Awards), Bil Browning had a sweet turned bitter taste in his mouth when he spotted a vintage logo on the bottle of A1 steak sauce.

Apparently, the image is a 1950s-esqu picture of a man silencing a woman with his finger while he eats his food. The caption reads, "Yeah, it's that important."

Browning goes on to admit, "I may not be the most versed in feminist theory, but, Good Lord Almighty, this one is glaringly obvious." The comments in the thread go on to discuss the imagery and its meaning.

But my delight in this post was more than just someone taking a phone picture of what he saw as sexist and writing about it. It's small things like this - taking initiative when you see something as offensive - and DOING something about it. One post on the internet isn't going to change the world or even shake the boots of a popular steak sauce company, but it does rattle chains. And it inspires us to do some form of daily resistance, however small, when we perceive something as sexist, or racist, or classist, or just plain wrong.

It's the collective action of our daily resistance and the power we hold to access media that will change the landscape of mainstream marketing and its irresponsible advertisements.

Cross-posted at Bitch Magazine.

p.s.

A very deep Thank You to WOC PhD for honoring me with a blog award.

I shall post my award proudly.

Ya'll already knew I kicked ass, right?

Dance

Probably the first and only time I teared up over something on YouTube.

Mark as FAVORITE.

Quiero bailar contigo. Ahora.

An Open Letter to the Feminist Blogosphere

Dear Feminist Bloggers,

I have to confess, when the Weblog Awards come around, I am usually overwhelmed with the number of how many blogs I DON'T read even though, during the other 364 days of the year, I usually feel like I spend too much time reading other blogs and not working on my own.

Well, this year is no exception. Plenty of great writing and creating going on among the nominees.

I read The Bilerico Project, which is up for Best LBGT Blog. There's not just one thing that I admire about this place, it's just a great group of folks; incisive, provocative, smart. Serve me up some Bilerico anytime.

I'm a pretty big fan of Bitch, PhD which is under Best Very Large Blog. Bitch, PhD is a terrific corner of the internet. Bold, fierce, kind of like watching a rocket first thing in the morning. That's how I feel about this site.

Under Best Hidden Gem, I am hands down for Zuky. Kai Chang is a great supporter of many women of color bloggers and he is ALL about quality writing, quality editing, quality everything. In my mind, Zuky is the blog I give a tender hug every time I read it. It ranges from sobering to free flowing music to jack in the box howling laughter.

Black Women, Blow the Trumpet is up under Best Small Blog and I gotta hand it to BWBTT, it deserves every vote. I began reading a few short months ago and am impressed with the overall energy of the writing. Not to mention, BWBTT is a community builder kind of blog. I often spot her leaving encouraging comments around the internets.

Not that Dooce needs any more press, but under Best Diarist, Dooce took my vote purely because I've read her off and on and watched her make her jump into internet fame and make a bucket of money along the way. She's probably the only mainstream-ish blog I read. What I appreciate most is that she makes me honestly laugh out loud and not LOL kind of fake way, but in a LAUGH OUT LOUD kind of way.

Feministe has a nice round-up of pointing out the "feminist" blogs and offers a guide as to whom may want to throw your weight behind and, of course, it always begs the questions, "What makes a blog feminist?" Out of the blogs out there, what criteria makes a blog feminist? What separates a "feminist" blog from a gender-centered "liberal" blog? What criteria do you have for what makes a writer a "feminist?"

Then, I got thinking about the larger blogosphere and the power of the internet. Is the feminist blogosphere any different than other blogosphere? Do we have any joined purpose or any points of unity?

As soon as I asked myself that, horrid memories of past blog wars and division came to memory. For sanity's and this post's sake, I shirked them off quickly and got back to the questions filling my brain:

Is there any organization among feminist blogs, other than category, which typically function more for division and ease of surfing? Do we, feminist bloggers, agree on ANYTHING? Or are we in existence the same way, say, culinary blog are - informative for their audiences, community building for those seeking alliances, challenging those who want to learn? Those are all fine purposes, but, I can't help but feel more responsibility than that. Am I alone? As a feminist BLOGOSPHERE, do we hold any form of higher purpose for women's lives? Or do we get wrapped up in our individually wrapped fem-brands and remain set in our preferred ways of blogging? As a collective, can and should the feminist blogosphere strive to serve a unified deeper purpose than others? Is that even possible?

Is this a balanced comparison?

Feminisms = Improving Women's Lives

AS

Feminist Blogosphere = Improving Women's Lives

Is the feminist blogosphere a functioning arm of feminism? I'd say YES. How many educators are using the feminist blogosphere in the classroom, community discussions, printing off unknown feminist poets, forwarding the pseudonym-ed writers for the purpose of learning and activism? Countless.

How many lives are improved because of the feminist blogosphere? My life has certainly been enriched by hundreds of writers and philosophers ranging in topic from feminist jurisprudence to feminist disability rights to recipes for financially restricted women and their families. I've found a community of writers offline because of the feminist blogosphere.

How many lives OUTSIDE the feminist blogosphere, outside internet circles, are improved by our writing and work? We could insert the "seed" argument here. ("You never know how many seeds you have planted and how they've grown to influence someone's actions and how that action spurred another and..." AKA - the silent and rarely witnessed domino effect.) And I'm not proposing that we start a cyber crusade, bathed in US colonialism, of "helping" those we deem marginalized. I'm simply asking a question: Is the feminist blogosphere improving, or striving to improve, ALL women's lives?

How easy it is to forget the priviliege of writing, reading, and keeping a blog. It comes with time, access, and security. How might the feminist blogosphere be informed if we could find a way to make media available to the women of Gaza right now? Or if we could read about the best diarist of incarcerated feminists? Would those win any awards? Maybe "Most Courageous," or how about "Largest Risk Takers?" or "Most Needed?" I'd love to see the feminist blogosphere identify not just the worthy blogs that deserve recognition, but actually work together on just one thing. We're bloggers. We create a form of media. Where is our collective media justice? Is that too tall of an order?

The feminist blogosphere remains immeasurable in its richness and it is a privilege to be a part of a community of bloggers who are informed by feminism and write for therapeutic, educational, and activist reasons. However, I contend that we, as a messy, loveable, crazy community, can always do better. And should.

I remain, blogfully yours,

Lisa

Cross-posted at Bitch Magazine

Welcome to My Ecdysis

Hi There,

Welcome to a new year which we have numbered 2009.

You will see a few changes on my blog and will continue to see changes as they reflect the ongoing evolution of my life. I can't tell if I envy or distrust sites that don't change. It must be nice to have steady beats and strong lines. But sometimes I see more strength in flexibility; the lines that bend but never break.

My site is about documenting the events of my life as I see them through my eyes. I hold a preference for art, feminism, language, justice, community, spirituality, and strength. These are my values. Writing about feminism, kyriarchy, and race are the main thrusts of my writing.

If you are new here, welcome. If you are an old friend, welcome again.

2009 is a year of commitment for me. As I grow in knowledge of the kind of womyn I wish to be, the vision of my writing changes with my ecdysis.

Thanks for reading and witnessing my births.
Lisa