The Artist's Way

Some weeks ago (my memory is really bad since pregnancy), my dear friend and much respected writer, BFP, wrote something along the lines of saying that she was less interested in "activism" and more interested in the lives and journeys of artists.

That struck me. For numerous reasons.

The first thing that struck me is thinking about my blogging life. When I first began blogging four years ago (yikes! has it been that long?), I remember wanting my "writing" to FIT into the feminist blogosphere. I read many blogs then, wanting to understand what was important to the "Feminist Community," and, truthfully, always struggled in that genre.

I struggled because writing is, essentially, an extension of one's self. What interests me is what I will write most intimately about, what I love is what will illuminate the page (or screen) with my words. Making my writing fit is like trimming my own self, trying to make ME fit.

What I was always interested in were topics like God. Addressing sexual and gender violence in our everyday relationships through deconstruction and critical questions of gender norming. Family. Humor. And love. Always love. These were my interests.

I didn't know it then, but my writing came and continues to flow from a very deep, supremely sensitive place where I process my memory, my life experiences. Of course, current events and news are always interesting, but the writing I connect with is the writing that comes from LIFE, my life. And I'm always interested in how others live or lived their lives.

How did Gloria Anzaldua live with diabetes? How did my mother live through immigrating to this country on her own? How did my cousins live through the passing of both their parents? How did my 8th grade science teacher feel when she decided to get teeth braces at the age of 48? What is it like for young women of color writers in the US?

These were my questions, they weren't "feminist," I suppose, but they came from a very real place that questioned the systematic punishment and guardrails around women.

Feminism exists for all of us to live richer, deeper, more fulfilling lives. Feminism exists for us to question what we want to question and to live as we want to live. The lives of artists, the lives of those who create are lives that are often imbued with resistance; they live counter-culturally. Artists, the souls who create something out of nothing, those who build from ill-fitting pieces possess a strength that reveals itself in their life choices.

I no longer worry about whether I or my writing fits. Rather, I focus on whether or not I am truthful, committed to creation and relationship, and love. Always love.

The Last Ungendered Day

I started using the self-descriptive term "feminist" about five years ago and although my life's work to create a better world extends much longer than those five years, the lens of feminism - my feminisms, to be precise - has positively enhanced the way I experience and percieve the mystery of socialization and gender.

Tomorrow, I have my 20 week ultrasound. Before pregnancy, I didn't know that 20 weeks is a milestone. Usually with prenatal care, an "anatomical" ultrasound is done, which means Adonis and I get to see the baby growing in my uterus. We see the face, ears, feet, hands...everything...including its genitalia.

Many things have surprised me about pregnancy, but none moreso than the impact of hormones in my body. My memory has been underwater, my moods sometimes swingy, but my emotions have been fairly calm. I've felt peaceful. One of the few pieces of anxiety I've been experiencing relates to gender and finding out the sex of the baby.

I've been pretty open about my feelings concerning my pregnancy through my letters to Veronica, my unborn daughter, which I started a long time ago...well before I was pregnant. And one of my fears is not just having a child, it's about having a son. I think that my fear dwells in my uncertainty if I can teach a child and have a larger impact than the rest of the world. All the lessons this child will learn will have to be undone at some level. It begins tomorrow. It begins the moment the ultrasound technician will say "boy" or "girl."

And the barrage of texts, emails, FB messages, and comments wanting to know will begin. Along with the pink and blue bull that I don't believe in.

Facing the reality that I am carrying life within me has meant coming to the reality that I am deeply responsible for the wonder and destruction this child shall bear on the world once it enters this life and takes its first breath.

I am faced with the reality that the men who rape women once had mothers too and I wonder what they learned (or didn't) about loving and treating women, both in personal relationships and strangers. I think about the way teenage boys careen by the waterfountain at school and mock the budding bodies of womanhood and adolescence out of their own insecurity. I am, essentially, afraid of what boys because, after working with violated women and children, I know what they are capable of.

I don't want to raise a son contributing to another woman's disempowerment.

But feminism has also taught me that not only are men capable, and actually prefer, to be loving, active, energetic leaders for goodness and wholeness, it's also taught me that women are not grouped together in their fight for equality. The bullying, the cut throat competition, the hidden jealousy, the betrayal...raising a daughter now terrifies me just as much as raising a son. After I've work with violated women and children, I'm afraid I'll raise a daughter who doesn't care about her worth and values her sexuality only at the price set by society and media.

Whether son or daughter, I'm afraid she'll give up on herself.
I'm afraid, quite simply, they won't care about the world they way I do and I won't be able to stand their selfishness.
I'm afraid that when they ask me questions about what I've done to make the world better, I'll look in the mirror and only see a half-worn human and full blown coward.

Somehow, in the years I've contemplated and studied gender and advocated that all persons are equal, I'm petrified I'll find that I've only kidding myself because I know the world can and will knock me on my butt with its cruel, streamlined, flick of the wrist power to teach domination, selfishness, individualism, and greed.

Knowing this child's gender makes it all real, too real, because once I know "boy" or "girl," I'll inherit an entire set of specific strategies the world has planned to brainwash my kid. I don't have anything except what I *think* I know, a lot of guessing, intuition, and a loving partner.

I hope those seeds are enough.

Will they know how to love, truly love themselves and another human being?
Do they know the world is not fragmented and we, all of us, are inexplicably connected?
Does having this much fear dictate what kind of mother I will be?
Who will be there to save me when I'm the one in trouble?

In some funny way, I want this child to forever remain as it is right now - perfect, growing, dependant on nothing but amniotic fluid, oxygen, and my voice. Not only do I fear about this child hurting, but I'm afraid of the harm the child will be capable of doing as well.

Tomorrow I will know if I am having a son or daughter.

A Bi-Racial, Bi-Cultural Pinay Sings Maybe

In the musical, Annie, there is a song called, "Maybe." This song frames the small corner in which orphan Annie wonders about the whereabouts and hobbies of her biological parents. Growing up, my sister, an intrinsically talented piano player used to glide her hands over the ivories and order me to sing along in my loud and often off key voice.

Maybe far away
Or maybe real nearby
He may be pouring her coffee
She may be straighting his tie
Maybe in a house
All hidden by a hill
She's sitting playing piano,
He's sitting paying a bill
Betcha they're young
Betcha they're smart
Bet they collect things
Like ashtrays, and art
Betcha they're good
(Why shouldn't they be?)
Their one mistake was giving up me!
So maybe now it's time,
And maybe when I wake
They'll be there calling me "Baby"
... Maybe.
Betcha he reads
Betcha she sews
Maybe she's made me
A closet of clothes
Maybe they're strict
As straight as a line...
Don't really care
As long as they're mine
So maybe now this prayer's
the last one of it's kind...
Won't you please come get your "Baby"
Maybe

While I am most certainly not an orphan, I sang this song frequently enough and loud enough to memorize its words and contemplate its tugging profundity. Singing, I would often try and project how I would feel growing up without knowing my roots, who I belong to, and yearn for a sense of history. Belting the lyrics out time and time again brought me to a deep connection with Maybe. For me and my family, love was never in question, but belonging and history was always in doubt. With two immigrant parents, I struggled for every inch of self-understanding. In my younger years, life was much smoother feigning disinterest and apathy toward my ethnic roots.

In Nadia's deep pool of reflection she asks children of immigrants: Do you think your parents thought that being born in the u.s. means you are outside the influence of their home country/culture? Do your parents think of you as americans? The old truism says that immigrants are in search of a better life for their children; what were your parents seeking for you?

My parents are legal American citizens, but they will tell you that I am all-American. Two worlds, equal in force, combat for my brainpower and loyalty. In one corner is my Filipino-Spanish blood; a living paradox of the colonizer and the colonized beating in the same heart. In my Filipino existence, there is family-centered prayer and religion, loud gatherings, food, rice, music, raucous dancing, and an almost ridiculous disregard for time and deadlines. No home is complete without an altar in the living room, no dinner is worth having unless it's eaten three times over. In my Pinay eyes, mistaken identity is my identity. If not Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Hawaiian, Vietnamese, Indian, Mexican, Loatian, Malaysian, Samoan, or Native American - then I was rendered invisible. The only place where I ever felt racially understood was with my own family. Not only did my siblings understand what it meant to be Filipino, they understood what it meant to be Filipino-American; to be raised Filipino while living in the United States. That bond, sealed with the most intimate clarity, can never be broken.

In the other corner is my American world. This is the east coast born, Midwest raised existence. This is where I made a salad for the first time in college and began questioning Catholicism. My American identity is the fast driving, fast talking, eye rolling independent
daughter who couldn't stand Filipino summer picnics and hated making eye contact with any other Asian Americans because it was a lightning-quick reminder of the awkward reality that I was more comfortable navigating an all White crowd of folks than connecting with another grrl of color. Back then, even if it's hell, familiarity always triumphed. This side of me that effortlessly understood White society through private schools, privileged friends, also took in the cool absence of any other grrls of color in my White mainstream Midwest manners. She lived in the forefront, elbowing and trying to beat the Pinay out of me. She almost won.

The Pinay, thankfully, overcame. And in the epitome of Filipino spirit did not expel the American out, but, rather, invited her in as a passenger. They both existed in equal position, but only one had the steering wheel.

Endlessly explained in simplistic and binary terms, bi-culturalism is the fusion of two cultures,
yielding a rare lived experience that specializes in multi-understanding, multi-reasoning, and multi-facets. Children of immigrants have a wider periphery than most. It's both a characteristic and reward of our dueling/dualing lives.

When I think about the years I spent in utter anguish and rage, I wonder why. I wonder what would have helped ease my acidic bitterness. It was not so much that I was different, it was more the fact that everyone assumed that I was just like them. The visual difference was evident, my brown skin spoke more across a hallway than anything. In the face of difference, most people just try to comfort themselves by drawing commonalities. Normally, forging connections in hopes of establishing a relationship is acceptable and expected. Over time, however, relentless emphasis on sameness and commonality qualifies the differences as insignificant and dispensable.

There never was or ever will be an entire reconciliation between cultures, tongues, creeds, and lifestyles. After realizing that separateness was no longer necessary, there were no longer two individuals in the car. There is no longer one passenger and a driver, there is only one driver: Me, a conglomeration of two worlds that is not accepted into either world as a whole. Without fluent Tagalog, or trips to Manila, I am a not a "real" Filipino. Without peanut butter and jelly and baseball, I am "foreign" or "exotic."

This country, my country of origin, is obsessed with Black and White as the only two races, as the only racial conflict, as the only communities of conflict. In every experience of academia, media, and social conversation about race, Black and White are polarized to model the dynamics and yawn-boring patterns of racial tension in the US. Shameless in its ignorance, the United States frequently groups Asians in one category, one hand glossing over our black hair and smudging our skin until its all yellow. I am Brown.

The Latino community continuously gains signficant ground, but Asians are the wallflowers of the race conversation. Deemed pleasantly invisible and poetic in distinct features, Asians are Asians and nothing more, nothing less. If we continue to operate in the same outdated model of an umbrella-ed Asian category, I shudder to think of how many lifetimes it will take until bi-racial and bi-cultured issues will come to surface.

I grew up to be my own self translator. To this day, I still walk into every room and automatically survey its occupants, my mind quickly calculating likelihoods, conversations, percentages, and potential detonating bombs. After almost three decades, my intuition is dead on accurate. It is a learned survival skill to know when to relax or guard yourself. Navigating the Midwest as a grrl of color was like a stepping through a mine field. Careful, careful.

My parents did not come to this country to give their unborn children a better life. They came to this country to help their families who were alive and poor, sick and marginalized, stuck and helpless. My parents came to work to send their earnings home, to do better not for themselves but for their immediate families. Selfless, sacrificing, and urgent, my parents reaped the benefits of this country for others, never themselves.

I was sixteen when I attended my parent's naturalization process. Uncertain as to why I was resistant to their American citizenship, I watched with sadness as they proclaimed their allegiance, but could never articulate exactly why. Their legal ties to the Philippines, on paper, were gone. A land I had never seen except through stories of poverty and heat, the Philippines cradled my parents' hearts and loyalties. Today, I see the reasoning as to why becoming a citizen was necessary for them, but the ceremony rang false to me. I kept questioning the logic, "Why not let patriotism be reflected through human service, merit, decency, and dedication, rather than history tests and ceremonies? Why ask my parents to essentially choose between birthplace and home?" It did and continues to seem like such an unjust choice.

My parents were in constant flux in how to let their children be Filipino-American. Only now I can appreciate how difficult it must be to pass traditions along to your children in a completely unfamiliar environment and then watch it simply be considered and sometimes disregarded. The sound of cultures clashing arrives in the form of unasnwerable questions. Is dating in the US better because we have freer sex with less guilt and more condoms? Is American Catholicism better than Filpino spirituality that celebrates family prayer, tradition, and rosaries? Is it better that college students in the US typically blow off their undergraduate experience in favor of beer, experimentation, and spring break roadtrips? Do I lead a "better" life than my parents?

It depends on who you ask. If you ask any US born citizen, they would say that I have a more comfortable, stable, and privileged life. Is that "better?" I don't think so. Is it better to leave home and be considered an American adult at 18 or live with your parents until you are more certain of what you want from life and have latent independance? Is it a better life to live with your elders and learn how to take care of them or send them off to nursing homes and/or hire personal nurses? Is it better to have have endless choices with indecision or fewer choices with less freedom?

I am 28 years old an have been married two and a half years. I am childless and live in city where I do as I please and answer my cell phone in restaurant booths. My mother, by the time she was my age, had flown halfway across the globe to work at the United Nations and attend Columbia for two years while she supported her family and sent her siblings through school. She quit Columbia after realizing her benign-tumored ovaries weren't going to give her the timeframe most woman would have. At 28, she was married with one child and another on the way.

Do I live a "better" life than my mother? Easier, perhaps. Better? I don't know. I've often questioned as to whether I am as strong as my mother. That, also, I don't know. Our lives, cluttered with various obstacles and failings, cannot be compared. I will never know the pain of leaving my country of origin to rebuild my entire life in support of others. And she will never know the unrelenting pain of isolation and misapprehension.

The question of authenticity used to haunt me. The stiff armor built due to racist, belittling degradation and the humiliation of admitting I cannot speak Tagalog once paralyzed me. I now keep a healthy perspective of authenticity, grounded in the Pinay pride I carry; the knowledge that I am a product of two worlds; two mothers who nursed with radically different idelogies and I am not 50/50. I am 100% original, unprecedented, authentic, and rare.

I still wonder about my roots, my history, and whether I will ever truly find belonging. The difference now, when I sing Maybe, is that I am singing in reminicence of how I once was lost, orphaned by a Black/White only debate. I also resist the notion that bi-cultured, children of immigrants are wondering lost and then suddenly, one day, are self-found. We are in constant state of unfolding, each moment bringing more sense and experience to our natural state of bi-plexity. I have always been in this process. The difference now is that I am less afraid.

Asian Women Targeted in Sexual Assault Attacks

h/t to AAM

In Seattle, four womyn have come forward saying they have been sexually assaulted and the assaults have occurred in a bus stop. As the police describe the attacker as growing more and more bold - he first began touching woman and is now grabbing them and forcing them to the ground - they are cautioning women in certain areas who use the bus to be extra weary. All of the survivors are Asian American womyn.

My beef, once again, with sexual assault is that law enforcement and media always end with a Be Careful Ladies! message. What if these womyn - Asian or not - do not have the luxury of options or trying to be more careful than they already are? Or maybe this is an assault on the rights of womyn - Asian or not - to use public transportation without fear of being raped or her body being violated? How about, instead, the message be

WE WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS FORM OF RACE BASED VIOLENCE

How about we write, "We will not silence or persuade women into altering their lives out of fear of a sexual predator," instead of spreading cautionary tales and hoping more womyn come forward?

We will not be silent. We will not be afraid.

Maybe You Don't Know Jordan Knight, But I Do

As much as I slam Big Media for its endless tyranny of pop culture force-feeding, it has further developed a mastery within my repertoire of emotional survival: learning to learn from everything.

Even as a cautious consumer, I am still a consumer. As much as I hate pop culture, it is still part of my culture. I love movies, and equipped with an embarrassingly sharp memory of all things unimportant, I quote like 14 year old boys in the locker room. "These are the ABCs of me, baby!" ('Rod Tidwell,' aka Cuba Gooding, Jr. in Jerry Maguire)

I learn from everything. It's a great skill to acquire. It assures you that nothing is wasted. Nothing is wasted - from the stalkarrazi covering Paris and Lindsey to 'the Hoff' on America's Got Talent.

I (used to) love Jordan Knight, the ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex, ex (times 76) billboard chart champion singer from the New Kids on the Block. And though I am fully equipped - right now at 7:30 am on a Saturday morning - to argue why the New Kids were a necessary part of the late 80s, it is more about one action of Jordan Knight that I want to think about this morning.

Whether or not you crooned I'll Be Loving You Forever or Valentine Girl doesn't matter, any person born prior to 1983 will remember the undeniable success and the multi-million dollar run of five young men from Dorchester, Massachusetts. The New Kids reached unprecedented stardom and wealth back then, making their mark at the Grammy's and in the 80s history books.

As all great rollercoasters undoubtedly roll slow and eventually halt, so the New Kids. Washed Up, Has Been, Where Are They Now terms slide down their professional resumes with less credibility than Drew Carry. But Jordan Knight wasn't done.

He tried to make it on his own and, to be honest, even I wasn't really captivated by any of his efforts. But what stood out to me is his re-entry process. In trying to get back into his love of music, he faced some serious internal fears about public acceptance. He had stage fright, for crying out loud. But not just ANY fright, big fright. Intense fright. What weighed it so heavily was the previous astounding success he experienced and the yielding dip in self-confidence with trying to emerge on his own.

Jordan Knight began performing with a hat, in disguise. In small unknown places of the world, he tried to sing again and eventually overcame his personalized fears of the public and regained a sense of self.

Now, it's not like I paid the $15 dollars at the Massillon Lincoln Theater to see this guy perform last year. I remember reading about his journey back to do what he most loved: music. And conquering a private fear that most would not understand is a more awesome feat than My Favorite Girl reaching the Top Ten.

Climbing back into the ring (Rocky series term), or getting YOURSELF in position to pursue your dream somersaults you to front and center your fears of failure. Or as Nelson Mandela has taught, People are more afraid of the brightness of their lights than the fear of failure. Meaning, the actuality of ourselves is more daunting than any project. The brilliance that lays inside of us is trapped by the cloaks we keep them under. We will never be fully human, fully feminist, fully happy, or simply full without confronting our Fear. Most people willfully choose not to pursue this.

How tragic yet understandable.

Blogging anonymously is my with-hat performance. This is my corner of the world where I get to experiement and battle my fears of Saying. There is a line somewhere in Les Miserables that says something to the extent of All I have is this corner of a bench. It's a corner of a bench, but it's mine.

I own my bench and I share it with no one.

No stage lights, no background singers, no flashy dollars, just me, a dream, and 'Sudy' as my hat.

The Alchemist

I find myself, at 1am, writing with bleary eyes.

My contacts have dried out but I still won't take them out to soak for the night.

Adonis sleeps in our new home on the couch, falling into a quiet dream during the Colbert report. It's the first time we've had cable and he's drinking it in, late night.

I've betrayed my writing, keeping it and not letting it out. And now that I am trying to get it moving again, I feel rusty. Cranky. Like a door on a 70s Buick with no WD 40 in sight.

My office is in boxes. My home barely unfolding. The toilet seat cover broken.

It's 1am and my feet are dirty from wearing flip flops around the city. Urban living, I must get used to it.

The older I get, the more I realize life's power - it's whims and its intents. Never would I have guessed I'd be back in Boston, neotiating jobs and salaries, and driving down Beacon Street again. But here I am, drunk with nocturnal fatigue, wondering and wandering in mental etceteras and run-ons.

How did I get here?

I came here to pursue my writing. I came here to build.

It's much harder to believe in yourself when there are no voices distracting you and the only obstacle is the stability of your commitment.

A few months ago I thought it was hard to admit that I was afraid to be a writer, and what that would entail. Now, it is much harder to stop admitting it. I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. Paralysis.

Over the past few years, my ceiling and I have had hundreds of stare-downs at night, unable to rest. No blinking, no answers, just silence.

Today someone told me a quote that slightly helped me move past my paralysis, "Tell me what you will do your one, wild, precious life." I think the poet's name was Mary Oliver.

One, wild, precious life.

You, I, we...we only get one. One life.

Paralysis is wastefulness.

If I could recommend one book to read by the end of 2007, it would be The Alchemist. A simple, few hours duration of reading, powerful book. A graceful story about a boy, destiny, and fear.

If you are a searcher, read this book. If you are wanting to give up everything for a dream, read this book. If you don't know what you want, read this book. If you believe, read this book.

I re-entered the world, after finishing it, believing again in myself, my ability to control my fear, signs, the Universe, power, and the gift of Choice.

If you are anything like me, trying to win a battle against fear, hold fast this book.

Feminism's Discourse

I just returned from a conference in Boston for Asian-American women to discuss issues of leadership. It's a Boston-based conference and intended for all aged women - highschool, college, or professional age. (It being held at Harvard is a clear message too, this invitation targeted those in the academy.)

I met some wonderful individuals, women with whom I hope to spend time with when I move there, hopefully to build a community with. While I was there, I spent much time in contemplation about my feminism, my radicalness, and my life as a Filipina women. I have come to some slightly distraught conclusions about feminism.

A panel of Asian-American women were formed. Their task was to talk about how to utilize the media in their everyday lives. As a blogger, I have taken more interest in grassroots organizations, understanding that the more mainstream something is, the less accurate its depiction of reality. Mainstream, to be mainstream, something must be warm. It cannot be cold, it cannot be hot, it must be warm. It must be warm so EVERYONE can relate to it, so as many people as possible can be comfortable. Challenging topics are watered down so they, at best, are given a nudging reminder to be somewhat aware (e.g. global violence, global warming, the war, etc). And fear is used to freeze people in their lives, promoting defensiveness, suspicion, and vigilance from "the killers among us" (a CNN report in reponse to VT) to "can you really trust your pharmacist?" Fear, Fear, Fear.

Anyway, these mainstream media Asian-Americans (AA), were commenting on how to pitch a story to journalists, what their opinion was of the VT coverage and racial tension, and such. [insert big pats on the back for the panelists]

A bit tired at the unrelatedness to the larger theme (Meangingful Leadership Among AA)I stood up and asked a question, "Given the complexities of the differing cultures, races, and heritage of those labeled 'Asian-American,' what do you personally and/or professionally think about the umbrella term being used to lump everyone together?"

and this was the reply as she looked me in the eye:

"I wouldn't get bogged down by details like that. I would encourage you to just embrace the term 'Asian-American' and not try to constantly separate yourself and divide us any more than we already are. We're only 4% of the population as is."

The facilitator went on to say, "I think we have something to learn from other cultures. Whites have embraced their term Caucasian. African-Americans do not dispute over the term 'Black,' as much we do. There seems to be power in unifying and not creativing division. Perhaps this is what Asians need to do - group together for power."

Mhm - ignore the rich differences all in the name of "unity" and "power." Where, oh where, have I heard that before?

I looked around and no one had a comment. No one had enough fucking guts to disagree, even though I saw the disagreement in their eyes. I stared back at her, not coldly, not defiantly, but with unblinking, unafraid eyes. "BOGGED DOWN?" Are you kidding me? Oh, I guess I should have clarified the weight of my question. NOTE: ADD ADDENDUM TO QUESTION, IDENTIFY THE RELATED ISSUES OF IDENTITY, CULTURAL TRENDS OF THE MEDIA, AND RACISM.

Apart of me admonished myself for asking a news anchor what she thought about these troubling isses. And then I realized, I didn't ask her because she was sitting on a panel, I asked her because she was perceived to be a leader. She was sitting on this panel because she was labeled a leader. She was labeled a leader because she has "made strides" for "Asian-Americans" and apparently getting a "scoop" and your face on TV makes strides for AA and is what leadership is all about. Leadership, from this panel, explored the outdated and futile method of leading by visibility. It explored the kind of leadership that upholds the vociferous, not the thoughtful.

A lesson that I must learn over and over again is perception doesn't mean shit. Just because someone is a person of color doesn't mean they've personally explored what being a POC means to them. A leadership conference entitled leadership doesn't necessarily guarantee that MY definition of leadership will be considered. The dicotomous challenge for leadership conference event planners is emphasizing leadership on the community level and then filling your panel with individuals who do such work. But the mistake comes when the event planners revert to finding the high-profile "leaders." The ones who are senior advisors to Hillary Clinton for education issues (my small group leader) and editors of national magazines (plenary session speaker). "Cultural change" is measured by numbers, economic status, and education, and mindful contribution to capitalism. ("Support indie films, not Hollywood," which is a valid point, but is a bit ironical in that particular situation).

The hard-cheek issues we are looking for as a global community are not found by mainstream media, they are being affronted by the grassroots people who are less than rich, seen, visible, and heard. They are the writers, artists, activists, and educators who are not connected by the spokes to the bigger wheel. They are found, most often, reflecting, offering, criticizing, and intiating on much, much smaller levels. They are the ones who balance setback with liberation, laughter and shame, learning with prayer. They are the ones I am looking for.

The timeliness of my return from that conference to this morning's ritual of checking in with the feminist blogosphere is uncanny. I am a contributing writer for the Feminist Review and was reading their review of Jessica Valenti's book, Full, Frontal Feminism which I've posted about before. And upon clicking on links, have found nasty, nasty diatribes going back and forth. I don't know where it started, I don't know if it's over, I just know it's ugly and hardly surprising.

I have begun to read Valenti's book and can tell you right NOW that I will not finish it because it's more of the same found on feministing (again, beside the former link above, I do not link to the site) which targets young, white, heterosexual, USA's middle women. Often, I've asked myself since last Tuesday when it was delivered, why would I even both to pay for a book and read what I most likely will vehemently disagree. Well, the hard thing about being an aspiring cultural critic is that you have to be in tap with trends and acknowledge what others pay attention. There are self-arguments I make with myself, "Why support and grow the audience?" For this, though, for feminism, I choose not to look away from what I find short-changing, racist, and dangerously shallow. If my bi-culturalism can be used for something productive, I would like to utilize to understand two worlds and possible offer a translation and provide forecasting warnings or imminent victories.

Regardless of my personal views of the book, what is most disheartening is the reaction of the catfight's audience. So many "feminists" strain and moan over the disruptive noise of disagreement. They don't like difference. Peaceful = Sameness = Progression. And women are excellently prepared to make disagreements personal. Females, usually, are trained to go straight for the emotional jugular. It's disheartening, and it just plain pisses me off.

If we're going to create a stink, let's create a stink about the Movement. Let's create a stink and ask questions that are informed, well-rounded and probe the text, not the author. And commenters! Why pick sides to what is clearly an online feud? Why add to the pettiness, why load the gun with your own personal ammunition? Let people duke it over and if you must comment (not excluding myself) get to the real issues: feminism's discourse and the inability to passionately listen and, with a non-defensive persona, respond without hostile conflict. If our feminist "leaders" want to cyber slingshot their personal vendettas, my stance is to let them go at it, post a reminder to get over ourselves, and not get caught in the cross-fire.

There is a place for online disagreement and it has incredible benefits of growth and community formation, but when common differences unfold into accusation and repudiation, I once again blush from feminist embarrassment, the flush from feminist rage, (this is how feminism is being represented?) and look for alternative leadership.